The burner buzzed once on the rickety kitchen table.
Nolan stared at it like it was a live grenade. Steam curled from the chipped mug in his hand, black coffee forgotten. He didn't recognize the number, but he didn't need to.
A pause. Then, the thick, gravel-slick voice of Oswald Cobblepot oozed through the line. "I've got a situation, and you're going to help me fix it."
Nolan's jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, he didn't say anything.
"Got a man," Penguin continued. "Important one. Cops have him. They're moving him tonight, right now in fact, convoy across the Narrows. They wanna get him somewhere quiet before they start asking questions. I can't have him squeal."
"Don't you think," Kieran's voice slid in before Nolan could stop it, smooth as a casino shuffle, "that if he's one of your top guys, he'd stay loyal?"
"Not when the Bat gets involved," Penguin snapped. "You know what that freak does to people he gets em talking real good."
Kieran chuckled softly. "Fair point."
Penguin didn't wait for more pleasantries. "You get him out. Quick and clean. You do that, we call it even. I'll stay outta your way."
Quentin surged forward from the dark, his tone firm and calculating. 'We can do this. We should do this.' Follow current novᴇls on ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt
"No," Nolan said aloud. "No, I—"
But he was already slipping. His fingers clutched the phone tighter, the voices arguing behind his eyes.
Kieran's tone was honey-dipped confidence. "You've got yourself a deal, Oswald. We'll be in touch."
He hung up before Nolan could retake control.
Quentin was already at the whiteboard by the time Nolan blinked next.
It wasn't really a whiteboard. It was a piece of drywall ripped out from a condemned apartment and propped against milk crates, covered in marker ink and pinned Polaroids. A map of the Narrows was spread across the table, surrounded by scribbled notes and timetables.
"They'll take 9th," Quentin muttered, drawing a line across the map. "Too narrow for a full U-turn if they're boxed in. We hit 'em there."
"Listen to me we have people for this!" Nolan shouted but Quentin was having far to much fun
He called three burner numbers in quick succession.
An older homeless man named Leroy, who had a weathered look and a confident limp, would be the first point of contact. A group of network runners would dress as city workers, complete with stolen utility vests and a folding sign that read SEWER LINE REPAIRS AHEAD. One of the vans would block the road as if they were unloading tools.
Meanwhile, another runner named Dahlia younger and quick witted, would trigger a staged "chemical spill" alert one block over to force traffic reroutes. They had pre-planted drums marked with faded hazardous waste labels.
Quentin outlined the timing.
"They hit the false construction. Driver gets out. They delay him. That's when we move."
He pulled a burner laptop closer, opened schematics of GCPD-issued convoy vans.
"Two in the front, two in the back. Standard blind spots. I've got smoke canisters in the old church. I'll grab 'em."
He looked up at the cracked mirror above the sink.
Kieran gave him a nod from the reflection.
Night swept over Gotham like a tide of tar.
A van idled quietly on 8th and Burrow, loaded with gear. Inside, Quentin zipped up a borrowed orange vest and adjusted a pair of smudged glasses. His hair was slicked differently, his face clean-shaven to throw off descriptions.
The convoy appeared as expected — two black vans, windows tinted, escorted by a single patrol cruiser.
The "road crew" was already in place.
"Yo!" Leroy called out, waving a flashlight. "City works! You gotta reroute!"
The first van slowed. Quentin counted the seconds.
Then the smoke bombs rolled from a gutter grate like fog from a dream, hissing up a thick gray curtain between the two vans. Panic cracked over the radios. Doors flung open.
Dahlia, in police riot gear, charged the second van with a stolen badge and perfect posture. "You! Move the subject to the secondary!"
Two officers blinked. They were caught mid-move, half-blinded by the smoke, hearts thudding from adrenaline.
In the chaos, Quentin himself opened the back of the transport, yanked the stunned prisoner out — a wiry man with blood on his collar and terror in his eyes.
"No questions," Quentin murmured. "Just move."
The prisoner, Griff, limped behind Quentin through the rain-slicked alley, one hand clutched to his ribs. Steam hissed from a vent overhead as their shoes slapped through shallow puddles.
"You'll go with him," Quentin said quietly, pointing to a tall figure waiting near a side door one of Nolan's network runners, face obscured under a hood. "He'll get you somewhere safe. Keep your mouth shut."
Griff nodded, chest still heaving. "You got it, man. Thank you."
As Quentin turned to walk away, the shadows at the alley's mouth shifted.
A silhouette peeled from the darkness smooth, silent, and unmistakable.
Quentin froze. The air thickened like tar.
"You moved fast," Batman said, his voice gravel and judgment.
Quentin didn't answer. He reached slowly for the pistol at his belt.
"Don't," Batman growled. "This is over."
The burner clattered to the wet concrete.
"You've been busy lately, hiding criminals while using the homeless." Batman took a step forward. "It stops now."
"I think you've got the wrong guy," Quentin said, hands half-raised. "I'm just a guy with a vest and too many favors."
A blur of black cape and armored fists. The first strike went low, a sweeping kick that knocked Quentin off his balance and onto his back.
He scrambled up, gasping, clutching his ribs.
The second blow came for his mask — fingers sharp and precise, ripping it free with one smooth jerk.
Nolan's face, pale and slick with sweat, was exposed under the flickering alley light.
His eyes widened with panic. "Goddamn it," he hissed. "Just take control already!"
And the shift came hard.
Like a fuse lit behind the eyes. His muscles tensed, posture straightened. The fear drained from his expression — replaced by something cold. Focused.
The Fighter was in control now.
He didn't say a word.
Batman threw the first punch, and the Fighter caught it — barely — redirecting the momentum to step inside Batman's reach and throw a sharp elbow toward the jaw.
Batman staggered back half a step, surprised.
The Fighter pressed forward, weaving low, feet silent on the wet pavement. A jab to the ribs. A palm strike to the sternum. He moved like someone who'd studied violence in alleyways and cages, not dojos — raw and explosive.
Batman grunted, blocking a flurry of blows, then countered with brutal precision — a spinning kick that caught the Fighter's shoulder and sent him skidding into the brick wall.
The Fighter spat blood and grinned.
He darted forward again, slipping under Batman's guard this time. A knee to the gut, a strike to the wrist that sent one of Batman's tools flying. For a moment, he had the upper hand.
But Batman adapted fast.
The cape whipped around. A boot caught the Fighter's thigh mid-sprint, and the next blow cracked across his jaw, spinning him.
The Fighter went down hard, hands scraping on the pavement. He rolled, twisted, caught Batman's ankle, and yanked.
Batman hit the ground with a growl.
They both rose at the same time — muddy, bleeding, breath ragged.
The Fighter lunged — Batman met him with a brutal cross to the face.
For a second, the world blurred.
Nolan's body wasn't built for this kind of punishment. Even with the Fighter in control, bones had limits.
The Fighter blinked blood from his eyes.
"You hit hard," he muttered, wiping his mouth. "But you're not killing me, are you? You're pathetic."
Batman didn't answer. He just stepped forward again, fists clenched.
'Nolan' reached into his vest, pulled something small, metal, and flicked it hard.
A blinding flashbang went off, white light and thunder ripping through the alley.
By the time Batman's eyes cleared, the alley was empty.
A/N: Nolan's personalities might have bit off more than they can chew. Even though I could have branched this into two chapters, I wanted to show the chaotic and impulsiveness from the personalities. With their criminal exerience comes the impulsiveness and hubris of that experience. I hope this didn't seem like a left field decision.
People fail it's what they become after that failure is what counts.