JLA Watchtower (Archive)

After night falls in Gotham, Bruce never really stops glancing at the sky for the haunting splay of his emblem across the gathering gloom. Once it appears, he finishes what he is doing, puts to one side anything else except vital emergencies, and appears at GCPD. The people who have aided, tolerated, suffered his presence all of these years deserve to know they can rely on their city's guardian.

Tonight is no different. Four minutes pass before he arrives on the roof of police headquarters, appearing in blackness like a wraith on a journey of vengeance.

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Guardian or worst nightmare? Every instinct says the "Batman" she encountered outside the funeral parlor was a fake. Years of detective work forces her to be cautious. Even the best of men can heed the call of evil.

She doesn't cross the stretch of roof between them. A safe distance at this point suits her right down to the ground.

"When was the last time you saw Rupert Thorne?"

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"Early November," comes the answer, couched in a growl. Thorne's not his friend.

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"We have him in lock-up. For murder." She pauses. "A murder that you witnessed."

Is she trying to gauge a response from a man wearing a mask standing in the dark? Maybe not the smartest move.

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The cowled stare narrows.

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She doesn't take her eyes off him. Instincts are God given for a reason. She uses them.

"Someone went to a lot of trouble to impersonate you. Did a half-way decent job of it too."

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"I need details." Demanding, harsh. While usually implying a temper just under control, tonight the Bat sounds coldly furious.

He does nothing to prove he is the genuine article. Montoya should know.

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Any lingering doubt seems to evaporate. This is the real deal. No platitudes. No compliments. Nothing unnecessary. She takes a few steps closer, her hands still shoved in her pockets.

"Individual dressed as you dropped in on one of Thorne's deals. Guns. Sent people runnin'. Saw one perp get his throat garroted by your look alike before being shot point blank by Thorne."

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The Batman stays where he is, inside the shadows, a deliberate thing. As usual. "When and where? I need everything, Detective."

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"Bronson Brothers Funeral Home. Four weeks ago." He'll no doubt recognize the 45th Street establishment for what it is. A known front.

"The tip off came by way of Sonia Alcana."

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Sonia Alcana. Another scowl. "I'll talk to her. There a report?"

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She removes her right hand from the outer pocket and goes fishing into an inner one. From it, she pulls a series of stapled papers. Is it standard procedure to carry around an extra copy of the crime scene report and interviews? Only in Gotham. And only when you make trips to the roof.

She crossed the remaining distance to hand it to him. "All I have."

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He collects the documents, secrets them under the cape, and asks, "Anything else?" in a way that indicates that the answer should be negative.

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"Well, there's always the solution to all your problems," another voice says, hovering on her glider.

Stormcrow has Batman, unconscious and bound, on one side.

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And he looks every bit the Batman.

Save for being bound and beaten.

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She's got that 'dear in the headlights' look. Two of them? She'd be reaching for her cuffs right now if he wasn't already gift wrapped.

"Got a name, cape?"

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If looks could kill, Stormcrow and her prey would have their entire family lines erased by the glare from the Dark Knight's cowled regard. Which of the two gets the colder of the stares isn't clear yet.

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The captive Bat stirs.

Once focused, his eyes quickly analyze his new surroundings.

Trained on the False Bat.

Bruce Wayne will likely recognize those eyes immediately... and know that his identity may be compromised.

"I am vengeance. I am the Dark Knight. I am the One True Batman."

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She believes him about as far as she can throw him. Which is to say not at all. The man has all too much to prove.

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"I've never seen the Batman use a gun," Stormcrow retorts. She hates guns. She notices these things. Vic -- Sensei -- used guns from time to time. But she's never seen Batman use one.

"So, let's Scooby-Doo this mystery, shall we?" She grabs the mask. "Old Man Smithers?!" She pulls.

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A hand closes over Stormcrow's wrist.

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She stops and looks at him. "You want to let this guy run around pretending to be you?"

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"I'll handle it," is the icy response.

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"I already have, Batman," she replies. But she also hasn't tried to unmask him yet.

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"Not in my city." Colder still, a low, angry growl.

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"I don't see a deed. You've done a lot of good for this city, but look at this man. He's so obsessed with you that he's trying to do your idea, but take it even further. Reminds me of some other people I know." Yeah, that's a look of apology in her eyes, but it's tempered with anger. "I caught him here in Gotham. If you want me to not unmask him, I want a reason better than, 'it's my city, and I'll get all pouty if you do something I don't like.'"

Please, she thinks, let me think there's a good man under there. Not just an emotionless coward afraid of others as much as others fear him.

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"Believe me," the captive pipes up, rolling to get to his knees, "he has more reason to protest your involvement than even I do."

A devilish grin spreads across his face.

"The reasoning is simple. The man under the mask fears the revelation of his true identity. He has... people to think about. His little caped children, the grim spectre of that poor little Spoiler. The domino effect would mean the end of their lives, and the end of his. It is fear. It is weakness."

Then, he tugs his own head out of the cowl that Stormcrow is holding, revealing himself to those who would know.

"Whereas I have no such weakness. NO such fear. The world may know the name of Professor Hugo Strange, but my mission would not suffer in the least. I would carry on, persevere, where you would die a coward's death. This is why I am the One True Batman, and you are nothing but a charlatan."

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Charlatan might be the last word Strange says for a while. It's hard to talk after the Batman's fist has found your teeth.

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Stormcrow doesn't stop him.

"You just don't get it, do you?" she demands of Strange. "You think the Batman is about violence and vengeance." She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. "More the fool, you."

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Blood drips out of his mouth, and his vision is instantly clouded.

"Mmmph... The Batfhhh"

It is hard to talk. But Hugo Strange is a professor - he will find a way.

"About justicshe... through violenche... vengeanche... but he lets them livfe... to haunt him forever... he relishes being haunted... would have no life if his job was ever complete..."

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Batman spares a glance, a single glance, at Stormcrow and then he resumes his stare at Strange. One last powerful, hate-laced punch follows.

The Kevlar symbol on the pseudo-Batman's chest cracks.

Then, in a swirl of cloak, the Batman turns to go.

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"So you think you know Batman's identity, huh?" She glances up at Batman, ready to leave. "You could tell me that he was Lex Luthor, Keanu Reeves, Bill Gates, or Joe Schmo. I wouldn't believe you, and even you could be believed... I wouldn't care, because I don't want to hurt him. So... what are you going to do with this information? Try to hold it over his head? To what end?" She snorts. "You tell anyone, and you lose the power you want to have over him. You give it away."

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That last punch hurts, and he falls back down onto the glider, before rolling off and crashing down onto the rooftop.

Pain.

Still, his head turns to watch the cowl retreat as he answers the interloper that's put a crimp in his plans.

"I will simply let the charlatan wonder when I will cease to care about having power over him."

Then... he's out cold.

Pain.

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She's watched the whole thing with a critical eye and an ear for detail. She has a hand on her sidearm but she isn't ready to rush in. There's still more to play out.

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"Get that thing to jail," the Dark Knight snaps from the darkness. "If Gotham wants to think you've caught the Batman....let them."

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Stormcrow smirks. "Be seeing you, Batman."

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His answer is flat and sounds something like a warning. "No. You won't."

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Guess that leaves her to clean up the mess. The unconscious lump on the roof might be bound but she sure as hell ain't taken no chances. She reaches for her cuffs.

What the hell just happened?

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