Chapter Text
He appeared in the alley at the corner of Dusk Street and Brent Avenue every night between 12:30 and 12:45, right in front of the cameras Bruce and I had set up there. Apparently he didn’t think that he didn’t think (or care if) we could see him. Then again, if he was running around with the bat symbol on his chest in this part of Gotham, it was pretty damn clear he wasn’t thinking things through. He jumped down from the fire escape and landed easily, not even stumbling once he got up from the roll he did to break his fall.
He brushed the alley dirt off of his suit, which was so crudely made that he had to have broken a couple of ribs by now. No padding, just somewhat sturdy stretch material from the looks of it. It was mostly gray, except for blue stripes down the sides and his shoulders and obviously, the yellow bat symbol in the middle of his chest. Unlike some other impostors, he didn’t wear a bat hood. Instead, he had a domino mask, his black hair loose. I’d started calling him Batboy, but Bruce refused to call him anything but the imitator. Just one of many. But this time, the guy hadn’t gotten beaten to a pulp in the first week out on the streets, which was probably the reason why we were watching him now instead of letting him bow out on his own terms.
The Batboy paused behind a dumpster, waiting for the two thugs who had robbed an jewelry store to come around the corner. I’d already called GCPD to handle the damage at the store, so all we had to do was wait and see how this would go.
This part still made me nervous.
Batboy got a lot of great kicks in, well placed and strong, but he didn’t cover his back well. One of the thieves kicked him in the back of the knee, making him fall to the ground. My heart skittered in my chest when a different man stomped on his hand, hard enough to break it. I heard his breath hitch violently, almost like he was going to scream, but he didn’t. He stayed still for a second, almost too long for comfort.
“We should help—“
“No, wait.” Bruce put he hand on my shoulder. “I want to see something.”
I bit my bottom lip. “We can see it on the tape. He’s going to get killed.”
“Robin, you’re staying.” The way he said it stopped me cold. He could say my real name, Barbara, the same way. “I want to see how he does.”
I sat back down on the edge of the building and watched through my zoom lenses on my domino mask.
The guy rolled to the side just before one of the thugs dug a boot into his kidneys and made his way to his feet in one smooth motion. He rebounded off the side of a dumpster, then grabbed the fire escape. He swung like he was on a trapeze, kicked one thug unconscious, and dismounted with a double somersault. Before the other thug could get a stab in, he got enough punches in to knock him out.
“He has…flare?” I glanced at Bruce. “You have to admit it.”
He looked at the alley again. His face was never expressive, but it was impossible to even attempt to read him when he was wearing the Bat suit.
“We’ll sweep the next sector, then head back to the cave.” He stood. His cape swept against my cheek and ruffled my hair. “I’ve seen enough for tonight.”
***
My post-patrol shower was always the place where I could unwind, but tonight I couldn’t stop thinking about the Batboy. I had watched the security tapes for hours, scoured my archive for any information, but came up with no leads, or leads that didn’t go far. He could have been one of a thousands of men in Gotham. Somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, approximately 5’11”, not overly muscular, but definitely fit and acrobatic. He had a great butt too, but I couldn’t put that into the database without Bruce noticing.
Whenever we tracked his movements back to wherever he came from, he disappeared into a camera’s blind spot and we couldn’t find him after. He might have been a Meta, a lead I was still following. Otherwise, my information trail was uncomfortably sparse.
I finished my shower and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. I put my hair up in a towel and went to see if Bruce had any leads on the Batboy. He always stayed up after a patrol. If I hadn’t been living under his (and Alfred’s) care since I was eight, when my father was killed on duty, I wouldn’t believe he actually slept.
And sure enough, he was at the computer. Well, computers. There were twelve screens, all showing different things. Two supercomputers operating in harmony. It had taken me a good month or so to put them together, but it was worth it. We could get information in half the time we did before. Well, I could. I did most of the information collecting, hacking my way into archives and encrypted files, while he sifted through it. I would be lying if it didn't bother me. Not that I didn't love gathering info, but after all this time, I thought he would trust me more.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“That somersault he did…” Bruce pointed to the video footage from tonight’s patrol. “…versus this footage from a recent commercial for the Flying Graysons Circus.”
I leaned over him to get both clips to play at the same time. They were eerily similar. The guy in the commercial flipped from one trapeze to another easily, like he’d done it in his sleep the night before.
“It’s a basic move, though, isn’t it? Somersaulting between bars.” I rewound the tapes.
“Watch his dismount.” He restarted, then paused at a certain moment. “There, in the security tape. The way he almost bowed, like it was a natural part of the motion. Then in the commercial, he does the same with a full bow. Left foot out slightly.”
I watched it over and over again. The more I saw the motion, the more I was convinced. But this was the only tape we had that had him doing the somersault.
“It’s a tiny stretch.” I paused the tape on the performer’s face in a spot where it wouldn’t be blurry
.
“It’s not a stretch.” He pulled up another screen. “The fabric of his suit versus the suit he wears during the act.”
He had zoomed in on the fabrics from both tapes. He was right—they were both unique and were definitely almost the exact same. I bit my bottom lip. He always managed to get something I missed.
“Do you want me to do more research into the Flying Graysons Circus tomorrow?”
“Please. And get us tickets for the show tomorrow evening. The Wayne Foundation is a sponsor, so we can get good seats.” He stood. “We should see him in person.”
“But why?” I glanced back at the video screen, then at his face. Unreadable, as usual.
Bruce kept walking. “You’ll see.”