The winter chill in New York had not lifted, and neither had the tension in the news. Batman sat at his workstation, cape folded across the back of the chair, eyes fixed on a muted television screen. Headlines scrolled: "Tony Stark Still Missing in Afghanistan – Military Confirms Ambush".
For weeks, the world speculated. Some said Stark was dead. Others whispered that terrorists held him. Batman watched in silence, his gloved fingers tapping against the desk. He had no data, no leads, and no way to act on the other side of the world. With his current resources, he was a shadow tied to New York's streets. Afghanistan was beyond his reach. For now, he left it to the army, but he watched every broadcast, filing away information, noting every inconsistency.
By day, Nate Cross focused on his business. CrossTech Solutions had gained credibility with its protective gear, but he knew true expansion required innovation. The answer came in the form of compact high-power batteries. For weeks, Nate lived between the lab bench in his warehouse and the drafting table in his apartment, experimenting with layered energy cells, thermal regulation, and density compression.
The prototypes were promising: batteries no bigger than a coin, yet capable of powering small industrial tools for hours without overheating. Emergency services tested them in drills, firefighters ran equipment longer with lighter packs, and engineers marveled at the stability.
A lieutenant from the FDNY shook Nate's hand during a demo:
FDNY Lieutenant: "If this scales like you claim, Cross, you're not just saving us money, you're saving lives."
Orders followed. First small contracts, then larger ones. Utility companies, hospitals, even private tech firms requested samples. CrossTech's bank accounts swelled, the revenue quietly diverted into something only Batman knew about.
The warehouse could no longer contain his ambitions. Batman had been mapping the foundations beneath the property for months. Old schematics revealed a forgotten access shaft from the Prohibition era. With his engineering skill and new resources, he converted it into something more.
Hidden lifts descended from the warehouse floor into reinforced chambers below. Steel beams braced concrete walls, dampeners killed sound, and multiple false panels disguised every entrance. The apartment, the warehouse, and the underground complex now worked as one.
The Bat-database was relocated into the heart of the base. Screens lined the walls, each linked to custom servers humming with encrypted data. Crime maps, dossiers, financial trails, and recorded chatter filled the monitors. Everything Batman learned from patrols and surveillance now had a central command hub.
He stood in the dim light, cape brushing the ground, and allowed himself a brief pause. It wasn't Gotham's Batcave. But it was a beginning, New York's own shadow fortress.
With the base secure, Batman turned his attention to mobility. He could no longer accept the limits of his grappling gun and rooftops. He needed speed. He needed pursuit.
The first Batmobile prototype took form on a steel platform. Unlike the military tank of Gotham, this was sleek, low, and aerodynamic. A dark predator built for speed rather than heavy combat. Its engine purred with custom compact batteries, its chassis reinforced with lightweight composites. Stylish, fast, able to outrun and outmaneuver, this was not yet the final Batmobile, but it was ready. Ready to hunt.
Beside it stood the beginnings of another project: the Batjet. Its frame was skeletal, the cockpit half-fitted, propulsion arrays in pieces. For now, it was a vision in progress, but one Batman intended to see through. A craft that could take him beyond the city, beyond borders, when the time came.
He ran a hand over the sleek lines of the Batmobile, imagining the roar of its engine across the night. Gotham had needed tanks. New York needed a ghost with wings of steel.
Despite his projects, Batman did not abandon the streets. Brooklyn still simmered with petty thefts and drug exchanges, while Hell's Kitchen teetered between open gang war and uneasy truces.
Every night, the Batmobile carried him faster, farther. Thieves in stolen cars found themselves rammed off the road before being left bound for police. Drug runners discovered that no alley was deep enough, no route fast enough to escape the engine's growl behind them. The underworld's whispers grew louder, he wasn't just on rooftops anymore. He was everywhere.
Before others began watching, Batman had already widened his war beyond the gangs. His Bat-database filled with names of officers whose bank accounts spiked far above their salaries, who always happened to be on duty when raids failed or shipments disappeared. He stalked them from the rooftops, confirming back alley exchanges of cash, recording conversations where dirty cops tipped off smugglers. The more he uncovered, the clearer the rot became.
He assembled the evidence into airtight packages: dossiers of transactions, audio clips, surveillance notes. Then he released it, never in person, always through shadows. A plain envelope slipped into an Internal Affairs drop box. A USB drive left in a sealed packet on Marcus Cross's desk. No fingerprints, no trace. Only truth sharpened into a weapon.
The precinct buzzed when the files landed. Officers whispered in corners about who could have gathered such precise intel. Marcus read through the documents late one evening, jaw tight, a colleague glancing over his shoulder.
Colleague: "This isn't rumor, Marcus. It's solid. Whoever gave us this wants the rot gone."
Marcus: "Then we use it. I don't care if it's a ghost doing our job. If it's real, we clean house."
The investigation swept quickly. Several officers were suspended, two arrested. None could deny the evidence. Marcus never asked aloud where it came from, but he felt eyes on him in the night.
From a distant rooftop, Batman watched his father read the files under the glow of a desk lamp. No pride, no relief crossed his face. Only certainty. The system might be flawed, but with the right pressure, it could still be forced to act.
He returned to his base, adding a final line to the case file: "Corruption spreads slower when exposed to light."
But others were watching too. S.H.I.E.L.D. analysts began flagging unusual reports from New York precincts. Dozens of arrests delivered anonymously, patterns of gangs disrupted with surgical precision, rumors of a masked figure in black haunting the night.
A junior agent presented the file to his superior:
Agent: "Sir, locals call him a bat. No photos, no clear footage. Just broken men and captured shipments."
Supervisor: "Track it. If there's a vigilante operating in New York, we need to know who he is."
For weeks they tried. Surveillance, informants, satellite sweeps. But every trail went cold. Every camera found only shadow. Batman was a ghost even to them. This one needs attention from the High Level Agents.
One evening, after patrol, Batman sat in the base, armor set aside, watching the news feed. The screen flickered to a press conference. A gaunt Tony Stark, fresh from Afghanistan, stood before microphones. Reporters shouted questions until Stark raised a hand for silence.
His voice carried, steady but resolute:
Tony Stark: "I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability. Effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries."
The room erupted in chaos. Reporters shouted, stock tickers rolled, the world shifted. Batman narrowed his eyes at the screen. Stark was reshaping global power in one stroke. And in the shadows of New York, Batman had finished forging his own foundation.
Two men, different paths, each rewriting the world in their own way. And soon, those paths would cross.