The alarm on his phone buzzed just as the first pale light grazed the alley behind Grandma Simone's building. Sixteen‑year‑old Killian "Mako" Brown pushed himself upright, muscles still stiff from last night's session. Micah's soft breathing drifted upward—from their single bedroom where his brother thumbed through a science magazine. Killian kissed him lightly and slipped out, lacing up his worn sneakers.
At school he drifted through lectures as a ghost. In minutes, he'd solve systems that probably took other students hours. His 180 IQ and eidetic memory stood out—but his mind was anchored in other things. The tuition grant he applied for, Grandma's doctor visit next week, enough food in the pantry. Between periods, he sketched rap lyrics on his notes: gritty bars about corruption, gang wars, Gotham's lifeblood clogging in gutters.
Afternoon found him in grease‑smeared overalls at Rivertown Motors, a small community-run garage. He popped loose a BMW's timing belt, worn teeth and stretched beyond saving, and threw it away. During a lull, he rehearsed bars again:
"Concrete veins run red tonight / greed eats the margins where the cold streets bite…"
He recorded an audio clip, doubled it as a beat with the whine of pneumatic wrenches. Owner Hector Reyes glanced over and gave a nod—Killian's pay half went to food and rent, the rest quietly funneled into local youth programs he helped organize.
In the nearby gym basement, Mako trained. Poncho the trainer lined up drills:
Boxing combos: jab–cross–hook, slip right—hit through the guard.
Muay Thai: elbows, low kicks and clinch knees into pads ruthlessly.
Judo and wrestling: double-leg takedowns and hip throws into the mat.
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu: leg locks and joint manipulations.
Cardio and conditioning: lots and lots of running, with weights, in a stance, on the toes ,etc...
Silent drills: thick mats, dim lights—he practiced stalking like a shadow, ninjutsu-style, learning quiet footfall and minimal noise.
He sweat and cursed, letting the pressure refine body and mind.
Night came, and Gotham's crooked heart throbbed in darkness. Mako slipped on his suit—black with subtle shark-scale plating, slender and silent. His utility wrist module buzzed softly: small cyalume light, bolas launcher in hidden flange, a micro taser coil.
He scaled the rooftops to meet the Batman signal—a slashed bat silhouette glowing over Arkham's water towers. When he arrived, Batman was already perched, cape flowing, silhouette harsh against flickering neon.
Batman: "We got a Triad‑Russian meet below. Four armed enforcers. I go in left, you go in right."
Mako (nods): "Aye, Captain."
They dropped—Batman via grapple line, Mako from adjacent rooftop shimmy. Light curved through the air as they landed.
Inside the abandoned warehouse, masked thugs traded crates under a bare bulb. Batman's voice rasped into Mako's earpiece: "Three by the door, one guarding back."
Batman shot out a flash pellet—bright and deafening. Mako used the chaos, firing bolas to trip two of them: the heavy cords wrapped ankles then constricted limbs with jolting electric pulses from his glove, sending two crashing unconscious.
The other two turned—Mako surged forward with a right jab turning into a low sweep. A double-leg entry into a hip throw dropped one onto dirty concrete floor; Batman followed with an Escrima baton strike to the shoulder, joint dislocation. The final thug drew a knife; before he could slash, Batman shot a micro-taser from his gauntlet, twin-prongs drilling into his chest—muscle seized, body collapsed.
They moved in tandem—Batman flowing through disarms, throws, trapping, strikes; Mako mirrored, delivering hooks, knees, heel kicks to incapacitate rather than kill—but in street‑fight reality, bones snapped, consciousness fled fast.
When the last thug hit the ground, unconscious and dribbling blood, Batman gripped the man nearest to the exit and tied him with handcuffs; Mako strapped cuffs on the others.
Batman's voice cut through the smoke: "Status."
Mako exhaled: "All good here. Moving on to Info gathering."
Back on the roof, they watched lights flash on the street. Batman handed over the evidence—smuggled crates of weapons, shipping manifests, phones, call logs. Mako dropped to one knee.
Batman: "You improved tonight. Less reckless, more precise."
Mako: "I told you I'd be better . I'm a man of my word. And I get where you're coming from... Sorry for the shouting match last time. I just really hate Victor Zsasz"
The Dark Knight nodded once, then melted into the rooftops.
Mako slipped home under cover of night. He removed his suit carefully and hid it in the utility drawer. Upstairs, he found Grandma Simone sipping tea at the table, Micah asleep in his room. Killian kissed his grandmother on the cheek.
"Late study group?" she asked softly.
He smiled: "Just working on a project."
She studied his face, concern lines etched deep, but said nothing more.
He sat down to help Micah with physics homework. Micah's struggle melted away as Killian explained step-by-step, guiding the boy's hands through exercises on movement: Linear translation, circular rotation. As motivation, he'd promised to teach him how to tune an ECU over the weekend.
After dinner, he packed a duffle bag: hot meal packs, hoodies, repair vouchers, art magazines. Walking through Crime Alley, he placed them on stoops of battered buildings—anonymous help. No thanks needed.
Later, he crouched under a streetlamp and recorded a short video: hood and mask up, voice firm:
"Concrete kings on the throne, thieves in tailored coats
Meanwhile we hustle in the gutter, survival's all we vote
Mako spits from Gotham's belly—truth soaked in tears
In a city ruled by masks and power, we survive by facing fears"
He posted it encrypted—no face revealed, but the tone unmistakable.
At last he collapsed into bed. He dreamt of streets swirling with neon and corruption, of bones breaking. Tomorrow he'd walk the school halls again—quiet genius by day, masked guardian by night. Fueled by honor, strength, compassion.