Chapter Text
“Fuck,” The Batman muttered. A spattering of coughs tumbled from his lips, and it was all he could do not to gasp in the polluted air when his fit had concluded. His chest hurt, his head was beginning to spin. Not good.
He placed a gloved hand over his nose and mouth as he unclipped the gas mask from his utility belt. He was fumbling with it. His hands were shaking. He’d gotten sloppy. Inhaled too much. Fucking idiot. Whatever. Get it done.
He secured it over his face, breathing a soft sigh of relief as the clean air flooded his lungs. Where was the radio? Right. He latched it to his shoulder. So he did have a head on his shoulders, after all. He pressed the button on the side and tilted his head to speak. “Found it.”
“It?” Gordon pronounced. “What is it?”
“Prep a cleanup team in hazmat. It shouldn't seep in through skin pores, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’ll give you my position shortly. Send medic teams in about a 10 yard radius. They should be fine, but–”
“Better safe than sorry, you mentioned. What are we looking at?”
The Batman nearly cracked a smile under his mask as he sent back his reply. “I’m not looking at anything. Yet.”
“I can't deploy that many units on a hunch,” she hissed. He did enjoy ticking her off.
“Then the blood is on your hands. Over.”
There was a beat of silence, then: “Fine. Consider it done. Manage the problem from your end, I’ll scrape together help on mine. But I expect a brief.”
Batman had nothing to say to that. He expected Commissioner Gordon could make something of his silence. They’d both agree that the task at hand took priority.
The sewers were starting to become a regular patrol spot. He had hoped the fear of encountering the Batman would deter at least a few, but no such luck, clearly.
The smell wasn't so much the problem– he was used to it by now– the issue was the strange red mist in the air. It pricked at his eyes, making him sorely miss the cowl he had fitted with eye protection.
He had known he was dealing with some form of hallucinogenic gas, but his knowledge of the gasses that this one had access to… they weren't supposed to burn upon contact. They most certainly were not supposed to be this color. The fog was ever-thickening, too. How much of this stuff was there?
He produced a vial from his belt and nabbed a sample. Quick and dirty, not exactly professional, but it should be enough to work with. He secured it, frowned, then collected another sample. Better safe than sorry. It was his entire philosophy. Make backup plans, then backup plans on backup plans. Ensure that impulsive streak of yours doesn't get anyone killed. Or, at least, that it doesn't get anyone killed but yourself.
His mind was running, calculating the fees to get this flown to his contact in STAR Labs, the express fees, the discretion fees. Would they make it back in time? He had to be prepared for another attack. No villain of the week concocts a brand new strain of poison gas, and certainly no scientist worth their salt would release it all on day one. No, there were vats of this stuff waiting in a warehouse somewhere, ready to be distilled and deployed all over Gotham. Just his luck.
A flicker darted in the corner of his eye.
“Dr. Alkan,” he began. But the figure was gone. He knew better than to just call it a trick of the light.
You shouldn’t be here.
The voice was not one, but many. So many, all layered over one another. He could be speaking to a child, or an old man, or a teenage girl. His eyes burned, his ears rang.
“Dr. Alkan, I need you to–”
That’s not my name.
A limb of pale, glistening flesh materialized before him, en route to swat him into the wall to his back. Batman ducked to the side just in time, but, of course, there were more where that came from. He dodged and weaved, putting up his forearms to shield his face. He was trying not to blink so his eyes would water and flush out the irritant, but no such luck. This gas, whatever it was, was still firmly in his system.
The next limb had a maw filled with teeth, and more than a few eyes studding the sides. There’s the head.
He cracked his knuckles and threw a punch that should have knocked it clean out. He bit back a cry of pain and glared at his hand, at his new surroundings. Somehow he had been turned around, and the punch he should have been throwing at his opponent had landed squarely into the brick walls of the sewer. How the hell…?
Laughter echoed through his ears, through his head. Missed me, it taunted.
He gritted his teeth. New plan.
He unhooked his grappling gun from his belt and fired it off into the fog. As expected, it was met with no resistance. It fell onto the floor with a metallic clink somewhere off in front of him. He positioned himself diagonally. Then, with his good arm, he spun the grappling gun around and around so that the rope formed a fan, rapidly dispersing the mist. Sure enough, the laughter began to fade, turning instead into pained screams. There was a soft splash in the sewer water, and subsequently the mist seemed to clear out.
He was gasping now. He tore off the gas mask and inhaled several lungfuls of filthy, but mist-free air. He retracted his grappling gun and pressed the talk button on his radio.
“They got away,” he muttered. “Cancel the hazmat. Seems like the blood-mist goes with them.”
“Fine. Your ambulances have been long since been deployed. My brief?”
“Not tonight.” He winced as he flexed his broken hand.
“Busy? Where to now, Batman?”
He didn’t have much to say to that, either. Not to her, at least.
The journey back to the manor wasn’t so bad. Batman had grappled through the city in worse conditions. Benjamin wasn’t so happy, though.
“You should have arranged for pickup,” he chided, ungloving his hand with care. “I could have easily driven you home in the Batmobile, sir.”
From the floor, Félicette concurred. She gave him a pathetic little meow and headbutted his leg.
“I appreciate the concern.” Simon reached up with his good hand and tugged his cowl off. He reached down to give Félicette a nice pet on the head, too. “Both of you.”
“I’ll cancel the dinner.”
“Don’t,” Simon said. “I need the intel.”
“I implore you to reschedule,” Benjamin said, practically through gritted teeth.
“Input taken and noted,” he said, “but I’m going.”
Benjamin sighed through his nose. He really had no way to argue. “Then I’ll prepare a driver, sir.”
“And I’ll prepare an alibi,” Simon muttered, mainly to himself.
With Benjamin’s help, Simon tugged on a black tux with a red velvet lining, with a matching, richly colored tie secured around his neck. His hair, which had come down to his jaw now, was gelled back and tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Benjamin secured a tiepin with the Wayne family crest right below the knot of his tie. The matching ruby cufflinks glinted in the glittering chandelier light. His broken hand was simply secured with a few bandages, a temporary solution to prevent him from making things worse inadvertently.
The dining itself was modest by his company’s standards. Not too lavish. Almost private. It was just the kind of setup Simon liked to see. The more unassuming the setting, the more likely his opponent was to open up. He settled into his seat and tapped the side of his tiepin to begin the audio recording. After all, his host was just arriving.
Lex Luthor arrived right on time, flanked by security even here. Simon stood to greet him with his easy, familiar smile. Luthor held out his hand to shake. Simon tsked his tongue.
“Broke my hand, actually. Let’s try the other.”
Luthor held out his other hand. “Sorry about that. What happened?”
“Slept wrong and crushed it in my sleep. Don’t worry about it. I felt this was more important, anyway.”
Luthor smiled. “You’re such a good friend, Simon. Rushing to help me out when I’m in a pinch.”
Simon returned the smile, as he often tended to do. “Anytime. Now why don’t you tell me about this Superman problem of yours?”