“Who the hell pulled us out?” Vincent asked the most important question on his mind.
He licked his dried lips, his eyes fixed on James Gordon.
If what he’d seen out on the ocean hadn’t been a near-death hallucination, then Batman was operating in this world far more covertly than anyone realized.
“You don’t know either?” Gordon replied, cracking a tired knuckle.
“Bullock and I hit the water and managed to cling to a reef.
Eventually, our strength gave out, and we were completely submerged.
When I woke up, we were lying on the shoreline.” Gordon’s response hit like a shot of adrenaline straight to Vincent’s core.
Vincent had to move.
He had exactly one hour to locate Batman.
Before leaving, he asked Gordon for some cash, a flashlight, and a thick length of rope.
“What do you need all that gear for?” Gordon asked sensing something was off.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to break the law.
But I can’t give you the details either.
Otherwise, you’ll start talking about dragging me back to Arkham Asylum like last time.” After parting ways with Gordon, Vincent flagged down a taxi on the avenue.
The moment the words Wayne Manor left his mouth, the driver started cursing up a storm and threatened to kick him out of the cab.
For years, rumors of paranormal activity had surrounded the old Wayne estate.
Nobody went near that haunted place except amateur content creators chasing clicks, especially not at midnight.
Then Vincent slapped three hundred dollars flat against the dashboard.
“In a rush, pal?” “The faster, the better.” “Buckle the fuck up, then.” The orange sedan roared down Gotham’s deserted highways, tearing across the Robert Kane Bridge and speeding toward the isolated northeastern outskirts where the Wayne estate loomed.
The headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a rusty iron fence.
The abandoned Wayne Manor looked like the corpse of a giant beast, giving off a disturbing feeling of decay.
“I’m staying right here in the car,” the driver muttered, locking the doors and pulling out a dry bag of pasta to crunch on.
Vincent climbed over the iron fence and crossed the grounds until he found the old stone well.
Its opening was tightly covered with rotting wooden planks.
This was the entrance to the Batcave.
The place that contained Bruce Wayne’s deepest trauma.
The place where his mission as a hero began.
Vincent smashed the rotted wood apart with a heavy stone, anchored one end of his rope to a dead oak tree, and slid down into the dark with the flashlight between his teeth.
The slick stone walls were covered in thick patches of damp moss.
The scraping of his boots disturbed the colony sleeping below, sending a deafening wave of leathery wings surging up from the darkness beneath.
Vincent always assumed he wasn’t afraid of bats, but as countless thousands of the blind creatures swarmed directly past his face, he closed his eyes tight, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A familiar, foul smell hit his nose; the same scent of raw fear that had leaked from his skin down in the sewers.
Fear of these disease-carrying rodents was deeply coded in human nature It made perfect sense why Batman chose them as a symbol.
Reaching the bottom of the well, Vincent made his way through the jagged limestone caverns for about five minutes.
Eventually, the powerful beam of his flashlight illuminated a massive underground cave filled with ancient stalactites.
But he was destined for disappointment.
There were no high-tech surveillance systems.
No armored vehicle.
No reinforced glass display cases holding protective armor.
The cave remained entirely in its primal state.
It was an abandoned underground mining site, with a rusted metal crane sitting dead at the bottom of the cavern like the skeleton of an ancient relic guarding a forgotten outpost.
There was no Batman.
And without him, Vincent knew Sal Maroni’s men would kill him before sunrise.
This ridiculous survival game was finally over.
He had managed to make it this far on pure luck.
“Find what you were looking for?” the driver asked, eating his snacks as Vincent climbed back into the cab.
“Don’t sweat it.
If the cops ask, I never saw your face.
Everyone in Gotham’s got a secret.” Vincent didn’t bother responding.
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, letting the bleak, desolate architecture blur into the dark as the vehicle sped away.
His clock was running out.
In his final moments, he wanted to return to the Senate Apartments.
It was the only place in this freezing city that felt remotely familiar.
When the cab pulled up, he emptied his pockets and handed the all the remaining cash to the driver.
“Well, Captain Gordon, looks like I won’t be paying you back your money,” Vincent muttered with a hollow, self-deprecating smirk.
But as he turned toward the steps of the building, his eyes locked onto a familiar figure.
Oswald?
The two battered, bruised men stood on the stone steps, staring at each other in total disbelief.
“What the hell, Oswald?
How did you escape?” The moment the words left his mouth, Vincent realized the question was stupid.
Maroni didn’t need to lock Oswald in a cell; the mob boss basically owned every square inch of Gotham.
“Slipped out of the clinic,” Oswald muttered, his voice muffled by the thick plaster around his broken jaw.
“Maroni thinks I’m still comatose in a recovery ward.
The bastard didn’t bother placing more than two guards at the door.” After the warehouse incident, Maroni’s status in Oswald’s mind had dropped from *Respected Sir* to a string of unprintable insults.
“You didn’t get the money back, did you?” Oswald asked quietly.
Vincent shook his head.
Oswald didn’t get angry.
“It was a suicide mission from the start.
But I appreciate the attempt, pal.
You look like you went through hell.” “I stole two bottles of your vintage stuff.
Let’s call it even.” The two men exchanged a faint, tired smile, quietly accepting the sad reality of their situation.
With less than ten minutes before midnight, they sat together on the steps of the apartment complex, exchanging stories to pass the time.
“You’re a Cobblepot, right?” Vincent asked, adjusting his head bandage.
“How does an heir to one of the four founding families end up running errands for a low-life mobster like Maroni?” “That’s a long, ugly story,” Oswald said, running a finger down his long nose.
“I’ll give you the details when we have more time.” They both knew *more time* was an illusion.
The heavy, resonant chimes of midnight echoed through the Gotham streets.
Right on cue, a series of rapid, echoing footsteps echoed from the entrance of the alley.
Oswald patted the dust from his trousers and stood up, trying to adjust his posture to face the executioners with a shred of dignity.
But as the figure broke through the shadow of the streetlamp, Vincent’s pulse spiked violently.
Selina?
What the hell was she doing here?
“There you are,” she panted her eyes scanning Vincent.
“Why didn’t you leave a note for Gordon before walking out?
I’ve been running all over the place looking for you.” “Come with me, right now,” she whispered, throwing a highly suspicious, defensive glance at Oswald before grabbing Vincent’s arm and pulling him into the adjacent alleyway.
“Look, Selina, I’m glad you’re okay, but I’m a dead man walking,” Vincent said, trying to pull away.
“Our arrangement …” His sentence cut short as a massive, heavy stack of financial documents was shoved into his hands.
He clicked on his flashlight.
Nine verified cashier’s checks, each drawn for exactly fifty thousand dollars.
Combined with the half-million Dr.
Strange had already returned to Maroni, it was the exact sum of the stolen casino cash.
“Where did you get this?” “Slipped into Hugo Strange’s vault,” Selina said, tilting her head with a smug, winning smirk.
“But we never located his laboratory” “Are you stupid?
Use your brain.
The Bio-Humans are hyper-aggressive, feral bioweapons.
If Strange wanted to keep his specialized technical equipment intact, he’d never put his main workspace on the lowest level where those monsters wander.” “Level one and two are too exposed to casual maintenance inspections.” “Which means his private facility was located right on level three.
You actually sneaked into the lab and took the cash?” Vincent’s breathing turned ragged, his hand pressing against his ribs as he tried to process the sudden turn of events.
Every single time he prepared himself to accept his fate, the reaper’s blade missed his neck at the last second.
A few more close calls like this and he’d end up with a permanent heart condition.
But Catwoman’s next words shattered the relief.
“No, not exactly.
I intended to steal it, but it turns out Dr.
Strange expected my arrival.
He was waiting for me.” “Then how.” “Allow me to clarify.
The individual I was waiting for wasn’t this lovely young lady.
It was you.” The smooth, clinical voice echoed from the deep shadows of the alley.
Vincent turned his flashlight toward the sound.
Dr.
Hugo Strange stepped into the light, his unsettling, wcreepy smile revealed by the glare.
Before Vincent’s brain could process the doctor’s sudden appearance, Selina shifted her weight beside him.
Her hand moved with blinding speed, driving a sharp metallic object deep into the side of his neck.
A needle prick instantly paralyzed his entire body with a violent electrical shock.