Chapter Text
Yvonne Carrasco was closing up the Kwik Shop Grocery and Gas for the evening--really, she supposed, the morning--at around 3 a.m. It had never been her vision for her life to own and operate her father’s convenience store, but unforeseen circumstances had left her the only one capable of running the store. After her father’s sudden death, she’d had to consider--do I want to sell the store I spent my entire youth stealing sour gummy worms and sodas from, or do I want to quit the MFA in poetry that I don’t really care about and start paying off my student loans?
She chose the latter. It’s not that she really even minded so much, running her father’s shop. There were good memories there that she couldn’t imagine losing if she sold the place to the insurance company. But even still, Gotham wasn’t the same place it was when she was sitting on her father’s lap watching gas station DVDs. There were metal bars on the windows now, a grate she had to bring down at night to keep the windows from being shattered. She sat in a cage with the cash register, almost like a jail cell, and handed over change and cigarette cartons through a tiny slot in the plexiglass case. And she kept a shotgun underneath the counter.
So far, there had only been one time she’d had to brandish it, but she hadn’t had to use it yet. Her hands were shaking for days afterward when she gave people their spare change. Of course, Gotham PD was no use. There were so many petty robberies and burglaries every day, what did they care that some smackhead came in and stole a bunch of canned goods from Kwik Shop and Grocery on 123rd Street? They took her statement over the phone, didn’t even send an officer out to the scene of the crime.
She locked the padlock and wrapped the thick, silver chain around the store’s entrance. She double checked to make sure everything was locked up properly, and then began her short walk back home to her apartment. It wasn’t very nice, the apartment above the shop was much nicer, but she’d had to rent that out to a small family to be able to even make rent and bill payments on the store. They were nice, quiet. They had a kid who bought baseball cards sometimes.
She didn’t carry a purse anymore, just her keys and a can of mace. She had her hands shoved deep in her pockets, looking over her shoulder and around every corner before she rounded it.
Then, she heard the sound every Gothamite fears, but somehow knows, is inevitable. There was a shuffling, heavy footfalls in the dark alley to her right. Like she was being watched. She saw someone sliding down the fire escape ladder, their face obscured by shadow. She didn’t wait one second longer--she started sprinting down the sidewalk.
She passed by two dark alleys cleaved between buildings, and was aware of a shape following her as she ran. She was less than a block from her building. She could make it inside. She just had to keep running. Suddenly, from her left, a huge force shoved her into the alley behind her building and she stumbled into the darkness, unsteadily remaining on her feet. Someone was in front of her, and someone was behind her, closing in.
She took the mace out of her pocket and waved it around wildly, spraying with no clear target. A sharp pain as her outstretched arm was slapped with such force that it knocked the can of mace from her hand. Her attackers coughed--she’d gotten close enough with the mace to disorient them. She ran forward and shoulder-checked the man in front of her, and kept running. There was outlet on the other end of this alley, if she could just--
Something grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down. She was shoved into the ground and against the sticky dumpster, covered in a mystery substance that smelled like burnt oil and sour milk. She fell down and began thrashing, wildly, to avoid being grasped.
No one said a word. She didn’t scream out for help, and her attackers didn’t even demand she hand over her money or her purse. She didn’t know what they wanted, other than to hurt her. And she knew to scream would be to waste her breath. Who would save her?
Just then, a giant shape dropped out of the night, wings spread wide, and landed right on top of her advancing attackers. There was a heavy sound like bodies hitting pavement, and the rapid, successive blows of fist hitting flesh. The pounding hits echoed loudly; cracking bone, split lips, and the wailing cries of her assailants. What made it all the more terrifying was that she couldn’t see anything, she could only hear the skirmish, and hope that she was being rescued.
Suddenly, the struggle stopped and it fell quiet in the alley. From the tangle of bodies on the concrete, a silhouette grew, like it was gathering all of the shadows to form. She saw the broad shoulders, the blustering cape, and the two small points on top of his head. A train car rattled over the street, and in the passing light from the car’s interior, she saw who stood before her; the Batman.
She cowered against a dumpster. He didn’t offer her a hand, or any words of encouragement. They regarded each other for a long moment, Yvonne somehow more terrified of this shadowy figure than she had been of her attackers, even though he had saved her.
Batman swooped down and picked something up, offering it to her. Carefully, she inched forward, barely reaching out to grab the object; it was her can of mace. She could use it on him…but she didn’t. He took her hand and helped her to her feet.
“Thank…you,” she stuttered, through waves of nausea at the smell of garbage and coppery blood mixing in the air.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked, in a gravelly voice.
She nodded.
“Go home.”
Without another word she turned and ran in the opposite direction, footsteps echoing off the tall buildings closing the alleyway in. More sounds ensued; the scrape of fabric and boots against pavement, and the sound of something falling, heavily, into a metal container. Bodies, she realized. He’s putting the bodies in the dumpster.
She ran down the street, just a few hundred feet from her building, and punched the code into her building’s door with shaky hands, messing it up twice before finally getting it right. She took the stairs in threes, legs burning with exertion by the time she made it to her floor, unlocked her door with fumbling keys, and slammed it shut behind her. She went to the window by the fire escape to lock it and shut the curtains, but something outside in the dark clouds caught her eye.
A yellowish light, the buttery color of the full moon, was printed on the underside of the sooty Gotham clouds. It was round, and in the middle, there was a symbol; a shallow V with jagged wings. A bat.
She had the curtains bundled up in her fists, ready to shut them, but hesitated for a moment. She saw a shape pass in front of the light in the sky. God help you.
Yvonne shut the curtains.
…
Bruce slammed the lid closed on the dumpster in the alleyway. The two men were still alive, though their pulses were weak. They’d live. It might be a while before anyone found them in this dumpster, though.
Bruce flexed his hand. The muscles ached, and the bones crunched. It wasn’t broken, but he’d gotten too carried away. Just a few more punches, and those men wouldn’t have made it. It was hard to force himself to think that they did deserve to make it--but wasn’t his life shattered in an alleyway a lot like this, with needless death? He took one last glance at the dumpster and opened the lid. Both men were still unconscious inside. He left it open. They’d be found quicker now.
There was a thin sliver of sky visible overhead through the gap in the buildings that formed the alley. The clouds were dark grey, almost as black as the sky behind them. He cast his eyes upward as he shot the hook of his grapple gun towards the uppermost terrace of one of the buildings, and held onto the handle tightly as the motorized reel propelled him upwards. He landed on the terrace swiftly, and retracted the hook back into his gauntlet.
There was a stirring in the alley. He turned quickly, prepared to vault back down--it was only a cat, emerging from a garbage bag with a chicken bone in its mouth. It saw him, its giant elliptical eyes blinking slowly. They regarded each other for a moment, one orphaned creature of the night to another. Then, the cat, apparently having lost interest, skittered silently away and out of sight completely.
When Bruce turned his face back towards the sky, he saw it. The silent call that beckoned him to the streets of Gotham, but he wasn’t the only one who could hear it; every crook, every mugger, every vandal and graffiti artist and gangster and murderer that prowled the streets by night had stopped where they stood as well, to see. To know. To understand.
But it wasn’t just them who understood. It was the innocent people, the families locked in their bedrooms, the hopeless masses that ambled the streets in search of protection but finding none. They understood just as well: the Batman was awake in Gotham, just as they were. And the shadows were his.
A shape flickered in front of the light, a brief shadow that obscured the symbol in the sky. It wasn’t him, but it may as well have been, for anyone who saw it would think it was the rustle of his cape, as he turned and leapt from light into darkness.
He jumped from the roof of one building to the next, making the slow procession across Gotham, to the signal that beckoned his presence.
What did Gordon have for him tonight?
The ground floor of the abandoned, unfinished edifice where the Bat-signal was housed was deserted; no cars, no bike, not even an electric scooter.
He boarded the elevator, and ascended. Slowly, the floor slid into view; he saw first the dirt and grime on the bare concrete, then the black metal supports of the Bat-signal tilted upward, so the signal was emitted into the night air. As the image grew larger, he saw a pair of feet planted wide, assuming a confident stance. Then, standing in the lone shaft of light emitted from the Bat-signal, he saw the flash of a red cape and blue spandex.
Superman turned around the second he stepped foot off the maintenance elevator.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how else to reach you,” he said instantly, stepping further into the light so he could be seen better. His shadow blocked out the symbol in the clouds. He reached over and turned it off, and it faded from the sky. Either way, the message was clear; the shadows were not safe tonight. “I hope you’re not upset.”
Bruce stepped forward, “I’m not,” he said. “I saw what happened in Metropolis today. Is everyone alright?”
“Yes. And as a matter of fact,” Clark said, producing a small green object in his hand, “I’ve apprehended the culprit, and brought him in for questioning.”
Bruce considered the small object in Clark’s hand. Then, he considered Clark. Superman. He wasn’t exactly sure what to call him. They were work colleagues, so perhaps his work name--Superman--was the more appropriate choice? Regardless, he was here.
Flown all the way in from across the Bay.
“What is it?” Bruce asked, approaching Superman at a brisk pace. Something about standing next to him made him feel small, and not just because Superman was several inches taller than Bruce, who was not a short man. He just wore the suit the better, fit the bill of “hero” more. When he walked down the street, people thrust their babies into his arms and reached out to shake his hand. For Bruce, even when he saved people, they cowered in fear.
He thought about the woman in the alleyway, and the look in her eyes as she stared at him--it was like he was no different than her attackers.
But fear was a powerful tool.
“It was made by Krank Co. It’s called a ‘Toy Titan.’ Fully backed by none other than Lex Luthor.”
So that was it. His confirmation. Of course, he’d known it all along. The fact that today’s attack had been orchestrated as a result of this partnership was all the more intriguing--and proved his point. It was reaching levels beyond illegal insider trading.
“I don’t really know the particulars of everything that went on between them, but I have someone looking into it. I do know that they were planning something big before Luthor got sent away. I think Luthor’s departure sent Krank off the deep end.”
Batman took the small sponge from Superman’s hand, and looked at it. Such a small, unassuming toy would have been used to wreak havoc all across Gotham, and now it threatened Metropolis, too.
“Krank doesn’t have a backer now,” Bruce said. “He has no guidance. Luthor was the brains, and he's just a lunatic. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he was wrapped up in all this. Attacks will start happening more frequently now, in Gotham and Metropolis.” He gave the sponge back to Superman. “Have your source send the information to me.”
Superman nodded solemnly, “You know, you could join us,” he said, glancing at Bruce. “Me and the Justice Gang. Even if it’s just on a temporary basis. It would be good to have someone in Gotham, and…we could help you the next time Toy Maker attacks. You could help us, too.”
Bruce turned away from Superman and walked to the edge of the building. There was no wall, no barricade, just a sheer drop nine stories to the unpaved, abandoned parking lot below. He stood and looked down, briefly.
His hand still ached from the fight in the alley. He opened and closed it a few times, flexing. What was it like, he wondered, to be impervious? To be perfect--free from all the weaknesses and sensitivities of man? He cradled his right hand in his left, pressing a thumb into the pressure point of his palm, trying to alleviate the pain.
Superman appeared at his side. If he saw him nursing his wounds, he said nothing about it. They stood side by side for a time, observing Gotham. The orange bursts of fire from smokestacks far in the distance, the sweeping white of headlights passing over Brown Bridge.
Bruce cast a sidelong glance at Superman, who was looking at him intently, expectantly. Smiling slightly, he looked down at his feet sheepishly, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Well, it was just an idea--about joining the Gang. Something to consider, you know, since we’re allies and all.”
Bruce said nothing.
“You know, I’ve never been to Gotham before. It’s…” Clark trailed off, looking around the city from above, trying to find a word to settle on that would describe the entire, sprawling place accurately. “nice.”
“It could be,” Bruce said, without looking over.
An awkward silence settled between them. Bruce thought about the Toy Maker, the implications of LuthorCorp being involved. He knew, somehow, Wayne Enterprises would be wrapped up in this whole affair, but he also knew there was nothing he could do about it tonight. Tonight he was on the prowl, waiting for the next criminal to strike. And when they retreated back to the safety of the shadows, he’d be there.
He surveyed the night, waiting.
“So…” Clark began tentatively. “I received an interesting assignment at the Planet today.”
Bruce forced his breath to remain level. He did not look over. That was an issue he was hoping not to broach this evening-- in fact, he’d forgotten all about agreeing to do the interview earlier in the day. He had been half-dazed, in a sleep deprived delirium when Alfred brought him his mail. He didn’t read the news, but Alfred made it a point to include the Daily Planet’s newest edition faceup on his coffee tray in the morning. When he saw it, Bruce felt an odd sense of detachment looking at the person in the photograph on the front page. He felt no connection to the hunched figure silhouetted dramatically against the grandeur of the ballroom. Bruce Wayne was a construct, an afterimage of someone who no longer existed as they’d been perceived by others. He was someone else entirely.
Perhaps this somewhat startling thought is what inspired him to say “yes,” when the editor called about setting up a formal, full-length interview. In his haze, caught somewhere between sleep and lucidity, Clark Kent’s face swam before him--warm, inviting, familiar even after just one interaction. “I’ll do it,” he said, stolid, aware of what he was saying and doing, but feeling no particular attachment towards his own actions or the commitment he was making, “on one condition.”
“Are you familiar with the doctrine of ‘hiding in plain sight?’” Bruce asked Clark, suddenly.
“Heh,” Clark laughed, a little self-consciously. “I’ve learned a thing or two about it, yes.”
“Your reporter friend, Lois Lane, she’s not the first to show interest. And she won’t be the last. I can’t have anyone scrutinizing me right now, trying to track my every move. I’m not you, Mr. Kent. When I go missing, people notice.”
Clark blinked, “All I wanted to say was--well, I look forward to talking with you more. And I think you’re right. The best way to keep up appearances is to…keep up appearances.”
They were very different, Bruce was acutely aware of this fact, and no doubt, Clark was also. But he was also aware that no one who chose this life willingly, who wore a costume, and had a heroic pseudonym, and willingly put themselves in the line of danger in order to protect some intangible cause that would live and die with them alone, was really all that different under the surface. Their logos might be different, the color schemes of their costumes, the drawings children pin up to their bedroom walls would vary in quality, but he and Clark Kent shared something rarified and incommunicable.
Bruce had never encountered another person of such vast dedication since he began his crusade, and though by day they were two very different men, by the cover of darkness, they had something in common that Bruce had never shared with another person in his life. He was aware of this, and aware of how brusque his demeanor must appear to the friendly, idealistic giant standing to his right. But that didn’t dissuade his inner and complete kindness from extending even to Bruce, whose hardened exterior had driven all but a select few from his life.
The previous night, in the Bat Cave, Bruce had been repelled by Clark’s inherent belief in the goodness of all people. He was shocked to find that that belief extended even to him. He wanted to allow it in, draw it closer. But that was just a small, nagging voice that was quickly silenced. His goodness and his belief in goodness was what ultimately set them apart. Bruce’s hope had been shattered long ago--drawing Clark nearer to him would only serve to shatter his as well, for Bruce knew his own could never be repaired, not even by Clark.
“I’ll keep tabs on the Toy Maker,” Bruce said, changing the subject with a notable lack of subtlety. “If he attacks again, I’ll be ready. Thank you…for your help.”
“He might not attack Batman next time, Bruce.”
“I’m aware of that.”
A long silence stretched out between them where they considered the ramifications of that eventuality--no one was safe, their personas were but a thin membrane against an onslaught of pressure. They could only hold for so long, and it was reaching a bursting point.
“I better get going,” Clark finally said, piercing the breadth of the heady silence. “Stay safe, Bruce.”
Bruce acknowledged Clark’s words with silence, by meeting his eyes and giving him a look he hoped said, You too. Superman offered Bruce his hand.
Bruce shook it with a firm grip, somewhat placated by the pastoral gesture of a handshake by way of farewell. It felt simple, and refreshingly pure, to shake someone’s hand. It also stung a little. Clarks strong grasp quickly undid the abating pain from his fight, but Bruce didn't react. Clark then turned, about to step over the edge of the scaffolding to take flight into the night. Bruce turned, making his way back to the elevator.
“Your group.”
Superman turned around, stepped back a pace from the edge. Bruce was shocked to find the words had come from his own mouth. There was a question posed on Clark’s face that he dare not ask. Better for Bruce to say it himself.
“I would have to meet them. To decide if I’ll join.”
Clark smiled, and Bruce felt his chest constrict slightly. It was like looking at a pure sheet of white snow in the sun’s zenith; a light so dazzlingly, blindingly bright that it was hard to look straight at it. All the brightness of the snow’s undisturbed blanket, but none of the cold that comes with it. The natural beauty and kindness in his smile was enough to melt even a little of Bruce’s icy exterior. He understood, now, why people thrust their babies into his arms.
Clark said, “Of course! I’ll let them know. Maybe we can all have dinner.”
The next words that he said seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep inside him, “I look forward to speaking with you more, Mr. Kent.”
Clark stood still, smiling ineffectually, and for a moment it looked as if he hadn’t heard what Bruce said. Then, “Clark,” he said. “Call me Clark.”
He repressed an amused snort remembering their first meeting at LuthorCorp, and having his own words parroted back to him. He gave a stolid nod, and turned towards the elevator.
He heard the subsonic boom and felt the rush of the humid night air as Superman took off into flight behind him.
As he stepped onto the elevator, Bruce had the sudden urge to speak again, to whisper something, anything, just so that Clark could hear the words from hundreds of feet, perhaps even a mile away.
“Goodnight, Superman.”
He waited for the echoing reply of Clark’s voice in his head, but heard nothing in response. His call into the night remained unanswered.