It was late at night. Bane and his men moved quietly through the slums of Gotham City.
In the minds of ordinary people, a villain is often imagined as a towering brute—muscles bulging, voice thundering, the kind of monster who could eat three children for breakfast.
In this case… they'd be right.
And yet, in Gotham, even monsters get prayers. Desperation makes saints of devils.
"Excuse me… can you save my mother?"
A little girl stood before the hulking mountain of muscle. Her tiny fingers clutched a worn-out puppet—found in a trash heap, like her hopes. Her tattered dress swayed in the grimy wind.
"She has cancer. She's in too much pain. People say only God can help now." Her voice trembled. Her eyes begged.
Bane raised a hand, stopping his men from shoving her aside. He crouched slightly. "Where is your home?"
She pointed to a crumbling shack behind her.
Bane walked in.
Minutes later, he emerged, calmly wiping the blood and brain matter off his gauntlets.
"Your mother will never suffer again… Bury her."
He looked down at the stunned child.
"Don't ask for help so easily. The world brings suffering to those who beg for mercy."
He turned, lifting his head slightly. The stars above were hidden under Gotham's black veil.
"There is no God here," Bane said. "But Bane is."
---
Gotham's night was as peaceful as a tombstone.
Acid rain drizzled over neon signs and polluted alleys. The air reeked of rust, oil, and broken dreams. Gotham smiled through the smog, teeth bared.
On a rooftop, Deadshot loaded a mortar and scoped the skyline.
Below, a car roared through puddles, splashing a pedestrian.
The pedestrian promptly pulled out a submachine gun and opened fire.
Da-da-da-da-da-da...
Gotham.
Too damn exaggerated.
"Remind you again, Deadshot" came the voice in his earpiece. Calm. Sharp. Slightly nasally. "This mission requires zero casualties."
Deadshot groaned. "Ventriloquist, you've been running with gangs your whole life. When did you suddenly develop a superhero's conscience?"
"A villain should look like a villain," came the reply.
"You sure you're not Batman's new informant?" he smirked, adjusting the mortar. "Did he give you a pair of Robin tights too? No pants included?"
Thump. The mortar launched, its arc deadly and elegant.
"Minus pay for any confirmed kills," the voice snapped.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it."
DeadShot licked his lips, lifted an anti-tank rocket launcher, and fired.
*BOOM!* The rooftop across town erupted like a tin can kicked by a god. Concrete shredded. Screams followed.
The ants had been stirred.
"See?" he said. "I told you I'd bring the Mad Hatter in *intact*."
He raised his sniper rifle but hesitated.
"…But now I don't feel like finishing the job."
"What?!"
"You freaked him out. He'll bolt. Next time it'll cost ten times more to track him down. Not many mercs even take Gotham gigs these days…"
A pause. Then:
"Fine. Name your price."
DeadShot smiled at the sky, righteous as a preacher: "It'll cost more money."
---
Elsewhere in the night—a high school corridor bathed in moonlight and sirens.
The Cheshire Cat walked with slow, graceful steps, her silhouette almost theatrical against shattered glass.
"You do know Mr. Zsasz is a serial killer, yes?" the voice in her headset spoke again—this time from the left-hand bat puppet.
"I trust your ability. But I need all the hostages safe. Separate him from the students, then engage—"
"Oh?" she purred, stroking the curve of her waist and up to her feline mask.
"You talking to *me*?"
"…She's not talking to you," said another voice in the shadows.
The moonlight kissed the body of Victor Zsasz. His skin, a horror map of self-inflicted scars. His grin: feral.
"Why don't you take off that mask, ma'am?"
"Oh no. You know the rule," she replied, turning slowly. "A cat never unmasks—especially not in front of a naked exhibitionist."
A knife appeared in her hand, fluid as breath.
The Cheshire Cat sighed, pulled out a longer blade from her back, then produced a cascade of shurikens from her belt—like a hamster vomiting seeds.
She tilted her head. "Catfight?"
Zsasz chuckled. "Cat Quest."
---
Deep beneath Wayne Manor, the Batcave glowed with dim light.
Batman—or rather, Bruce—used the voice of the ventriloquist to coordinate his mercenary army.
"…State the conditions directly."
"What? More money?"
He scoffed and replied through gritted teeth: "More. Anything."
He turned—and froze.
Tim Drake, the third Robin, stood fuming. In his hand was a piece of paper:
-("Batman, I can't believe you didn't take me with you. You hired mercenaries to take down Bane? And worse—you brought bad guys into our house!")
In the corner, the real ventriloquist crouched on all fours, wagging an invisible tail, pretending to be a dog.
Tim clenched his fists. He couldn't punch the clown in front of Bruce. Instead, he continued scribbling:
-("You're not even hiding it anymore. You're negotiating with criminals right in front of me!")
Bruce sighed and hung up his call.
Tim stared, waiting.
"…Is this about Jean-Paul?" he asked, referring to Azrael—killed by Bane with a single punch.
"Not exactly," Bruce replied. "Listen to me."
He grabbed Tim by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.
"I'm retiring."
"…What?"
"Youth fades, Tim. Passion dissappears. Old dreams, gone. Batman is just a dream an eight-year-old boy refused to wake up from.
But I'm awake now."
"I'll do one last thing for Gotham… then I'm done. And you—Tim—you should be too."
"You're smart. You've got a real family. A mother. A father. That's rare here. Don't waste it."
"Go to school. Fall in love. Maybe she'll have golden hair and blue eyes… or red hair. Her last name might be Gordon, or Brown. But someday… she'll be Drake."
He smiled, eyes misty.
"You'll live the life I never got."
Behind them, Alfred dropped the tea tray.
It shattered.
He covered his face and cried.
"Is it real, Bruce? Am I really not dreaming?"
Bruce didn't answer. But he didn't need to.