(Edited with Grammarly on 1/29/2026)
Massive beams of light reflected off the far-off mega-structures, massive pillars of glass ostentatious enough to be seen from all around that island called home. Symbols of wealth and power, not built up in just one normal human's lifespan, but a collaborative project from generations of backroom deals, careful networking, and a voracious hunger.
'Hard work too.'
Albert begrudgingly admitted, swallowing back that foul-tasting bile that welled up from the back of his throat. It was a bitter thing to admit, but he had to give those elites some credit; most of the actual movers and shakers worked on a constant shift. Hopping from plane to plane, site to site, still living a life more glamorous than he ever could, but always stuck in work mode. To them, twenty-four hours was not enough time in a day, and life was simply too short for them to get everything they needed to do before inevitably kicking the bucket.
And if he was being charitable...maybe it did take some self-restraint not to just burn through a massive fortune in one generation.
'Nah.' He shook his head at that, slightly slowing down his pace as something warm and soft weaved itself between his legs. A black blur dashed out in front of him, yellow eyes looking back at him in annoyance as if he was the one getting in their way before the feline turned and darted into yet another alley mouth.
The look barely even earned more than a passing glance before he continued with his morning jog, feet slapping against the pavement in a steady rhythm. Inhaling smoothly through his nose and exhaling in a steady current from his mouth, trying to resist the urge to just gulp down air greedily. So far, avoiding that automatic response was working out quite well. Feeling damp clothes stick occasionally to his sides and back, feeling as drops dripped down from his forehead, he could tell his pace wasn't going to last much longer.
Today was just going to be a light day, just a light morning jog to help his mind clear out some extra room and think over some of the past events.
Specifically, he was thinking over his next steps.
'What do I actually know?'
He knew that Jacqueline had been kidnapped off school grounds by what sounded like two men half a year ago. He also knew it was less likely that the principal was working with these kidnappers, due to them initially targeting his daughter, but he could still be considered complicit with one of his students being spirited away. But was that truly it?
'Yes.'
The teen gritted his teeth in frustration, picking up his pace once more. That was yet another sour note to this case. Sure, he had something that could be considered a description for the vehicle in question, but this was a massively populated city. A city that routinely dealt with heavy traffic. Even if Candice's description could be fully relied on, there were probably thousands of cars that were of the same make and model. And that was if these kidnappers were even Gotham residents! What if they were just passing through town and saw an opportunity? Just moving this from a city-wide search to a state-wide hunt would be an undertaking he wouldn't be able to handle by himself.
'She has to be in the city.'
It was more of a prayer than anything else, a mantra he used to try to manifest out into the universe. He would have to hope the small drawing he'd gotten the girl to give him was enough.
Turning the corner, his eyes barely glanced in the direction of a familiar sleek, black vehicle with glass so tinted it made it impossible for him to see anything but two figures inside, before his feet were already pulling him in that general direction. As if waiting for him, the door popped open, revealing a dark and rather ominous-looking interior.
"Get in."
Albert didn't need to be asked twice, and after one more glance down the empty streets, he slid into the seat. Slamming the door behind him, the first thing that hit him was the sudden blast of warmth from all fronts. From the cushion itself, he could feel heat soothing his frigid skin, instantly beginning to soothe his sore muscles. Making him sink deeper into the seat without even a second thought. He honestly would've thought he might've been able to fall asleep right then if not for the severely looking woman directly next to him giving him a nonverbal third degree.
"Good morning, you two." A pair of dark brown eyes flicked up towards him through the rear-view mirror for just a split second at his greeting before they darted back to the road. It made him want to sigh, but he wouldn't let that bother him. Willow was an adult, and she would come around or she wouldn't. He knew she felt guilty, believing herself to be responsible for his...little accident, but really, she couldn't have known that thing was cursed.
"Morning." The woman beside him replied, and just like always, he couldn't directly point out any exact features about her. He knew she was short and slender, but everything else, like facial features or eye colors, just went through his eyes, slipped past his brain before being uniformly kicked out of his consciousness without even giving him enough time to process the information. Despite that, whatever spell she was under didn't seem to affect her expressions. She could scowl with the best and then more. And right now, Madame Clements looked a mighty bit skeptical. "I didn't take you for the type of crazy to be jogging at the ass-crack of dawn."
"It's new." He needed to get his jog in somehow, and the earlier it happened, the sooner he could cross it off his mental checklist. It wasn't like he enjoyed getting up this early, nor did he particularly derive some sort of sick joy from the exercise that Harley seemed to get. "Just trying to keep in shape."
"Whatever floats your boat." It seemed she was done with further prodding and instead leaned back in the heated seat. "As good as it is to catch up, what do you want? I would be very pissed if you dragged me out of bed just to gloat about your workout regimen."
"No, no." He shook his head fervently. As helpful as Madame Clements might've been thus far, he knew the nature of their relationship. It was purely business for both of them, and he wouldn't tarnish that status quo for something so petty or inconsequential. Nor was he all too desperate for attention or validation to call an obvious night owl out so early. "This is serious...I need a favor."
"Oh?" The Madame sat a bit straighter, lifting a single questioning brow. "Then you must know how this works, right? You scratch my back, I scratch yours...and lately you haven't been upholding your end."
"I'm ready to change that." He needed to get back into the swing of things eventually, especially if he didn't want to continue burning through his savings as he was currently. "I'm willing to do more readings a week to make up for whatever I missed."
"You've missed a few weeks," She tapped her lips in thought. "Let's say you do five this week, and we'll call it even. You're not a full newbie anymore; it's been long enough since you've Ignited, so it shouldn't affect your core much."
"Two and I can stretch it out to another reading, making it twice a week for three weeks."
Yeah, there was no way he was going to admit to a deal like hers. He didn't really understand how quickly Ignited could recover after using their Spark, but if working in corporate America for over a decade taught him anything, it was to never, ever overshare on exactly how quickly he really got work done. Never the first person, while avoiding being the slowest. Those who worked efficiently often got more responsibilities piled onto them with only an empty promise of a raise that would be quickly forgotten without barely a blink. While being the last often meant one normally earned a spot on the list of people to be cut at the very end of the following quarter, just to boost their numbers enough to get them over that final hurdle.
If he were to agree to five in one week now, that would set an awful precedent in the future. Where would it stop? Once it's shown that he could handle all, then what about seven? Or fourteen? What if he could do two in one day? Three? Until eventually it got to the point of just seeing how many he could do before leaking brain matter out of his nose.
As if Madame Clements could read his rebuttal as easily as he could see through thin tissue paper, she barely gave a nod before snorting.
"Fine, have it your way." The woman looked at him with something resembling respect and continued. "You've made me plenty of money already and saved me equally as much, so I'll be nice this time around. We'll just consider it vacation time and move on. But to be honest, I didn't think I could even get my hands on five significant items anyway."
"Why not? I kinda figured you had a massive stockpile somewhere out there?"
She just seemed like the type, possessing warehouses full of possible antiques just collecting dust somewhere. Stacked high into the ceiling with around-the-clock guards patrolling to make sure no opportunists try their hand at pilfering some wares.
"I do." Clements huffed in annoyance, a scowl crossing her strangely numbing features. "I've been around long enough to pick up enough trinkets here and there, the problem isn't that: It's actually getting them into the city. Those assholes upstairs enforce a massive import tax on every antique out there; even if I trusted some of the seedier routes, they would also charge an arm and a leg. To the point where it's just cheaper to buy new antiques here in Gotham at auction and just have you verify them. And that's where another problem has cropped up."
Instead of responding verbally, he turned to provide her with his full attention. It was an opportunity to receive a rare insight into the internal machinations that he was intrinsically tied to.
"Well, it turns out that some people in that field don't really appreciate it when a new player is on the field. They've begun to see some of our success and don't like it very much. At auction, most of them always try to raise the bids enough to try to hurt my pocket. But petty people like that, I can deal with easily enough. It's those who are aware of the fact that I'm working with the newest Psychometrist and want a slice of the pie. I can usually eat the costs, but most of those people are, sadly, more connected and wealthy than I am and will often snatch a prize right from me whenever it catches their eye. That brings up an interesting question: has anyone approached you?"
Despite her saying it in such a nonchalant way, almost as if it were an afterthought, Albert couldn't help but feel the air in the same compartment grow colder. Like a blanket of ice had been thrown over his shoulders and yanked down hard, as though trying to drag him, collapsing onto his knees.
Frankly, in that moment, he was glad he could tell the truth here. His lying or Fast Talk skills weren't really developed in the slightest, and she would surely sniff out such a clumsy lie a mile away.
"No, not that I can think of."
"Good." Subtlety, her shoulders relaxed, and that air of composed calm wrapped itself around her frame once more. And a small, satisfied smile bloomed. "It seems being one of the few alchemists in the city still means something. But still, I would appreciate it if you inform me if anyone tries anything. While you can still take commissions outside those provided by us, I personally wouldn't recommend it. Except maybe if you had your friend, Marceline, look it over first. She's been in the game long enough to sniff out anything wrong."
"I'll keep that in mind." The request wasn't too unreasonable; besides, he really didn't think he was ready to confront anyone from that side of the Veil overlapping the minds of the general population. Especially if they wanted to try and get him to read another magical artifact. Speaking of that, "How is the expedition going?"
"Awfully." All the emotion just fled from her face, like rain across glass. Lips straightening out into a thin line. "I already knew I was going to be forced to get The Seven involved and let them get a piece of the pie, but some of their members have been incredibly unreasonable. Not any of their main branches, of course, they have more 'class' than to slum it with me, but those branch members are far hungrier than they are. Desperate to make a name for themselves just to have a chance to rise through the ranks, so much so that they're willing to try and step all over me to do so. I'm sure they would have, too, if I didn't have my sway in their world as well. Right now, we've agreed to have a hundred total slots. Most of those slots are going to The Seven to fill with their own people, but I'm going to get at least thirty slots. Now we're just going back and forth on the actual split on what we find, but that's a long and uninteresting conversation. What do you need?"
'Thank goodness.'
Albert was mature enough to admit that if there was one thing he was truly not looking forward to, it had to be the upcoming expedition. In his past life, the farthest he'd ever traveled from home was just a few states over for college. He'd never even crossed the border to enter Canada or Mexico. So getting on a long flight down to South America was already twisting his guts into knots. If being in a new place wasn't a large enough source of anxiety, being surrounded by magical strangers who each had a desperate need or greed for whatever was in that abode, and who would most likely not mind knocking off some teen just to secure the prize for themselves. He'd read enough cultivation novels to know what went down in such resource-dense environments.
But honestly, the flash of that statue with those empty sockets for eyes filled him with more dread than all of that combined. He could feel it, deep within his soul, that that place was going to be anything but safe. That ritual...that ritual he got a 'look' at was proof enough of that. Anyone who entered that place built by that tribe and shaman or priest or whatever would be lucky to make it out alive.
And he wanted nothing to do with it; he was just grateful that he had some time to come up with some sort of excuse to skip out on the trip and maybe find some way to get Marceline out as well. There had to be something he could do to make that happen.
"Yeah, here's what's going on." Internally shaking his head, he began his spiel. "In this recent case of mine, a father wants me to find his daughter after she's been missing for half a year now. To make a long story short, I found some more clues to her kidnapping."
"How old is she?" Her voice was flat, but he could clearly sense the attention she'd zeroed in on him, and even Willow could be seen visibly taking more interest in the conversation.
"She was seven at the time." Her eyes clenched shut painfully at that answer. She probably suspected the worst, but he really couldn't afford her not putting in effort in something she concluded was a forgone conclusion. Hurrying up before she could give him her prediction, he continued. "One of her classmates was there and saw the vehicle. It'll be impossible for me to just wander around looking for the same car, so instead I want you to keep your ears open if this car is seen."
"You want us to find a car in Gotham?" She sounded skeptical, lifting a single brow at his rather unreasonable request. "You do realize that the majority of cars you see are stolen, right? How do you expect us to realize we've found the right one? And what if they've already ditched the car?"
"I know it's a tall order," He rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a single folded envelope. "But I really don't know where else to turn. Here, I made a copy of the drawing her classmate gave me, and I even have one of her missing person fliers. If it helps any, I was told there were two men involved in her kidnapping. They were wearing ski-masks so she couldn't tell me any identifying features."
"Of course, they wore masks." Madame Clements plucked the envelope out of his hands and began to sift through the stacks of papers inside. Before she took out a lone drawing and looked over, giving an incredulous glare a moment later. "A kid's drawing will definitely help...for sure. But I can't promise anything, I can only send a few feelers and tell everyone to keep their eyes peeled...Willow dear, take a look here and see if you can glean anything."
Pushing the drawing upfront, the driver took it and held it out in front of her.
"Well, ma'am… From the extended rear, I can tell it's a station wagon. A newer model too, maybe from within the last twenty years, as it doesn't have that weird rounded shape to the back...Blue and brown, but other than that, I'll have to parse through their catalog to get the actual model and year." Willow explained, turning the sheet every which way to try and decipher the seemingly random smudges. "I think these marks are rust spots? But I can probably figure something out by tonight."
"Excellent!" The Madame clapped, turning her attention back to him with something somewhat resembling a smile. "You heard her, Lovecraft. We'll have a direction by tonight, and I'll probably hear something by next week at the latest. Until then, we'll call you when the next reading is."
***
Harsh light speared out into the darkness. Illuminating the massive man sitting before a series of monitors. Shoulders slouched, fingers stooped, and cold blue eyes not exactly flickering from screen to screen but passively taking all of them in at once without wasting the energy to view each individually. Observing the real-time map of the city, streamed audio recordings of conversations, police radio blaring, photos of people of interest, and even security footage from multiple different angles and locations.
Like a spider ready in wait, sensing the tugs and vibrations in this massive web.
He wore a gray spandex suit with long black gloves that ended right beneath his elbows, with a stylized bat symbol that had sown fear within the hearts of Gotham's criminal element for years. A simple, tattered ebony cape lay beneath him. Exposing the identity that most crime bosses would pay a fortune to see. Black hair matted down with a mix of sweat and grease, skin sickly and pale as if he hadn't felt the touch of actual sunlight in days. His expression was etched into a perpetual frown or more of a scowl.
"-shoots a crossbow at someone mid-conversation like that?" From deeper within the shadows, a younger voice could be heard. Their tone was both exasperated and maybe a tad embarrassed, but they tried to hide it under a dash of fury.
"Don't you do the same?" Another voice, this one more feminine and holding a degree of amusement. Like an older sister being granted ammo to nip at their younger sibling for yet another one of their endless blunders. "I vividly remember that being your favorite move."
"It's not the same!" A teen, looking to be around sixteen in age, stepped into one of the many beams of harsh light. A scowl that matched his mentor, hair dark and matted with sweat and grim, and nearly tossed his weapon of choice on the ground. Only stopping himself from dropping the metal staff as he caught a glare so harsh that he had no choice but to sigh before walking off to the side to put it away in its proper spot. Despite that little detour, it didn't stop him from complaining further. "I at least have the manners to get up close and personal. She might as well be using a gun at this point."
"I expected her to use a bow with a name like Huntress." A young woman with bright red hair and sparkling green eyes slid into a nearby seat. A smile was on her lips, but it was a strained thing. Without her purple cowl to cover it, those heavy bags were plain to see. "Would've been easier to deal with her if that was the case. She's not the Green Arrow."
"Speaking about, did he teach her?" Dick slid back into frame. Taking up another nearby seat and slowly lowered himself into place. "Are we dealing with a rogue sidekick? I don't really see how else she could be giving us this much trouble."
"No," Bruce spoke up for the first time, grunting out an answer. "Oliver does know of her, but she wasn't trained by him."
"Then who is she?"
Instead of replying, he reached over and pressed one of many nearly infinite buttons before him, and a screen popped up on one of the nearby monitors. The picture of a scowling woman around Barbara's age could be seen. Her dark locks in loose curls framed a rather attractive face, dark brown eyes tried to glare a hole through the screen.
"Okay, so her name is Helena Bertinelli." The teen snorted, skimming through the dossier until he came across a particular line. "And I don't think shouting her name in the middle of a fight will make her do anything but try and shoot us harder."
"Should we be concerned about her going after Galante or Sionis?" Her green eyes zeroed in on a different fact. "They did kill her family."
"Why should we be worried about them?" Dick butted in, scowling visibly. "In fact, why are we even stopping her from going after the ringleader of the Circuit? I say we just let her clean up the problem for us. I don't see a reason why we have to be enemies here, don't we want the same thing?"
"The problem isn't that she has similar goals to us," The man clenched his jaw. "The problem is execution. Bertinelli doesn't see these criminals as people, humans that can be rehabilitated, but as vermin. She doesn't care about the law, doesn't care about due process or an actual trial. If she had it her way, she would be judge, jury, and executioner."
"The Shellfords have already shown a willingness to keep things civil for now," Barbara added. "They've thrown a lot of lawyers to Quincy Shellford's defense, and that's good. It's better than them throwing money elsewhere. But what do you think will happen if we just let Bertinelli go after him? It'll show them that the police, the system, doesn't work. And when that happens, they'll surely sink their money into directly hunting her down. If Gotham descends into chaos directly after my dad becomes the commissioner…"
"Jim needs this win." Bruce continued. "Gotham needs to see that the system, the law, can be trusted to handle things. We need to show them that things have changed. That can't happen if Bertinelli gets her hands on Shellford. And it'll also ruin any chances of him testifying against his own family."
"So he's not the real target?" Dick asked, earning himself a few more lessons in political science after all this is done. "He's just bait?"
"He'll still be charged." The redhead answered. "The plan is to offer him leniency when the district attorney throws the book at him. Like, instead of earning a place in Blackgate, he can serve his sentence elsewhere."
"I don't know how I feel about that." He fiddled with the edge of his bright yellow gloves, a clear unease across his features. "He deserves Blackgate treatment. He deserved more for leading such an evil organization like that. And just because he's so scared of prison that he'll rat out his family, that doesn't mean he should be allowed to avoid that fate. Where's the justice in that? All those people that got hurt because of him, people who died because he derived some sort of sick pleasure in seeing people broken...I just don't see why he should be allowed to serve his prison sentence in what amounts to a vacation getaway."
"The world isn't so black and white," Bruce answered, taking the time to turn and look at his apprentice. A conversation like this required something more than just his back. Dick was young and in that stage in his life where he would be developing his own view of the world. "This isn't about how we feel things should happen; this isn't even just about Quincy's victims. He is a part of a larger problem; the Shellfords have spent over a decade running rampant through Gotham. They're a greater evil than he ever could be. Murder. Manslaughter. Theft. Money laundering. Distribution. Human trafficking. They've done it all. They need to be taken down. That isn't up for discussion. But it needs to be done through the system. Through due process and under a jury of their peers. That's the only way to strip them of that shield of invincibility. Anything else will leave doubt. Leave them a chance to wriggle out and start anew elsewhere. It might not feel right to you, but it doesn't have to. That's not what justice is. Nor should it ever."
With his speech down, he turned back to the wall of monitors. Not even giving the teen a chance to argue. The conversation was done. Everything that needed to be said was said.
"You can handle Bertinelli then." Dick got up from his seat, face hot with anger and teeth clenched into a near snarl. He looked ready to continue, to go on a tirade the likes of this world hadn't seen, but instead, he took in a deep breath before turning away from them both. "I refuse to protect a man like Quincy Shellford; whatever he has coming, he's more than earned it."
And with that, the teen stalked away. Snatching up the metal staff on his way out, he heavy-footed quickly faded into the darkness. Soon, leaving them in silence.
"I'll go check on him." Barbara quietly commented, standing to her feet and looking at the back of the chair. A complex flash of emotions fluttered across her face before she finally forced herself to say what was on her mind. "I do agree with what you said, I do believe in the system. My dad has worked in it, fighting for it for years. And now, I want him to show the world that this system can be fixed. That justice can be actually served….But I think there was a way to put it without trampling all over him. He's not you, Bruce. Dick is his own person at the end of the day."
With that, she too faded off into the darkness. Leaving the lone crusader to keep watch, cold blue eyes remaining fixed on the constantly flickering screens.
Dick would get over it; he would see the right path. He had to. There was no other way.