Marco really, really hated this kind of work. He walked to the doorway of the bullpen and clapped his hands twice. The sound cut through the morning chatter, and every head in the room turned toward him.
"Listen up," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry. "I just got word from Central. They're requesting support units for tonight. More than half our personnel."
Groans erupted immediately. Someone in the back shouted: "Again? I've pulled four doubles this week already!"
"Yeah, well. This time, if you go, you might never have to work overtime again."
That shut them up.
He scanned the room, making eye contact with as many officers as he could. "Because a lot of people are going to die tonight."
The bullpen went dead quiet. You could've heard a pin drop. Finally, someone near the coffee machine raised his hand.
"Captain... can we, uh... not go?"
"No," Marco said flatly. "For this op, nobody takes leave unless you've got a damn good reason. Medical emergency, family crisis, something like that. And those of you who do go need to make sure you don't drag Central down. Clear?"
He could practically see the gears turning in everyone's heads. They weren't stupid. They knew what he was really saying.
Someone in the front row slowly raised his hand. "Captain, uh... my patrol car's been making this weird grinding noise. Transmission's probably shot."
"Oh, that's unfortunate," Marco said, nodding sympathetically. "You should take that to the motor pool right away. Bring them a bottle of something nice, maybe they'll prioritize the repair. But if it can't be fixed..." He shrugged. "Guess you won't be able to participate in such a glorious operation."
"My car's fucked too," someone else said immediately.
"Mine won't start."
"Check engine light's been on for a week—"
"Alright, alright," Marco said, waving them down. "Everyone whose vehicle is experiencing mechanical issues, go get them looked at. Take gifts for the mechanics. Make it worth their while. But if your car can't be fixed by tonight, you stay here. We don't need broken-down units clogging up Central's logistics."
Half the room stood up at once, chairs scraping against linoleum. Within thirty seconds, a steady stream of officers was filing out toward the motor pool, talking loudly about transmissions and brake lines and oil leaks.
Marco watched them go, then turned to Alan, who was standing beside him looking vaguely uncomfortable.
"How was that?" he asked quietly.
"Honestly, Captain? Terrible. It sounded fake as hell." Alan grinned. "But at least it gives everyone a paper trail. Central might come after you for it, though."
"Thanks for the honesty. Now go help the ones who are staying fill out medical leave forms. Make sure the paperwork's airtight."
"Yes, sir."
Alan headed off, and Marco stood there for a moment longer, watching the bullpen slowly empty out. The officers who remained, maybe fifteen, twenty at most, were the ones who either had no choice or were too proud to take the out he'd just offered them.
Good cops. Brave cops. Probably dead cops by tomorrow.
He turned and headed back toward his office, trying not to think about it too hard.
---
Falcone stood by the window of the reception room, staring out at Gotham's skyline. In the distance, barely visible through the industrial haze, Wayne Tower rose like a needle stabbing into the sky.
Tonight, he had to go there. He had to walk into that glittering arena, smile for the cameras, shake hands with politicians and CEOs, and pretend everything was fine.
"Victor," he said without turning around. "The car ready?"
"Yes, sir." Zsasz came from the shadows near the doorway. "The route's been planned. Two escort vehicles, front and back. I'll personally lead the security detail."
"How many people do you think we can still trust, Victor?"
Zsasz didn't answer. He knew the question wasn't really meant for him.
Falcone's gaze drifted across the room. This old Tuscan-style estate had been in his family for three generations. But now the beige walls were cracking, the paint peeling in places. The orchard outside had gone to seed, the trees bare and skeletal.
Everything rots eventually.
Black Mask was like wildfire. Uncontrollable. Burning down everything he had spent decades building. The rules didn't matter anymore. And respect didn't matter. All that mattered was who had the biggest guns and the least to lose.
Electrocutioner. Firefly. And God knew what other freaks were crawling out of the woodwork.
He walked to his desk, opened a humidor, and pulled out a thick Havana cigar. He took his time with it, clipping the end, rolling it between his fingers, lighting it with a cedar match. The smoke filled his lungs.
"The Roman," he murmured to himself.
The nickname used to mean something. It used to strike fear into hearts. Now it just sounded outdated. A relic from a time when Gotham still had rules.
Maroni thought partnering with Professor Strange would save him. Idiot. You don't invite a viper into your house and expect it not to bite. And Cobblepot looked obedient enough on the surface, but he saw the ambition burning behind those eyes. That one was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The phone on his desk rang.
Zsasz picked it up, listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. "It's the mayor's office, confirming your schedule for tonight again."
Falcone waved dismissively. He didn't need O'Brien's fake concern. The mayor only cared about votes and poll numbers. And Barnes, who was set to take office next week? Another fool who thought he could clean up Gotham with an iron fist and good intentions.
They never learned.
He crushed out the cigar in a brass ashtray, grinding it down until sparks flew. He'd only taken three or four puffs, but he'd lost his taste for it.
"Tell the drivers to move out," he said quietly.
He picked up his overcoat from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. His hands were steady, but inside, he felt like he was walking on ice that was about to crack.
"Caesar is dead," he said softly, glancing at an old photograph above the fireplace, himself as a young man, standing beside his father, both of them looking invincible. Then he turned and walked toward the door, footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. The sound didn't feel like triumph anymore.
It felt like a funeral march.
---
Deep beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce stood in front of the massive console, bathed in the glow of multiple monitors. The screens showed live feeds from across Gotham. Several red markers blinked on the map of the city, clustered around Wayne Tower.
Alfred approached carrying a silver tray. On it was a perfectly pressed dark gray tuxedo.
"Master Bruce," the butler said quietly. "Your attire for tonight's product launch."
Bruce didn't look away from the screens. "I know."
"I assume no amount of persuasion will convince you to abandon the idea of attending as Bruce Wayne this evening?"
"Black Mask chose Wayne Tower as his battlefield." Bruce's voice was low. "Right in front of the whole city. This isn't a shadow war anymore. It's a declaration. I can't be absent."
"I understand your resolve, sir. I always do." Alfred set the tray down on a nearby workbench. "But you're also required to attend the Wayne Enterprises technology presentation. The mayor, Falcone, and even the soon-to-be-appointed Commissioner Barnes will be there. You'll need to find a way to slip away under their noses without raising suspicion."
"There will be a way."
"Will there?" Alfred's tone sharpened slightly. "Master Bruce, with all due respect, you're asking yourself to be in two places at once. Bruce Wayne, smiling for cameras and shaking hands with politicians. And Batman, fighting armed lunatics. You cannot do both."
"I'll make it work."
Bruce turned away from the console and walked toward the armory. Rows of Batsuits hung in climate-controlled cases, each one a slight variation on the last. He studied them for a moment, then selected one with reinforced plating across the chest and shoulders.
"This one," he said.
"As you wish, sir. The Batmobile has completed final calibration. Active defense systems are online. Non-lethal suppression weapons are loaded. And the cryogenic projector has been installed."
"Good." Bruce began removing his shirt, revealing a torso covered in scars old and new. "That captain from the East End really did find me someone useful."
"Dr. Fries has proven invaluable," Alfred agreed. "Perhaps, once this is over, additional funding for the East End precinct would be appropriate."
"I'm already planning on it."
Bruce pulled on the suit's underlayer, then began fitting the armored pieces. Each section clicked into place. He'd done this hundreds of times, but tonight felt different.
Tonight felt like it might be the last time.
"Alfred," he said quietly, fastening the last clasp on his belt. "Have you reconsidered whether appearing at the event, as Bruce Wayne, is truly necessary? You could arrange an excuse."
Alfred was quiet for a long moment.
"I have considered it, sir. Many times." The butler stepped closer. "But I know you won't accept that option. What I don't understand is why. Why place yourself, as Bruce Wayne, directly in the most dangerous position possible? If Black Mask's forces overwhelm the GCPD..." He chose his words carefully. "You'll be exposing your most obvious weakness to the most unhinged attack Gotham has seen in years."
Bruce picked up the cowl, holding it in both hands.
"That's exactly why I have to be there."
"I'm afraid I don't follow, sir."
"Symbols, Alfred." Bruce pulled the cowl over his head, and his voice deepened as it settled into place. "Black Mask isn't just attacking a building. He's attacking what it represents. If Bruce Wayne runs and hides, it tells Black Mask we're afraid. It tells him he's winning."
"And if Bruce Wayne dies?"
"Then Batman will make sure Roman Sionis answers for what he's done."
Alfred looked at the man he'd raised since childhood. After a long moment, he bowed slightly.
"Everything will be as you wish, Master Bruce. The Batmobile will be on standby at the designated location." He picked up the tuxedo. "And I will prepare this... other armor for you. And wait here for your return."
He paused at the entrance to the platform, looking back.
"May you survive the night, sir. On both fronts."
Bruce gave the grappling gun a final check and clipped it to his belt.
"Then let's begin."
---
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