I barely made it two minutes off campus before I ran straight into him. Tim Drake.
And I just… bumped into him like some rookie tourist.
My heart hammered like a bad drum solo as I replayed the moment over and over in my head. Did I give off that "I'm freaking out inside but trying not to look like a total idiot" vibe? Because I'm pretty sure I did.
He was holding a coffee, skateboarding casually like it was no big deal, but my brain was screaming THIS IS TIM DR**. My fingers itched to reach for something, just to be like oh shit, this happening.
What was I even supposed to say? "Hey, nice skateboard. Also, you're one of Gotham's most wanted vigilantes, and I definitely know your secret, but let's pretend I don't?"
Nope. Just nodded and tried to play it cool, though I'm pretty sure my eyes were doing the opposite—checking him out, measuring him up, like some dumb fanboy with a weird sixth sense.
I'm not new to hiding things, but this was a whole new level. Meeting one of the "Bats" so soon wasn't in the plan. Not that I had much of a plan.
Watching him skate away down the street was an experience. I hope that I've not put myself on some weird bat radar before I'd even figured out how to use my new body fully, let alone the so-called magic I now had.
I shook my head, trying to clear the buzz in my brain. Okay, Caspian, you're here now. You've got to figure this out fast. No more gawking at Gotham's famous vigilantes like a lost kid.
I didn't have much on my schedule besides getting ready for next week's classes and getting used to this place, but after that run-in with Tim, I needed to shake off the nerves. So I decided to explore.
The city sprawled out around me, a messy tangle of brick, concrete, and neon that somehow felt alive. Gotham was loud, gritty, but underneath it all, there was a pulse. A rhythm that tugged at something inside me, like it was daring me to keep up.
I wandered down side streets, away from the polished campus, hunting for a place that felt less like a costume store and more like me.
The old thrift shops caught my eye first. Dusty racks of clothes in faded colours, some with weird patches or patterns. Nothing fancy, but real. I rifled through shirts, jackets, hoodies — anything that looked like it might fit better than the generic hoodie and jeans combo I'd dragged here from wherever the previous me had been living.
A black leather jacket caught my attention. Classic, a little beaten up, but with a shape that felt right. Tried it on. The fit was almost perfect, snug in the shoulders, loose enough at the waist. I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror, and for the first time since waking up in this body, I saw something that didn't feel borrowed.
I grabbed a couple of shirts, a pair of worn jeans, and some boots that looked sturdy enough for whatever this city wanted to throw at me.
Paid in cash, avoiding piles of money sitting in a bank account from parents I had never met. Honestly, I didn't want to think about the trail I might leave behind. If I were on the bat's radar, now I had to be careful about things.
Outside, the air was colder now, biting at my skin. But the jacket wrapped around me like a shield, a small piece of armour I'd chosen myself.
I took a deep breath and shoved my hands in my pockets. Gotham was still overwhelming, but hunger gnawed at me too loudly to ignore. I figured I might as well find somewhere to grab lunch and maybe catch some updates.
A few blocks down, I spotted a small diner squeezed between a comic book shop and a run-down laundromat. Neon lights buzzed faintly over the door—Joe's Diner. It wasn't fancy, but it had that gritty Gotham charm, which somehow made it feel more like home.
I pushed inside, the bell jingling overhead. The smell of frying bacon and coffee hit me immediately. A handful of customers sat scattered around, all eyes glued to the small TV mounted in the corner. The morning news was running a loop on the Arkham breakout.
I slid into a booth near the window and ordered a burger and fries. The waitress nodded without much cheer, her eyes flicking nervously to the TV.
From the booth next to me, I caught snatches of conversation:
"…escaped during the early morning shift change…"
"…GCPD is urging everyone to stay inside…"
"…some of the inmates are considered extremely dangerous…"
The tension in the air was thick, heavy with the kind of fear that doesn't need to be spoken outright—it seeped into everything.
I sipped my coffee, eyes drifting back to the screen where the anchor repeated the same warnings. The city's usual edge felt sharper today, like the shadows themselves were holding their breath.
My burger arrived just as the news anchor's voice dipped into another urgent warning. I picked it up, the warmth of the bun a small comfort against the cold buzz running through my veins.
Just as I took my first bite, a sudden roar cut through the usual diner hum—the unmistakable wail of police sirens. I glanced up and out the window.
A line of squad cars screeched to a halt down the street, lights flashing red and blue, casting frantic shadows across the cracked pavement. Officers spilt out, some pulling on gear, others setting up barricades and redirecting traffic.
The chatter inside the diner shifted instantly. Phones came out. People whispered, eyes flicking nervously between the growing police presence and the TV.
One guy near the counter muttered, "They're closing off this whole block. Must've spotted one of those Arkham freaks."
I swallowed my bite, heart thudding. The tension wasn't just on the screen anymore — it was right outside, creeping closer.
I barely had time to finish chewing before a sharp crack echoed through the street—a sudden, harsh sound that wasn't sirens or engines. I jerked my head toward the building directly across from the diner.
The glass storefront was shattered, jagged shards scattered across the sidewalk like broken promises. The evening light caught on the edges, sparkling almost eerily. A few people on the street froze, eyes wide.
Then I heard it—the urgent, clipped shouts of police officers, their voices cutting through the tense hum of the crowd.
"Hostage situation!" one barked.
"Everyone, stay back! Clear the area!" another commanded.
Inside the diner, the chatter died down to a heavy silence. Plates scraped quietly against tables, but no one moved.
Through the cracked glass of the storefront, I caught a glimpse of a bulky figure, clad in a thick, armoured suit with glowing blue accents—a cold, mechanical exoskeleton that made him look more machine than man. The unmistakable chill radiated from him even at a distance.
"Mr. Freeze," someone muttered nearby. The name hung heavy in the air.
The shop was a small medical supply store—barely more than a corner unit, but vital in a city like Gotham. I could see the terrified worker inside, a middle-aged woman clutching her coat like a lifeline. She was the only one left who knew the combination to the storage room, and Mr. Freeze wasn't having it.
"Open the door," I heard him say in a voice as cold and hard as the suit he wore. "Now."
The woman shook her head, tears tracing frozen paths down her cheeks. Somewhere behind the chaos, the police negotiators were trying to calm the situation, but it was clear the tension was about to snap.
The name Victor Fries floated up in my memory, pulled from a jumble of comics and whispered rumours I'd read back when I thought Gotham was just a story.
Victor Fries was a brilliant cryogenicist — a man who fell so hard into obsession and heartbreak that he'd frozen more than just time. He'd been experimenting to save his wife, Nora, trapped in a state between life and death. Somewhere along the way, the science had cracked his mind, turning him into Mr. Freeze, a rogue wrapped in cold vengeance and frozen sorrow.
He wasn't just dangerous because of the weapons built into that suit. He was dangerous because of the pain he carried — the kind that made him snap and hurt anyone who got in his way.
I glanced back toward the store, watching the icy tendrils of his breath mist in the air, the faint blue glow pulsing with every tense moment.
If negotiations failed, things were going to get ugly. And fast.
The woman inside was more than a hostage. She was a key to whatever he was trying to do next — probably that storage room, where God only knew what kind of tech or chemicals were locked away.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, feeling the weight settle heavier in my gut.
Out of the corner of my vision, I checked what was available on my character sheet, as much as I wanted to help, though, I know I wasn't a hero, and there's a chance my interference would just make things worse. Not that there was much I could do, I barely knew how the abilities I had worked with in real life, and I hadn't tested them yet. I was forced to watch the situation behind the glass of the diner window.
So I sat back against the cold glass of the diner window, forced to watch the icy tendrils of Mr. Freeze's breath swirl in the air outside, the tension thick enough to choke on.
The police shouted orders, their voices sharp, desperate.
Trying to keep the situation under control. But the way Mr. Freeze moved — methodical, cold, almost eerily calm — told me this wasn't going to end without a fight.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement — sleek, purposeful — cutting through the crowd of officers like a shadow in daylight. A figure dressed in dark tactical gear, moving with practised precision. One of the "Bats," on a rare daytime shift.
Signal was there as well, dropping from a nearby building in white and yellow. He didn't waste time with words; instead immediately briefed the lead officer with rapid gestures and quiet commands. The officers adjusted their positions, giving the figure space to work.
From my seat, I could see him nodding toward the frozen villain, calculating his moves like a chess master.
Close behind him was Cassandra Cain — Black Bat — her movements silent and calculated, every step deliberate. Even in broad daylight, she seemed like a shadow slipping through the chaos, eyes flicking between the frozen villain and the hostage with razor focus.
They exchanged quick words with the lead officer, and I caught the subtle tension in their stances, ready to spring into action. It was clear they were coordinating an approach to try and diffuse the situation without anyone getting hurt, but knowing Gotham, that was easier said than done.
From my seat, my heart hammered. Seeing these two in action was surreal. They were legends, but here they were—real people, moving with a calm precision that made the chaos around them seem almost manageable.
Signal raised a hand, signalling the officers to hold back as Black Bat slipped forward, her footsteps so light they barely made a sound on the pavement. She approached the front door of the medical supply shop, eyes locked on the shattered glass and the figure inside.
With a quick nod from Signal, she moved in through the broken entrance, disappearing inside like a shadow.
Seconds felt like minutes as I watched through the diner window. Then, Black Bat reappeared, motioning toward the hostage—a woman, trembling but unharmed.
Signal moved forward immediately, speaking calmly into a comm in his ear while the officers secured the perimeter. Black Bat stayed close, her gaze never leaving the shop's interior, ensuring no other threats remained.
The hostage was quickly escorted out and into the arms of waiting paramedics. Signal stayed behind just long enough to make sure the situation was completely under control before turning back to the street.
The entire crisis had resolved cleanly, almost too smoothly. No shots fired, no injuries—just quick, professional teamwork. But we didn't know what took place inside the shop.
The crowd inside the diner, including me, exhaled collectively.
---
Scrolling down through the notifications, I had been ignoring them while watching what was happening. Across the street.
@GothamNetOfficial🚨BREAKING: Hostage situation at MedPro Supplies on East 12th St. resolved peacefully by Gotham's own Black Bat and Signal. No injuries reported. Police remain on the scene for investigation. #GothamSafety #HeroWatch
@CityWatcher23Wow, Black Bat and Signal handled that like pros. Makes me feel a little safer walking these streets. #Respect #GothamHeroes
@FedUpWithCrimeHostage crisis again? When will Gotham get a real grip on this? Sure, the Bats showed up, but shouldn't the cops be able to handle this? #BrokenSystem
@CoffeeLover89Sat in a diner right across the street and watched it all go down. Crazy to see those two work so fast and quietly. Gotham's lucky to have them. #GothamLife
@SkepticSueHeroes or not, this mess is a sign Gotham needs more than masked vigilantes. We need better social programs, not just quick fixes. #ThinkBigger
@TimelessGothamRemember when this was just a quiet city? These situations are getting more frequent. Props to Black Bat & Signal, but the city needs a new plan. #GothamProblems
@CasualObserverThankfully, no one got hurt. Seeing those two in action was like watching a live drama show. #GothamVigilantes
The city's voice was a mix—relief, awe, frustration, and hope all tangled up in one noisy thread.