Post by wedemboyz on Apr 29, 2019 2:05:42 GMT
Gotham Knights #9: Memories
*
Wayne Manor towers over the endless fields between itself and Gotham, looking out upon the small river passing through it; its large, lifeless windows looking down on Gotham from its hilltop, judging it, trying to correct it from afar. Dick rolls up the driveway on his brand-new bike, bought with his signing bonus as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Ever since Bruce adopted him, he had never wanted for anything. But now Bruce is gone, the war chest is his, and he plans to do better with it then Bruce ever even tried to.
Walking up the seventeen beautiful marble steps to the massive front porch, Dick pushes through the tall mahogany doors into the wide-open lobby of the building. One day he lived in a tent, the next day he lived in a house with a lobby. Not even Haley’s big-tent has a lobby.
“Alfred?” Dick calls out, searching the lobby for a light-switch. The massive crystal chandelier swings softly from the gentle breeze seeping into the manor via an open window just overhead. “Where is Alfred?” Dick wonders aloud, his fingers finally landing on the light-switch. He pulls his cell from his fitted jean pockets and dials his number one speed dial, trusty friend Alfred Pennyworth.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“H-hello?” Alfred’s voice pushes through from the other end, wilted and hollow.
“Are you okay, Alfred?” Dick asks, quickly hurrying across the room and to Bruce’s study.
“Of course, Master Richard.”
“Where are you? It doesn’t look like anyone has been at the manor for a few days,” Dick pushes open the door to Bruce’s study and his eyes land on the winding grandfather clock, up against the wall to his left. He remembers the first time he ever did this alone, feeling on the wall for what felt like hours for a hologram covered hole with a button. Now, however, he knows its location by heart. As his index finger pushes down on the small button, the grand father clock’s endless stream of ticks and tocks comes to an abrupt end, replaced with the sound of stone crunching against stone as the platform the clock sits on slowly moves out of Dick’s way.
“I’ve been visiting a friend in town, I can be back tonight to tidy up if you’re moving in,” Alfred’s voice perks up, but his throaty question sounds pained and forced.
“No need Alfred, I got a place in town, only a few minutes from Wayne Enterprises. I’m here on family business. It was nice talking to you Alfred.”
“You as well, Master Richard,” Alfred says with a long, dry sigh, follow by a ‘click’ as the call disconnects.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Dick quickly races down the winding, narrow stairs to the Bat-Cave, each step echoing off the walls, descending from the bright lights of the study into the tepid darkness of the stairway. It took years before Dick was comfortable walking down these stairs, listening to the stone platform crunch itself slowly back into place above, hiding the entrance to the world’s greatest crime-fighting lair.
Finally, he reaches the bottom of the stairs and comes to the locked door in total darkness. If he hadn’t been here before, he’d never know the door was there now. He presses his palm up against the center. A low buzz flows from the other side, followed by a beep, and the slow movement of yet another stone wall to reveal the beautiful cavern within.
Dick steps out into it, his mind racing with wonder and awe, the same as when he was fourteen years old, his jaw dropped slack as he takes in the miles of cavern stretching throughout the Bat-Cave. He’d never ventured further back, but Bruce always thought the greatest secrets of Gotham lay beyond the Bat-Caves simple confines. Dick follows the elegantly laid metal framework up to the massive computer.
Thirty-one smaller monitors, fourteen medium monitors, and one two-hundred inch monitor, all mounted against the wall, running off a total of seventeen computers, wired into the GCPD records database, dispatch centers across the city, the Gotham Bureau of Investigation’s communications, and ever other pertinent database; constantly crunching the numbers, always looking for leads, running dozens, if not hundreds, of simulations and programs, all at once. Always searching.
Dick takes a seat and opens up the navigation bar and sits there, contemplating what to search. B-L-A-C-K C-A-S-E-B-O-O-K. Nothing. S-E-C-R-E-T F-I-L-E-S. Nothing again. In truth, Dick didn’t even know where to start. Bruce could’ve hidden this book anywhere, buried it beneath a hundred programs, printed it out and stashed it back in the caves. If it holds secrets like Barbara thinks, he would make sure to put it somewhere that we’d never go. But Bruce never made anything off limits to the family, he never told them part off the cave they couldn’t access or programs and files on the computer they could open up.
Dick sits their thinking, his mind running through a million possibilities, his body slumping in the chair. Was it digital? Was it physical? Was it somewhere hidden in plain sight? Was it even at the manor? Then it hits him like a train, and Dick quickly pops out of his chair, his eyes wide, his mind racing. The only place he wasn’t allowed to go as a kid, the only place Bruce ever told him was off limits—Thomas Wayne’s study.
As Dick emerges from behind the grandfather clock, he quickly races across the house, realizing that the black casebook must be physical, or else Tim or Barbara would’ve eventually found it. He slows as he comes to the beaten-up door of Thomas Wayne’s study. This door clearly hasn’t been opened in months, if not years. Dust lays on the handle, a large crack runs up the left side. Dick takes a deep breath, realizing this is the only room he’s never been in. Bruce is gone, but he’s still afraid of his anger if he knew he were about to walk into Thomas’ study. He grabs the dusty knob and pushes open the door.
Dick immediately notices that the room is covered from floor to ceiling with dozens of books, resembling Bruce’s office at Wayne Enterprises. Everything from medical journals, to self-empowerment books, everything you need to mentally run Wayne Enterprises. This is where Bruce would come to think during the day, it’s only a wonder how many of these books he’s read.
Then it catches Dick’s eye, sitting there, face-up, staring at the ceiling, seemingly calling for attention, a black notebook, its spin spiral-bound, its face only reading the phrase “5000 pages”. Is this it? If so, Bruce never would’ve left it hear on accident. He knew something was going to happen, and he left it here for someone to find.
Dick grabs the hefty notebook and opens the front cover. On the first page a newspaper article is stapled: “The Man Who Laughs Strikes Again!” An article about the Joker’s first ever reign of terror on Gotham. Sadly, it didn’t stop there. It never has. Lifting up the article, Dick sees, written in hardly legible handwriting, “The Case of the Chemical Syndicate”.
*
Gotham, Night
An armored truck barrels down a barren side-street in the heart of downtown Gotham, its driver’s eyes drifting lazily away. He’s only about a mile from Gotham Mutual, and then he gets to go home. He wonders if Martha has put dinner on the plate yet. He hopes its hot and fresh for him. Suddenly his eyes catch a figure in front of him, standing on the street, a wide, crooked smile on his face. The man in the street stands with clinched fists, and the wild look in his eyes means he has plans for the money. This had never happened before; the driver had never been attacked by a super-villain. An exhilarating rush of adrenaline pumps through his veins, but his mind can’t figure out what to do as the van hurdles towards the figure in the street. The figure opens its mouth, and the words that come out strike fear in the driver’s heart:
“BAR-B-QUE BRAWL!” The Condiment King screams, pressing a brown button on his belt, his fists being covered in a brown, saucy liquid that quickly hardens into two large, solid fists. Striking out at the truck, his right fist stops it in its tracks and sends it spinning out of control into a nearby building. Condiment King stalks up to the back door and rips it off its hinges, his eyes wide with excitement, when he feels the harsh smash of a bat-a-rang into the back of his head.
“Hey, Bar-b-que dude, over here,” Robin calls out, his green kept billowing in the soft wind of Gotham.
“It’s Condiment King!” He screams, leaping at Robin and striking out again with his right fist. Robin leaps from the strike at the last minute, watching as the fist demolishes the pavement where he was standing, leaving a crater in its wake. Robin contorts his body in mid-air and lands a swift kick to Condiment King’s back, sending him tumbling into the nearest wall.
“That’s one hell of a name, who gave it to you?” Robin chides, coming to a sliding halt next to the truck.
“My wife,” Condiment King exclaims with a grin, clicking a yellow button on his belt. “Mustard Monster!!” He deploys a small yellow grenade that explodes, leaving behind a yellow, gooey blob.
“Did you say…Mustard…monster??” Robin asks, barely able to contain his laugh. Then suddenly, the yellow blob leaps at Robin, slamming him against the side of the truck and sticking him there. Condiment King snidely strides past the boy wonder and starts loading the money into a bag. As he turns around to face Robin once more, he’s met with the sight of a purple hooded figure, no taller than five-foot-five, wide eyes the only visible thing through the dense black mask. An explosion detonates behind Condiment King and, as the wall of the building falls away and small hole appears into someone’s living room, the hooded figure delivers a swift kick to Condiment King, sending him reeling back into the unsuspecting family’s living room.
Robin continues struggling against the yellow goo, his hand reaching down into his belt, trying to find the hydrochloric acid spray to help melt this monster away. He listens as this new figure and Condiment King do battle. “Mayo Mallet!” “Soy Sauce Switch Blade!” “Pico de Gallo Punch!” Robin hears as Condiment shouts, the family whose living room they do battle in screaming and running out into the street. Finally, his fingers touch the acid spray and he presses down hard. He instantly feels the burn of his acid on his leg, but powers through as it slowly eats away at the goo. Finally, as the goo melts away, Robin rips free and spins around, prepare to join the brawl in the building.
Condiment King’s eyes grow wide as two bat-a-rangs fly his way, barely missing as he weaves out their way into the fist of the hooded figure. Robin dashes in and delivers a crushing blow to his head.
“You like spoiling my fun?” Robin asks the hooded figure with a smirk.
“Looked like you needed the help to me,” she replied, her voice high pitched, but calm, cool, and calculating.
“Listen you two, it’s been fun and all but…” Condiment King reaches down to his belt once more and presses a green button. He puts his arms to his side, and Robin and the spoiler sit and watch as the bottom half of his bottom is consumed with a big, metal, pickle. The feet quickly burst open into jets. “I really relished this opportunity, but I’ll be going now. Pickle rocket, activate!”
“So, Mr. Condiment King, are you going to fly through the roof?” Robin interrupts, his voice exasperated, his face drooping with disappointment.
“Why yes I am!” Condiment King exclaims, his jets beginning to fire. He watches as Robin points to his head, signaling the Condiment Kings lack of helmet, and the impending collision with a brick ceiling. “Oh…” An explosion beneath the pickle, and Condiment King blasts off, smashing through the break roof with screams of pain, leaving a pickle-shaped hole in the wall.
“So, Miss Spoiler, who are you?” Robin asks, turning his attention to the stranger.
“Stay out of my way, kid,” Spoiler darts off through the hole and presses a button on her wrist, deploying her rocket-powered boots and blasting off into the sky. Robin just looks up at her flying away in astonishment.
“I need to get myself some flight.”
“R, we’ve got a fire at the iceberg lounge” Oracle buzzes into Robin’s ear.
“On my way, O.”
*
The yellow signal hangs high in the sky, beckoning down to Gotham that their hero is on the way. Tonight, that signal is covered in the plumes of smoke quickly rising from the burning blue shape that one was the Iceberg Longue, home of the Penguin. As the structure slowly falls into itself, flames towering into the deep grey night skies, Robin watches lonely from above, his eyes locked on the distance.
“Where are you, N,” he asks into his earpiece, the echoing sound of silence meeting him in response. He’s been here for forty minutes, and when the call went out Nightwing told him to observe and not engage, it was likely the last remains of the Two-Face and Penguin gangs duking it out. No need to get caught in the crossfire. Suddenly, Robin feels a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder and as he looks up he sees the ever-grinning face of Nightwing.
“Right here, buddy. So, what’s going on?” Nightwing asks, crouching down on the building ledge overseeing the burning longue.
“What took so damn long?” Robin asks as he crouches down next to Nightwing.
“Something came up, I had to make a pitstop on the way. Word from the computer says Penguin’s remaining capos were supposed to be meeting today to figure out the future of the family. What do ya think that something went south on the meeting?” Nightwing’s question is met by a shrug of Robin’s shoulder as he continues mesmerized by the billowing flames.
“Chatter on the airwaves is that a new boss has moved into town, someone trying to unite the families after Two-Face and Penguin got pinched.” Oracle’s voice comes through their earpieces and Nightwing’s gentle smirk turns into a scowl.
“So, what? He comes here to get the Penguin’s guys on his side and they start shooting? Any idea if he’s already got Two-Face’s?” Nightwing asks.
“Ya know, Two-Face’s guys haven’t made any moves since he’s been in jail, maybe someone did take them on and has just been laying low. If he’s got Two-Face’s crew, and he’s eliminated Penguin’s guys, that just leaves whatever remnants of the Krazy Klowns are running around,” Robin’s word flow coldly through the air as Nightwing tries to take them in, trying to figure out why Gotham is ingulfed in never-ending carnage.
“Joker’s old gang? They haven’t been reported in months,” Oracles voice comes across concerned, afraid even.
“Yeah, but they’re still lurking around. Rumor is they meet once a month, and that they’re searching for a Joker successor,” Nightwing claims, his body turning rigid as he imagines a war between the Klowns and this new, unified gang.
“But who could be running it?”
“It could be anyone really, but my bet is it’s a smaller boss looking to push out into the big leagues.”
“So that means it’s probably the Russians, the Ukrainians, or the Ghanaians. Who do you think it is?”
“My bet is on the—” Nightwing is abruptly cut off as a gunshot rips through the night sky, its bullet slicing through the air as a dart slices through the bar. Suddenly, the air feels heavy, the night feels dark, and Nightwing’s body feels like the weight of the world has fallen on it.
Nightwing watches, helplessly, as the thick, long, metal round pierces through Robin’s Kevlar vest, shoving itself uninvited into Robin’s check. Robin’s body drops slack and slowly, endlessly, falls motionless to the ground. He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid. It can’t happen again, there can’t be two dead Robins because he didn’t do anything.
“TIM!” He shouts, his control lost and tears flying from his eyes in every direct. As Tim’s body slams against the ground Dick grasps his chest, his eyes staring at the massive bullet only three-fourths inside Tim.
“Dick? Dick what’s happening?!” Barbara screams, her voice tearing through the silence in the moment after the shot.
“Tim’s…” Nightwing can’t say it. He can’t bring himself to say what Tim is. In that moment, his mind is reeling with questions. Who did this? Why? Did they know he was only a child? How can Dick help him? Where can Dick help him?
“N?”
“I’m taking R to the clinic.”
“Didn’t that get torn apart in the Red Hood debacle?”
“It doesn’t matter. She’ll help him with whatever she has…she has to,” Dick says as he wipes the tears from his eyes. Not again. Never again.
*
Earlier That Night
Jason’s eyes wander around the small room he calls his home. The plain grey walls stained from years of rough tenants in and out; smoke stains, blood stains, and every other type of stain that you could imagine. Nestled in the Narrows, it costs almost nothing, and the landlord lets him pay in cash. The ringing of gunshots piercing every moment, waking and sleeping, goes unanswered by the police. Sometimes, even they’re too afraid to come this deep into the Narrows.
He stares at a brown map of Gotham pinned against the far wall, the only decoration in the small apartment. Four pens connected with rope are scattered throughout the city. One at the sight of the carnival, the gruesome home of the Killer Klowns, just outside the city, and about fifteen miles south of Wayne Manor. Another in the warehouse district, where Joker beat and tortured Jason in his last, waning moments of life. Another at ACE Chemicals, where it all began. And a final one at the heart of the city, placed precariously on the Kane Family Tower, the second tallest tower in Gotham, the tower where Jason came back to life.
Tap, tap.
I knock on his window shoots Jason’s eyes over, his heart pounding, wincing in pain, still nursing a bullet wound in his right abdomen. He reaches for his gun—he always keeps it close by—and wraps his hand around the trigger. He can pull up from his bed to the window in less than a second if he needs to.
“Who is it?” He asks, his voice a medium-low octave, hardened by his travels through the afterlife. His body sits tense, his eyes stay focused, and suddenly a blue “V” moves into view, its bright colors starkly contrasting the dark night sky. As the figure leans down, Jason sees as the shinning white grin pierces through the darkness of his room, a waving hand accompanying it. “Godammit,” he mutters to himself, slowly standing through the pain, taking short, airy breaths to fight in the agony. He unlatches his window and waves Nightwing in with his right hand, his left hand still firmly gripping his gun.
“Ya know, you don’t really need a gun for me. I’d just knock it out of your hand anyways,” Nightwing says as he slinks through the open the window.
“How the hell did you find me?” Jason asks, turning the sink on and brushing the water through his long, greasy hair.
“When you kill criminals, they’re pretty quick to talk when you live surrounded by them,” Nightwing chides, taking a seat on Jason’s bed, no other chairs available.
“So, what, are you here to arrest me?”
“Does it look like I am?” Nightwing asks, removing the small black backpack he was carrying, pulling a small black notebook from it, handing it over to Jason. Jason, skeptical, dries his hands on his pants and grabs the book from Nightwing.
“What is this?” He asks, flipping through the pages.
“It’s Batman’s black casebook, it has hidden details of some of his bigger cases. We think it can lead us to where he’s hiding.”
Disgusted with the book, Jason throws it against the wall across the room, scoffing, and leans against the wall.
“Why the hell would I care where Bruce is?” He asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Nightwing and Jason stare at each other for a moment, Nightwing’s shoulders broadened, Jason’s finger still wrapped around the trigger. Nightwing stands, turning away from Jason and beginning to duck out the window. He turns his head back as his eyes meet Jason’s.
“You said you wanted to get even with Bruce. You can’t do that if we don’t find him,” Nightwing ducks out the window and disappears into the night.
Jason stands still for a moment, the only sounds that of his breath, and the cars honking outside. He sets his gun down and reaches for the black casebook.
-To Be Continued-
Next Time: Introducing Files from the Black Casebook—The Case of the Chemical Syndicate! backup feature!
*
Wayne Manor towers over the endless fields between itself and Gotham, looking out upon the small river passing through it; its large, lifeless windows looking down on Gotham from its hilltop, judging it, trying to correct it from afar. Dick rolls up the driveway on his brand-new bike, bought with his signing bonus as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Ever since Bruce adopted him, he had never wanted for anything. But now Bruce is gone, the war chest is his, and he plans to do better with it then Bruce ever even tried to.
Walking up the seventeen beautiful marble steps to the massive front porch, Dick pushes through the tall mahogany doors into the wide-open lobby of the building. One day he lived in a tent, the next day he lived in a house with a lobby. Not even Haley’s big-tent has a lobby.
“Alfred?” Dick calls out, searching the lobby for a light-switch. The massive crystal chandelier swings softly from the gentle breeze seeping into the manor via an open window just overhead. “Where is Alfred?” Dick wonders aloud, his fingers finally landing on the light-switch. He pulls his cell from his fitted jean pockets and dials his number one speed dial, trusty friend Alfred Pennyworth.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“H-hello?” Alfred’s voice pushes through from the other end, wilted and hollow.
“Are you okay, Alfred?” Dick asks, quickly hurrying across the room and to Bruce’s study.
“Of course, Master Richard.”
“Where are you? It doesn’t look like anyone has been at the manor for a few days,” Dick pushes open the door to Bruce’s study and his eyes land on the winding grandfather clock, up against the wall to his left. He remembers the first time he ever did this alone, feeling on the wall for what felt like hours for a hologram covered hole with a button. Now, however, he knows its location by heart. As his index finger pushes down on the small button, the grand father clock’s endless stream of ticks and tocks comes to an abrupt end, replaced with the sound of stone crunching against stone as the platform the clock sits on slowly moves out of Dick’s way.
“I’ve been visiting a friend in town, I can be back tonight to tidy up if you’re moving in,” Alfred’s voice perks up, but his throaty question sounds pained and forced.
“No need Alfred, I got a place in town, only a few minutes from Wayne Enterprises. I’m here on family business. It was nice talking to you Alfred.”
“You as well, Master Richard,” Alfred says with a long, dry sigh, follow by a ‘click’ as the call disconnects.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Dick quickly races down the winding, narrow stairs to the Bat-Cave, each step echoing off the walls, descending from the bright lights of the study into the tepid darkness of the stairway. It took years before Dick was comfortable walking down these stairs, listening to the stone platform crunch itself slowly back into place above, hiding the entrance to the world’s greatest crime-fighting lair.
Finally, he reaches the bottom of the stairs and comes to the locked door in total darkness. If he hadn’t been here before, he’d never know the door was there now. He presses his palm up against the center. A low buzz flows from the other side, followed by a beep, and the slow movement of yet another stone wall to reveal the beautiful cavern within.
Dick steps out into it, his mind racing with wonder and awe, the same as when he was fourteen years old, his jaw dropped slack as he takes in the miles of cavern stretching throughout the Bat-Cave. He’d never ventured further back, but Bruce always thought the greatest secrets of Gotham lay beyond the Bat-Caves simple confines. Dick follows the elegantly laid metal framework up to the massive computer.
Thirty-one smaller monitors, fourteen medium monitors, and one two-hundred inch monitor, all mounted against the wall, running off a total of seventeen computers, wired into the GCPD records database, dispatch centers across the city, the Gotham Bureau of Investigation’s communications, and ever other pertinent database; constantly crunching the numbers, always looking for leads, running dozens, if not hundreds, of simulations and programs, all at once. Always searching.
Dick takes a seat and opens up the navigation bar and sits there, contemplating what to search. B-L-A-C-K C-A-S-E-B-O-O-K. Nothing. S-E-C-R-E-T F-I-L-E-S. Nothing again. In truth, Dick didn’t even know where to start. Bruce could’ve hidden this book anywhere, buried it beneath a hundred programs, printed it out and stashed it back in the caves. If it holds secrets like Barbara thinks, he would make sure to put it somewhere that we’d never go. But Bruce never made anything off limits to the family, he never told them part off the cave they couldn’t access or programs and files on the computer they could open up.
Dick sits their thinking, his mind running through a million possibilities, his body slumping in the chair. Was it digital? Was it physical? Was it somewhere hidden in plain sight? Was it even at the manor? Then it hits him like a train, and Dick quickly pops out of his chair, his eyes wide, his mind racing. The only place he wasn’t allowed to go as a kid, the only place Bruce ever told him was off limits—Thomas Wayne’s study.
As Dick emerges from behind the grandfather clock, he quickly races across the house, realizing that the black casebook must be physical, or else Tim or Barbara would’ve eventually found it. He slows as he comes to the beaten-up door of Thomas Wayne’s study. This door clearly hasn’t been opened in months, if not years. Dust lays on the handle, a large crack runs up the left side. Dick takes a deep breath, realizing this is the only room he’s never been in. Bruce is gone, but he’s still afraid of his anger if he knew he were about to walk into Thomas’ study. He grabs the dusty knob and pushes open the door.
Dick immediately notices that the room is covered from floor to ceiling with dozens of books, resembling Bruce’s office at Wayne Enterprises. Everything from medical journals, to self-empowerment books, everything you need to mentally run Wayne Enterprises. This is where Bruce would come to think during the day, it’s only a wonder how many of these books he’s read.
Then it catches Dick’s eye, sitting there, face-up, staring at the ceiling, seemingly calling for attention, a black notebook, its spin spiral-bound, its face only reading the phrase “5000 pages”. Is this it? If so, Bruce never would’ve left it hear on accident. He knew something was going to happen, and he left it here for someone to find.
Dick grabs the hefty notebook and opens the front cover. On the first page a newspaper article is stapled: “The Man Who Laughs Strikes Again!” An article about the Joker’s first ever reign of terror on Gotham. Sadly, it didn’t stop there. It never has. Lifting up the article, Dick sees, written in hardly legible handwriting, “The Case of the Chemical Syndicate”.
*
Gotham, Night
An armored truck barrels down a barren side-street in the heart of downtown Gotham, its driver’s eyes drifting lazily away. He’s only about a mile from Gotham Mutual, and then he gets to go home. He wonders if Martha has put dinner on the plate yet. He hopes its hot and fresh for him. Suddenly his eyes catch a figure in front of him, standing on the street, a wide, crooked smile on his face. The man in the street stands with clinched fists, and the wild look in his eyes means he has plans for the money. This had never happened before; the driver had never been attacked by a super-villain. An exhilarating rush of adrenaline pumps through his veins, but his mind can’t figure out what to do as the van hurdles towards the figure in the street. The figure opens its mouth, and the words that come out strike fear in the driver’s heart:
“BAR-B-QUE BRAWL!” The Condiment King screams, pressing a brown button on his belt, his fists being covered in a brown, saucy liquid that quickly hardens into two large, solid fists. Striking out at the truck, his right fist stops it in its tracks and sends it spinning out of control into a nearby building. Condiment King stalks up to the back door and rips it off its hinges, his eyes wide with excitement, when he feels the harsh smash of a bat-a-rang into the back of his head.
“Hey, Bar-b-que dude, over here,” Robin calls out, his green kept billowing in the soft wind of Gotham.
“It’s Condiment King!” He screams, leaping at Robin and striking out again with his right fist. Robin leaps from the strike at the last minute, watching as the fist demolishes the pavement where he was standing, leaving a crater in its wake. Robin contorts his body in mid-air and lands a swift kick to Condiment King’s back, sending him tumbling into the nearest wall.
“That’s one hell of a name, who gave it to you?” Robin chides, coming to a sliding halt next to the truck.
“My wife,” Condiment King exclaims with a grin, clicking a yellow button on his belt. “Mustard Monster!!” He deploys a small yellow grenade that explodes, leaving behind a yellow, gooey blob.
“Did you say…Mustard…monster??” Robin asks, barely able to contain his laugh. Then suddenly, the yellow blob leaps at Robin, slamming him against the side of the truck and sticking him there. Condiment King snidely strides past the boy wonder and starts loading the money into a bag. As he turns around to face Robin once more, he’s met with the sight of a purple hooded figure, no taller than five-foot-five, wide eyes the only visible thing through the dense black mask. An explosion detonates behind Condiment King and, as the wall of the building falls away and small hole appears into someone’s living room, the hooded figure delivers a swift kick to Condiment King, sending him reeling back into the unsuspecting family’s living room.
Robin continues struggling against the yellow goo, his hand reaching down into his belt, trying to find the hydrochloric acid spray to help melt this monster away. He listens as this new figure and Condiment King do battle. “Mayo Mallet!” “Soy Sauce Switch Blade!” “Pico de Gallo Punch!” Robin hears as Condiment shouts, the family whose living room they do battle in screaming and running out into the street. Finally, his fingers touch the acid spray and he presses down hard. He instantly feels the burn of his acid on his leg, but powers through as it slowly eats away at the goo. Finally, as the goo melts away, Robin rips free and spins around, prepare to join the brawl in the building.
Condiment King’s eyes grow wide as two bat-a-rangs fly his way, barely missing as he weaves out their way into the fist of the hooded figure. Robin dashes in and delivers a crushing blow to his head.
“You like spoiling my fun?” Robin asks the hooded figure with a smirk.
“Looked like you needed the help to me,” she replied, her voice high pitched, but calm, cool, and calculating.
“Listen you two, it’s been fun and all but…” Condiment King reaches down to his belt once more and presses a green button. He puts his arms to his side, and Robin and the spoiler sit and watch as the bottom half of his bottom is consumed with a big, metal, pickle. The feet quickly burst open into jets. “I really relished this opportunity, but I’ll be going now. Pickle rocket, activate!”
“So, Mr. Condiment King, are you going to fly through the roof?” Robin interrupts, his voice exasperated, his face drooping with disappointment.
“Why yes I am!” Condiment King exclaims, his jets beginning to fire. He watches as Robin points to his head, signaling the Condiment Kings lack of helmet, and the impending collision with a brick ceiling. “Oh…” An explosion beneath the pickle, and Condiment King blasts off, smashing through the break roof with screams of pain, leaving a pickle-shaped hole in the wall.
“So, Miss Spoiler, who are you?” Robin asks, turning his attention to the stranger.
“Stay out of my way, kid,” Spoiler darts off through the hole and presses a button on her wrist, deploying her rocket-powered boots and blasting off into the sky. Robin just looks up at her flying away in astonishment.
“I need to get myself some flight.”
“R, we’ve got a fire at the iceberg lounge” Oracle buzzes into Robin’s ear.
“On my way, O.”
*
The yellow signal hangs high in the sky, beckoning down to Gotham that their hero is on the way. Tonight, that signal is covered in the plumes of smoke quickly rising from the burning blue shape that one was the Iceberg Longue, home of the Penguin. As the structure slowly falls into itself, flames towering into the deep grey night skies, Robin watches lonely from above, his eyes locked on the distance.
“Where are you, N,” he asks into his earpiece, the echoing sound of silence meeting him in response. He’s been here for forty minutes, and when the call went out Nightwing told him to observe and not engage, it was likely the last remains of the Two-Face and Penguin gangs duking it out. No need to get caught in the crossfire. Suddenly, Robin feels a warm, familiar hand on his shoulder and as he looks up he sees the ever-grinning face of Nightwing.
“Right here, buddy. So, what’s going on?” Nightwing asks, crouching down on the building ledge overseeing the burning longue.
“What took so damn long?” Robin asks as he crouches down next to Nightwing.
“Something came up, I had to make a pitstop on the way. Word from the computer says Penguin’s remaining capos were supposed to be meeting today to figure out the future of the family. What do ya think that something went south on the meeting?” Nightwing’s question is met by a shrug of Robin’s shoulder as he continues mesmerized by the billowing flames.
“Chatter on the airwaves is that a new boss has moved into town, someone trying to unite the families after Two-Face and Penguin got pinched.” Oracle’s voice comes through their earpieces and Nightwing’s gentle smirk turns into a scowl.
“So, what? He comes here to get the Penguin’s guys on his side and they start shooting? Any idea if he’s already got Two-Face’s?” Nightwing asks.
“Ya know, Two-Face’s guys haven’t made any moves since he’s been in jail, maybe someone did take them on and has just been laying low. If he’s got Two-Face’s crew, and he’s eliminated Penguin’s guys, that just leaves whatever remnants of the Krazy Klowns are running around,” Robin’s word flow coldly through the air as Nightwing tries to take them in, trying to figure out why Gotham is ingulfed in never-ending carnage.
“Joker’s old gang? They haven’t been reported in months,” Oracles voice comes across concerned, afraid even.
“Yeah, but they’re still lurking around. Rumor is they meet once a month, and that they’re searching for a Joker successor,” Nightwing claims, his body turning rigid as he imagines a war between the Klowns and this new, unified gang.
“But who could be running it?”
“It could be anyone really, but my bet is it’s a smaller boss looking to push out into the big leagues.”
“So that means it’s probably the Russians, the Ukrainians, or the Ghanaians. Who do you think it is?”
“My bet is on the—” Nightwing is abruptly cut off as a gunshot rips through the night sky, its bullet slicing through the air as a dart slices through the bar. Suddenly, the air feels heavy, the night feels dark, and Nightwing’s body feels like the weight of the world has fallen on it.
Nightwing watches, helplessly, as the thick, long, metal round pierces through Robin’s Kevlar vest, shoving itself uninvited into Robin’s check. Robin’s body drops slack and slowly, endlessly, falls motionless to the ground. He’s just a kid. He’s just a kid. It can’t happen again, there can’t be two dead Robins because he didn’t do anything.
“TIM!” He shouts, his control lost and tears flying from his eyes in every direct. As Tim’s body slams against the ground Dick grasps his chest, his eyes staring at the massive bullet only three-fourths inside Tim.
“Dick? Dick what’s happening?!” Barbara screams, her voice tearing through the silence in the moment after the shot.
“Tim’s…” Nightwing can’t say it. He can’t bring himself to say what Tim is. In that moment, his mind is reeling with questions. Who did this? Why? Did they know he was only a child? How can Dick help him? Where can Dick help him?
“N?”
“I’m taking R to the clinic.”
“Didn’t that get torn apart in the Red Hood debacle?”
“It doesn’t matter. She’ll help him with whatever she has…she has to,” Dick says as he wipes the tears from his eyes. Not again. Never again.
*
Earlier That Night
Jason’s eyes wander around the small room he calls his home. The plain grey walls stained from years of rough tenants in and out; smoke stains, blood stains, and every other type of stain that you could imagine. Nestled in the Narrows, it costs almost nothing, and the landlord lets him pay in cash. The ringing of gunshots piercing every moment, waking and sleeping, goes unanswered by the police. Sometimes, even they’re too afraid to come this deep into the Narrows.
He stares at a brown map of Gotham pinned against the far wall, the only decoration in the small apartment. Four pens connected with rope are scattered throughout the city. One at the sight of the carnival, the gruesome home of the Killer Klowns, just outside the city, and about fifteen miles south of Wayne Manor. Another in the warehouse district, where Joker beat and tortured Jason in his last, waning moments of life. Another at ACE Chemicals, where it all began. And a final one at the heart of the city, placed precariously on the Kane Family Tower, the second tallest tower in Gotham, the tower where Jason came back to life.
Tap, tap.
I knock on his window shoots Jason’s eyes over, his heart pounding, wincing in pain, still nursing a bullet wound in his right abdomen. He reaches for his gun—he always keeps it close by—and wraps his hand around the trigger. He can pull up from his bed to the window in less than a second if he needs to.
“Who is it?” He asks, his voice a medium-low octave, hardened by his travels through the afterlife. His body sits tense, his eyes stay focused, and suddenly a blue “V” moves into view, its bright colors starkly contrasting the dark night sky. As the figure leans down, Jason sees as the shinning white grin pierces through the darkness of his room, a waving hand accompanying it. “Godammit,” he mutters to himself, slowly standing through the pain, taking short, airy breaths to fight in the agony. He unlatches his window and waves Nightwing in with his right hand, his left hand still firmly gripping his gun.
“Ya know, you don’t really need a gun for me. I’d just knock it out of your hand anyways,” Nightwing says as he slinks through the open the window.
“How the hell did you find me?” Jason asks, turning the sink on and brushing the water through his long, greasy hair.
“When you kill criminals, they’re pretty quick to talk when you live surrounded by them,” Nightwing chides, taking a seat on Jason’s bed, no other chairs available.
“So, what, are you here to arrest me?”
“Does it look like I am?” Nightwing asks, removing the small black backpack he was carrying, pulling a small black notebook from it, handing it over to Jason. Jason, skeptical, dries his hands on his pants and grabs the book from Nightwing.
“What is this?” He asks, flipping through the pages.
“It’s Batman’s black casebook, it has hidden details of some of his bigger cases. We think it can lead us to where he’s hiding.”
Disgusted with the book, Jason throws it against the wall across the room, scoffing, and leans against the wall.
“Why the hell would I care where Bruce is?” He asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Nightwing and Jason stare at each other for a moment, Nightwing’s shoulders broadened, Jason’s finger still wrapped around the trigger. Nightwing stands, turning away from Jason and beginning to duck out the window. He turns his head back as his eyes meet Jason’s.
“You said you wanted to get even with Bruce. You can’t do that if we don’t find him,” Nightwing ducks out the window and disappears into the night.
Jason stands still for a moment, the only sounds that of his breath, and the cars honking outside. He sets his gun down and reaches for the black casebook.
-To Be Continued-
Next Time: Introducing Files from the Black Casebook—The Case of the Chemical Syndicate! backup feature!