The Batwing scraped across the air like a whisper before descending into the yawning darkness of the Batcave. The landing gear touched down with a hiss of hydraulic steam. The canopy opened, revealing Bruce slumped in the pilot's seat, breathing hard, his suit torn and scorched, blood seeping through the Kevlar mesh.
Before he could collapse, Alfred was there, steadying him with practiced hands.
"Easy, Master Wayne," Alfred said, slipping an arm beneath Bruce's shoulder. "Let's get you to the med bay."
Bruce grunted but didn't resist. Each step sent flares of pain up his spine, down his ribs. He'd taken worse but not recently.
"He said… six more," Bruce rasped.
"Who did this?" Alfred asked, leading him through the stone corridor to the stark white lights of the medical chamber.
Bruce collapsed into the examination chair, already peeling off the top half of his suit. The armor hit the floor with a metallic thud. Purple-black bruises crawled across his chest and abdomen like ink stains.
Alfred's breath hitched.
"I've seen you in bad shape, sir," he said, grabbing the antiseptic and bandages. "But this… This looks like you were hit by a tank."
"Felt like it."
Alfred worked quickly, cleaning wounds, stitching where needed. "So, who was it this time?"
Bruce winced as disinfectant bit into torn flesh. "Omega Red. Russian mutant. Superhuman strength, carbonadium coils… and a vendetta."
"Delightful," Alfred said dryly.
Bruce reached into a hidden pouch in his damaged armor and pulled out a scorched data chip. "He said others were coming. Six of them. This was in one of his drones left it behind when I escaped."
He crossed to the Batcomputer, blood drying on his skin. The chip slid into a slot. Lights flickered. Code cascaded down the screen encrypted files unlocking one by one.
Alfred leaned in.
The first file opened: CROSSBONES.
A blurry image showed a man in tactical armor mowing through security during a riot at a Wakandan embassy with flames and bodies in his wake.
Real Name: Brock Rumlow.
Expertise: Urban warfare.
Psych Profile: Sadistic. Obedient. Destructive.
"Military background," Bruce muttered. "Close-quarters brute. He'll go for intimidation."
"He looks like someone who favors brutality over subtlety," Alfred said. "Treat him like a wrecking ball, and he'll swing himself into a wall."
Next file: DEADSHOT.
Footage showed a political figure crumpling on courthouse steps. One shot. Through the glasses.
Real Name: Floyd Lawton.
Skills: Sniper. Marksman. Near-perfect record.
Psych Profile: Calculated. Detached. Suicidal tendencies.
"Guns don't miss," Bruce said, watching the slow-motion playback. "But I don't stand still."
"Keep moving," Alfred agreed. "He can't shoot what he can't predict."
The third: DEATHSTROKE.
Still frame: Slade Wilson, sword drawn, standing over the broken body of a mutant. Smoke and blood in the background.
Real Name: Slade Wilson.
Attributes: Enhanced physiology. Tactical genius.
Psych Profile: Professional. Ruthless. Veteran.
Bruce's jaw tensed. "He'll be the real fight."
"Bring every trick you have," Alfred said softly. "And pray it's enough."
Next file: TASKMASTER.
Footage showed the masked figure seamlessly mimicking Spider-Man's flips, then mid-fight switching to Captain America's fighting style.
Real Name: Unknown.
Abilities: Photographic reflexes.
Psych Profile: Mercenary. Amoral. Strategic mimicry.
"He'll adapt," Bruce said. "I'll have to be unpredictable."
"Unleash the chaotic side of your mind," Alfred said. "The part even you don't understand."
Then: DOMINO
Footage redacted jagged, glitched frames of a GCPD SWAT team falling in seven seconds. A cloaked blur tore through them like wind through paper. then a woman with pale skin and a mark on her eye shoots the camera
Real Name: Classified.
Attributes: Mutant with extreme luck.
Psych Profile: Dangerous. Ruthless.
"Still a ghost," Bruce whispered.
"I suggest explosives," Alfred said grimly. "From a distance."
Then the final file loaded.
ELEKTRA.
A portrait photo flickered onscreen of Elektra Natchios. Red scarf, cold eyes. A killer's calm.
Master assassin.
Psych Profile: Enigmatic. Loyal to no one.
Bruce froze.
"…Elektra."
Silence. Just the hum of cave machinery.
He remembered her voice. Her philosophy of war. The way she told him, once, "Control your darkness, or it will consume you."
Why would she come for him?
His voice was hollow. "She's not doing this for money. She's testing me."
From behind him, Alfred spoke gently.
"Or reminding you what it means to be hunted, Master Wayne."
Bruce didn't turn.
"She may still care," he murmured.
"She may," Alfred said, stepping beside him. "But that won't stop her from driving a blade through your ribs if she thinks you've grown soft."
Bruce nodded, still staring at the screen.
"Crossbones is a brawler," Alfred said. "Treat him like a blunt instrument and make him miss."
"Deadshot?"
"Keep dodging. Stay erratic."
"Deathstroke."
Alfred sighed. "A war of attrition. Wear him down. Or trap him."
"Taskmaster?"
"Make it up as you go. Use what he can't predict."
"Domanio."
"Pray you see her coming. And then use firepower."
They stared at Elektra's file for a moment longer.
"And her?"
Alfred looked away. "Don't underestimate the ones who know you best, sir. Especially those who taught you how to disappear."
Bruce stood, bones groaning.
"Whoever sent that drone was connected to Falcone. Embedded tech. Trace signature matches his private security."
Alfred's brow rose. "He's still holding court?"
"Penthouse tonight," Bruce said. "Hosting someone. I'm going."
Alfred hesitated. "Is that wise? You're not at full strength, and they're circling like vultures."
Bruce's voice darkened. "If I don't move, innocent people will die. That's the cost. And I've already lost too many."
He turned to the suit rack.
Alfred watched him climb into the armor again with his flesh still fresh with bruises.
As the Batwing roared to life once more, Alfred looked up at the old family portrait on the cave wall with Thomas, Martha, and a young Bruce frozen in time.
Softly, almost inaudibly, he whispered: "It wasn't your fault. You were just a child."
Penthouse Rooftop – Midnight
Batman crouched atop the adjacent high-rise, cape fluttering in the wind, rain misting the edge of his cowl. Across the street, Falcone's penthouse pulsed with warm light. Through the lenses of his cowl, detective mode engaged with outlines and weapon signatures flared red.
Twelve armed guards.
Falcone sat near the fireplace, drink in hand, laughing at something invisible.
Batman pulled a small drone from his utility belt. It took flight, skimming the perimeter. Open skylights. Narrow walkways. Limited field of vision from the guards.
He mapped it all.
Then moved.
The first thug didn't hear the skylight shatter.
He only saw a shape drop from the ceiling too fast before armored boots crushed into his chest. Body armor cracked. Bone beneath it snapped. The man went down.
Twelve.
Batman surged forward through smoke and shadow. A pellet burst filling the hall with thick fog. Muffled shouts. Guns rising too late.
Eleven.
He shoulder-checked a man into the wall, snatching the falling shotgun. He turned it and threw it catching another guard in the gut.
Ten. Nine.
Two men charged. One yelled. Batman didn't.
He ducked beneath a punch, drove an elbow into the attacker's throat, and flipped the other over his shoulder. Skull met marble. Crack.
Eight. Seven.
A thug fired blindly. Batman caught the man's wrist mid-burst, twisted until bone shattered. The gun dropped. Screams followed.
One tried to run.
Six.
He didn't make it. A tripwire buzzed, and a taser dart hit his spine. He dropped, twitching.
Five. Four. Three.
Batman charged picking up a bat from the ground. He wielded it like lightning by shattering ribs, cracking knees. A man flew across a couch. Another hit the floor with a groan.
Two.
The last tried to beg. Batman silenced him by slamming him into the bar, breaking three liquor bottles across his back.
Then grabbed the final man by the collar.
One.
"You picked the wrong side," Batman growled, voice like granite.
He hurled the thug into Falcone's private office.
CRASH!
Wood exploded. Doors flew off their hinges. Falcone spilled his scotch, eyes wide.
Batman stepped into the room, cape soaked, eyes glowing white.
Falcone went for his gun.
A batarang flew first slammed into his hand. Metal pierced flesh. The gun clattered.
Falcone screamed.
Batman charged.
The desk shattered beneath them. Falcone was flung across the room into a bookshelf. Books collapsed on his crumpled frame.
Then Batman hauled him up again and slammed him into the wall.
"What is Black Mask planning?" he barked.
Falcone gasped, bloodied and dazed. "I—I don't know! He's building something! An army he's been grabbing people off the street!"
"Who's supplying him?"
Falcone whimpered. "K-Klaw. That's his name. Some new arms dealer with vibranium tech, off the grid—"
Batman barely had time to react.
Crack!
Falcone's skull snapped back as a bullet punched through it.
He crumpled.
Dead.
Batman turned as two rounds struck his chest pinging off the armor, but the impact still drove him back.
He dropped into cover.
Then he saw him.
Outside, across the rooftop perched like a phantom in blood-red armor, rifle barrel smoking, white mask unmoving.
Deadshot.
Batman hissed between his teeth.
"This just got worse."
(A.N: I put a vote for the love interest in the Bio)