Alt-Title: The Art of Jumping
Emilia Davidson cheerfully hefted the last bag of donuts into the passenger-side footwell of her rig.
Company regulations said to toss them, but mama had always taught her waste was a sin, and Emilia figured she committed enough of those just paying the city taxes.
Tonight's 'haul' had been surprisingly good, and not even the alley which reeked of stale coffee and day-old fryer grease could ruin her mood. Nothing short of getting shot would! And that was when she caught it—a flat, ugly crack echoing from two blocks down.
Emilia didn't even flinch, quickening her pace as the passenger door slammed shut.
'Not my problem.'
Rule number one in Gotham: mind your own damn business.
Getting involved was a surefire way to end up as a chalk outline or another sob story on Vicki Vale's nightly news report.
She'd just rounded the hood of her truck, keys in hand, when a raw, ragged scream tore through the night—far, far closer this time. 'Not my problem.' Emilia repeated, her hand already hovering above the driver's side door handle.
Her beat-up Suzuki Carry—or 'Old Betty,' as Davidson had lovingly named the tired beast of burden—roared to life, belching thick, black clouds from the exhaust pipe into the flickering amber glow of the streetlights. Emilia swung up into the cab, the worn leather seat sighing beneath her weight.
She hadn't the chance to drive off when the engine sputtered, then died.
"Come on, Betty," Emilia whispered, patting the dashboard. "Don't do this to me tonight."
She tried again, pumping the gas in a rhythm dear ol' dad had hammered in her head.
The engine coughed again, whined, and then, with a shudder that rattled the entire frame, roared to life.
Relief washed over her as she realized she wouldn't need a tow, or worse, to spend the night in that filthy Dunkin' Donuts store that had already been broken into three times this month.
Pulling out of the alley, she was greeted by the familiar strobing of red and blue lights screaming past her windshield. A car chase, by the looks of it.
On the radio, a frantic newscaster babbled about a fresh batch of Fear Toxin making the rounds in the Narrows.
Gunshot, scream, high-speed pursuit, and now a supervillain's latest chemical cocktail.
Emilia shook her head, a weary smile tugging at her lips. "Gotham's hard at work again…"
Briefly, she wondered if she'd ever manage to save up enough to leave—Metropolis, maybe? Not likely. Emilia wasn't a model, and she sure as hell wasn't a genius. Moving to a city where everything cost nearly triple what she was used to in Gotham would probably earn her months of destitution, maybe more.
Still, "A girl could dream."
Ten minutes later, she found herself trapped in gridlock on the bridge out of the industrial district.
Horns blared. Steam hissed. Smog dyed her vision a sickly, greenish yellow, choking her and every other poor soul trapped alongside her. Emilia hated traffic more than anything… And it wasn't just the delay.
This was Gotham, where staying put too long was like asking to get noticed by the wrong kind of attention. She half-expected a Meta to come barreling through the fog and turn her mini truck into scrap.
Thankfully… "No?"
Nothing of the sort happened.
Emilia checked her mirrors, bracing for headlights or a fireball to come shrieking. But all there was behind her were the wail of horns and more blinking red brake lights stretched to the other end of the bridge. She wouldn't like to be them, that was for sure.
"Of all the godforsaken..." Emilia muttered, drumming her fingers against the wheel. She thought about laying on the horn again, but getting shot over traffic was a little too Gotham even for her taste.
Finally, the traffic broke.
Guiding Old Betty off the bridge and onto the thoroughfare that marked the unofficial border between the industrial rot of Old Gotham and the slightly less decayed residential sprawl of Midtown.
The streetlights here burned a much cleaner, whiter halogen, and the brick-and-rust facades had given way to concrete apartment blocks and bodegas with neon signs that, for once, weren't flickering.
She was maybe two, three miles from her shoebox apartment now.
Looked like the worst of the night was behind her!
Or so she thought, right up until the road began to shudder beneath her tires.
Emilia's hands clamped around the wheel as spiderweb cracks split the asphalt just ahead. She slammed the brakes, and Betty's old tires screeched, fishtailing before grinding to a halt.
For a second, she thought she'd made it.
Then the road groaned and gave out.
A massive chunk of street collapsed into a fresh chasm of dust and darkness. The crater stopped just short of Betty's bumper until the edge crumbled, and her front wheels dropped, wedging into the asphalt.
'Fuck this.'
Her truck. Her donuts—none of it was worth dying for.
Emilia shoved the door open and threw herself out, hitting pavement hard, but before she could get too far, the ground at the center of the sinkhole burst open.
A geyser of dirt, pipe fragments, and concrete erupted skyward, followed by a monstrous, scaled snout. The creature quickly pulled its immense body free, rising to a terrifying height of nearly ten feet. Its roar was a gut-wrenching fusion of animalistic rage and buckling metal, a sound that blew out the street-facing windows in a shower of glass.
Ignoring her, the monster's hunger-filled eyes locked onto an overturned taxi.
Steel screamed as the door tore free. "MeEEEat! FressssSSh mEat!"
The beast dangled the bleeding, unconscious man over its gaping maw, ready to consume him whole.
Then, the ground shuddered again, giving way below the Meta.
The sewer-dweller slid right back into the chasm with a bellow, dropping the driver in the process.
Watching the man collapse in a limp lump, Emilia briefly considered lending a helping hand before better—wiser instincts took over.
'Not my problem!' She pivoted on her well-worn shoes and broke into a dead sprint, only for the pavement beneath her to go under as well. 'I knew I should have called in sick today.'
For one absurdly long second, Davidson's ever-practical brain kicked into overdrive, dutifully listing all the ways this could end for her.
There was the quick and merciful exit: A multi-ton chunk of concrete flattening her before her nerves even had time to complain.
Then there was being trapped under rubble, bleeding out or quietly choking on dust in the dark. And finally, the worst possible card in the deck: Being shredded to pieces by falling rebar and concrete shrapnel.
Her brain, morbidly curious to the bitter end, was just starting to wonder which flavor of demise she'd get when her fall grinded to a halt as armored hand locked tight around her waist.
Hesitantly, she cracked her eyes open.
Black cowl. White lenses. And lips curled in permanent disapproval…
'Of course.' Was her first coherent thought. 'Who the hell else could it be?'
Everyone had a theory, a friend-of-a-friend's story, or an opinion on the latest gadget Vicki Vale swore he'd used.
The Batman was a myth, a boogeyman, a headline and, perhaps most importantly of all, a hero all rolled into one. And he was currently holding her like a sack of stale donuts. 'He's a lot less intimidating than the rumors would have it.' Emilia thought, her adrenaline-addled brain focusing on all the wrong things.
The stories criminals told were of a monster; a Demon who glided from the shadows, but up close… Her finger moved before she could stop it—an absent, stunned gesture to confirm this wasn't just some hallucination her addled-mind had cooked up.
Lightly, she traced the line of his exposed jaw.
The white lenses narrowed, equal parts confusion, judgment, and disapproval.… Emilia's face burned with embarrassment as she jerked her hand back and coughed, utterly mortified by her own action.
"I'msosorry, pleasedon'tbeatmeup."
"Hate to spoil the moment, but if you're quite done rizzing up random civilians, Batman—our reptilian friend's scaling back up!"
Emilia blinked, staring at a teenager a head shorter than her.
'It's the Imp—' Her brain supplied. 'Batman's partner-in-crime!'
"Get off." The Dark Knight gruffly commanded.
Only then did she realize her arms were still wrapped around his neck.
"Sorry." Emilia mumbled, hastily making herself scarce, only to then promptly lose her balance as the soles of her shoes tore. She slipped, but by chance, landed in a shallow crevice in the pavement. It was a bit cramped; a bit uncomfortable, but otherwise secure and, as the cherry on top, provided her a front-row seat to the ongoing confrontation.
She gaped as the Imp vaulted onto a streetlamp, hurling Batarangs that bounced off the monster's hide like cheap plastic.
'Croc.' She guessed, because who else in Gotham rocked sewer breath and scales? Thank God she wasn't a vigilante. Emilia had no idea how anyone dealt with 'that' every night and didn't end up in a straitjacket… After some awkward digging, she finally fished her phone out of the deep of her pocket and hit record, but they were way too fast.
Even the ten-foot sewer lizard was leaving her knockoff Android and its pitiful 20-FPS camera in the dust.
The Imp, undeterred by his failure, flipped backward, landing silently on the buckled asphalt. "Plan B." He chirped, voice unnervingly casual.
He swapped the simple Batarangs for something with a blinking blue. The projectiles struck true, sticking to the monster's chest before erupting in a series of percussive blasts that were more bang than flash, and yet Killer Croc didn't so much as flinch.
"TICKLEeeSss!" The Meta bellowed, swiping a clawed hand through the smoke as though batting away a bothersome fly, then barreled toward the hero, uprooting every streetlamp unlucky enough to be in his path.
Sparks rained from the public property, snapping and hissing across the asphalt like live serpents.
Croc lunged for his target and missed. He roared before giving chase, but Batman was already on his tail, cape whipping behind him as he landed on the beast's back, and planted a series of beeping charges along Croc's spine.
The creature thrashed, claws tearing into buildings as he spun, but he was too bulky, too slow. For all his brute strength, Croc might as well have been chasing his own tail. Planting one final charge dead-center above the Meta's bald scalp, Batman then backflipped, vanishing skyward on a grappling line.
"Stand down, Waylon!" Ordered the Dark Knight.
Sadly, the rabid Meta seemed deaf to everything but his own rage, snarling as he pounced. He had barely taken a step when the charges along his spine detonated in rapid succession, blasting him forward. Ere he could hit the ground, the final device atop his head went off, flipping him onto his back as a dense cloud enveloped the Meta whole.
Pumping her fist, Emilia held her breath and cheered, "Get 'im! Get 'im! Go, Batman!" Just then, the Imp swung overhead, only to drop like a rock as a flying car door sliced through his cable. "Crap—!"
With a violent thud, the boy crashed onto a car right beside her.
"I don't wanna be that guy, but please tell me there's a plan, 'cause we're getting our fucking cheeks spread out here."
"M-Me?" She shakily asked.
"Wha—?" His head snapped toward her, disbelief practically radiating off the red helmet. "No offense, lady, but why the hell would I ask you?"
Shaking his head, the Imp silently inspected his grappling hook. In the background, Killer Croc erupted from the smoke, charred scales flaking off in chunks. Emilia hadn't thought it possible, but the Meta somehow looked even uglier now that parts of his hide had been blown off.
"Jesus…" The Imp muttered.
Jesus, indeed.
Suddenly, a faint tremor buzzed up Emilia's legs.
Emilia stiffened as the ground seemed to quiver beneath her. She braced for another collapse, but the tremor wasn't coming from below.
It sounded… Distant. 'And getting closer.'
Emilia didn't have time to contemplate further, for despite his initial display, Croc soon let loose a strangled grunt and dropped on both knees. Breath stolen away by the spectacle, she asked. "Is it over?"
The non-answer came in the form of a non-committal hum.
"Waylon Jones. You didn't bring me out here just to fight… You're in pain, and whether you'll admit it or not, you want it to stop—"
Stopping fifteen feet short of the Meta—because a wounded animal wasn't the same as a harmless one—the Dark Knight coaxed.
'So he doesn't just beat the shit out of criminals…' Emilia wasn't sure why that surprised her, but it did. And it made her like the guy a hell of a lot more.
"—End this. Let me get you the help you need."
For a moment, it looked like Batman had secured another win under his belt.
Croc was down, dazed, barely upright.
Then he suddenly lunged.
Emilia gasped. The Imp shouted. Batman hurled something into the gaping maws.
Neither of them was close enough to intervene, and even if they were, Emilia suspected it wouldn't've made much of a difference. Luckily, that's when a mini tank showed up, slamming into the Meta.
Pushed into a building, Croc roared as the impact shook the paint and limestone loose, coating his raw, exposed skin.
The chemicals must have burned quite a bit, because he looked much angrier than before.
Then again, it could have been the teeth he lost to the Batmobile's front bumper.
Holding on with his remaining teeth, the Meta grunted stubbornly before rolling to the side. It was such an odd gesture that Emilia could not help but chuckle, until the multi-ton, reinforced mini-tank began to turn with him.
"A death roll."
"A death roll?" She repeated after the Imp.
"That's a death roll. Crocodilians use it to tear limbs off or disorient prey." Explained the teenage vigilante. Croc tore into the Batmobile like it was made of cardboard, ripping off one of the eight wheels, then part of the hood, the mounted cannon. With a guttural shriek, the Meta hoisted what remained of it and flung it halfway across the street.
The car skidded, flipped twice, and came to a twitching halt against a building wall.
Then Croc coughed violently as a green mist poured from his maw, curling into the air like leaked gas. Emilia had seen something like this before in, well, games. Her boyfriend called it 'Second Phase'—that moment when the Boss got uglier, stronger, and meaner. But when she looked to Batman and the Imp, neither looked worried.
She was worried for nothing, because Killer Croc soon became sluggish. Confused, she mentally retraced the sequence of events, recalling the small, spherical objects Batman had tossed straight down the Meta's throat earlier. The green mist wasn't mist at all. It was anesthetic gas.
"You ever heard of the 'Art of Jumping?'"
"The what?"
The Imp snorted. "Well, you're about to get a crash course."
Tossing and catching his baton with a cocky twirl, the sidekick ran forth just as the Dark Knight hit Killer Croc in the face with—"His bare fucking fists?!" Emilia couldn't believe her eyes.
'Is he stupid?' Turns out, she was the stupid one, because that one punch sent the Meta reeling to the right. Before the reptilian brute could brace against the pavement, the Imp's baton cracked him from the left.
Batman followed up with a knee to the chin, timed perfectly with the Imp crashing down from above. The impact knocked loose the rest of Croc's fangs in an instant. If Emilia were him, she'd wave the flag by now, but Croc was made of sterner stuff, it'd appear…
Sterner and stupider.
Batman went in for a left hook, and the Imp a right cross to the kidney.
The Bat landed an uppercut next, allowing the sidekick to use the opening and drive his baton into the back of Croc's knee.
The joint buckled with a wet crunch.
As Croc staggered to his feet, Batman delivered two—no, five more blows to the Meta's ribs and downed him once again. Scrambling onto the behemoth's shoulders, the Imp brought his baton down on the thickest part of Croc's skull, then hurried to join his mentor, who drove his fist into the side of the Meta's jaw.
After that, Emilia lost the ability to track the specifics.
It was less a fight, and more percussive demolition.
A right hook from the master, a baton strike from the apprentice.
A knee to the gut, a kick to the spine.
An elbow, a fist, a boot, another fist.
Her brain, unable to process the choreography, latched onto the only thing it could make sense of and started counting.
"Thirty-eight…" Emilia muttered as the pair ended the fight with a well-placed punch and a baton which snapped to full length mid-swing. Apparently, smacking it in the nose didn't just work on humans, dogs, cats and sharks. It was just as effective on crocodiles.
"It's over." Emilia was positive it had.
If it hadn't, Killer Croc must be a special kind of fool…
That, or he was suicidal.
Of course, that was when sirens started wailing in the distance.
The GCPD was fashionably late as always. Not that they'd have done much anyway besides racking up the death toll.
She knew it.
The villains knew it.
Hell, even the cops knew their standard-issue G22s might as well have been Nerf guns against Croc, which was probably why the cruisers only rolled in now that the real fight was already over.
Sometimes Emilia genuinely wondered what the hell the GCPD was doing with taxpayer money to be this hilariously outgunned when common crooks had been running around with sci-fi plasma rifles since fucking forever, then she remembered: 'Oh, right… I'm in Gotham—voted the most corrupt city in the world since the '30s.'
She watched, speechless, as officers swarmed the scene and tape went up.
Before long, she quickly found herself ushered toward an ambulance.
Even then, Emilia's eyes never strayed from the Dynamic Duo.
"Miss, please look here—"
She squinted as the flashlight's glare stole her focus for just a second.
By the time her eyes readjusted, they were long gone.
"Damn…" She really wanted a picture.
"Ms. Davidson, if I may have a moment of your time."
She turned, and there stood a woman who made her seethe just by existing. Red hair shaped in a sharp bob, piercing green eyes that glowed with excitement, and a figure that made her own feel downright blocky—it was high school all over again. "You're…"
"Vicki Vale, pleased to meet you. Now, if you don't mind, may I ask you a few questions?"
Emilia minded. A lot.
Yet she answered nevertheless, the words tumbling out faster than she could think, draining her of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions that had been propping her up like glue and tape.
'Screw this, I'm taking tomorrow off.'
And if her manager had a problem with it, well, Emilia missed the part where that was her problem.
.
.
.
Back at the Wayne Estate, Richard Grayson wiped the sweat from his brow and went in for another set. His old, beat-up phone sat nearby, spitting out grainy audio from the news—something about a Meta-related catastrophe near the Midtown border.
Mid-rep, he paused, reracked the weight, and reached for the device, expression sharpening as he watched intently.
This was perhaps the closest anyone had gotten to capturing Batman's fight up close—a shame the footage looked like it had been shot with a potato. With a final, dissatisfied grunt, Richard cut his workout short.
The grainy footage was more annoying than informative, and besides, his stomach was starting to rumble. Slinging a towel over his shoulder, Dick left the gym, the lingering image of the fight still on repeat in his mind as he headed to the dinning hall.
That was when the quiet hit him.
Not the usual late-night quiet—but a hollow, unnatural stillness that made the hair on his nape stand. The Wayne Estate was never truly silent.
There was always the distant hum of a television, the soft tread of footsteps on carpet, or the faint clatter of Alfred making something in the kitchen.
Tonight, there was nothing.
The cavernous halls seemed to have swallowed all sound.
"Rowan…? Mr. Wayne?!"
He checked Bruce's study first, but the chair behind the grand mahogany desk was pushed in, and the fireplace looked cold. Knocking on Rowan's door next, he twisted the knob only to find it locked tight.
With nowhere else to check, Dick headed for the kitchen.
If anyone was going to be up, it was Alfred, but even the butler had seemingly made himself scarce tonight.
Puzzled and unsettled, Dick rewound the footage, thumb skipping to the part featuring the Imp.
Wordlessly, he turned the volume up, ears straining to hear over the distortions.
Dick played it again. And again.
It wasn't even the voice itself, which had clearly been altered by a voice modulator.
It was the tone… From the sharp, almost arrogant dismissal wrapped in a flimsy layer of faux politeness to the immediate switch from exasperation to business—Dick knew it all too well. The familiarity was so jarring it caused his heart to race.
The endless late nights.
The unexplained absences.
The grueling, punishing workouts.
The neurons in his brain started to fire away, connecting clues Dick didn't even know he'd been subsconciously picking up. Come to think of it, he rarely—if ever—saw his hosts at night. And Richard was dead certain they were never around when Batman and the Imp were.
"If Rowan's the Imp… Then that means Mr. Wayne's…"
Dick didn't dare finish the thought.
Even the timeline matched. The Dark Knight had conveniently vanished for two weeks; the exact same weeks Mr. Wayne had been spotted entertaining guests-from-afar. Feeling weak in the knees, Dick braced a hand against the wall and slowly sank.
But Richard Grayson wasn't the only one listening to the news.
Across Gotham, criminals from every corner found their eyes glued to the screen—one of which happened to be a very, very skilled thief, who also happened to be very, very unhappy at the moment. Why, you ask? Well…
"—Ms. Davidson, if you had to describe our 'protectors' in a few words, what would you say?" Vicki Vale beamed at the camera.
"—The Imp's fast. Mouthy. And honestly? A little terrifying. But I doubt there's much truth to the Demon rumor. As for the Batman—he's got a really strong jawline."
Tossing the remote aside, the femme fatale slipped out of her nightgown and into the tub with a huff.
"That womanizer."
She definitely wasn't jealous, and anyone idiotic enough to suggest otherwise could get a taste of her whip plus a lesson in minding their business.