Vampire Rule Nº: Never assume the first answer is the truth. The world is built on masquerade.
… … … … … …
John decided to wait and see how the situation develops.
One might call it paranoia, or buying into the whole 'batman with prep time' thing, but when it was his life and work on the line, he would rather not act rashly.
Meeting Batman during a fight was silly, trying to build a rapport with a man more paranoid than him was borderline insane, doing so during a major crisis was simply rude.
And John Harker might be the unholy offspring of a dubious teenage fantasy romance and death, but a rude person he was not.
He crouched on the rooftop, senses extended, eyes tracking the shifting patterns of blood and movement inside the warehouse complex and finding the entire thing almost educating.
Batman fought with precision, and the martial artist he faced responded with equal efficiency. Each strike, each counter was aimed at ending the fight as quickly as possible, though only one of them sought the death of his foe.
Which made Batman's domination of each exchange all the more impressive, John knew very well how hard it was to subdue an enemy compared to just killing them.
It was so fascinating he almost missed the throaty laugh of the smaller of the two brutes within this merry band of murderous misfits, this one was however entirely human with no enhancement beyond top tier training and an uncommon alcohol tolerance, and thus entirely uninteresting as far as John's diet was concerned.
Then the platform exploded, and the vampire was forced to start considering the trained alcoholic more carefully, given that he was apparently using a rocket launcher.
'Did he manage to bring it with him, or was someone retarded enough to keep explosives within an asylum?' John wondered, and he honestly thought both options were possible.
He expected Batman to emerge from the fire and finish the confrontation, given that he managed to handle himself pretty well despite the attack and subdue his discombobulated foe within seconds of the shot being fired.
The warehouse crumbling as the criminals fled was a non-factor, this was the dark knight after all, and even they had the sense to watch the exit carefully, ready to try and make the ensuing ass whooping less one sided.
Instead, the bat reappeared in front of the remaining intruders who did…nothing, and just let him stand with them as they engaged in jolly conversation.
Was the trained drunk laughing with him and patting his back?
'Excuse me, but the f*ck?' John raised an eyebrow.
Not attacking.
Not threatening.
Falling into formation.
The group barely hesitated, and moved out together like they'd agreed on it long before any of this started, with Batman in tow as if he was an old friend.
It was enough to make John doubt his own senses, and even as he focused completely on their blood, its distinctive scent and flow, the way their hearts beat, their build.
It was unmistakable, this was one signature he learned by heart, it was practically a requirement for any blood sucker who desired to make Gotham their home.
Batman.
There was no room for error. No possibility of confusion, and yet he was walking away with Task Force X, or whatever Waller decided to call the United States latest blatant human rights violation.
A chill ran down John's spine. Not fear, but the silent understanding that something was deeply wrong, like when a friendly old man was starting to be a little too friendly.
He dropped from his perch, moving with absolute silence across the scorched concrete. An air vent half-torn from the blast offered a convenient path inside, which was yet another security hazard, he slipped through the metal tunnel and descended into the fractured warehouse.
Inside was the aftermath of their battle against Batman…and another proof of Arkham's utter incompetence, which started to feel like a tired old joke at this point.
Shattered crates and scorched marks, like a raided amazon warehouse, which was fine enough, he couldn't ask them to account for villains fighting in there.
But the content of those crates was another story.
Scattered weapons; boomerangs, knives, freeze canisters, jerry-rigged devices, and the full costumes of the asylum's residents, including the parts which could only be used to injure, maim and murder people.
All of it was left conveniently within Arkham in a barely guarded warehouse.
'At this point, it can't be just mere incompetence, it has to be willful malevolence,' John shook his head, before concerning himself with matters other than institutional corruption and systemic mismanagement.
Things like Batman being buddies with violent criminals, he usually just sleeps with them!
John's answer was laying down in the center of the floor, illuminated by a single flickering emergency light, a man bound with reinforced plastic cuffs, chest rising shallowly as he fought unconsciousness.
John approached him slowly, scanning every detail, the bruising was consistent with Batman's strikes, the black zip-ties were fastened tightly and looked more solid than what his own people used to keep the peace when the police were busy elsewhere, or just decided to be part of the problem.
The man's pulse was sluggish but stable, left alive even if extremely roughed up.
More importantly, he was wearing a cape and a cowl, one he could recognise with a glance, one every soul in Gotham would recognise.
Batman.
There was only one issue, aside from the blood being entirely different.
Batman wasn't black, nor did he have a goatee.
Pieces started coming together, and John couldn't help but laugh, pulling out his phone and taking a couple dozen photos for posterity.
Bubbles would love this.
"I don't think you'd have an easy time working with the police." He ripped the zip ties easily, as his own plan started to form.
Batman infiltrated the suicide squad, it complicated everthing, but it also opened new possibilities.
"Wake up, buddy," He lightly slapped the man, taking no small pleasure in doing that to someone with that mask, "We've got a whole lot of things to talk about."
In the end, the beaten bat did wake up, but John was the one who did most of the talking.
. . .
The Squad moved through the ruined corridors without coordination and without a leader. Deadshot's absence left a vacuum none of them were qualified to fill, and despite Waller's best attempts, the man had been scared to such a degree he decided to actually use the money he earned ending other people's lives to enjoy his own.
Instead, they had to make do with the next best thing, an alcoholic rogue soviet asset with anger issues.
KGBeast was competent, but had more ego than muscles, and the man was at the peak of human strength despite consuming more Vodka than three Russian soldiers and one Finnish farmer combined.
Or perhaps because of it? Metahumans came in all shapes and forms.
Killer Frost was powerful and ruthless, but didn't work well in groups, what with her habit of freezing her allies solid and leaving them behind as distraction.
Harley Quinn was insane enough to be enamoured with the Joker, and that's all that needs to be said.
In her defence, they were on a break…for the epsteinth time.
Captain Boomerang was Boomerang, and that made him awesome enough not to need a leadership role, as far as he was concerned.
King Shark was an inhuman monster who came out the seas to feast on the flesh of man, and take highly unhygienic baths, his great strength and resilience were literally all he brought on the table.
Black Spider, the man who managed to win against Batman of all people, walked at the center of the formation, alert and silent as ever…but this time, everyone took him seriously.
George Harkness would gladly share a pint with the man, though he'd keep a boomerang nearby, you never knew with the self righteous types.
They reached the intensive care doors, and what they found was the Riddler leaning against a desk with that arrogant smirk on his face.
The one that said that he knew something you didn't, and you knew it was true.
Not fearful, despite knowing they were here for him, now that finding Waller's thumbdrive hidden in his fancy stick was a bust, nor was he hostile.
"A little bird told me you're interested in removing your explosive accessories," he said slowly despite KGBeast leveling his gunhand at him, his grin widening when the arm was lowered, "I, of course, would be glad to assist."
Boomerang glanced at the others. Frost's eyes narrowed. Black Spider brooded, and Quinn was masturbating her mallet, KGBeast only smiled, and he promptly did his best to forget that image.
"Fuck yeah," He said, and hoped really hard Waller wouldn't blow his head up.
. . .
The Clown Prince of Crime walked through the burning asylum with slow, deliberate steps. Flames painted his silhouette in shifting orange. A stolen pistol hung loosely from his fingers, as he twirled it lazily.
He stopped when a figure wavered into view.
A man, limping, bleeding. Bruises spread along jaw, and the rest of his body.
The unmasked Black Spider, though he didn't know that, since the man was left in his undies.
"Denzel? You are looking rough," He said something that would be considered a racist joke if it wasn't spoken by someone who harmed everyone equally.
He stared at Joker with empty, unfocused eyes.
"Batman… is Black Spider…" he managed. "They're getting… their brains… opened…"
He collapsed at Joker's feet.
The clown stood still for several seconds, expression unreadable.
Then a slow smile stretched across his face.
He understood.
And he liked the answer.
He turned away, and started skipping happily toward the intensive care unit, he was so happy he might sit down and get his brain flossed for a bit.
"Thank you, Denzel!" He of course didn't forget his manners.
Harley, however, forgot hers, and he might find the time to teach her a lesson when he and Batsie finished playing.
If he can, that is, the game he had in mind was positively explosive.
'You're gonna love it, Bats,' He laughed and laughed, oblivious and uncaring of boring things like logic, or why a naked man was snitching on the dark night.
This was Arkham, after all.
. . .
The group had barely taken two steps toward the ICU when a familiar voice rang out from behind them.
"Miss me?"
Joker stepped into view, smoke curling around him. His gaze swept over them with manic, predatory attention, and just a little bit of nonchalance.
He opened his hand and dropped a cluster of colorful pellets onto the ground.
They detonated in rapid succession, bright flashes, concussive force, disorienting noise.
The Squad scattered.
Killer Frost moved to the ICU.
KGBeast took aim, shouting over the ringing in his ears.
Harley froze, wide-eyed.
Boomerang scrambled for cover, then wised up and dragged Nigma toward their original destination; he wanted no parts in this, thank you very much.
Joker's focus locked onto Black Spider.
He lifted his gun.
"Hello, Bats." The clown smiled widely
Five shots were fired, and three reached their target.
Batman staggered but stayed conscious, armor absorbing the round.
The fight erupted instantly.
And in the chaos, one member broke away.
King Shark.
He was about to follow Killer Frost, until his nose caught a smell he couldn't ignore, he inhaled slowly, eyes dilating.
A scent reached him from somewhere deeper in the complex: rich, powerful, overwhelming. Blood like nothing else on the island, it was flowing and potent, delicious
His tongue reached out to lick his jaw, metal and all.
He changed direction, leaving the others behind as he followed the scent.
Bombs were scary, but food like this? It's a lot more important.