Batman's goal is to build his own business empire and then work directly with the secret organization that holds the Tesseract—so he can approach it himself.
Until then, a mere field agent isn't worth his time.
Inside S.H.I.E.L.D.'s systems, he focused on scouring for entries on the supernatural and anything touching time travel.
He was using a terminal inside Manhattan PD, so he didn't bother masking his IP; if they counterattacked and traced the machine, so be it.
One minute. Two…
He counted off in silence as he searched. He knew the man who'd lit the bat signal on the roof was one of their agents; he already had the full dossier on Phil Coulson.
Only when Batman figured Coulson had likely gotten the message and would be heading back downstairs did he crack the window and ghost out.
Making sure no one tailed him, he swung through the canyons of Midtown and arrowed for Queens.
"The bug net I laid at the Osborn estate is chirping—mechanisms moving in Norman's study…"
"There's a hidden room. It's the middle of the night—what's he doing in there?"
Without a Batmobile, he kept flying line to line.
Passing a Queens precinct, he glanced down; among the webbed-up "cigarette" buyers and sellers he'd dumped at the door, Black Cat was gone.
On Roosevelt Island earlier he'd gone light on the woman named Eli—not out of mercy, but to establish a second data point: "the Cat is a woman, which is why she wasn't hurt by Batman." Confuse Kingpin's profiling—and preserve Felicia's standing.
Thwip!
A batarang knifed down and pinned the pavement beside the bundled suspects. Batman was already gone.
At the Osborn estate, he flipped on night vision and sonar in the cowl. Cross-referencing the floor plan he'd memorized walking the halls with Harry earlier, he found Norman's room with little effort.
He flattened himself beside the window—mag-cling in the gloves plus Peter's own adhesion made him rock steady. The bug net was silent. Sonar said the room was empty.
He didn't waste time: a pick set from his belt slid the window latch, and he flowed inside.
"Little bat, little bat~"
At the same time, Norman Osborn had donned the suit—becoming the Green Goblin—and was carving through the sky on his glider, muttering:
"You killed Spencer. You wrecked Otto's work. You lit the bat light at night… I'm coming, little bat~"
His face twisted, he swept over Manhattan PD. The bat signal speared the clouds, bright as a brand. He flew straight into the beam, dive-bombing the source like a moth to flame.
"Ee-hee-hee! So it's the police? Is the little bat a cop?"
He skimmed the empty rooftop, found no sign of Batman, and shrieked with laughter as he dropped two pumpkin bombs.
Beep, beep, beep…
They rolled, pulsing green—then orange fire and a blast wave hammered the roof.
Boom!
Antennas and radio rigs twisted and tore like toys. Shrapnel and smoke jolted the neighborhood awake as apartment lights flicked on one by one. The Goblin's cackle echoed across the precinct, rolling outward.
Creak!
Agent Coulson burst into the station; Batman was long gone, so he turned to leave—then braked hard as the explosion and glare lit the night.
"Director." He stared at the burning roof, anger flaring. "Someone's hit the precinct—unclear yet if it's Batman."
"Prioritize extracting detainees," the director said in his ear.
"Yes, sir." He yanked the wheel and gunned it back toward the station.
"Beep. Identity verified."
Inside the estate, Batman used the forearm mini-computer to break the encryption on Norman's study. With a chime, a wall of management and finance books slid aside, revealing a black void.
He'd entered via Norman's bedroom and confirmed he wasn't home. Without hesitation, he stepped through the opening and down a dim passage into a hidden room.
Sour green light oozed across an armory—orange pumpkin bombs, green blades, the glider he'd seen at Oscorp, throwing knives, bullets, micro-missiles.
He didn't linger on the weapons. He hunted proof tying Norman to the B3 massacre.
Inches at a time, he combed every corner—and found it: a suit jacket, hem shredded, in the shadows.
Bruce Wayne's eye recognized the fabric at a glance—fine silk.
"At B3, Felicia and I found a strand of silk on the smashed console and concluded the killer wore a high-end suit and knew Oscorp well."
"Which narrows the killer to Norman Osborn."
He gripped the jacket—then a thought struck him cold:
"The Smythe murders happened after midnight. If Norman's the killer, is he out tonight to kill again?"
He turned to leave—then his bug net caught footsteps approaching the study, growing closer.
~~~
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