"Definitely. It just took me a bit to remember."
Bruce and Crispus stood outside a small shop. The crackled neon sign above read "CUSTOM GUNS." Bruce glanced at Crispus; he didn't appear to have any memory of being possessed by Boston. Definitely for the better that way.
Bruce and Crispus entered the shop. Crispus resisted the urge to sneer at the very air inside. It galled him that with all the violent crime in the city, this shop was allowed to remain open—especially here in North Gotham, where murder was more commonplace than birth.
The shop owner was alone in the store; it being the daytime, most of his customers were nowhere to be found. At the sight of Crispus, the owner seemed to stiffen. Good, Crispus thought. He recognizes an out-of-uniform detective; he's connected.
"How can I help you?" the man said, his eyes nervously looking back and forth between Bruce and Crispus.
"Detective Allen," Crispus said, lifting his badge. "Have you sold any rifle attachments to accommodate an amputee?"
"An amputee?"
"For instance, a man with a hook on his left hand?"
"...Wh-why would you come to me about this?"
"We have reason to believe that a man with a hook on his left hand used a rifle to commit murder last night. You machine custom gun parts, is that right?"
"Y-yes—"
"So tell me."
Bruce watched the shopkeeper's brain working rapidly behind his eyes, weighing the options. Bruce guessed it was between risking jail time and risking retribution from his customer.
"Okay," he said, leaning in close. "Listen, I normally don't like to ask questions. I just make what the customer wants and leave it at that. But this guy... he scares me, man. He came in last week, with a big shiny hook on his left, like you said. Said he needed something to help him hold his gun. Gave me a blueprint for the design and everything."
"You still have that blueprint?" Crispus asked.
"Yeah." The man rummaged through a drawer near the front desk. "Here." He laid out the blueprint. The design showed an addition to the underside of a rifle; it had a circular hole with precise dimensions, as well as an intricately-carved design. It looked like a crest of some sort.
"He wanted you to carve this into the gun?" Crispus asked, pointing to the crest.
"I told him that wasn't my thing; I could make the piece, but I ain't an artist. He kinda sneered at me. Real creepy-like. Told me to just make the piece then. Then he left and came back two days ago to pick it up."
"You get any information on him?"
"So, like I said, I don't normally ask questions, but this guy was different. I asked a few of my buddies, and they said they heard about some kinda secret society meeting up at Walker Pier, in the East warehouse."
"Secret society?"
"That explains the crest," said Bruce.
Crispus thought it all over for a few seconds. "Alright. Thanks for your cooperation. Mind if I take this?"
The shopkeeper nodded vigorously. "Yeah; sure. Take it," he said, handing the blueprint to Crispus.
As Crispus turned to leave, Bruce stopped. "Why are you so eager to help?" he asked the man. "You're five blocks from Crime Alley; surely you don't rat out all your customers like this."
"...Like I said, man. This guy was creepy. And if he's really part o' some secret society... nobody needs that in Gotham. 'Sides, I hear about what they do to people like me. Outsiders who find out about 'em. They turn up dead. So, way I see it, you blue boys take 'em down, everyone's happy."
"So what now?" Bruce asked once they were outside.
"Now I call Montoya and have her do a check on Walker Pier. See if there really is anyone there. If there is, we might sweep in as early as tonight. Don't wanna risk them skipping town."
"I want to be there."
"No."
"What?!"
"Bruce, no. There's no way I'm letting you tag along in what's probably gonna be a gunfight."
"I deserve this!"
"You don't deserve a thing. You've helped, and I appreciate that. But you're also not a cop. You haven't taken that oath; you're not trained. Go home; I'll let you know if anything happens."
Bruce turned and walked away.
Bruce walked through what was now called "Old Gotham." It wasn't actually the oldest part of the city, but it the lively nature of the place had entirely disappeared in the last ten years, mostly replaced by corruption. The buildings were cracked and rotting; parents kept their children indoors. Most of the people in this part of the city were too poor to move anywhere else; they just did what they could to keep a living. Bruce passed an old movie theater that had long since shut down. He merely stared at it for a while, standing under the dark shadow of a nearby balcony. The street was entirely deserted.
"You still here?" he said.
Boston suddenly appeared, floating at his right. "Yeah. Now that Zatanna showed me it's possible, I can control whether or not people see and hear me in my ghost form. So, hey, you're not gonna just let them leave you outta this, are ya?"
"What choice do I have?"
"We go get this hook man before the cops show up."
"...How?"
"I can go float on over to the GCPD. See when they're planning their raid. Then you an' I can sneak in before they get there and grab that sonofa—"
"Why do you need me for this? Couldn't you just go in yourself and possess the guy? Make him walk into the police station?"
"...Hey, I'd be lyin' if I said it hadn't crossed my mind. Hell, I'd probably make him walk off a cliff. But I figure I owe ya for helpin' me track him down. And besides, it seems like you've got somethin' personal to deal with here. I know how that can weigh on your conscience. So I wanna help."
Bruce wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't quite at the moment. "Alright. We'll meet up later. I have something to do first."
Bruce turned down an alley near the theater. Halfway down the path, he stopped and knelt.
Here, he thought. This is where it happened. I promise you, mother, father... I'll make it right.
Bruce peered at the docks from the shadows of a nearby fire escape. The sun had set an hour earlier; it was perfect. Only moonlight and a few street lamps illuminated the area. Bruce knew enough of Gotham to know that this was truly when the city woke. When the few good people of Gotham slept, and the rest—the dark underbelly, the true power of Gotham—arose.
The image of Boston appeared at Bruce's side.
"They got ten guys spread across the docks keepin' watch. All of 'em armed. Then there's twenny more in the main warehouse. Sharp-lookin' guys, those. If I had'ta guess, I'd say they're the brains of this whole thing."
"Did you see the man with the hook?"
"Nah, but I heard two of 'em sayin that somebody was comin'. I figure it's gotta be him."
As if in answer, a car pulled up to the docks. From here, Bruce and Boston could see a man step out. Bruce strained his eyes to see if... yes. There it was. The same glint of metal on his hand. This had to be him.
Boston gritted his teeth and clenched his translucent fist.
"I got him."
"No," Bruce said, instinctively reaching for Boston's arm and passing right through it.
"No?!" Boston said.
"This whole thing is bigger than just him. If we stop him now, we'll never find out what this whole group is up to—or why they've been targeting circus performers."
Boston struggled with himself for a moment.
"...Fine. We do it your way."
The hooked man walked down the docks and entered the warehouse.
"How can I get in?" Bruce asked.
"I saw a blind spot in the security over near that stack o' crates. You said you've been trainin'; think you can vault over the fence?"
"We'll find out."
As Bruce began to move, Boston put a ghostly hand in front of him. "Wait a second. Where's your magic friend? We could use 'er help."
"No. I don't want to "
Bruce silently ran across the street, dodging the light as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he jumped on top of a pile of crates and flipped neatly over the fence, landing squarely on the other side—his shoes slapping the concrete a little harder than he would have liked. Bruce winced. That was too loud. Any moment and—
One of the armed men turned a corner, gun drawn. As his eyes began to fall on Bruce, they suddenly rolled back into his head, as if he were passing out. He flinched, and suddenly looked fine. He winked at Bruce and walked away.
Bruce smirked. Thanks, Boston, he thought.
Bruce stalked his way towards the warehouse. He climbed up a forklift and made his way toward an open window near the roof. He squeezed inside, then, finding himself on an upper level, made his way towards a single light and the sound of voices. Eventually he reached the other end of the warehouse, where the floor gave way to a wide view of the ground floor. A half-circular table was illuminated by a single light from above. Twenty men in business suits sat along the table, staring at one man in the center. One man with a hook on his left hand. Bruce felt a rush course through him. This was the one. He glanced up at the other side of the roof; Boston briefly turned visible and gave Bruce a thumbs-up.
"Care to explain why you failed?" one of the seated men, a large, deep-voiced African-American, said. From his body language, Bruce guessed he was the leader of this group.
"Somebody shot a clown just as I was about to pull the trigger," the hooked man said. "The crowd went crazy. No way I was gonna be able to get off a good shot and get away. Hell, some guy almost grabbed me as I was running; I had to ditch my coat just to lose him."
"Your mission was to kill the two acrobats," said another of the seated men. "You failed."
"What was I supposed to do?!"
"You've been accepted into a sacred order of assassins," the leader said grimly. "Once you've been given a target, you kill. You don't run. You don't accept anything less than perfect death."
The hooked man looked visibly shaken. "Look, I—I already killed that Deadman guy in New York; you know I can do this."
"A hooked assassin needs three perfect kills to pass the initiation trial. You've failed at only your second attempt. There is nothing more to discuss."
Each of the seated men at the raised their left hands and placed them on the table with a clang. Bruce nearly gasped. Each one of the men had a hook for a left hand. Bruce had wondered why this gunman chose a hook instead of a more useful prosthetic hand; apparently the hook was a sacrificial tradition among these assassins.
The man in the center looked back and forth between the hooked council, terrified.
"No, PLEASE! I—"
The loud snap of gunfire boomed from the leader's lap, where he tightly held a pistol. Bruce saw a sliver of blood drip from a perfectly-placed hole in the hooked man's head.
If Bruce could see or hear Boston at that moment, he would have seen the ghostly man's face distorted in a cry of anger and loss.
The whooping sound of a helicopter echoed from above, and a powerful beam of light shone through a skylight. The police had shown up early.
The hooked men scrambled to their feet and ran to a nearby pile of crates, pulling out a plethora of automatic guns. Bruce recognized most of the guns as MP5s and AK-47s; this was about to get very, very bloody.
A single bullet cracked through a window pane and left one of the hooked men dead on the floor. The others immediately ran to the windows and doors, readying themselves for whatever was about to come.
Bruce immediately began searching for a way out, but he knew that was unlikely. The GCPD had surrounded the building, and a helicopter was shining its spotlight on the same side of the building as the window Bruce needed to exit.
Boston's face faded into view in front of Bruce's eyes.
"I'll cover you; get out of here," Boston said.
Bruce noted the seriousness in Boston's expression; the hint of anger and loss. Boston faded out, and several seconds later the helicopter's spotlight shifted away from the window. Bruce soundlessly slipped out and ducked behind a crate. Before he could take a step further, however, the sounds of gunfire echoed from every corner of the dock. Flashes of yellow and white lit up the night; bullets thunked and pinged off every surface.
Ever so slowly, Bruce gradually made his way from building to building, crate to crate, with Boston possessing and thereby distracting cop after cop until he could finally make it back to the street. He ducked into the nearest alley, climbed up a fire escape, and sat on top of the roof to watch everything.
The hooked gang was all but eliminated. The few that survived only did so because they were knocked out before they could take their own lives. As the fight ended and the police began shoving the survivors into armored cars, Bruce climbed back down and joined the growing crowd now surrounding the scene.
Bruce heard Crispus loudly arguing with another GCPD detective.
"I TOLD YOU TO HOLD FIRE; WE WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM ALIVE!"
"Hey, we got the bad guys," the detective said nonchalantly. "Quit complainin'."
"You'll lose your badge for this, Flass. I swear to god."
On the other side of the crowd, two men stood alone.
"Looks like they're gonna blame these guys for the circus shooting," one said quietly. "You're, eh, off the hook."
"No puns. Please. No such thing as a good pun," the other said coldly.
"So, I don't get it. Why'd you kill the clown in the first place?"
The other man grinned with a devilish, wide, chillingly heartless smile. "Because he wasn't funny."
Bruce glanced across the crowd and made eye contact with the grinning man. Bruce felt as though he'd just been electrocuted. There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary about this man—nothing except for his somewhat sinister-looking expression, that is—but Bruce felt as though he somehow knew this person. Like they had a connection. As though somehow their lives were destined to cross paths.
Bruce moved to follow the man, but the crowd was thick. After a minute or two, Bruce gave up and left.
Bruce sat in his study, slumped into his father's giant armchair.
"Bruce!"
Bruce didn't need to turn; he recognized Zatanna's voice from behind him.
"What did you do?!"
Bruce lowered his head slightly. "Nothing."
Zatanna noticed rips and a few burns on Bruce's clothing. "You were involved in that gunfight, weren't you?"
"Not exactly, no."
"But you were there."
"...Yes."
Zatanna was beyond trying to comfort him now. She was practically furious. "What the HELL were you thinking?! Trying to find these guys on your own? Why didn't you call me?!"
"It wasn't your fight."
"And it was yours?!"
"...I... I should have stopped him the first time."
"Bruce, you're not responsible for stopping every criminal in Gotham! It's not your—"
Zatanna suddenly realized what she was saying and felt a pang of guilt. Once again, she glanced at the portrait of the Waynes. She knelt in front of Bruce and gently held his hands in hers.
"It's not your fault, Bruce. It never was."
Bruce didn't answer.
Zatanna sat with Bruce in silence for an hour or so, finally leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise from Alfred that he'd be taken care of.
After Zatanna was gone, Boston appeared in the study.
"Hey," he said quietly.
Bruce slowly looked back up.
"I'm sorry we didn't catch him, Boston."
"Yeah, me too. At least I know who he was. But still, I shoulda kept 'im from dyin'."
"Why? I would have thought you'd want revenge."
"I ain't sayin' I don't, but one thing I learned since gettin' put on this task is that death never balances the scales. It only makes things worse."
Bruce thought for a moment and nodded. He had to agree.
"So what are you doing now?" Bruce asked. "I thought finding your murderer was your goal in... life."
"It's more than that. There's still work I'm supposed to do in my mission. Y'know, before I can... pass on."
Bruce's mind was swirling with questions for Boston. Questions about life and death; about everything. But he quickly decided that it wasn't important for him to know. The logical, the concrete; that was where his mind belonged.
"Speakin' of missions, Bruce," Boston said. "What is it, exactly, that you're after? I mean, you seem like you wanna bash in the head of every kinda scum in this hellhole of a town."
Bruce stared into Boston's translucent black eyes. "I swore to fight criminals; to stop the same kind of crime that killed my parents."
"Ah. That's why you're trainin' with the acrobats and the detectives and everythin'. You wanna be a one-man army."
"Want has little to do with it anymore," Bruce replied. "I have to."
Boston quietly regarded Bruce for a moment.
"Well, maybe I can help ya with that."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"There's a hidden city, high up in the mountains of Tibet," Boston explained. "It's called Nanda Parbat. After I got turned into a ghost, some of the monks there taught me to control my powers. If you wanna become... well, more than what you are, that's where you need to go. I can show you the way."
The image of Boston appeared at Bruce's side.
"They got ten guys spread across the docks keepin' watch. All of 'em armed. Then there's twenny more in the main warehouse. Sharp-lookin' guys, those. If I had'ta guess, I'd say they're the brains of this whole thing."
"Did you see the man with the hook?"
"Nah, but I heard two of 'em sayin that somebody was comin'. I figure it's gotta be him."
As if in answer, a car pulled up to the docks. From here, Bruce and Boston could see a man step out. Bruce strained his eyes to see if... yes. There it was. The same glint of metal on his hand. This had to be him.
Boston gritted his teeth and clenched his translucent fist.
"I got him."
"No," Bruce said, instinctively reaching for Boston's arm and passing right through it.
"No?!" Boston said.
"This whole thing is bigger than just him. If we stop him now, we'll never find out what this whole group is up to—or why they've been targeting circus performers."
Boston struggled with himself for a moment.
"...Fine. We do it your way."
The hooked man walked down the docks and entered the warehouse.
"How can I get in?" Bruce asked.
"I saw a blind spot in the security over near that stack o' crates. You said you've been trainin'; think you can vault over the fence?"
"We'll find out."
As Bruce began to move, Boston put a ghostly hand in front of him. "Wait a second. Where's your magic friend? We could use 'er help."
"No. I don't want to "
Bruce silently ran across the street, dodging the light as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he jumped on top of a pile of crates and flipped neatly over the fence, landing squarely on the other side—his shoes slapping the concrete a little harder than he would have liked. Bruce winced. That was too loud. Any moment and—
One of the armed men turned a corner, gun drawn. As his eyes began to fall on Bruce, they suddenly rolled back into his head, as if he were passing out. He flinched, and suddenly looked fine. He winked at Bruce and walked away.
Bruce smirked. Thanks, Boston, he thought.
Bruce stalked his way towards the warehouse. He climbed up a forklift and made his way toward an open window near the roof. He squeezed inside, then, finding himself on an upper level, made his way towards a single light and the sound of voices. Eventually he reached the other end of the warehouse, where the floor gave way to a wide view of the ground floor. A half-circular table was illuminated by a single light from above. Twenty men in business suits sat along the table, staring at one man in the center. One man with a hook on his left hand. Bruce felt a rush course through him. This was the one. He glanced up at the other side of the roof; Boston briefly turned visible and gave Bruce a thumbs-up.
"Care to explain why you failed?" one of the seated men, a large, deep-voiced African-American, said. From his body language, Bruce guessed he was the leader of this group.
"Somebody shot a clown just as I was about to pull the trigger," the hooked man said. "The crowd went crazy. No way I was gonna be able to get off a good shot and get away. Hell, some guy almost grabbed me as I was running; I had to ditch my coat just to lose him."
"Your mission was to kill the two acrobats," said another of the seated men. "You failed."
"What was I supposed to do?!"
"You've been accepted into a sacred order of assassins," the leader said grimly. "Once you've been given a target, you kill. You don't run. You don't accept anything less than perfect death."
The hooked man looked visibly shaken. "Look, I—I already killed that Deadman guy in New York; you know I can do this."
"A hooked assassin needs three perfect kills to pass the initiation trial. You've failed at only your second attempt. There is nothing more to discuss."
Each of the seated men at the raised their left hands and placed them on the table with a clang. Bruce nearly gasped. Each one of the men had a hook for a left hand. Bruce had wondered why this gunman chose a hook instead of a more useful prosthetic hand; apparently the hook was a sacrificial tradition among these assassins.
The man in the center looked back and forth between the hooked council, terrified.
"No, PLEASE! I—"
The loud snap of gunfire boomed from the leader's lap, where he tightly held a pistol. Bruce saw a sliver of blood drip from a perfectly-placed hole in the hooked man's head.
If Bruce could see or hear Boston at that moment, he would have seen the ghostly man's face distorted in a cry of anger and loss.
The whooping sound of a helicopter echoed from above, and a powerful beam of light shone through a skylight. The police had shown up early.
The hooked men scrambled to their feet and ran to a nearby pile of crates, pulling out a plethora of automatic guns. Bruce recognized most of the guns as MP5s and AK-47s; this was about to get very, very bloody.
A single bullet cracked through a window pane and left one of the hooked men dead on the floor. The others immediately ran to the windows and doors, readying themselves for whatever was about to come.
Bruce immediately began searching for a way out, but he knew that was unlikely. The GCPD had surrounded the building, and a helicopter was shining its spotlight on the same side of the building as the window Bruce needed to exit.
Boston's face faded into view in front of Bruce's eyes.
"I'll cover you; get out of here," Boston said.
Bruce noted the seriousness in Boston's expression; the hint of anger and loss. Boston faded out, and several seconds later the helicopter's spotlight shifted away from the window. Bruce soundlessly slipped out and ducked behind a crate. Before he could take a step further, however, the sounds of gunfire echoed from every corner of the dock. Flashes of yellow and white lit up the night; bullets thunked and pinged off every surface.
Ever so slowly, Bruce gradually made his way from building to building, crate to crate, with Boston possessing and thereby distracting cop after cop until he could finally make it back to the street. He ducked into the nearest alley, climbed up a fire escape, and sat on top of the roof to watch everything.
The hooked gang was all but eliminated. The few that survived only did so because they were knocked out before they could take their own lives. As the fight ended and the police began shoving the survivors into armored cars, Bruce climbed back down and joined the growing crowd now surrounding the scene.
Bruce heard Crispus loudly arguing with another GCPD detective.
"I TOLD YOU TO HOLD FIRE; WE WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM ALIVE!"
"Hey, we got the bad guys," the detective said nonchalantly. "Quit complainin'."
"You'll lose your badge for this, Flass. I swear to god."
On the other side of the crowd, two men stood alone.
"Looks like they're gonna blame these guys for the circus shooting," one said quietly. "You're, eh, off the hook."
"No puns. Please. No such thing as a good pun," the other said coldly.
"So, I don't get it. Why'd you kill the clown in the first place?"
The other man grinned with a devilish, wide, chillingly heartless smile. "Because he wasn't funny."
Bruce glanced across the crowd and made eye contact with the grinning man. Bruce felt as though he'd just been electrocuted. There was nothing terribly out of the ordinary about this man—nothing except for his somewhat sinister-looking expression, that is—but Bruce felt as though he somehow knew this person. Like they had a connection. As though somehow their lives were destined to cross paths.
Bruce moved to follow the man, but the crowd was thick. After a minute or two, Bruce gave up and left.
Bruce sat in his study, slumped into his father's giant armchair.
"Bruce!"
Bruce didn't need to turn; he recognized Zatanna's voice from behind him.
"What did you do?!"
Bruce lowered his head slightly. "Nothing."
Zatanna noticed rips and a few burns on Bruce's clothing. "You were involved in that gunfight, weren't you?"
"Not exactly, no."
"But you were there."
"...Yes."
Zatanna was beyond trying to comfort him now. She was practically furious. "What the HELL were you thinking?! Trying to find these guys on your own? Why didn't you call me?!"
"It wasn't your fight."
"And it was yours?!"
"...I... I should have stopped him the first time."
"Bruce, you're not responsible for stopping every criminal in Gotham! It's not your—"
Zatanna suddenly realized what she was saying and felt a pang of guilt. Once again, she glanced at the portrait of the Waynes. She knelt in front of Bruce and gently held his hands in hers.
"It's not your fault, Bruce. It never was."
Bruce didn't answer.
Zatanna sat with Bruce in silence for an hour or so, finally leaving him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise from Alfred that he'd be taken care of.
After Zatanna was gone, Boston appeared in the study.
"Hey," he said quietly.
Bruce slowly looked back up.
"I'm sorry we didn't catch him, Boston."
"Yeah, me too. At least I know who he was. But still, I shoulda kept 'im from dyin'."
"Why? I would have thought you'd want revenge."
"I ain't sayin' I don't, but one thing I learned since gettin' put on this task is that death never balances the scales. It only makes things worse."
Bruce thought for a moment and nodded. He had to agree.
"So what are you doing now?" Bruce asked. "I thought finding your murderer was your goal in... life."
"It's more than that. There's still work I'm supposed to do in my mission. Y'know, before I can... pass on."
Bruce's mind was swirling with questions for Boston. Questions about life and death; about everything. But he quickly decided that it wasn't important for him to know. The logical, the concrete; that was where his mind belonged.
"Speakin' of missions, Bruce," Boston said. "What is it, exactly, that you're after? I mean, you seem like you wanna bash in the head of every kinda scum in this hellhole of a town."
Bruce stared into Boston's translucent black eyes. "I swore to fight criminals; to stop the same kind of crime that killed my parents."
"Ah. That's why you're trainin' with the acrobats and the detectives and everythin'. You wanna be a one-man army."
"Want has little to do with it anymore," Bruce replied. "I have to."
Boston quietly regarded Bruce for a moment.
"Well, maybe I can help ya with that."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"There's a hidden city, high up in the mountains of Tibet," Boston explained. "It's called Nanda Parbat. After I got turned into a ghost, some of the monks there taught me to control my powers. If you wanna become... well, more than what you are, that's where you need to go. I can show you the way."
