Rain trickled off the edges of the rooftop as Batman stood near the ledge, cape fluttering with the occasional gust. Below, sirens wailed in the distance, but this part of the city had gone quiet too quiet.
Robin landed beside him in a crouch, flipping up from a grapnel line with practiced ease. His boots hit the rooftop without a sound.
"Perp's tied up two blocks over," he said, brushing wet hair from his eyes. "Gas canisters in the van. Homemade stuff. Not Joker-grade, but not harmless either."
Batman gave a silent nod, eyes still scanning the streets.
Robin stood beside him, watching too—but his foot bounced once.
"…Y'know," he said suddenly, glancing over, "not to, like, question the mission or anything, but… can't the Young Justice team handle the small fries?"
Batman didn't respond. His jaw set.
Robin pressed on quickly.
"I mean think about it. We're chasing low-tier arsonists and looters while Mad Hatter, Harley, Dent, Scarecrow are still out there playing hide-and-seek with the city."
A pause. Nothing from Batman.
Robin tried again. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ ɴo(v)elFɪre.ɴet
"If the team helps track down the stragglers, the escapees who don't know how to cover their tracks, it gives them stealth training, recon work, urban navigation all the good stuff."
"And we can zero in on the real threats. Divide and conquer. Win-win. Efficient. Tactical. Y'know? It's… Batman math."
Batman finally turned to face him.
His frown was thoughtful, not dismissive.
"You think they're ready?"
Robin didn't even hesitate. "They've been ready. We just haven't let them prove it yet."
More silence, save for the wind slipping between water towers.
Batman gave a small nod. "We can try it. Tactical divisions. Limited assignments."
Robin's eyes lit up beneath the domino mask.
"But," Batman added, voice low and measured, "no direct confrontation. First sign of heavy hitters, they pull back. I will handle the the situation."
Robin grinned. "Yeah. Obviously. We're not crazy."
Batman glanced toward the edge again.
"Get the comms set up. Let's see how the team handles a full night run."
Robin already had the line open.
"Robin to team get your suits. We got a mission on our hands!"
The projector whirred softly, casting flickering footage across the cracked concrete wall of the warehouse. The image was grainy black and white, timestamped, and filmed at an odd downward angle. Water sloshed in the tunnel. A shadow moved across the frame large, hunched, reptilian.
Quentin sat leaned back in his chair, cigar between his fingers, smoke curling lazily above him. Around the table sat his top people Stitch, Marcy, Dre, Naima. Each of them watched the screen with furrowed brows, the room silent except for the low static hum of the video.
Another sloshing movement. A hulking shape passed through the tunnel's edge again. Broad. Thick arms. Tail.
"Yo," Dre muttered suddenly, leaning forward, eyes squinting at the screen. "Pause that. Right there go back two seconds."
Marcy tapped keys, and the footage jumped back.
"There." Dre pointed. "That gait, the size… that might be hell, I think that's—"
Quentin's eyes drifted toward him, sharp beneath the haze of smoke.
Dre looked around the room, almost like he needed confirmation he wasn't the only one seeing it. "I think Killer Croc's back."
Quentin leaned back, brows twitching. The name tickled something deep in his memory but wouldn't fully form.
That's when Nolan's voice slid into his mind,
"I think I remember Killer Croc. If I'm not mistaken, he's always had a bit of a soft spot for the homeless. Kept to himself mostly, didn't pick fights unless provoked."
Quentin tilted his head, chewing that over. Then he turned toward the others.
"Alright then," he said, voice gravelly with smoke. "See if we can set up a meeting. If he's a friendly, we want to keep him friendly. Last thing we need right now is adding new enemies to the damn board."
He took a long, measured puff from his cigar, exhaled, then fixed his eyes back on the footage. His tone turned thoughtful, commanding.
"We need to beef up our relocation strategies. A lot of people broke outta Arkham. Some of 'em are gonna come crawling back to the sewers, looking for shelter, protection, hell, maybe even purpose."
Stitch nodded. "We've seen a few already, skittish. Paranoid. One had claw marks on his arms said he was hiding from Scarecrow."
Quentin flicked ash off his cigar. "Some of these folks got nothin' to their names but fear and desperation. But others…" He smirked. "Others got money stashed. Stolen art. Stuff they lifted during their 'episodes.' But more than that, they've got information about gangs, about the freaks, about Arkham itself."
Naima crossed her arms. "We could use that. Weapons, layouts, habits."
"Exactly." Quentin stabbed the air with his cigar. "We can help 'em, sure but we do it smart. Find out what they know, who they pissed off, and what they're worth. If they're a risk, relocate. If they're a resource protect 'em."
He stood and straightened his coat, brushing off his lapels. "Now I'm gonna focus on the hotel. That's where the real power's gonna come from soon."
Stitch raised an eyebrow. "High-value guests?"
Quentin grinned. "High value indeed my friend! As I said deadshot was a good call, but if the hotel is to work we need a good influx of people moving about."
He began to walk toward the exit, flicking ash off the end of his cigar as he went.
"Call me when we've made contact with Croc," he called over his shoulder. "And keep me informed about our relocation efforts. Gotham's filling up with enemies and I plan to turn 'em into allies."
The door groaned open, spilling cool air into the room. Quentin stepped into the night, the cigar ember glowing like an eye in the dark.
The room was quiet, save for the faint tick of a wall clock somewhere behind the heavy drapes.
Only a single desk lamp burned a warm, low glow casting long shadows across the room. The rest of the office was cloaked in darkness. Mahogany shelves, glass decanters, and old leather-bound books loomed like relics in a mausoleum. The man behind the desk sat still in a high-backed chair, the leather creaking slightly as he leaned into the shadows.
A knock came at the door. Two sharp taps. No hesitation.
The man didn't speak. Just raised two fingers and curled them inward.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps entered, slow and deliberate, and a folder was set down in front of him on the desk. A man in a rumpled coat stood in front of the desk, his jaw working like he wanted to spit but held it in.
"This shit again," he muttered. "The homeless people the underpass crew, or whatever the fuck they're calling themselves these days. Damn rats just keep popping up. They've actually increased their presence. Took half of Black Mask's old routes already."
He gestured to the folder. "Surveillance footage, intercepts, movement patterns. They've got men. Supplies. Communication lines. If I didn't know better, I'd say they're trying to expand even more."
The man behind the desk didn't say anything. He opened the folder.
Photos, grainy but telling warehouses, trucks, underground maps, and heat signatures under Gotham's oldest sewer lines. Faces of known vagrants. Faces that used to be on psychiatric registries. One of them was circled in red ink.
The seated man puffed on a cigar, thick smoke curling upward, briefly catching the desk lamp's light before vanishing into shadow.
His eyes lingered on the image. Then he exhaled.
"I already gave this guy a chance," he said, voice low and bitter. "Should've taken it."
He closed the folder with a quiet snap.
The other man swallowed hard.