Chapter Text
There was poison in the fog.
Some nonlethal synthetic neurotoxin, most likely. Some new concoction warped into putrid existence by one more conniving criminal who did not even have to hide underground while preparing this new devilry to spoon feed to his city in hopes of gaining power in the murk.
There was poison in the fog, just like always.
He pressed the respirator over his mouth, the little click and whir signalling when it was secured. In the narrow street below, lamps glowed like will-o’-the-wisps, shrouded in the toxic smog.
Tiny sounds. A mechanical snap, a creak of fabric, a whisper of movement through the air. Nothing anyone would catch onto, nothing to give him away as he dropped from his perch on the roof and slipped into the haze.
Another shadow, nothing more. They’d have to have superhearing to know otherwise, and Bruce did not think this particular group of middling Gotham criminals had developed tech like that.
The gas, though. How? A month ago, they were beating up kids in alleys and breaking into ATMs.
Bruce had been tracking the rise of this particular group for a long time, just like he tracked all the others that plagued his city, and this fog was precisely why. He had to kill it on the vine, before they got too cocky, too powerful.
He slipped through the alleyways, following his mental map through the maze that was Gotham’s Narrows. The dilapidated structures with their sliding roofs and dripping gutters, clothes on the lines that crossed above his head hanging like watchful ghosts in the mire.
This was not the first time he’d seen the Narrows in this state. Another reason he still had time to cut this group down; they were repeating old horrors. Scarecrow had gassed the Narrows first with his hallucinogenic compound. Whatever this toxin was and however they got their hands on it, it was old news.
But then, so was all crime in Gotham.
Voices. Muffled. He slipped closer, the directional microphones hidden in his cowl capturing the sound.
“It’s a serious problem,” one said. “I need all the help I can get.”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” replied another, annoyed. “And this is the wrong place to be discussing this.”
“The whole Narrows is passed out by now,” the first voice countered dismissively. “And it’s not like we’re doing anything.”
“You might not be,” said the second voice grouchily. “I happen to be on duty. Now shut your mouth.”
“But I need it by tomorrow,” protested the first voice.
“I don’t give a damn!” Whispered the second voice venomously. “Your wife can get a bottle of gas station shampoo for your anniversary for all I care! Shut up.”
“You think she’d like that?”
A slap. Hidden behind the corner of a building, Bruce rolled his eyes.
But the Narrows is passed out. That is interesting.
Some kind of synthetic conotoxin? A compound? Something else all together?
Bruce was itching to use the sampling syringe he’d brought for the precise purpose of sampling this gas, but he’d get a better reading if he was closer to the source. Silently, he aimed his grapple line for the sky and, with a whisper of zipping mechanics, emerged atop one of the precarious structures that dominated the Narrows.
Looking down, it was a sea of fog. It would have been beautiful under the pale moon, like clouds over mountain peaks, but not in Gotham. The criminals who’d been speaking below were out of sight, now, and he switched the cowl’s view setting over to infrared. The gray world became awash with blues and purples, broken by flames of red and orange and green.
Two in the alley below, whom he’d overheard. And more throughout the surrounding streets. They were stationed around one little corner of the Narrows, on its eastern tip.
Waiting. Waiting? Waiting for something, but what?
Frustration mounting, Bruce looked up, ready to flip the cowl back to night vision. He paused. Aglow with radiant white and yellow light, flaring like a small sun, was a boat.
Far away, but getting closer, coming in from the East River under the bridges. And its heat signature was insane.
He moved on instinct. He left the base criminals to their chats in the alley below, spared the sleeping Narrows residents an apologetic thought, and leapt. His cape snapped open, letting him glide to the next teetering tower. As he made his way across the roofs of the Narrows, his mouth pulled into a thin line.
Whatever this is, it’s big, he thought. A proper investigation is necessary. I need to sample the gas, and I need to confirm this ship is associated with it.
I need to contact Gordon.
His mind raced through plans, checking metal boxes with an alacrity that was testament to how very long he’d been doing this work. His city, his city, had been demanding this dedication of him for as long as he’d been alive. The Bat was just his most recent answer to these demands.
Just another tool. If the cowl seemed to fit more comfortably over his shoulders than his bespoke suits, that was beside the point.
As he got closer to the shore, the glowing boat dominated his vision. He flipped back to night vision as he landed on a building near the shore. A small container ship, inconspicuous. They came and went at all hours under the bridges of Gotham. There was no reason to think this one was any different.
Bruce knew better. He got to work.