GOTHAM CITY - PRESENT DAY
Rain pounded against Gotham's skyline, turning the city's perpetual grime into rivulets that slithered down gargoyles and century-old brickwork. The storm had rolled in around midnight, sudden and violent like the city's temper, transforming the streets into mirror-black canvases that reflected neon signs and emergency lights in distorted, fever-dream patterns.
From his vantage point on the Wayne Tower communications array, Batman observed the GCPD vehicles forming a perimeter around Gotham First National Bank. Their red and blue lights pulsed through the downpour, creating a hypnotic rhythm against wet asphalt. Officers huddled behind car doors, weapons trained on the building's ornate entrance. The situation had reached a stalemate two hours ago, with negotiations going nowhere.
"The Riddler's holding position on the second floor, east wing," Alfred's voice came through his cowl's communication system. "He's got six hostages—all bank executives who were working late finalizing the DeLarue merger."
"Any injuries?" Batman's voice was a low growl—barely human, carefully modulated to instill fear.
"Nothing serious yet. I'm monitoring GCPD radio traffic. Their negotiator isn't making progress, and Commissioner Gordon is growing concerned."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind lenses designed to function in conditions ranging from pitch darkness to blinding light. The bank's security system was state-of-the-art, but he had already identified three potential entry points that would allow him to bypass it completely. Two years ago, he might have chosen the most direct approach—the skylight above the main lobby. Now, with experience tempering his tactics, he recognized the value of gathering more intelligence first.
"What's his psychological state?" he asked, already moving across the rooftop to a better position for his planned approach.
"Erratic, even for Nygma," Alfred replied, the soft click of his keyboard audible through the connection. "His demands keep changing. First it was access to the bank's secure servers, then financial records for specific accounts, then something about proving the executives' corruption. Classic Riddler misdirection, but there's something... different this time."
"Different how?"
"His riddles lack their usual structure. They're more fragmented, almost stream-of-consciousness. And according to the radio chatter, he's been asking specifically about you."
Batman's mouth tightened into a grim line. Edward Nygma had been escalating over the past year, each crime more elaborate than the last. What had begun with complex puzzles left at crime scenes had evolved into increasingly dangerous public spectacles. This was the third hostage situation in two months.
"Send me everything he's said to the negotiator," Batman instructed, firing his grapnel gun toward an adjacent building. The hook caught securely, and he launched himself across the gap, the specialized cape designed by Lucius Fox allowing him to glide silently through the rain.
Data scrolled across his cowl's heads-up display as Alfred transmitted the transcript. He analyzed it while simultaneously making his way closer to the bank, moving from shadow to shadow with practiced efficiency. The Riddler's words formed patterns—not just the usual wordplay and misdirection, but something deeper. References to betrayal, to secrets exposed, to masks removed.
Batman reached the roof of a building adjacent to the bank, crouching beside a gargoyle that had watched over Gotham since the city's founding. The creature's weathered features reminded him of the city itself—worn by time and violence, but enduring.
"He's not after money," Batman concluded, studying the bank's security through his cowl's enhanced vision modes. "This is about information—specifically, information related to the Falcone case."
"That tracks," Alfred agreed. "Three of the hostages are on the prosecution's witness list for Falcone's trial, scheduled to testify next week about laundering operations."
Batman's mind worked through implications, connecting threads from investigations spanning months. Carmine Falcone's trial was the culmination of work that had begun before his partnership with Superman and Iron Man—meticulous evidence gathering, strategic pressure applied to key lieutenants, and carefully orchestrated takedowns of operations throughout Gotham's underworld.
"Nygma's working for someone," Batman stated flatly. "His bank robberies have all targeted institutions with connections to organized crime. He's not stealing money—he's stealing evidence."
"But who would hire the Riddler?" Alfred questioned. "He's unpredictable, unstable. There are dozens of mercenaries who would be more reliable."
"Someone who needs plausible deniability. Someone who wants the chaos as much as the outcome." Batman was already moving again, having identified his entry point—a maintenance door on the east side of the roof that connected to the building's ventilation system. "And someone who knows I'll come for him."
He disabled the door's alarm with a device from his utility belt, the specialized electronics bypassing the security system without triggering alerts. The bank's ventilation shafts were larger than modern building codes would allow, a quirk of the structure's century-old design that made his infiltration considerably easier.
"What's your plan?" Alfred asked as he navigated the dust-laden passages with silent precision.
"Nygma thrives on attention—the puzzle is meaningless without someone to solve it. I'm going to give him what he wants."
"Be careful, sir," Alfred's voice softened slightly, the concern of a father figure momentarily overriding his professional detachment. "The Riddler's been studying you. These aren't his usual games."
Batman didn't respond, focused now on the sounds coming through the ventilation grate below him. Edward Nygma's voice carried that particular theatrical quality it always did when he performed for hostages—the forced joviality barely masking seething resentment.
"...riddle me this, my financially astute friends," Nygma was saying, pacing before the six bound executives seated in a row. "What falls but never breaks, and breaks but never falls?"
The hostages remained silent, fear evident in their rigid postures. The Riddler was dressed in his signature green suit adorned with question marks, his matching bowler hat set at a jaunty angle. He twirled his question mark-topped cane with one hand while the other held a modified tablet connected to what appeared to be an improvised explosive device.
"No guesses? How disappointing." Nygma sighed dramatically. "The answer is 'night and day.' Rather elementary, but I'm adjusting for my audience." He leaned toward one particularly terrified executive. "Though I suspect your knowledge of 'fall' is primarily related to stock markets and scapegoats, isn't it, Mr. Phillips? Tell me, does Carmine know you've agreed to testify?"
Batman had seen enough. With practiced ease, he removed the ventilation grate silently and dropped into the shadows at the room's periphery. The Riddler's back was to him, attention fixed on tormenting his captives.
"Night has indeed fallen, Nygma," Batman growled, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once thanks to techniques learned from the League of Shadows. "But you're the one who's about to break."
The Riddler spun, his expression shifting from surprise to delight in an instant. "Batman! Right on schedule—though I expected you through the skylight, not the ventilation system. Evolving your approach? How fascinating."
"Release the hostages." Batman stepped forward, his cape draping around him like living shadow.
"So direct! Where's the nuance, the appreciation for the game?" Nygma's smile turned sharp. "But since you've arrived, we can proceed to the main event." He held up the tablet. "One wrong move and this rather elaborate device sends banking data—very specific banking data—to every news outlet in Gotham. Oh, and also detonates, of course."
Batman took another step forward, cataloging every detail—the sweat beading on Nygma's forehead despite his confident demeanor, the slight tremor in his left hand, the way his eyes darted periodically to the eastern windows.
"You've been paid to retrieve information about Falcone's accounts," Batman stated. "To destroy evidence before the trial."
The Riddler's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise before he composed himself. "Very good! Though 'paid' implies such a transactional relationship. Let's say I have mutual interests with certain parties who appreciate the elegant chaos I bring to the proceedings."
"There's nothing elegant about being a pawn, Edward."
The barb struck home—Nygma's facade cracked momentarily, raw anger flashing across his features. "A pawn? I am the game master! The architect of this entire scenario!"
"Then why check the windows? Waiting for extraction? Or confirmation that you've completed your assigned task?" Batman moved in a careful arc, positioning himself between Nygma and the hostages. "Whoever hired you has no intention of letting you leave this building alive."
Doubt flickered in the Riddler's eyes. "You're trying to distract me. To create discord where there is perfect harmony."
"You're being used, Edward. Just like you were at Arkham. Just like you were by your professors at Gotham University. Your brilliance exploited, then discarded when no longer convenient."
The Riddler's composure slipped further, his breathing becoming erratic. "Stop it! You think you understand me? You understand nothing! Riddle me this, Batman—what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?"
"Man," Batman answered immediately, continuing his careful advance. "But here's one for you, Edward—what's more valuable: being the smartest person in the room, or being the only person who survives it?"
The question genuinely caught Nygma off-guard. His grip on the tablet faltered momentarily—just enough time for Batman to make his move.
The smoke pellet hit the floor between them, instantly filling the area with dense, disorienting vapor. Batman moved through it with practiced precision, his cowl's lenses allowing him to see perfectly while Nygma coughed and stumbled blindly. The detonator tablet was the priority—Batman's armored gauntlet connected with Nygma's wrist, applying precisely enough pressure to force his fingers open without breaking bones.
"No!" The Riddler's panicked cry came as the tablet clattered to the floor. Batman kicked it away, even as he delivered a swift strike to Nygma's solar plexus—measured to incapacitate without causing permanent damage.
The Riddler folded, gasping for air. Batman secured his wrists with specialized restraints, then moved quickly to disable the explosive device. The bank's security system had been compromised exactly as he'd suspected—a direct link established to transfer data about specific accounts offshore before erasing them from the bank's servers.
"Alfred, I need you to back-trace this data stream," Batman instructed, connecting a device from his utility belt to the Riddler's equipment. "It's sending account details to an external server."
"Already on it, sir," Alfred replied, his fingers flying across the Batcave's computer system. "The signal's bouncing through multiple proxies, but I should be able to... got it. Terminus is a server in the Cayman Islands registered to a shell corporation. Three guesses who it ultimately belongs to, and the first two don't count."
"Falcone," Batman confirmed grimly.
"The same. And sir? That data was specifically about offshore accounts connected to Judge Hargrove."
The piece clicked into place. Judge Maria Hargrove was presiding over Falcone's trial—the evidence suggested a long-standing financial relationship that would force her recusal, potentially delaying proceedings for months.
Batman turned his attention to the hostages, methodically freeing them from their restraints. "You're safe now. GCPD will be up shortly."
"He—he was going to kill us," one of the executives stammered. "Said we were complicit in some grand conspiracy."
"You'll need to tell the police everything you know," Batman instructed, his tone leaving no room for evasion. "Especially about your scheduled testimony."
As sirens wailed closer and GCPD tactical teams prepared to breach the building, Batman secured the Riddler to a structural column. Nygma had recovered enough to glare defiantly, though the effect was somewhat diminished by his disheveled appearance.
"This changes nothing," the Riddler spat. "The trial is compromised. Falcone walks free. The machine keeps turning."
"No, Edward," Batman leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for Nygma alone. "This changes everything. Because now I know who's pulling your strings. And they've just made their biggest mistake."
"Which is?" Nygma couldn't help asking despite himself.
"They've given me a direct line to follow. Every digital transaction leaves traces, even ones designed to disappear." Batman straightened as police boots thundered up the stairwell. "And unlike you, I don't need an audience to complete my work."
As GCPD officers burst into the room, weapons raised and shouting commands, Batman was already gone—a shadow retreating into the building's superstructure, leaving behind secured hostages, a subdued criminal, and evidence that would strengthen the case against one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords.
The Batmobile's engine rumbled through the hidden access tunnel leading back to the cave, its specialized tires gripping the wet concrete with perfect traction. Inside, Batman reviewed the night's intel, the heads-up display projecting data across the vehicle's reinforced windshield.
"Commissioner Gordon's preliminary report indicates all hostages are safe, minor injuries only," Alfred's precise British accent came through the communication system. "The Riddler is en route to Arkham under heavy guard, though he's apparently been unusually quiet since his apprehension."
"He's afraid," Batman replied, guiding the vehicle around a particularly sharp bend in the tunnel. "Whoever hired him expected him to fail—likely planned for him to be eliminated once the data was transferred."
"Creating a neat dead end for any investigation," Alfred observed. "Rather sloppy of Mr. Falcone, considering his usually meticulous planning."
"It wasn't Falcone's idea. The approach is too elaborate, too theatrical. This has the hallmarks of someone else—someone trying to prove themselves."
The tunnel widened as Batman approached the cave's main chamber, its cavernous expanse illuminated by state-of-the-art lighting systems that cast minimal shadows. The platform rotated as the Batmobile came to a stop, allowing Batman to exit directly facing the cave's central computer array.
Alfred was waiting, immaculate as always despite the hour, a silver tray bearing medical supplies in one hand. "I've taken the liberty of preparing for your return, Master Bruce. Your encounter with Mr. Nygma appears to have resulted in at least one laceration requiring attention."
Batman pulled back his cowl, becoming Bruce Wayne once more—though the transformation was never quite complete. The intensity remained in his eyes, the vigilant awareness of his surroundings, the slight tension in his posture that suggested readiness to respond to threats.
"It's nothing, Alfred," he said, though he allowed his surrogate father to examine the cut along his jawline where the Riddler had managed a lucky strike with his cane.
"Three stitches would disagree with that assessment, sir," Alfred replied dryly, already preparing to clean the wound. "I do wish you'd consider reinforcing this particular section of the cowl. It seems to be a favorite target for Gotham's more flamboyant criminals."
Bruce submitted to Alfred's ministrations while simultaneously reviewing data on the central computer—financial records, shell company structures, offshore account transactions. The digital trail confirmed his suspicions: someone was working to systematically dismantle the prosecution's case against Carmine Falcone.
"What troubles me," Alfred continued as he applied antiseptic, "is the increasingly theatrical nature of these encounters. The Riddler, Clayface last month, that business with the Calendar Man before that—they're becoming bolder, more elaborate in their presentations."
"They're responding to changing circumstances," Bruce replied, his eyes never leaving the screens. "Two years ago, Batman was still considered an urban legend by most of Gotham. Now, after Metropolis, after working with Superman and Stark the existence of costumed vigilantes is an accepted fact."
"One might say you've become something of a celebrity," Alfred observed with just a touch of wryness, placing a small bandage over the freshly stitched wound.
Bruce shot him a look that would have intimidated anyone else.
"A celebrity who operates exclusively from the shadows and strikes fear into the hearts of criminals," Alfred amended smoothly. "Most refreshing compared to Mr. Stark's approach to public relations."
Despite himself, Bruce's mouth quirked in the ghost of a smile. His partnership with Clark Kent and Tony Stark during the Metallo incident had been unexpected, born of necessity rather than choice. While he maintained occasional contact with both men—primarily through encrypted channels established through Wayne Enterprises—Bruce preferred his solitary approach to crime-fighting.
"Visibility changes the dynamic," Bruce said, returning to the original point. "Criminals adapt. The common street thug gives way to those who see themselves as worthy adversaries—individuals who cultivate distinct personas to match what they perceive as mine."
"Creating a rogues gallery, as it were," Alfred nodded. "Though I must say, Mr. Nygma seems particularly fixated on you personally."
"The Riddler craves validation of his intelligence. In his mind, outwitting Batman would provide irrefutable proof of his genius." Bruce pulled up footage from the bank's security cameras, studying the Riddler's body language during the confrontation. "But tonight was different. He was nervous, off-balance—not just from the situation, but from whoever hired him."
"And you believe this mysterious employer is connected to the Falcone organization?"
"Directly." Bruce brought up a new set of files—photographs, financial records, surveillance transcripts. "For the past month, someone has been systematically attacking the prosecution's case against Falcone. Witnesses disappearing or recanting testimonies. Evidence compromised. And now, potential blackmail material against the presiding judge."
Alfred studied the data with practiced eye. "Rather sophisticated for the Falcone family's usual methods. They typically prefer more... direct approaches to problem-solving."
"Exactly. This is someone new. Someone trying to prove themselves." Bruce brought up a final image—a blurry surveillance photo capturing a young man entering Falcone's restaurant, his features bearing a distinct resemblance to the crime lord himself. "Alberto Falcone. Carmine's son, recently returned from studying abroad."
"Ah, the prodigal son returns to join the family business," Alfred observed. "Though I was under the impression young Alberto had distanced himself from his father's enterprises. Wasn't he pursuing legitimate business ventures in Europe?"
"That was the public story. In reality, he was establishing new money laundering operations for the family through seemingly legitimate businesses—art galleries, import-export companies, technology startups. All with impeccable facades."
Bruce leaned back in his chair, fatigue finally beginning to show in the slight slackening of his shoulders. He'd been pushing himself particularly hard these past weeks, dividing his time between Wayne Enterprises' expanding operations, Batman's nightly patrols, and the meticulous work of building an ironclad case against Carmine Falcone.
"Alberto represents a new threat," Bruce continued. "Unlike his father, he understands modern criminal enterprises need to evolve beyond traditional protection rackets and smuggling operations. He's educated, sophisticated, and has spent years studying how to integrate criminal operations into legitimate business structures that can withstand scrutiny."
"Rather like your own dual existence, sir, though pointed in the opposite moral direction."
Bruce acknowledged the observation with a slight nod. "He's also smart enough to maintain distance between himself and the operations he's directing. The Riddler would never have been able to identify Alberto as his employer—likely dealt with intermediaries who themselves were removed from direct contact."
"Creating multiple layers of deniability," Alfred noted. "Quite sophisticated indeed."
"But not perfect." Bruce brought the computer system out of sleep mode with a gesture, the massive screens illuminating with data from the night's operation. "The digital trail I was able to capture leads back to a server farm we can connect to shell companies Alberto established in Europe. It's circumstantial, but it's a start."
"And with Mr. Dent prosecuting the case, circumstantial evidence may be sufficient. He has rather a gift for persuading juries."
Bruce nodded, appreciating Alfred's insight. Harvey Dent had proven himself a formidable District Attorney since his election last year—driven, incorruptible, and utterly committed to breaking the grip organized crime held on Gotham. His partnership with Commissioner Gordon and Batman had already resulted in significant inroads against several criminal organizations.
"Harvey's got his hands full with Carmine's trial," Bruce said, rising from the computer station and moving toward the cave's living quarters. "He doesn't need Alberto working actively to dismantle his case from the outside."
"Then I presume Batman will be paying young Mr. Falcone a visit in the near future?"
"Not yet. I need more concrete evidence connecting him to the Riddler and the other attempts to compromise the trial." Bruce paused, glancing back at the computer displays. "For now, we focus on ensuring Carmine's case proceeds as scheduled. If we can put the father away, the son might make a mistake—reach out to his contacts, try to consolidate power within the organization."
"And when he does, you'll be watching," Alfred concluded.
"Exactly." Bruce checked the time—nearly 4 AM. "I have a Wayne Enterprises board meeting at nine. I should get some sleep."
Alfred's expression conveyed polite skepticism. "Indeed, sir. The recommended eight hours condensed into your usual three. Quite efficient."
Bruce chose to ignore the gentle sarcasm, instead asking, "Any updates from our contacts regarding unusual movements in Gotham's underworld?"
"Nothing concrete, though Miss Kyle mentioned increased activity around the docks when I was conducting your regular surveillance sweep—apparently some new players have arrived in Gotham recently. Professional types, not the usual hired muscle." Alfred's tone remained casual, but the slight elevation of his eyebrow conveyed the significance of the information.
"Selina's information is usually reliable," Bruce acknowledged, though his expression suggested complicated feelings about the source. "I'll look into it tomorrow night. For now, I need that sleep you're so concerned about."
As Bruce made his way toward the elevator that would take him up to the manor proper, Alfred called after him, "Oh, and Master Bruce? Mr. Fox sent over the modifications to the gauntlets you requested. He mentioned something about improved electrical discharge capabilities."
Bruce nodded his thanks, making a mental note to review Lucius's upgrades before his next patrol. The constant refinement of his equipment—the suit, the vehicles, the various tools and weapons—was a necessary response to the evolving threats Batman faced. Like Gotham itself, Batman needed to adapt to survive.