The night air in Gotham was thick with damp, clinging fog, curling between the jagged rooftops like it wanted to listen in on the conversation. The team crouched on a narrow fire escape, peering down at the cracked alley below.
"Two o'clock, two guards down, and two complete morons," Robin murmured, pointing to the pair of Arkham escapees stumbling through the alley. One had a rusty crowbar, the other a length of chain that clinked every time he moved.
"Crowbar and Chain," Kid Flash muttered. "Creative names."
"They're Arkham's finest," Artemis said dryly as she drew an arrow.
Miss Martian floated just above the fire escape rail, eyes faintly glowing. "They're alert, but not… bright," she said softly.
Robin's smirk widened. "Perfect. Let's make it fast. KF—"
"On it!" Kid Flash blurred downward, the wind of his passing rattling old windowpanes. The chain-wielder yelped as the blur zipped around him, and in a blink the weapon was gone. Artemis' arrow thunked into the wall right next to Crowbar's ear, startling him into dropping his own weapon before he could even swing.
Impulse was instant, but the finish was coordinated—Superboy dropped down between the two inmates with a thud that cracked a paving stone. He didn't say anything. Just crossed his arms and glared.
The fight was over before it started.
"You two are going back to Arkham the easy way," Robin said, dropping into view with a fluid flip. He zip-tied their hands while Artemis covered him, arrow still notched.
"Okay, that's two down," Miss Martian said, scanning the street below. "Where are the other two?"
Robin's eyes narrowed. "They were supposed to be in that warehouse—"
A crash echoed in the distance—metal hitting concrete—but when the team reached the half-collapsed doorway, the warehouse was empty.
"Miss M, sweep?" Artemis asked.
Miss Martian closed her eyes, brow furrowing as she reached out telepathically. At first, her face was calm. Then it twisted in pain, her hand flying to her temple. "There's… too many voices. All at once. Gotham is—" She cut off, wincing. "I can't pinpoint them. It's like every thought is screaming at once."
"Third time tonight," Kid Flash muttered, looking around the empty shadows. "What is this, Arkham inmates can teleport now?"
"Not teleport," Superboy said, scanning the dark alleys beyond the broken door.
Robin stayed silent, crouching at the edge of the doorway. His eyes tracked a cluster of figures at the far corner of the street shapes huddled near a burnt-out barrel fire, clothes ragged, heads low. Homeless, by the look of them.
They weren't moving away from the scene. Just… watching.
Robin's gaze lingered on them a beat too long. "Or maybe someone's helping them, these guys are becoming far too prevalent in this city."
***
The lobby of the continental was almost silent at this hour. Only the faint hum of the chandelier lights and the slow tick of the antique clock on the wall broke the stillness. Behind the front desk, the concierge was hunched over the glowing monitor, eyes glazed in the half-bored way of someone expecting nothing but quiet for the rest of their shift.
The sound came before the man the crisp flick of a coin being sent into the air, tumbling with a rhythmic clink-clink-clink.
The concierge's head jerked up. His eyes locked on the figure now standing just inside the glass doors tall, broad-shouldered, wearing an immaculate suit despite the hour. Half of his face was a ruin of scar tissue and twisted muscle, the other half still disturbingly handsome. The concierge froze, fear tightening in his throat.
The coin came down, caught between two fingers, then set into motion again with another casual flick.
"I'm familiar with your boss," the man said, his voice deep, and commanding. "Is he in?"
The concierge swallowed hard. Slowly, he straightened, his hand hovering for a moment over the desk phone before lifting the receiver.
Up in the penthouse, Nolan or rather, the man the city knew as Kieran Everleigh picked up on the first ring. His voice was smooth, calm. "Yes?"
"Mr. Dent's here to see you," the concierge said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.
There was a pause on the line, a faint exhale. Then Nolan replied, "Bring him up through the private elevator. Give him a gold coin and show him the safe entrance for next time."
"Yes, sir."
The concierge replaced the phone, slid open a drawer, and retrieved a single gleaming gold coin. He handed it across the desk, murmuring, "For next time." Then he stepped around the counter, guiding Harvey Dent to a side door where the private elevator waited.
Harvey turned the coin in his palm, smirking faintly. "Nice touch," he muttered.
Minutes later, the elevator doors opened onto the penthouse floor. The hallway smelled faintly of expensive cologne and aged whiskey. At the far end, Nolan stood in the open doorway of his suite, one hand holding a glass of amber liquor, the other resting casually in his pocket.
He offered the drink to Harvey as he stepped inside. "I might be mistaken," Nolan said lightly, "but you're a wanted man. What can I help you with?"
Harvey took the glass, chuckling under his breath. "What? I can't just come visit a friend?"
Nolan smiled faintly but his eyes didn't lose their edge.
***
The sewers under Gotham were never quiet, not really. Water gurgled and hissed through the rusted grates, rats skittered across damp concrete, and somewhere far off a metal pipe clanged like a warning bell.
Dre Matthews moved with slow, deliberate steps, his boots splashing through ankle-deep water. Behind him, the members of the Underpass Society worked in near silence, their eyes flicking to him for direction. Canvas tarps were being tied into makeshift walls, bedrolls unfurled in the driest corners.
"We're about to have a lot of foot traffic," Dre said, his voice low but firm as he scanned the shadowed tunnels. "I want this clear. No clutter. And make sure it's packable. If we need to move, we move fast."
He came up to a young man crouched by a lantern, who looked up from sorting through a crate of scavenged food. Dre squatted beside him.
"Tell me," Dre said, "when's the last time you saw the Croc?"
The kid swallowed and lifted his chin toward a far stretch of tunnel, where the light didn't reach and the shadows seemed to gather heavier than they should.
Dre's mouth pulled into a thin smile. He nodded. "Alright."
Straightening, he made his way toward that direction, his hands loose at his sides. He didn't go far close enough that the faint chatter of his people was still within earshot, but far enough that the darkness seemed to press in.
"You know, Mr. Croc," Dre said, his voice carrying without shouting, "I don't want to impose on you. But you've been a friend to us in the past… and you haven't been back in a while. I think it'd be best if we talked, so I can explain what's going on lately."
No answer. Just the steady drip of water from above, the whisper of movement somewhere far down the tunnel.
Dre waited another beat, then sighed and started to turn back. His people saw him coming and froze. Conversations cut short. A couple of them instinctively stepped back, faces pale.
The hairs on Dre's neck prickled.
He stopped mid-step, a knot tightening in his gut. Slowly, he turned his head.
The first thing he saw was a scaled torso emerging from the dark massive, ridged with muscle, damp from the sewer water. Then his gaze traveled up, and up, until yellow, reptilian eyes caught the dim lantern light.
Dre forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"…Oh. Hi, Mr. Croc?"