Archive of Our Own

It’s as her fingers wrap around the third blistering hot coffee of the evening that the door creaks open. Captain Montoya taps her thumb against the door frame, not nervous, but assessing. 

JJ invites her in with a half-hearted wave. She’ll need to pack it in soon. Her eyes swim with autopsy photos, some a decade old and some as recent as this month. She’s still no closer to identifying just how much knowledge this copycat has gleaned from the original news coverage and how much requires a deeper layer of familiarity with the crimes. If, against all odds, this isn’t a copycat at all. 

Tara already returned to the hotel, her interview at Blackgate sickeningly informative. Dave is across town, prying insights from the retired detective who worked the original case.

This area of New England is particularly unwelcoming to federal involvement. Some of that Revolutionary War pride, she’s always suspected. 

As Montoya reads through the case board JJ’s hastily assembled in the past two days, she starts shuffling together all the different files to be locked up for the night. A security policy meant to deter the vigilantes that run the city from extracting whatever information they please, although from the water cooler talk, it’s more a consolation for the small but vocal portion of the anti-vigilante residents than a deterrent for the masks. 

Not a sentiment she’s experienced in the precinct. Her team was informed that Batgirl was Detective Mizoguchi’s primary consultant up until their arrival. The detective left an hour ago, overtime policy more strict here than in the Bureau. 

She misses Spence. Not just because his brain surely would’ve split the details of the case into copycat and returned unsub piles, but because he would’ve already teased out which members of this famously corruptible precinct deserve their trust. He’s always known when someone’s putting him on. 

But his assignment, the details of which not even Emily knows, began last month and there’s been no indication that it’ll be over soon. The team being split up more and more often these past few years has been hard, but Spence being pulled by another department had been the final nail in the coffin of what the BAU was. 

They still take the cases they’re given and solve the ones they can, but they’ll never be allowed the freedom of uninhibited collaboration that they once were. 

Even now, Emily and Luke are in the Midwest, bouncing between Missouri and Kansas. Penelope’s split between the two cases, trying to cover more and more ground.

She sighs, tucking file after file into the cabinet on the far side of the room, hanging folders labeled for their case. 

Montoya turns to her. “An officer of mine got a call about half an hour ago,” she states plainly. “A witness has come forward.” 

JJ stills. A witness… There are no witnesses. Their unsub is sadistic, ruthless, and, above all else, meticulous. There is not an element outside of his control. The dump sites are carefully selected, the victims exactly posed. Their bodies are clean. Not of the torture they’d been subjected to, but of the forensic evidence. Every place the medical examiner believes the victims may have physically touched their murderer has been scraped clean. No blood in nails, no semen on thighs. 

This is the sort of man who plans every moment from abduction to disposal. Who knows every second of his victim’s routines. Who knows who will file the missing person’s report and who will find the body. 

He does not leave witnesses. There are no witnesses to leave and if all his planning were to fail to account for an unexpected passerby, he would eliminate that issue as fastidiously as he poses the bodies. 

Not with remorse. With pride. 

When JJ hears witness, she thinks perpetrator. 

This is the sort of unsub that craves control to the extent of inserting themself into the investigation. Perhaps the BAU’s presence has escalated the pressure he feels. 

“Do you have a recording of his call?” 

Montoya frowns. “Her call,” she corrects. “And I already sent it to your technical analyst.” Montoya leans against the far wall, imposing in her loose limbs. “She’s agreed to come forward on the stipulation of anonymity.”

“Okay,” JJ agrees, mind buzzing. Her. Either the profile is tragically inaccurate, or he slipped up. He left a witness. “When?”

The better question would have been where. The witness provided the address to a community center on one of Gotham’s smaller islands that Montoya referred to as the Narrows. It’s an interesting drive. 

Getting out of the downtown is a struggle, requiring them to maneuver around an ongoing protest near the courthouse. 

All the usual signs of gentrification pock the streets, yet for every swanky coffee shop, there’s a Black owned bookstore. Beautiful murals decorate earthquake-resistant structures. Construction for bike paths is underway and a train reaches the nearest stop every ten minutes. 

A lot of investment for such a tiny land mass, yet that’s been the story of Gotham since JJ set foot here. The city’s reputation, it seems, is several green initiatives and affordable housing projects outdated. 

The community center epitomizes this. A gated splash pad in the green space behind the building, closed down as the autumn chill deepens into a frigid winter. There’s an outdoor classroom, lines of picnic tables with wheelchair accessible spaces under a sealed roof. 

The sturdy front doors are bookended by windows of triple pane, bulletproof glass. Among the hours and the narcan available here sign and the no smoking, no guns, no soliciting warnings is a series of emblems asserting that this building is a safe space for people of all walks of life. A monarch butterfly, a rainbow, a Black power fist, a glowing DNA strand, a wheelchair, a ring of blue, pink, and white gender symbols, an infinity sign. There’s a final decal that JJ doesn’t recognize. A yellow circle with a hard to discern shape cut out in the middle. 

It leaves her mind as soon as she steps through the double doors.

Inside is just as cozy and well-kept. Indoor trees stretching up toward sky lights. A sensory room tucked in the corner. Sign ups for all manner of classes boasted on the pin boards. 

The front desk worker with an ¡Hablo Español! button kindly directs JJ and Dave to the room number Montoya shared. Tara is back at the hotel after slogging through the day on little rest. Yesterday’s prison interrogation was so unnerving that even an interviewer as experienced as her couldn’t sleep. 

It hadn’t been completely fruitless, with the inmate happily recounting his methods of torture, the memories fresh despite the intervening six years. Revisited. But his methods don’t quite match the current killings. Jeremiah Arkham is not the only copycat Roman Sionis has inspired. 

JJ suppresses a shudder, instead focusing on the space around her. It’s been years since a case has affected her so greatly, but the depictions of the dead… She can’t help but superimpose herself in a bodybag, if the team hadn’t saved her from Tivon. 

There’s a small reading nook outside the meeting room to which they’ve been directed. Two women work quietly. The one with shoulder length dark hair and a shrewd expression, curled up with what appears to be a Russian novel, glances their way for half a moment. The one with a tablet in her lap doesn’t notice them, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the armrest of her wheelchair. 

Dave nods to the door. The glass is frosted, but there’s a figure inside. JJ debates half a second between knocking or entering when the door clicks open. 

The woman on the other side, wearing waterproof clogs and purple scrubs, has a couple inches on JJ and she steps back to diffuse the need to look up. Her blue eyes flick out behind them for a moment, before she gestures them into the room. Dave shuts the door. 

The blinds have already been drawn, but the light from the ceiling is warm and soft. An ideal study space of which they’ll soon compromise the sanctity.

Their witness takes a seat on the far side, furthest from the door but with her back to a wall. It’s where JJ would’ve sat. 

She tucks her curly blonde hair over one shoulder and sets her hands in her lap. She doesn’t fidget. 

Taking a seat, JJ introduces the pair. 

The young woman—mid to late twenties, small scars on her face, not from acne, that she doesn’t cover with make up—doesn’t flicker with indecision at the knowledge that they’re federal agents. Her neutral silence isn’t unnerving, but it isn’t pleasant. 

“Hi,” she returns. Her voice is a little scratchy, but it doesn’t shake. 

“For our records, how should we refer to you? Jane Doe?” Dave prompts after assuring her that her anonymity will be respected. Her motivation for not meeting at the precinct. 

Her lips quirk in half a frown that disappears just as quick as it arrives. One hand comes up to pat the breast pocket of her scrubs and her eyebrows tick in confusion when she finds it empty. A huff of amusement rolls through her shoulders. A small breath, the first sign of strain. “You can call me S.” 

“You called the GCPD yesterday, telling the officer you spoke to that you witnessed a murder.” JJ keeps her voice smooth, earnest, and curious. The easing in is out of the way, the limited biographical information S was willing to provide jotted down by Dave as he defers to JJ for this interview. 

She isn’t sure how much rapport she’s built. Before arriving here, she was expecting one of two things: Their unsub, or a shaking woman unable to string two words together amidst her fear. This composed, calm medical student is forcing her to change strategy on the fly. 

Another there-and-you-miss-it tick of her lips. Disagreement. 

“Can you tell us about what you saw?” 

S studies them both a moment. Careful, but not quite cautious. “It was an attempted murder,” she says finally. 

Another punctured hole in the profile. The unsub as they know him wouldn’t have left anyone alive. 

“It was my attempted murder.” 

And just like that, the air has left the room. The recording must catch her aborted inhale. 

“When was this?” Dave asks, leaning forward to study the woman more closely. There are no signs of recent injury, no bandages, no casts, no splints. 

The bodies they’ve found were dissected. JJ can’t imagine anyone surviving that level of torture once it’s begun. 

Her fingers briefly brush her left shoulder. “Ten years ago.” 

That… That timeline doesn’t match. 

Three months ago is when the first body was found by a waitress taking out the trash. Five more have been discovered since then, every two weeks, like clockwork. If the unsub keeps to pattern, the next victim has already been captured. There’s time to save her, but it’s running out. 

Six years ago, Jeremiah Arkham was caught torturing and killing women in a near-identical manner. His fifteen victims were granted justice by the now disbanded Batman Incorporated. 

Twelve years ago, Roman Sionis was accused of torturing and killing high risk victims in disgusting displays of sadism that eventually coalesced in the style that Arkham and their current unsub have emulated. His victims, thirty confirmed, forty suspected, were given peace when he died a year later. 

Sionis dead, Arkham incarcerated, there was no active ‘Black Mask’ ten years ago. 

“I was sixteen,” she continues. “It was the summer of the gang war.” A tinge of guilt undertones the words. “I was… checking on a friend when he found me.” She swallows, eyes darting to her lap. “About twelve hours later, he let me go.” 

So many confusing statements in those short sentences. 

Sixteen. While a few of Sionis’ victims were young, they all could vote. 

Gang war. There must be more to it, more than some neighborhood skirmishes and retaliation killings by the way she says it. 

Let her go. What sadist has ever become bored with their prey? 

“Can you describe the man who abducted you?” 

Piercing blue eyes catch her own. “It was Roman Sionis.” She doesn’t blink. “Black Mask.” 

JJ forces herself not to immediately disagree. “Ten years ago, you said?” 

Steph nods. Gives the exact date. An anniversary she will never forget. 

Despite her eerily calm behavior, the minute emotional responses convince JJ that this woman isn’t lying. She was captured, she was tortured, she was let go. She does believe it was the original Black Mask. 

JJ exchanges a look with Dave. They’ll need to add another copycat to their list. 

“Are you aware that Sionis died eleven years ago?” 

The third year med student catches a laugh in her lungs. She stares at them, as if she’s waiting for more. Realizing that there isn’t, she shakes her head. “No. Or, yes, I’m aware that he ‘died.’” She makes airquotes. “But he survived the fall and returned to Gotham a year later, during the power scramble. He’s dead now though,” she adds. “GCPD never solved it. It was the first headline I read after I came back. That they’d officially labeled it a cold case after a year of no leads.” 

“Came back?” Dave probes. 

Her lips press into a thin line. “I was… Hm. I was badly injured, after he- after I got away. A doctor took me out of the country to recover. When I’d returned to- not full strength, but as full as a strength as I was ever going to get, I came home.” 

Here is where the story tips into unbelievability. They’ve encountered unsubs who have been incredibly creative in laying low. Foyet comes to mind. It’s plausible that Sionis survived his fall and decided to use his declared death to continue killing in the shadows. Sionis was an organized killer. He was certainly smart enough to seize such an opportunity. 

That doesn’t explain why the GCPD hasn’t shared this information with their team already. When dealing with a copycat, it’s pertinent that all evidence of the original case is examined. Montoya and Mizoguchi have been more forthcoming than JJ anticipated, coming to a region so opposed to federal intervention. 

She wants to believe there is some explanation for this lapse in information sharing. But she can’t help but remember that the team has worked in Gotham once before. Eight years ago, tracking down an escaped Victor Zsasz. JJ herself wasn’t there. She and Will had finally gotten the time off and babysitter availability for their very delayed honeymoon. But she remembers hearing about the case for months after. The insidious incompetence of the force. The resistance at every turn of their investigation. The implication that Batman was their most cooperative ally, one they’d given the cursory denial of working with. 

(It’s probably a good thing she wasn’t there. Hotch seemed to have a hard enough time leaving the too-young, sword-wielding Robin behind.)

Has the GCPD simply gotten more clever in their blocking of federal investigations? Has S just revealed a cover up that JJ hadn’t predicted? She feels her blood heating up with betrayal. 

One look at Dave and he seems to agree. Either S is a phenomenal liar, or there’s something they’re missing. 

As if sensing their diminishing suspension of disbelief, S frowns. “I know it sounds a little far fetched, but… I lived it. It sucked. I really- I’m maybe the only person alive who knows that exact brand of torture and I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing while more and more people experienced it. It’s not who I am.” She softens her gaze, as intentional as everything else she’s dome. “Please let me help. I’ll do anything to stop this from happening again. Tell me what you need to know.” 

On the second day of a massive riot, during record high heats and a city-wide power outage, S left her home in search of a friend involved in the power struggle. She found Greg—the friend, though JJ suspects the name is a pseudonym—but he was already dead. Murdered by Sionis, who instead of killing his witness, abducted her. 

She describes the torture with detail that couldn’t be gleaned from the news coverage. Her words echo the medical examiner’s report, down to the Latin terminology learned in medical school. 

JJ does not look forward to discussing the interview with Tara tomorrow. 

Around dawn the next morning, she woke up alone. Her thumbs dislocated from the pressure of the hanging chains, she slipped to the ground. 

Here, S pauses. Her composure has hardly been rattled as she speaks clinically about the overwhelming trauma. Therapy, she’d said. Years and years of it. 

“If you’d like a break,” JJ reminds. 

S shakes her head before the words have left her mouth. “No.” She takes a breath, closing her eyes again. A cognitive interview strategy they hadn’t needed to suggest. “I was on the ground. I assessed my injuries as best I could and determined that attempting to leave in the state I was in without knowing when he’d return would be too high a risk. So I… laid a trap.” 

Using her limited strength, she traced a confusing trail of blood through the house he took her to. At the end of it, she placed a piece of her clothing. Then, she waited for her captor to return. When he did, after what S estimates to be an hour, he followed her trap exactly as anticipated. He knelt down to examine the clothing and she swung out of the dark door frame to knock him off balance. 

A fight ensued, JJ’s disbelief souring into mourned innocence as S describes her shaking hands directing the barrel of a gun to her captor’s face. 

“I hesitated for too long.” Her voice has fallen to a whisper. “I didn’t want to kill anyone, even him. He got the gun back. Shot me in the shoulder, kicked me down the stairs.” Her lips twitch into a sarcastic smile and her eyes water. “Said I ‘ruined the romance’ and told me to leave.” She sniffs, the end of her story visibly impacting her. She sucks in a breath like there’s more to say, but she leaves it there.

They remain quiet, taking in the horror. 

After a moment, S tells the rest. About crawling up the stairs and to a nearby roof. Deliriously searching for Batman. 

Finally, Dave says, “You showed extraordinary levels of bravery.” JJ agrees. Unbelievable, given the circumstances. Sixteen years old. Fighting against the terror, overpowering her torturer. 

Yet JJ cannot help but weigh this as the truth. “Do you know why,” she presses finally, “He chose to take you?” Instead of kill you, she doesn’t say. 

S frowns a moment, considering. She sighs. “It’s better now.” Her eyes dare them, sorrow and shame replaced with unwavering resilience. “But this city used to have a child vigilante problem.” 

The non-sequiter doesn’t hit right. Until her words thread all the way back to the beginning of her story. She was out in the middle of the city-wide riot to find a friend imperative to the power struggle. She went to protect him. 

The ability to think despite the disorientation caused by blood loss. The ability to fight through all the pain. 

It’s sickening. 

“You-” 

The med student crosses her arms. “It’s a five year statute of limitations,” she continues once she sees their eyes spark with understanding. “And Spoiler was last seen four years ago.” 

JJ speaks before Dave has the chance. “I hope she’s happy wherever she is now.” 

The words hover in the air just long enough to ease the tension. 

The woman smiles. “I like to think she is.” 

JJ only partially relaxes when S accepts her card. She promises to update the med student when the unsub is caught and S in turn promises to call if she remembers anything else. 

She offers to wait with S while she contacts a loved one to pick her up. While the woman maintained an impressive level of composure, reliving such an extreme trauma would exhaust anyone. JJ would know. She recognizes, reflects, the way S leaves the conversation a little more worn, a little more quiet. 

S smiles at the suggestion, but declines. “You go catch the guy. I’ll be fine,” she assures. 

JJ hesitates only until she sees their witness approach the two women in the reading nook. A third has joined them, elbow deep in a physics textbook. 

The trio look up expectantly when the door opens, no longer hiding their interest in what’s been happening behind it. 

“Bye, agents.” S waves distractedly, leaning over the shoulder of the youngest of the trio, her glasses slipping down her nose in college-student sleeplessness. She chides the newcomer about pulling another all-nighter, her concerns waved off as she flips to the next page. 

JJ glances back only once after saying her farewell. She sees S talking quietly, but contently, to the woman with the tablet while holding out her hand expectantly at the woman with straight black hair. The latter places a hospital ID badge face up in her palm. S clips it to her breast pocket. 

Reinforcement of her anonymity gifted by her friend. 

Hardly refreshed from a night spent awash in the nightmares of Tivon’s torture, nightmares she thought were long past, JJ nonetheless marches into the precinct with barely contained frustration crackling in her chest. She crackles with the same lightning the accompanied last night’s thunder storm. 

Tara and Dave split off, returning to the conference room to review yesterday’s interview. 

JJ knocks on the door to the captain’s office, dwindling professionalism keeping her from barging in. 

Montoya bids her entrance. The captain evenly greets her. Her hair is pinned back in a strict bun, her jaw sternly tightened. Entirely at odds with the small photo of her wedding day. Two brunettes in tuxes, both women giddy with elation. It’s the only personal effect in the room. 

Not sitting when she’s gestured to, JJ crosses her arms, sharpening her gaze. “Roman Sionis was alive ten years ago.” 

The captain blinks. Sets aside the file she was thumbing through. “Yes,” she confirms, eyeing her, searching for the reason behind JJ’s harsh tone. “He was killed the year after the gang war. His murder remains unsolved.” 

“The files state he died twelve years ago.”

A frown. A working of her jaw. A huff of laughter. “Of course. One moment.” Montoya reaches for her desk phone. “Harris,” she greets gruffly when the call connects. “My office. Now.” She nods to the chair JJ didn’t sit in. “Move that against the wall.”

She complies, frustration cooling ever so slightly with the mirrored annoyance on the captain’s face. Not a trick she laid. Not on purpose.

It’s only a few minutes before the door opens again. The woman who enters is strikingly familiar. It takes a moment for JJ to confirm that, no, she isn’t mistaking that all dark haired women using wheelchairs look the same, but that this is in fact the same woman from last night. She’s dressed in slacks and a dark red button up, unlike the soft green sweater at the community center, but her short hair is spiked up just the same. Her lips curl in concentration with matching intensity. 

“Wendy Harris, Jennifer Jareau,” Montoya introduces once they’re all settled. “Ms. Harris is our cape liaison.”

JJ considers that they shake hands. It’s a newer movement in policing. One that a few departments in more liberal cities started adopting after a beloved vigilante was killed by an on duty officer in Illinois. 

FBI policy hasn’t wavered in that regard, despite the Nightwing Foundation’s lobbying efforts. Vigilantes are not to be negotiated or partnered with. Any evidence they procure is not admissible in federal court. Any agent seen cooperating with a mask is subject to disciplinary action. 

Something Emily had stressed before they’d boarded the train to Gotham. 

Harris seems perfectly poised, a consummate young professional. “Captain?” she prompts, not at all wary despite the brusk nature of the phone call that summoned her. 

Montoya rubs the bridge of her nose. “Found another gap in our records,” she intones, deeply unpleased. “Sionis’ near death experience about eleven years ago. It would’ve been the fall. Think one of your contacts could pass along some more accurate information?”

Harris raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t be an issue. Anything else?” 

The captain shakes her head. “I’ll get his unsolved murder file connected to the old one.”

“I’ve got it,” Harris promises, which Montoya accepts with mild relief. Not tech savvy, or swamped with work. Or both. 

Another bit of tense anger ratchets down. Her trust in the captain was not misplaced. While JJ doesn’t feel filled with confidence about Harris’ vague ‘contacts,’ Montoya is intent on getting her team the information they need. 

“Lotta records got lost, back before I was captain,” Montoya informs as Harris makes her way out. “Lot more got scrambled around the time the last commissioner retired. That period in particular, Atkins was at the helm. His priority was catching the Bats, wasn’t all that concerned with the greasy palms walking the beat.”

JJ nods. The corruption that Gotham’s known for in law enforcement circles at work. It can explain improper filing of death reports and witness statements upon Sionis’ return to the city. While Penelope has been scouring the web for connections between their victims, JJ, Tara, and Dave decided against tasking her with the history of the Black Mask moniker. Her split attention between cases means less computer processing available. They’d thought the local files would be enough. Apparently not, but in the process of being amended. 

“Then it’s completely plausible, likely even, that Sionis killed more people between the fall and his confirmed death?” JJ presses. 

Montoya hums in the affirmative, sitting with the unshakable confidence of an officer who has been up for promotion multiple times in the last couple decades and has declined. She’s right where she wants to be. JJ recognizes the posture from her mirror. “The witness panned out then?”

JJ nods. “You knew who it was?” 

“Cluemaster’s daughter?” She leans back, decades of case files in the locked cabinets behind her. “Yeah, I knew it was Spoiler.”

Detective Mizoguchi meets JJ on the way to the conference room they’re set up in. Her dark hair is tied back in a thick braid. There’s a manila folder in her hand. “Everything alright?” she asks, noting JJ’s trajectory from the captain’s office. 

She nods. “Anything new?” 

“Statements from a few more of Eliana Klein’s family members.” 

A deviation from Sionis’ original murders. These are low risk victims, meaning loved ones have come forward, desperate for news on the victim and devastated when they learn of their fate. The detective has been gathering the statements and passing them along to the team for analysis. Not how they would usually handle interviews, but with their limited resources, ticking clock, and non-existent social capital here in Gotham, they’ve had to roll with it. 

They enter the conference room together, catching the tail end of Penelope’s speech over the phone. She can’t help but relax at her friend’s voice, knowing there’s another member of the team searching for this unsub, even if her report had more unknowns than usual. 

“Our unsub is too sophisticated to choose his victims at random,” Tara states not for the first time. Despite their efforts, they’ve yet to connect their victims together. 

Someone has added their witness’ abduction and attempted murder to the whiteboard. JJ goes to erase the death date of Sionis and move it down the timeline. “Anything on Sionis’ associates?” she prompts. While the details Spoiler provided them with are beyond useful, her insights profiler-sharp, she was tortured by a dead man. Somewhere out there, is a man very much alive holding the future of an unknown woman in his steady, cutting hands.

They need details on who would have observed Sionis’ technique, both the torture and the abductions. 

“A lot of them have died in the intervening years. A number are incarcerated in Blackgate or other state penitentiaries. A few on parole.” 

Tara leans forward. “Arkham mentioned that a former lieutenant was released last year.”

“On good behavior,” Penelope confirms with a level of disbelief. “Robert ‘Tattoo’ Ekhart. He’s been checking in with his parole officer regularly.” She sighs, a sound that is becoming more and more expected from their burgeoning-on-toxically positive technical analyst. “I’ll send a list with the rest of his contacts. Emily’s calling.” 

“How is our fearless leader?” Dave asks, humor not masking his concern. The split cases are weighing heavily on everyone, Emily most of all, who has to allocate their resources. 

Penelope laughs. “I was hoping you could tell me. Toodles, my lovelies.” The call ends. 

A moment later, their emails ping with Sionis’ associates. At least this list is shorter than the missing persons files they’d sifted through yesterday. Trying to identify the missing woman who their unsub undoubtedly has chained as Spoiler described.

While Gotham is at an all time low in crime, on par with the neighboring Metropolis, and has been for two years, it’s still a city with a population in the millions. People go missing for any number of reasons. Their victim is lost in the file stack for the time being.

“Let’s get to work,” Dave announces unnecessarily. 

Tara has already set up in the corner with headphones and a notepad, ready to compare Spoiler’s recounting of her assault with the tactics described by Arkham the day before and the medical examiner of a decade ago’s notes. Anything that will reveal their unsub’s identity. 

On the other side of the table, Dave has Penelope’s files pulled up, combing through the dozens of histories for indication that one of these people is their killer. At his elbow is a stack of personnel files that they sorted through when they first arrived. All the law enforcement officers who worked the original two cases. No one stood out. The original detective Dave spoke to didn’t flag anyone either.

Receiving the witness statements from Mizoguchi and bidding her goodbye as she heads out to her next interview, JJ returns to the victims’ files. A clear pattern of the victimology hasn’t been discovered thus far, but any further clarity of what connects the past women will help identify the current victim. From there, an abduction site, and then hopefully enough information that will bring them to this woman’s rescue. 

Just before digging into her task though, she shoots off a message to Penelope, requesting a quick history when she has a spare moment. That done, she gets to work. 

The entirety of Gotham has been narrowed to less than a hundred people. It’s up to them to find the eviscerating needle in this haystack of depravity.

They leave the precinct that night with the certainty that Phoebe Richards is being held by their unsub. She was reported missing four days ago, just as the BAU arrived. Thirty years old, employed at a small local law firm, fiancé out of town.

Mizoguchi assures them that the community safety team will search for Richards throughout the night. A brief review of their grid pattern indicates that they’ll have the whole city covered. If Richards is still alive, a diminishing possibility with how long she’s been missing, they will find her.

As much as she wishes to join the search, JJ has to trust in the local partners. 

Unless tonight is met with a miracle, tomorrow her team will head out into Gotham to interrogate the remaining six suspects from the list of Sionis’ associates. She can’t help but blame their split team on the slowness of their operation. Each member of their team is good at what they do, but their collaboration is what makes them great. 

At least Harris was able to provide them with a more accurate history of Sionis. JJ ignored the bat-shaped watermark on the files and her teammates did the same. At this point, the source of the information is second to the life they are failing to save. She’ll risk disciplinary action. 

JJ second guesses that sentiment when she returns from retrieving another set of towels from the front desk. 

A figure looms in the corner of her hotel room. The lamp light does little to distinguish their form from the shadows. A cape, completely still despite the blasting AC disturbing the air, obscures their frame. A cowl with impossibly pointed ears stretches toward this ceiling, lending more height, drawing JJ’s eyes from the sliver of exposed face. Sleek black armor in the shape of a human, not a demon or a death omen. 

JJ takes a steadying breath as she closes the door behind her. “Tara,” she calls to the bathroom. “You’ll want to come out here.” 

She doesn’t take her eyes off the figure, their head cocking ever so slightly, jaw flexing in amusement. Power radiates off of them, centered on the artistically rendered bat on their chest. 

Sensing the urgency in her voice, Tara hurries out of the bathroom with toothpaste smeared in the corner of her mouth. Her eyes lock onto the legend in their hotel room. 

And then they speak. “Agents.” The voice is not emotionless, but it is neutral. There is no gravel, no growl. It isn’t particularly deep or particularly high. Not much of an accent, Gotham or otherwise. Slate. “You’re investigating the murders modeled off of the Black Mask’s torture.” 

“Yes,” JJ confirms. This is public knowledge. The GCPD reports all collaborations to the public in accordance with anti-corruption measures passed by the city council. 

Batman doesn’t shift, though a level of pleasure trickles through her visage. Batman, she recognizes from the mask crash course created by the Gotham artist DW that they reviewed on their way here. While the PDF provided no indication that the current Batman is not the one who founded the Justice League, the one her team once encountered, pronouns were helpfully provided under each mask’s name. 

“You have not identified the suspect.” They haven’t. It burns.

“We don’t comment on ongoing investigations,” Tara cuts in, far more confident than JJ feels. 

This doesn’t bother Batman. “The wounds are consistent with Roman Sionis’ techniques.” JJ’s jaw tightens. It doesn’t surprise her that the mask knows this, with Batgirl being listed as the original case consultant, but it doesn’t thrill her either. “Roman Sionis is not dead.” 

“No,” JJ denies before she can think. Harris provided them with documents, Batman’s documents, detailing his unsolved murder nine years ago. 

“We did not consider this a concern in our investigation, because he has not been in Gotham for many years. This afternoon, an associate of mine discovered he’d returned to Gotham a little over four months ago.” 

Tara crosses her arms. “Why should we believe you? Your track record of interfering with police investigations is lengthy.” 

“Everyone we’ve spoken to and every source we’ve checked shows that he’s dead,” JJ adds. Her teammate is right. This could be Batman’s attempt to send them on a wild goose chase. Send the investigators in one direction while she swoops in the other. 

Batman allows the silence to turn stiff before stating, “Sionis was revived by an extraterrestrial artifact. A Black Lantern ring. This is widely documented. Public reports state that following the defeat of Nekron, Sionis returned to his grave. These reports are false. His reanimated life has continued. However, he remained outside of Sector 2814 and the Green Lantern Corp and Justice League alike voted to conceal his continued life. He was deemed a non-threat to the sector and planet, due to the unlikelihood of his return.” 

“Except he returned, undetected, four months ago,” JJ bites out. She’s not yet certain she believes the mask, but even her own account paints her in a bad light. 

Batman gives an unhappy but affirmative hum. 

“Right before the first victim was abducted.”

Another confirmation. 

She feels close to tearing her hair out, the same frustration she felt before confronting Montoya building again. Their team was invited here. The second time federal agents were welcomed into this city rather than infiltrating it. This city, a hub of mask activity, a magnet to international crime, and a beacon for extraterrestrial interference. 

Firmly, JJ believes that women who have been killed, that Phoebe Richards, matter. That they deserve the truth to come to light and for justice to be served in their names. And with the same resolve, she believes that she is capable of finding this unsub and ending his violent acts. There is no part of her, however, that wants to investigate a case that involves an undead serial killer brought to life by literal black magic. That wants to continue to be tugged around by the lies of omission this city is steeped in. 

She will. JJ takes her duty to these women, to this city, as seriously as her duty to her sons. But even the idea that they are dealing with the original perpetrator and not a copycat sets her teeth on edge. An idle thought that had been dismissed with the apparently false proof of Sionis’ death. 

The evidence that Batman produces, projecting from a small disc to their hotel room walls, turns her limbs to lead. 

Unmistakable photos of Roman Sionis in Gotham streets, dating back months. An eerie echo of the city’s past corrupting the outlook of his future. 

If he is to return, so too could the rot that birthed him. 

“There is no evidence of his presence near the abduction sites at the estimated time windows.” But that means little. This city, JJ learned, has very limited surveillance technology. Red light cameras do not record, traffic cameras have software automatically obscuring license plates. Business owners must install face obscuring software in their security feeds. Home owners incur hefty fines if they install doorbell monitors without proper approval. 

Gotham is a privacy haven, the public is not monitored. A proving ground for anti-surveillance laws rising up from the Oracle’s once looming omniscience. 

Penelope had told her about it before the protests had hit national news, the citizens ripping away the facial recognition-algorithm enhanced cameras covering their city. 

Treat people like criminals and they will act like it. Gotham’s residents refused to be treated like criminals any longer. 

JJ wonders if the current protests hitting the streets, the vehement opposition to a bill restricting the rights of metahumans introduced by a non-Gothamite New Jersey representative, will result in a similar upheaval. 

The photos Batman shares with them are not stripped from the few authorized cameras that remain in the city. Instead, they’re gleaned from social media posts. There’s a Gotham-specific app that was built in the aftermath of the earthquake during which the Luthor administration abandoned the city to remake itself. 

“These were flagged in photos that users authorized to be analyzed for Sionis,” Batman notes with faint pride at the loyalty hard won from the city’s residents. She switches to a photo of a Black Lantern ring, a Justice League watermark in the corner. “Weaknesses include time travel, the white light of creation, and strong emotion.” 

“Strong emotion?” Tara repeats. 

JJ agrees. The pain, the fear, the desperation of the women being tortured. What emotion could be stronger?

Batman hums in understanding. “Emotion-generating artifacts, typically. Or the emotion of the ring wearer. Black Lantern rings have primarily been documented on reanimated corpses. It’s hypothesized that they seek those who had limited emotionality in life.” Per their profile, Sionis would have been—should be—described in terms of sociopathy. “They feed on the emotions of their victims.”

“Can you find Phoebe Richards with that?” JJ asks against her better judgment. Richards is more important. She will always be more important. 

“No.” Immediate, frustrated. “Proxy, my colleague, included parameters for her when issuing the search request. There have been no hits in the past week.” Batman pauses a moment. “Spoiler does not know that Sionis has returned to Gotham.”

She feels Tara’s eyes dart to her. JJ’= had been the one to spend an evening with Spoiler. She’s the ‘expert.’ 

"Okay,” she returns, uneasy at the shift in Batman’s tone. It’s become… somber, and just a touch guilty. 

“Spoiler does not know that Sionis is alive.” 

Automatic and unexpected, JJ feels her jaw set with the same frustration that Henry causes when he callously withholds information from Michael. It’s in this moment that she realizes how young Batman must be. Around Spoiler’s age, mid-twenties with a whole life ahead of her. She remembers Spoiler’s words. Gotham’s child vigilante problem. 

She wonders how this Batman fits into it. If she too was sixteen, her thin bones keeping this city from utter destruction. 

“Why not?” It’s the media liaison in her that keeps the heat out of her tone, even as the mother and the interrogator are flooded with it. 

Batman retrieves her disc. The room darkens without the projections. The air trickles with ghost-story anticipation. “He was deemed a non-threat,” said with the tone of I didn’t want to scare her.

“He’s really in Gotham?” Tara presses. “These murders, Richards’ abduction, they could really be him again?” 

Their visitor gives an affirmative hum. “Proxy will pass along our files to the GCPD liaison, along with Batgirl’s search report tonight.” There’s a knock on the door. When JJ looks over her shoulder after letting Dave in, Batman is gone. 

The air in the precinct is heavy when JJ, Tara, and Dave arrive the next day. They all clutch their coffees to their chests, bought from a corner shop with that same yellow decal as the community center, trying to wake up from the foggy sleep after spending several more hours discussing the information Batman provided. 

Despite the somber mood, there is still a bustle, still activity. A rookie rushes down to the evidence lock up. Two old timers fill out the paperwork for a search warrant. A memo is going around with information about the protest scheduled for today.

At a nearby detective’s desk—and in Gotham, the investigators outnumber the beat cops by two to one—a family of three sits pressed together. The daughter is in her late twenties and is showing the detective something on her phone. 

“Tiffany doesn’t miss class,” she states clearly. Her father places a hand on her shoulder, not to calm, but to steady. His gray hair is ashen, his eyes sorrowful. His wife anxiously adjusts her clothes, gaze caught in her daughter’s fierce fear. “And she doesn’t send texts like this. Someone took her.” 

The detective types quickly as she listens. “What about the tone seems off in the message?” she asks as Montoya beckons JJ’s team forward. 

She already knows what they’re about to be told. She knew it when she woke up this morning to a pounding headache and no missed calls.

Phoebe Richards is dead. They were too late. Too slow. 

They may have arrived in Gotham only hours after she was taken, but there still wasn’t enough time. Their unsub is too careful and JJ refuses, refuses, to lose another life. 

When she sees Harris waiting for them in the conference room, looking just as exhausted as JJ feels, she realizes her hesitation has disappeared. They’re in Gotham. They’ll play by Gotham’s rules, even if that means skirting Bureau expectations. 

Batman was in her hotel room last night. Spoiler is their only witness on record. If Harris has more files for them to sift through, anything to help them locate their unsub before he abducts another woman, she will accept them. Any information to find Sionis before he kills again. 

“What do you have for us?” she asks, bypassing Dave’s authority. 

He gives half a grunt, crossing the room to retrieve the files from the cabinet they locked them up in the night before. Of the team, he’s always had the strictest ideas about vigilante involvement in cases. Even Hotch once let a Flash assist in a hostage negotiation. 

Tara and JJ both sit, while Mizoguchi stands at the head of the table. 

“Phoebe Richards was found last night by a community safety officer,” she informs staidly. She may be the most well-rested out of all of them, but even she isn’t safe from the energy drain that this news brings. “That area was searched by another officer an hour prior. I’ll head to the Garment District to interview the residents of the street was she found on. Hopefully, someone saw something.” 

Grimly, JJ knows it’s a dismal hope. Spoiler only witnessed her assault because it was her assault. Sionis is too meticulous, too plotting. 

She rubs her forehead. Sionis. Just because the man is alive, is in Gotham, doesn’t mean he’s the ones perpetrating these crimes. 

Yet, as they circled last night, the coincidence is just too much. Six years without murders of this kind and they begin again with just after the original torturer has returned? 

But how to find him? 

She imagines asking Penelope to search for current residences of a dead man. Explaining that he was reanimated by a Black Lantern ring. 

Their technical analyst is better at rolling with the twists of cases than any of them, but even this feels out-of-body farfetched. Unreal. 

She’ll let Penelope focus on Emily and Luke’s case. It’s better than way. They’re a team of two, they deserve the extra support.

Instead, JJ turns to Harris expectantly. The woman types a command into her laptop and case logs appear on the screen across from Mizoguchi. Batgirl’s case files. When she looks closely, she sees a note from Proxy. Encouraging Batgirl to pass on the case to another set of investigators. 

“Batman sent these over early this morning.” She glances at Mizoguchi. “She’s officially replacing Batgirl on this case.” 

There’s a tinge of something JJ can’t identify underpinning the words. Something defeated, something desperate. 

Harris turns to their halved team. “Tell me what you need to know. I’ll find it,” she promises with the same intensity Penelope exudes. An expert in their field, unafraid to bend the rules. 

As they arrive at the medical examiner’s office, JJ reflects not for the first time that this victimology does not fit.

Sionis always targeted high risk victims, women who wouldn’t be noticed as missing, whose loved ones wouldn’t feel safe contacting the police. 

A decade later and prostitution and solicitation have been decriminalized in Gotham. A small but growing sex worker union taped signs to the lampposts outside of the precinct. There’s a free clinic on the way to their hotel that proudly boasts safe drug consumption facilities. Multiple one youth centers and free pre-schools are within ten miles of their hotel. The average salary of a social worker is higher than that of a police officer.

There are still high risk victims out there. Homelessness doesn’t drop to zero just because of one housing first program. But their current unsub isn’t seeking out such victims. Richards was reported missed just twelve hours after she was last seen by her co-workers. 

Dave recognizes the look on her face, the consternation of chewing through contradictory details, when he presses the button for the elevator. He raises an eyebrow, but she shakes her head. 

Unsubs evolve. Sometimes their victims age with them. Sometimes their methods grow more specific. Sometimes they switch targets entirely to soothe a new hurt. 

They have time now, guiltily, to figure this out. The clockwork timeline their unsub has set gives them over a week to find him before he takes his next victim. He could be stalking her even now, but he won’t act until he is certain he won’t be caught. 

JJ won’t let him live in that false confidence. She’ll find him. 

The medical examiner doesn’t bother with shaking hands as this is their second visit to her morgue. Instead, she passes out fresh pairs of blue gloves. She summarizes her findings, nothing unique from the previous six victims she’s autopsied. The same wounds, the same traces of sedatives, the same forensic countermeasures. 

Nothing worth the trip, until she says, “I can say definitively now that the sexual assault is occuring pre-mortem, while the rest of the torture is occuring peri-mortem. These cuts here were even post-mortem.” She means it as a side comment, explaining the benefit of the quick recovery of Richards’ body. A small celebration of the efficiency of the community safety team. 

She doesn’t say it with the same context JJ hears it. 

It wasn’t sexual to him, Spoiler had disclosed. Even when he was- It wasn’t sexual. It was just another way to feel powerful. 

The medical examiner continues on to explain her reasoning, the development of the bruising, the dispersal of clotting. 

JJ locks eyes with Dave. Sionis did not hurry the sexual assault. He used it as another tool to expand the terror in his victims. 

Their unsub is using his torture technique to mask their involvement. Not to derive the same sadistic pleasure. 

They shouldn’t have abandoned the copycat theory. 

Back at the precinct, they prepare once again for their derailed interviews. The six associates of Sionis that they haven’t yet eliminated.

Batman’s ‘tip’ and the discovery of Richards’ body distracted them from their plans for today, but the day isn’t over yet. There is still work to be done. 

Dave’s speaking with Montoya about getting some beat cops to join them on their interviews so the three of them can split up more effectively. In the bullpen, Tara and Mizoguchi are discussing this morning’s family interview. 

JJ’s phone rings. “Penelope?” She wedges the device between her ear and shoulder, continuing to sift through the files. Somewhere in the mess is a list of addresses that they’ll need to hit. 

“The one and only,” she confirms. “I had a chance to look into your question.”

She blinks, taking a moment to recall her request. 

Penelope plows on. “The earliest verified reports of Spoiler are twelve years ago. They were all connected to the convicted thief Arthur Brown. He went by the name Cluemaster. So, kinda a pun on his name. She spoils his clues? Something like that,” Penelope rambles, clearly struggling with reporting on the history of a too-young vigilante. JJ knows she’s having a hard time learning it. “There’s some speculation that Spoiler also wore the mantle of Robin ten years ago and the mantle of Batgirl seven years ago. The Robin connection has more evidence than the Batgirl connection, but those who report on Spoiler being Batgirl are insistent.” A rushed breath. “And…” She hesitates. “There are some articles from ten years ago. Some archived news footage. Spoiler doesn’t have a secret identity.” 

JJ’s stomach drops.

“It doesn’t seem like it’s well known, especially outside of Gotham, but-”

“Penelope-” 

“Stephanie. Her name is Stephanie.” 

She closes her eyes. Cluemaster’s daughter, Montoya had said. She’d thought the moniker hid an unknown man underneath. But Arthur Brown has convictions. Montoya would know that. 

She, too, had protected Spoiler’s anonymity. Just like her friend taking her hospital badge. 

Gotham. The city of open secrets, she thinks bitterly. 

She soothes herself with the information she’d gleaned in a search of her own from the night they’d met Spoiler. That the vigilante has never operated outside of Gotham, let alone New Jersey. Technically, any warrants for her arrest wouldn’t be a federal agent’s to act on. 

Maybe Robin and Batgirl have different rap sheets. She doesn’t want to know. 

There’s a knock on the door. 

JJ plasters on her professional smile, expecting a GCPD officer. 

Instead, Stephanie Brown stands at the entrance. 

“I’ve got to go,” she tells Penelope, ending the call before her friend can test out a new light-hearted response. 

She pockets the phone. “Hi, S.” 

The med student, the vigilante, steps inside. “Hi. The woman at the front desk said I could come back here.”

“Of course.”

JJ studies their witness. She’d never lost the wary distance, even as she trusted them with the worst moments of her life. 

It’s increased ten-fold, even as she tries to hide it behind a smooth smile. 

Spoiler scans the room like she’s checking that everything’s still in place, like she’s been here before. Her curly hair is frizzy, with an oily sheen. There are sleepless purple bags under her eyes and a coffee stain on the hem of her scrubs. A dark blue color. 

JJ wonders if the disguised loss of confidence is due to her being alone. Friends tend to have a bolstering effect and they aren’t here now. 

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” JJ suggests, hoping it isn’t the report of Richards’ death that went out at noon. 

Spoiler trusted her team, trusted her, to save the woman’s life. They failed. 

She busies herself with searching through the files again, looking down because she can’t keep the angry self-recrimination out of her face.

The med student approaches the table with a touch of trepidation. “I was… thinking about Sionis again last night.” And JJ is all the more glad that she isn’t facing the vigilante just now, with how her frown deepens at the mention of the name. The knowledge that Batman’s withheld the truth from Spoiler. That she does not know that her torturer has returned to Gotham. That if it weren’t for the order of the torture, they would be preparing a manhunt for him right now. 

(That JJ still isn’t sure they shouldn’t be. How close does an accomplice need to be to know the minute details of his torture procedure? Killing partners aren’t an impossibility.)

“I… don’t really remember where he kept me, but I know that Batman would’ve figured it out after I- after he thought I died. I asked Proxy if she could track down the information for me.” She shifts uncomfortably, gaze lazily moving across the table as she carefully avoids thinking too hard about the information she’s divulging. “I lost your card,” she adds, just a touch self-depricatingly. “Otherwise I woulda called, but.” She tugs from her pocket a torn off piece of notebook paper. “This is the address. Where I- Where Sionis kept me.” She speaks slowly, controlled, but her air still runs thin. 

With a stack of files in hand, JJ takes just a moment to tap them against the table so that they straighten out. Lifted from the table, she finally finds her own scrap of paper. A ripped off piece of legal pad with the addresses that they’re visiting tonight. She sets aside the files and collects both Spoiler’s note and the list of addresses. 

The young woman’s gaze flickers on the yellow sheet of paper, slipping in and out of focus. 

“Thank you,” JJ says. “This is very helpful.” She wonders if Spoiler insisted that she deliver the note instead of the usual flow of information that Proxy and Harris seem to maintain. “Do you need someone-?”

Spoiler finally tears her gaze away from the legal pad. “Thanks,” she interrupts. “Just been a long night. I’ve gotta get to class though.” 

She exits the room quickly. JJ watches her stride out of the precinct. Not a single officer pays her any mind. 

Gotham’s truce with its vigilantes. Or maybe its blind eye for justice. 

She sighs. It’s not any of her business. Spoiler is just Stephanie now. A third year medical student close to escaping the statute of limitations of her childhood decisions. 

Dave being a trained hostage negotiator, JJ isn’t surprised when several detectives have been dispatched to assist them in their search for the unsub. 

Mizoguchi joins JJ while Tara and Dave split off with two other detectives. 

They split the list in thirds. Dave will be interrogating Levi Jacobson and Andre Tart up on the northern island. Tara has Peter Telule and Frankie Bensen on the central island. And JJ will be tracking down Robert Ekhart and Caleb Newman on the southern island. 

Mizoguchi drives, allowing JJ to review the files they have on their potential unsubs, trying to ignore the crawling feeling that they are too late. 

Their unsub hasn’t shown any sign of acceleration. There’s no reason to speculate about a trigger.

“This is the Garment District,” Mizoguchi comments as they pass a trio of fountains outside of an elegant building. “Richards’ body was found-”

She quiets down when the staticky radio cackles louder. “Dispatch to all units,” comes the voice. JJ pays half a mind to it. Probably an accident, though she’s fairly certain there are separate traffic regulators unconnected to the police that handle those instances in Gotham. “Requesting a 10-75 on the Code Pink.” 

Mizoguchi picks up the radio. “Negative,” she states after giving her ID. 

JJ glances over. “What was that about?” She’s never heard a more vague all units request in her life. Past about 10-10, most ten codes vary by jurisdiction. And Code Pink could mean anything. 

The detective doesn’t answer for a moment, easing them onto the side street that Caleb Newman lives off of.

As they’re unbuckling, she says, “It was a status check. Everyone on the street is keeping an eye out for Batgirl.”

Newman is home with his two young daughters who are sprawled on the couch. Out of school with matching fevers. They whine when their dad carries them to their bedroom. A little desperate, he gives them his phone to play games on. 

His frazzled nature reads as genuine, despite the lack of confusion on his face when he answered the door to two badges. 

“This is about Black Mask, yeah?” he guesses after they decline his offer for water. 

JJ keeps her demeanor firm. “What makes you say that?” 

He huffs. “I saw it on the news. Those women that’ve been turning up dead. Haven’t worked for the man for a decade, but you don’t forget corpses that mutilated.” 

Court records indicate the man worked for Sionis for nearly five years, up until Spoiler’s assault. The timeline aligned with when Sionis would’ve been solidying his torture tactic and a high ranking member like Newman would have had access to the man more readily. 

But as they talk through his recent whereabouts, as he pulls out a paper calendar dotted with dance rehearsals and basketball practices, not to mention the regular hours he works as an outreach coordinator for a youth center, the likelihood of his involvement with the current deaths dwindles. 

“The Red Hood lieutenant to Wayne Jobs Training pipeline is a real slippery slope,” he jokes at one point. “Allegedly,” he tacks on, careful but at ease. 

He pauses the conversation twice to check on his daughters. 

He provides a long list of people who would vouch for his location at all the different abduction times. 

They’ll need to verify them, but JJ is confident that this man is not their unsub. She knew it the moment he placed the back of his hand on his six year old’s forehead. Those hands may have once dealt violence, but they have never surged with the sadism required for these crimes. 

They leave him with a card and a request to reach out if he thinks of any former colleagues who may be involved. He dismisses a lot of possibles for the same reasons their team does. Dead, out of Gotham, or in prison. 

It’s because of JJ’s certainty that this man is not their unsub that her mind wandered throughout the conversation. Churning again through the remaining questions of the case. 

How their unsub has so precisely mimicked the original Black Mask’s technique. Whether Sionis’ return to Gotham truly is a coincidence. Why Spoiler approached her at the precinct after insisting they meet elsewhere for her interview. 

And something new. Where the case’s original consultant has gone. 

“The GCPD does silver alerts for vigilantes?” JJ asks when they return to the car. 

Mizoguchi gives her a look of understanding. “It’s a shift. When Maggie Sawyer took over as commissioner, we had a lot of policy changes. Harris’ position was created around that time. She sent out a request from Batman this morning, asking us to keep an eye out.” 

Again, that feeling of wrongness. A sick parallel. 

Spoiler went missing while the city was plunged in chaos, the same chaos that Black Mask to slip back into Gotham unnoticed. 

While JJ wouldn’t call the streets full of unrest, there is certainly some instability with the metahuman rights protest. And Black Mask slipped back into Gotham unnoticed. And Batgirl has gone missing. 

The car slowly accelerates, pressing JJ ever so slightly against her seat as Mizoguchi pulls them back into traffic. 

“What does Batgirl look like?” she asks, body ice cold. 

Mizoguchi side-eyes her, but describes the young vigilante’s black-and-pink suit. The nun chucks she wields expertly. The cowl that protects her identity. 

“But what does she look like?” JJ insists. 

“About twenty years old,” Mizoguchi answers. “Between five foot six and five foot nine. She’s Black. Her hair is braided to just about her waistline.” 

JJ closes her eyes, remembering the college student hunched over a physics textbook. The one Spoiler hovered beside, big sister energy in full force. 

Spoiler avoided the precinct to protect herself. She entered it to protect her friend. 

When she opens her eyes again, it’s with the memory that Spoiler had looked at her list of addresses a little too long. 

“Robert Ekhart? FBI, open up,” she orders. She’s pulled on her bulletproof vest, her weapon holstered but accessible. Tara and Dave both messaged that their first interviews were not with their unsub. The risk has ratcheted up and based on Ekhart’s rap sheet, while many years in the passed, this man has vast capability for violence.

JJ pounds her fist against the door. It’s the third time they’ve knocked, increasing the pressure each time. Without a warrant, she can’t bust down the door like her gut is telling her to. 

Mizoguchi shifts impatiently at her side. “The lights are out,” she indicates the porch light as well as the curtained windows on either side. The sun’s just finished setting. If Ekhart were in the townhouse, the light inside would illuminate out. 

She raises her fist another time, her joints ticking with an invisible countdown timer, when she hears, “You here for Robert?” 

Turning, she sees a woman, around thirty years old and mail in hand, eyeing them. 

“We are,” Mizoguchi confirms. 

“He ain’t here,” she informs. She smells faintly of cigarette smoke. “His truck’s not here.” She points to a large tree shedding leaves into the street. 

“When did you last see him?” JJ asks, keeping the urgency out of her voice.

The neighbor shrugs. “Night before last? I work long hours though, so he coulda come an’ gone. He miss a meeting with his PO or somethin’?”

JJ gives her usual response of ‘questions regarding an ongoing investigation,’ already moving toward where the man’s usual parking spot. It didn’t rain last night. But the leaves are still stuck to the asphalt in little pools of water from the thunder storm two days back. 

He hasn’t been home. 

Mizoguchi is crossing the street when JJ catches a flash of purple on the adjacent rooftop. She freezes but loses sight of the color as quick as she noticed it. 

She jogs to catch up with her local partner. 

“… immediate crowd control at Levinson and Blankley. Protective detail for Congresswoman Gordon are also present at the protest.”

The detective cringes apologetically. “You mind coming on a ride along?” 

JJ’s vision swims with purple, searches for pink. Banging in the back of her mind are the minutes Batgirl does not have left.

I’ll do anything to stop this from happening again.

Mizoguchi stares at her expectantly, urgently. The metahuman rights groups have become increasingly rowdy, a US representative is present, and they’re the nearest backup. They need to move. JJ deeply regrets the next words out of her mouth, but knows what they must be. “I’ll have one of my teammates pick me up. I’m going to circle the block, see if there’s anyone here who knows where he might be.”

“Alright,” the detective agrees. “Don’t stay out too late. You don’t want to run into the Bats.” If only she knew.

With that, Mizoguchi slides back into her vehicle and takes off toward the protest.

JJ starts toward the building she last saw Spoiler with a brisk walk. She breaks out into a run when Mizoguchi turns a corner. 

She knows, she knows, she should be calling Tara or Dave. She shouldn’t be running after a vigilante four years removed from her last appearance. She shouldn’t be leaping to conclusions. 

Batgirl’s disappearance could have nothing to do with the latest Black Mask copycat. But two facts JJ can’t dispute chafe against that hope. First, Batgirl was the original consultant on this case. And second, she was searching for Phoebe Richards last night. 

When she steps onto the roof, after some careful negotiations with a resident on the seventh floor, she pauses. Cautiously, silently, she closes the door behind her. 

Spoiler hadn’t been included in the pamphlet detailing Gotham’s vigilantes, but JJ can assume she is just as skilled as all the others, even four years lapsed.

It’s unlikely that Spoiler is still here, but at least it’s a starting place. And a vantage point. She walks toward the edge, a search route in mind that she credits to Luke. Her boots crunch on the gravel. The city is dark, but even efforts to diminish light pollution haven’t blacked out this exceedingly experimental city. 

She carefully studies each adjacent roof with the observation skills she’s honed longer than she’s been a profiler. 

If Spoiler is still out there, she’ll find her. 

Unless, of course, Spoiler finds her first. 

“Agent Jareau.”

She doesn’t startle, the eeriness of the empty roof not enough to put her over the edge. She straightens and turns. “Spoiler.” 

Even with the cloak and armor, ramshackle as they are, Stephanie looks much the same as she did in the GCPD conference room. Tangled hair, darting eyes, shaking hands. 

“Any progress on the case?” 

As she asks, JJ’s phone buzzes once, then twice. She moves slowly, checks the messages. 

Both Tara and Dave’s next interviews were busts. Briefly, she closes her eyes. When she meets Spoiler’s gaze again, she’s made her decision. 

“We’ve narrowed the unsub down to one man.” 

“Tattoo? Robert Ekhart?” 

JJ nods, unsurprised that one of Batman’s own has been able to narrow the suspects with a sixth of the people. Although…

“Proxy has been keeping you informed?” 

Spoiler scoffs. “She thinks I’m bunkering down with my mom.” 

“But you’re searching for Batgirl.” 

She stiffens, face flashing with self-hatred. “She didn’t go home last night.” 

“Has Batman… talked to you?” JJ asks, regretting the words as they come out of her mouth. 

Her eyes narrow. “No. Why? Has Batman talked to you?”

It’s not JJ’s place. She doesn’t know Roman Sionis’ role in this investigation. But it would be beyond cruel to allow Spoiler to investigate without knowing that her torturer has returned to Gotham.

“S,” she says gently. “A little over four months ago, Sionis returned to Gotham.” 

“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s dead. Catwoman killed him.” 

That last detail, she didn’t know. Still. “He was revived by a Black Lantern ring.”

“And returned to his grave after.” 

“Spoiler,” she says quietly. “Batman told me that he’s still alive.” 

Her eyes squeeze shut. “Okay.” She lets out a shuddering breath, a thousand emotions darting across her furrowed brow. Fear, betrayal, resolve. “Okay.” 

“We don’t think he’s the unsub.” 

When she speaks again, her voice is raw. “You know what he said to me, after he decided that I wasn’t worth the trouble?” 

JJ shakes her head no. 

“He said, ‘Tell Batman thank you,’” she sniffs. “‘For sending such lovely, poorly trained children my way.’” She swipes at a tear with a gloved hand. “Batgirl took the mantle when she was sixteen.” A hushed confession. “She was the last one. The last child vigilante we let this city create.” She catches JJ’s gaze again, ripping through her with roaring resolve. “If he’s here, he’ll find her. He’ll destroy her.” 

“Can you send the other two to Tara and Dave?” she requests hurriedly. The wheels thunk over a speed bump that Spoiler ignores. The van smells faintly of weed, legalized here and not exactly a topic JJ can speak against. 

“Of course,” Penelope confirms. “They’re closer to the secondary residence though, are you sure-”

“I’m sure,” she cuts off. “I’m already en route.” 

“Okay…” Penelope trusts with her whole heart, but she’s never been afraid to call out a teammate when she thinks they’re doing something stupid. JJ can’t regret calling her though, because they need to narrow their search. Ekhart isn’t home and he isn’t at work. With Batgirl missing, the phantom clock has become very real. 

Tara and Dave will knock out the less likely locations while she and Spoiler search the empty house that matches the description of what the vigilante described in their initial interview. If Ekhart is a true copycat, he’ll want to execute his torture in as similar a location as possible. And if it’s not Ekhart… 

It’s best, really, not to get Tara and Dave involved. Dave is already wary of vigilante involvement and JJ doesn’t want either of their badges in question over her split second decision. 

“I can send some GCPD officers your way as well.” 

“No,” JJ denies. “I’ll call Mizoguchi, I’m sure you have a thousand things to do. I saw Emily and Luke are going into hostage negotiations. They need you.” 

None of it’s a lie. She will call the detective, eventually. And with the split cases, Penelope is swamped. Her attention needs to be with their other teammates with so many lives on the line. 

Batgirl is important—her mind again flashes to the physics student with slipping glasses—but she isn’t twenty people abducted from their homes in the Midwest. 

“I’m only a call away,” Penelope hedges. “If you need anything…” 

“I know,” JJ promises. “Talk to you soon, Pen.” 

She ends the call as Spoiler careens onto a beautiful bridge connecting the south island to the central one. 

The address Penelope provided for a secluded home on the outskirts of Bristol has already been plugged into Spoiler’s GPS. 

Traffic is lighter than she expects for a bustling city on a Friday night and Spoiler weaves through it with a level of skill she hasn’t seen since Derek left the BAU. They rocket north, the speedometer never dipping below eighty once they hit the single expressway that cuts Gotham in half. 

“When we get there,” JJ starts. 

“I’m rescuing Batgirl,” Spoiler asserts. “She is my number one priority.”

She imagines Tara—though around JJ’s age, her junior agent—at Tivon’s mercy. Desperate rage coils around her spine. Spoiler’s statement is the most she can ask for.

The clock ticks to 9:00pm when Spoiler kills the lights. They’ve decelerated rapidly, JJ’s seatbelt snapping, as they started up the road to the two story house that Ekhart’s mother bought in her late retirement. She passed two years ago and the then-incarcerated man inherited. 

Pressed in her ear is a comm unlike any she’s used before. No wire dangling, no separate microphone. A gift from Robin, Spoiler had described. It balances perfectly in her ear. 

In the race across town, they’d solidified their plan. Just before the house is in view, Spoiler parks. The med student makes her way around the back while JJ stalks toward the front. 

Without technical support from either of their experts, they don’t know what security awaits them. A risk JJ is willing to take. She tightens her vest one last time, waiting for the signal that comes a minute later. 

“Infiltrate on my mark,” Spoiler directs. “Three.” Her hand clutches the knob. “Two.” Her stance sturdies. “One.” The door swings open. 

Inside, the house is dark. She can’t hear Spoiler upstairs, clearing the second floor, but she doesn’t doubt the woman has entered. Batman was able to materialize in and out of their fourteenth floor hotel room. 

JJ keeps her gun and flashlight pointed out and down as she systematically clears each room. As she moves through, she sees more and more evidence of disuse. Dust caked furniture. Mouse feces. Water warped hardwoods where rain has come through a poorly sealed window. 

There’s no food in the kitchen, no toiletries in the bathroom. 

She’s shining her light out into the wooded backyard when Spoiler speaks again. “Upstairs is clear.”

“So is the first floor.”

“Basement?” 

“Basement.” 

She moves silently, slipping toward the closed door she has yet to open. Spoiler appears at her side a moment later. 

On their drive here, their biggest debate, and the only argument JJ won, regarded this door. JJ will go down first. Decidedly unarmed, Spoiler will follow. 

“Infiltrate in three… two… one.” 

The door doesn’t creak. The carpeted steps before them are illuminated by weak light, the source of which JJ can’t see from her current vantage point. 

Voices float up next, words indistinguishable, but tone clear. One taunting, one enraged. 

There isn’t, JJ notes, a third. 

Spoiler jerks forward at the sound of the first voice, but JJ cautions her. They’ll move slow. Batgirl has survived this long. Ekhart, their unsub, has finally had his playbook disrupted. There is a wild, improbable hope that Batgirl hasn’t been subjected to Ekhart’s vile desires. As much as her stomach aches with the knowledge that Batgirl has likely already been raped, at least that wound is survivable. It will take strength, it will take support, but JJ doesn’t doubt she has both in excess. 

They descend the stairs, breathing silently, thankful for the padding on the steps. The rest of the basement is unfinished concrete. They’ll need to move with even more care when they reach the bottom. 

Unlike the rest of the house, even the limited amount of basement she can see is clearly occupied. The dust is disturbed, there’s frayed rope in the corner. Power drills are charging near an exposed outlet. A wheeled table covered in torture implements rests to the side. Jugs of bleach line the wall. A radio with twisted antennae next to a small generator.

“… live up to your mentor, you sick fuck,” Batgirl goads, the words just a little slurred. “Think of how disappointed Maskie would be if he knew you-”

A smack cuts her off, followed by a coughing fit. 

“Pathetic little girl,” Ekhart growls. “You think just because you put on a mask and throw yourself into danger that you’re brave.” He spits, a disgusting sound. “I’ll show you your place, I’ll show all of Gotham what a worm you are.” 

As those last words roar from his throat, JJ turns the corner. 

Hands lashed to the ceiling, feet just barely brushing the ground, hangs Batgirl. 

Her suit, black with playful pink highlights, is torn and shredded. The small cape has been ripped off and flung away. She lists to one side, attempting to keep the pressure off her right foot. 

Her nose appears broken. There’s blood in her teeth. Her cheeks are swollen. 

And JJ can see all of this because her cowl has been removed.

Despite having already made the tentative connection, JJ is shocked to see the face of the physics student staring back at her. The twenty year old that came to provide Spoiler comfort after reliving her torture. The young woman now being subjected to that same torture. 

But not by the same man.

Roman Sionis does not stand before them. It is Ekhart, his face, neck, and arms all covered with the tattoos from which he gained his alias. He retains the same bulk that he left Blackgate with, and he uses it to force Batgirl to his chest as he sees the agent and vigilante arrive. 

Batgirl drives her nails into his already cut skin. Scabs from the previous women who fought back decorate him far more appropriately than his twisting tattoos. 

“What, no SWAT team?” he taunts. Or, he means it as a taunt. JJ catches the real hurt under his words. 

A lieutenant to Black Mask, once the most powerful man in Gotham, seeking the same strength he was afforded. A has-been, striking out to prove himself. 

She almost scoffs at him. They’d floated a variety of motives for this copycat. Trying to outshine his boss, they hadn’t yet dismissed. 

“We haven’t had time to scamble them,” she states with a half-tone of frustration. “You’re a difficult man to find.” Soothe his ego, find the weakest point. 

He sneers, clearly pleased. Still dangling above the ground, Batgirl aims a kick at his crotch. He presses his forearm more firmly against her throat in retaliation. JJ catches her wild eyes. Calm down, she tries to caution. 

At her side, Spoiler shifts, prepared to pounce on the man. It’s only Batgirl’s role as a hostage that keeps her lashing anger restrained. 

Ekhart’s eyes catch on her. “Heard you survived,” he grunts. “I oughta finish the job on this one.” He jostles Batgirl. “That’ll really put my name on the map. She ain’t a Robin-” Spoiler stiffens with rage. “-but she ain’t a bad catch either. No one’s killed a Batgirl before.” 

“And no one will,” Spoiler threatens lowly. 

“You left an impressive trail of bodies,” JJ cuts in. “I’ve chased serial killers for almost two decades. Never faced one quite like you.” 

He likes that by the loosening of his grip. Batgirl sucks in a desperate breath. 

She continues, “Not even Jeremiah Arkham achieved what you have.” 

“That sack of shit couldn’t out-Black Mask me,” Ekhart agrees. “I always said that. Then the boss came back to town, thought he could be a big shot again.” He laughs derisively. “I showed him.” 

“You sure did,” JJ agrees. “‘Course, he’s taking credit for all the murders.” 

The unsub’s face darkens with a thunderclap of fury. “He what?” he bites out. 

“It was on the radio on the way over,” JJ informs, nodding to the muted device behind her. 

“He hijacked Arturo’s old show,” Spoiler adds sourly. “Said it was like old times.” 

The details tip the story into credibility, because Ekhart roars wordlessly. He drops Batgirl to painfully swing from the ceiling as he lurches toward the radio. JJ doesn’t hesitate. As Spoiler surges to the younger vigilante, JJ catches the ballistic man off-balance and pushes him to the floor. From there, it’s quick work to cuff him, pressing her full body weight against his back. He bucks against her, but she doesn’t falter. 

At her back, she hears the chains scatter to the floor as Batgirl lets out a choked, “Oh my god.”

It seems her subterfuge against Penelope was not as successful as she thought. Within moments of the take down, before JJ even has a chance to reach for her GCPD radio, sirens scream up the isolated street. 

Led by Mizoguchi, Gotham officers flood the basement. She passes the responsibility of reading his rights off to two locals who haul the man out of the basement with prejudice. 

JJ accepts the hand Mizoguchi offers, pulling her to her feet. 

“Getting a ride with your team?” the detective greets drily. 

JJ doesn’t bother looking contrite, not when Mizoguchi is gazing at Spoiler with a faint, shining admiration. On the detective’s lapel is a small pin that she hasn’t worn previously. 

JJ indicates it with a raised eyebrow, wanting to give the two vigilantes an extra moment before approaching. The younger’s cowl has only just been pulled back on, one less reason for help to stay away. Per her radio, EMS is also on the scene and Batgirl needs to be treated. 

The longer she studies the pin, the more intent she is to know the meaning. A yellow circle with a dark cut out in the center.

Mizoguchi glances at where JJ’s looking and gives a small huff. “It’s a ‘vigilantes welcome’ sign,” she explains. “Letting our city’s protectors know that they’re safe.” 

The symbol on the door of the community center. Of course Spoiler would choose a location with that promise attached. 

“Your captain doesn’t have an issue with you wearing that?” 

“It was hers originally,” Mizoguchi retorts. They both watch as Spoiler carefully wipes away the blood crusting under Batgirl’s nose. “And like I said, a lot of policies changed when Sawyer took the helm. Speaking of-” She raises her voice to be heard over the din of officers securing the scene. “- Wendy Harris is waiting outside for you two.” 

Spoiler softens at the information, but Batgirl clutches onto her more tightly. 

“Paramedics too,” JJ adds. “They’re requesting entry to help get Batgirl out.”

The young woman, the detective in all but title that put her life on the line to bring justice to those seven women, shakes her head. “I want to walk out.” 

And she does. 

They wait another few beats, even though JJ’s gut clenches as they leave her sight. She knows, if she lived in Gotham, her every possession would become decorated with the Bat symbol. Their passion for justice inescapable. 

“It’s been an honor working with you Detective Mizoguchi,” she intones. Their consultation isn’t quite over, but the ticking clock has been reoriented to when she returns to Quantico. She finds herself dreading it. Wishing for a little more time to understand this city.

“Call me Maps,” the detective offers. “All my friends do.” 

“Maps?” she inquires, not sure how the nickname emerges from either Mia or Mizoguchi. 

A huff of laughter. “I was a bit obsessive about cartography when I was younger. Still comes in handy with the current job. Building geoprofiles.”

JJ thinks of Spencer’s aching absence and uncertain return date. She’ll pass along her services as a professional reference after their unsub is booked. 

“Call me JJ,” she requests as they shake hands. Not able to wait a moment longer, she follows the vigilantes up the stairs. 

Outside is measured in increments of chaos. Ekhart is being carted off by officers muttering about meta cuffs. She wonders briefly how Maps managed to handle the protests back south so quickly. If ‘crowd control’ wasn’t the euphemism she assumed it to be. 

CSI has already arrived and Maps meets them at the door, ushering them downstairs. 

Wendy Harris is on the driveway nearby, phone pressed to her ear and talking quickly. 

On the other side of the lawn is an ambulance. A paramedic with dusty blonde hair is cleaning Batgirl’s wounds while Spoiler hovers anxiously. 

JJ approaches. 

“Do you recall being injected with anything?” the second paramedic, a younger woman with straight black hair asks. 

“No.” Batgirl snorts, but is unable to achieve levity. “He was an idiot, wasn’t prepared for me… Didn’t have the same- same sedatives he used on the other women. ‘slong as I didn’t sleep, he couldn’t… couldn’t touch me.”

“And you know all about all-nighters,” Spoiler jokes lightly, her eyes shining with tears.

“Told you they’d pay off.” The laugh catches in her throat, and she reaches for Spoiler’s hand. 

The paramedics smile faintly, seemingly familiar with the vigilantes. “Once we get the worst of these cleaned up, we can take you to the Park Row clinic-”

“No,” Spoiler snaps a little too harshly. “She’s not going there.” 

The paramedics share a look. This close, JJ can see their last names embroidered on their uniforms. Dowd and Silverlock. 

Cautiously, Dowd answers, “Typically Bat-affiliates prefer to be treated by Dr. Thompkins…” He trails off at the harsh look he receives. 

Protectiveness roils off of Spoiler. JJ recalls a small detail of Spoiler’s experiences that she and Dave didn’t linger on. How after Spoiler freed herself from Black Mask, a doctor abducted her. 

Before JJ can parse how to defuse the situation, Harris calls out, “How about Mercy West?” Her phone call is ended and she carefully navigates her chair closer over the tangled weeds and fallen leaves. It appears that different wheels have been added to handle the terrain. 

Spoiler’s tightened shoulders release. “Okay.” She looks at Batgirl. “Okay?” 

The young woman’s eyes have become glassy the longer she’s been out of the basement, but she nods. 

As the paramedics continue their triaging, though thankfully it appears that many of Batgirl’s injuries are superficial, Harris comes to a stop at JJ’s side. 

“You ought to check in with your team,” she states quickly. Distinctly out of the earshot of the two vigilantes.

JJ flushes. She should. She needs to. They’ll be angry with her for going off of her own, for not trusting them, but she needs to face it. To make amends where she can and stand firm where she can’t. 

She needs to call Will and the boys too, but that’ll come later. 

“They had quite the run in, apparently,” Harris continues. “The old warehouse they were searching was also being watched by Sionis. Apparently he’s been looking for Ekhart.” Not apparently he’s alive, JJ notes in the small part of her mind not burning with worry for Tara and Dave. “Batman showed up. They got quite a show, it sounds like.” 

She lets a little of the tension go. Harris would tell her if they were in any way injured. JJ was a liaison once too, she knows how news is delivered. 

“I’m not surprised he wanted to confront his copycat,” she comments. “Serial killers often make the best profilers.” It’s not unbelievable that Sionis would narrow down possible unsubs to the correct associate. “Could you pass along a message for me?” 

“It’s what I do,” Harris responds dryly. 

“Tell Batman that Spoiler knows that Sionis is in Gotham. Tell her that her friend is stronger than she thinks she is.” 

From the way the shadows at the edge of the wooded area flicker, JJ suspects the wearer of the cowl already knows. 

JJ approaches the ambulance as they start putting away supplies. 

Batgirl’s body shakes with sobs and Spoiler is pressed as close as she can to her side, whispering comforting statements. 

“I’m sorry,” Batgirl breathes heavily, trying to calm down. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” Much of the black and pink uniform has been cut off, leaving her in a dark undersuit. Her limbs are cluttered with stark white bandages.

Spoiler squeezes her hand, shifting out of the way of a paramedic. “You’re allowed to cry,” she promises, both soft and fierce. 

She sniffles loudly. “It’s not- He barely even started. He barely even touched me. He didn’t have a chance to- to. And you went through it when you were sixteen.”

“Hey,” Spoiler interrupts as Batgirl starts to babble further. “We don’t compare. You’re going to get through this, Batgirl. You’re stronger than you think you are.”

“So are you,” Batgirl whispers. “So are you.”

Hating to interrupt, but needing to reunite with her team, JJ clears her throat. The vigilantes’ attention flashes to her in an instant. 

“I wanted to return this,” she explains quietly. She holds out the comm Spoiler lent her for the operation. 

There’s so much more she wishes to say. How brave they are, how strong they are. How they will heal, how they have people at their sides. 

But she can’t quite find the words. 

“Keep it,” Spoiler responds. “You never know when you’ll be back.” 

And she’ll take Emily’s ire for endangering herself. The team’s teasing for siding with a vigilante. The review of all her cases.

She’ll take it all for another chance to seek justice at the side of these brave women once more.