Batman stood unmoving, a silent statue beneath the flickering pale glow of the Batcomputer screens. Four separate shootouts had erupted across Gotham in the past week, each one planned perfectly, each unfolding in the deepest hours of the night. Not in public spaces and away from any cameras, if he didn't know any better he'd think they knew his patrol route. No. These ambushes had taken place in narrow alleyways, tucked behind forgotten buildings, where the gunfire could be swallowed by the surrounding noise.
At first glance, they looked like more turf wars. Another footnote in Gotham's endless catalogue of bloodshed.
But the details… the details disturbed him.
The aggressors weren't rival gangs or mercenaries. Not trained killers or vigilantes.
They were homeless.
And not just any homeless, these were the same drifters and wanderers who, just weeks ago, had begun gathering under the same scattered umbrella. One leader. One name.
Nolan.
Or perhaps Kieran or one of his other personalities.
Batman's eyes narrowed. The alias echoed in his head like a ticking clock. What surprised him the most, though, was who they were in this 'war' with.
Black mask, now that was someone not to be messed with.
"I knew this would happen," Bruce murmured under his breath, gaze fixed on the surveillance footage playing across the screen. In grainy black-and-white, he watched as a group of figures emerged from the shadows. Covered faces. Makeshift weapons. Flanking their target like their lives depended on it.
This wasn't some random act of violence, he could see some strategy at play.
He leaned closer. Rewound. Paused.
There at the edge of the frame, one figure moved differently. Not hesitating. Not following. Leading. Giving orders with a single look, a tilt of the head, or a slow hand raised.
Bruce didn't need facial recognition software.
It was him.
Nolan.
And with that image came the memories. That night, the night he and J'onn had stepped into Nolan's home, believing they were confronting a man who clearly needed mental help.
They were wrong.
They had awakened something else, something Bruce didn't know how to quantify.
Bruce still reviewed the footage from that encounter, pouring over every pixel, frame by frame. He'd enhanced the audio, traced every heat signature, even reconstructed a 3D simulation of the Hotels layout.
And yet, nothing added up.
On paper, Nolan was just a man. No metahuman gene. No chemical enhancements. No known mutations. His bloodwork came back clean. His heart rate, prior to the event, was calm. Steady.
By all available data, Nolan had been and should have remained a man burdened by trauma, suffering from dissociative identity disorder.
But the thing that stood in his place that night bent steel with its bare hands, moved like a predator, and looked at Batman with eyes full of hunger as he were a lion, that thing had not been human.
Bruce's jaw clenched.
His gloved hand curled into a fist on the console as he recalled the snarl, the heavy, animalistic breathing, the voice that wasn't a normal voice at all.
And still no answers.
Just more questions.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned from the monitors, the hum of the Batcomputer dimming behind him. His cape swirled around his boots as he moved across the stone floor of the cave.
This wasn't just about Black Mask anymore.
Suddenly, Bruce realized the young man he saw before that trembled under custody, no longer existed, and now a new player had entered his city.
And Batman needed to stop it before he grows into something much more dangerous.
***
Beth laughed as the Martian in front of her struggled with trying to teach her about telepathy, "I don't understand." M'gann grumbled, "Am I really that bad of a teacher?" she whispered almost to herself
J'onn laughed, "M'gann, you are a martian telepathy comes much easier to you than to others. Young Beth here just recently awakened her abilities of which we do not know much about. I'm still not convinced she is a full telepath, something about her powers is fundamentally different than what we are used to. And she said she has created flame before."
"Hello Megan!" M'gann bonked her forehead, "Obviously, her powers are different, she's human." suddenly her phone pinged, "oh! I'm late bye Beth!" she scooped Beth into a giant hug before changing into different clothes in an instant and flying off.
J'onn chuckled before shaking Beth's hair, "Ice cream?" he asked
"Ice cream!" her eyes practically shone like the sun
***
Quentin stood next to Naima, Dre, Marcy, and Terrel. Each respective leaders of their own little corner of the homeless population of Gotham.
The battered map on the wall was marked up with fresh grease pencil slashes encircled drop points, color-coded supply paths, and new red Xs denoting sites of recent bloodshed. Quentin let the silence stretch as he looked them over. His people. His circle.
"Black Mask's pissed off now," Quentin said finally, his voice gravel-thick with exhaustion. He glanced at the others in turn, gauging their moods. "We've hit three more pickups outside the warehouse. Same as before grabbed weapons, burned the rest. They're bleeding."
Dre 'Wall' Matthews gave a short nod. He stood with arms crossed, massive and tense, his usual booming demeanor muted by weariness. "Yeah, I figured. My lookouts've seen a spike in movement across rooftops three new scout teams pokin' their noses where they don't belong. His boys're trying to get deeper, map out our lanes. I've had to halt almost all relocation traffic just to keep us from being seen. It's costin' us." He paused, jaw tight. "Profits are fallin'. We're holdin' territory, but barely."
Quentin let out a slow breath and nodded. "It's to be expected. This was always going to be the stretch that hurt. But when we win and we will win what we've built will be untouchable. Every inch of ground we hold now? It's going to pay off tenfold."
Marcy Liu, hands folded neatly before her, spoke next. "My people have been smart with what we've taken. Tunnels under Old Gotham are full, we've got weapons, rations, cash and medical supplies. Not a fortune's worth, but enough to make help when needed." She gave Quentin a sharp look under the brim of her old cap. "Problem is, the doc by the Narrows it's not safe anymore. Too much noise, too many eyes. We need alternatives."
Quentin nodded thoughtfully. "I've got something in the works. Quiet, most importantly, controlled. I'll loop you in once I've confirmed it's solid."
As he spoke, something tightened in his chest Kieran's voice rising unbidden in the silence of his mind.
'Their morale is falling, Quentin. Look around you. We've lost people. Lost ground. They're starting to wonder if this was worth it. Their posture is screaming discontent.'
Quentin didn't argue. His eyes drifted across the room, lingering on slouched shoulders, drawn faces, sidelong glances. These people weren't just tired. They were on the verge.
He straightened, tone shifting from strategist to something colder, hungrier. "We need to hit back. Not just another raid. Something louder. Something personal. We need to show him show Black Mask what these attacks cost."
A grin split across Terrell "Stitch" Gaines's scarred face. "What you got in mind, boss?" he asked, denim coat flaring as he leaned in, eager.
Quentin hesitated, fingers twitching at his side.
'It's fine,' came Nolan's voice, steady and solemn within him. 'I know the cost of this, Quentin. Do what you need to do to win.'
Quentin's jaw set. He looked up, fire catching in his eyes again.
"Well," he said slowly, "I have one idea."