Alistair lay sprawled across his couch, wearing a plain black t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama pants, the matching white slippers abandoned on the floor.
On his chest was Snowy—a white ball of fur with the same red eyes as her owner. She sprawled lazily, kneading his shirt like she owned the place.
The apartment was small but alive. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the light spill in; the fire escape was just outside. A guitar leaned against the wall, and the kitchen sat open and unused.
The TV flickered, blaring Game of Thrones one second, then Ed, Edd, n Eddy the next. On the coffee table sat a PS4, a tower of neatly packed games, and an overstuffed bookshelf nearby that had started stacking volumes on top for lack of space.
The phone rang.
Alistair ignored it.
Snowy lifted her head, blinking at him. The phone rang again. This time, she smacked him in the face with a paw and meowed.
Alistair: "I know it's ringing. I just don't wanna answer. Today's my day off—no work, no assassinations, just cartoons."
Snowy gave him a deadpan glare that said otherwise. With a groan, Alistair picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.
Alistair: "Go for Grimm."
Tony: "Man, you've got Gotham in a hot mess. That's all I'm hearing about—you."
Alistair: "They got me on the news?"
Tony: "Not physically, but come on—everyone and their mama's talking about Whitaker. Damn, you stirred the whole hornet's nest."
Alistair: "Would've been easier if I hadn't had to deal with the Bat."
Tony: "You didn't kill him, right?"
Alistair: "'Course not. That's bad for business. He just kept spouting that usual BS—truth, justice, the whole Boy Scout sermon."
Tony: "Don't they all?"
Alistair: "What about your end? Things work out?"
Tony (smug): "Of course they did. This is me we're talking about."
Alistair: "Thought you'd screw it up without me."
Tony: "Fuck you."
Alistair chuckled, scratching Snowy under her chin.
Alistair: "You should come back. It's boring here."
Tony: "I'm not the one who said, 'Let's go to Gotham.' I wanted Cancun. Monaco. Sunshine."
Alistair: "Yeah, but the girls here? Hot as hell."
Tony (tempted): "...That's really tempting. But I think I'll stay in su—"
In the background, a girl moaned loudly.
Alistair (groaning): "I told you not to call me when you're doing that shit, man."
Tony (feigning innocence): "What?"
Alistair: "You know what, dickhead—"
Tony (grinning through the phone): "Can't help it."
Alistair: "I'm hanging up now."
Tony: "Oh, come on, man! You don't talk to me for a month, and the minute I call, you hang up on your homeboy? Your brother? Cold, Al. Real cold."
Alistair: "Then stop calling me when you've got a girl over."
Tony (mock-serious): "It's to assert dominance."
Alistair: "...The fuck is wrong with you?"
Tony (laughs, then his tone shifts—sharper, quieter): "Relax, I'm just messing with you, twin. But seriously—listen up. Word is, the Bat's sniffing around. Not just him—his whole crew. Robin, Nightwing, Red Hood, Batgirl. A family reunion."
Alistair sat up slightly, brows furrowing, but said nothing.
Tony (continuing, voice smooth but edged): "You're good—better than good. But don't get cocky. Lay low. Don't stir the pot. Trust me, I know when sharks are circling. And right now? Gotham's ocean is looking real bloody."
Alistair: "...Noted."
Tony (snapping back to playful): "Or, you know, ignore me completely. Go out for a walk. Hit a club. Dance your ass off. Let some girl break your heart in a bathroom stall. Live a little."
Alistair: "Pass. But I might go for that walk."
On the other end, Tony groaned—definitely not from talking.
Alistair (disgusted): "Okay, hanging up now."
Tony: "Wait—!"
Click.
Alistair tossed the phone onto the other couch and slumped back. He reached for his cigarette box, slid one out, flicked his lighter—
A sharp meow cut through the room.
Snowy glared at him, her crimson eyes narrowing like she was passing judgment.
Alistair sighed, set the cigarette on the table, and instead pulled a lollipop from the box.
Alistair: "Better?"
Snowy purred, curling back onto his chest, her eyes closing.
Alistair (muttering with a smirk): "The things I do to appease you."
POV Switch: Gotham's Sewers
The smell of damp stone and rot clung to the air.
Dick: "…What am I looking at?"
Jason: "An extremely pissed-off Batman, that's what."
The two former Robins crouched on the ledge, watching their adoptive father unleash his frustration on Killer Croc.
Bruce's fists were relentless—every strike landing with enough force to crack concrete. He wrapped his grappling line around Croc's jaw, yanking hard until the beast crashed to the ground with a thunderous slam.
Killer Croc (snarling, spitting blood): "I'll kill you!"
Batman didn't answer. He pulled a cryo grenade from his belt, tossed it point-blank. The burst of ice crawled across Croc's scales, freezing his limbs mid-roar, locking him in place like a grotesque statue.
Jason tilted his head, his helmet hiding the smirk.
Jason: "Okay… what the hell did I miss?"
Dick's arms were folded, his tone quieter.
Dick: "He—"
Jason cut him off, voice dry as ever.
Jason: "Let me guess. He got his ass kicked."
Dick shot him a look. Jason just shrugged.
Below them, Batman stood over the immobilized Croc, his chest heaving, his cape torn from the earlier fire. His knuckles bled against the frost still clinging to Croc's jaw. But his eyes—cold, calculating, furious—weren't on Croc anymore. They were somewhere else.
POV Switch: Gotham's Daylight
The sun was up in the sky. Strange for Gotham—too bright, too clean, like it had no business shining here. The streets were bustling, horns blaring, vendors shouting, a city pretending it wasn't rotting underneath.
Inside a small Midtown restaurant, reality told the truth. Every customer was either hog-tied to their chair or hanging upside down from the ceiling with rope burns biting into their wrists. Gags muffled their screams.
And at the center table, like it was just another brunch date, sat three of Gotham's most infamous women.
Harley Quinn twirled a strand of blonde and pink-dyed hair, her red-and-black jester suit squeaking as she leaned against her oversized mallet. White powder, black lipstick, blue eyes bright as ever—but soured with a pout.
Beside her lounged Poison Ivy, skin like jade, red hair cascading over a vine-green bodysuit. Calm, predatory, sipping a glass of water like the chaos around her was background noise.
And on Ivy's other side sat Selina Kyle—Catwoman—bronze-skinned, green-eyed, still in her skintight suit, her whip coiled at her hip, cowl pushed back so her hair spilled free. She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Harley (sulking, kicking her boots): "Puddin' hasn't been payin' me no attention. It's 'Batman this,' 'Batman that.'"
She sighed dramatically, slumping in her chair.
Ivy (flat, cutting): "You could just leave the bastard, you know. Spare us all the whining."
Harley (snapping upright, defensive, then softening): "I know, Red, I know! But it's not that easy. One minute he's screamin' at me like I broke his favorite toy… the next he's…"
(she melts into a blissful sigh, hugging herself) "…so romantic."
Catwoman (snorting, arms crossed): "Romantic? You're out of your mind, Harl. He doesn't love you—he uses you. Always has."
Harley frowned, her lip trembling like a kid being scolded. She turned her attention instead to the poor waiter standing stiff beside the table, trembling tray in hand.
Harley (snapping, cheerful menace): "Hey! When's the food comin'? We been sittin' here an hour and a half. I'm starvin'! You're lucky Bat-Brain ain't crashed the party yet."
The waiter's hands shook so badly the water glasses clinked.
Harley swiveled toward Selina, eyes glinting with mischief.
Harley (grinning wide): "Speakin' of—hey, Kitty, you and Bats ever get freaky? What's takin' him so long anyway?"
Selina rolled her eyes, letting out the kind of long-suffering sigh that only Harley could provoke.
Catwoman (dry): "Not answering that. And I don't know. He's been… obsessed. There's someone new in town. The guy who killed Maroni and Whitaker. Word is…"
(she pauses, letting the weight land) "…they fought."
Harley blinked, surprised.
Harley (tilting her head, confused): "Fought? I ain't seen no new faces in Arkham. That's weird."
Ivy leaned forward now, her expression sharpening with curiosity.
Catwoman (quietly, almost reluctant): "That's the thing. He lost."
The words hung in the air heavier than the gags muffling the hostages' cries. Even Harley went silent for a moment, her painted smile faltering.
Harley (eyes widening, whispering like a kid hearing a ghost story): "…Mistah J always said Bats never loses."
Ivy set her glass down with a soft clink, studying Selina's face.
Ivy: "If Batman's losing fights now… then Gotham's balance is shifting. And that, ladies, makes things very… interesting."
Selina didn't answer, but her eyes narrowed. She didn't like what Ivy had just said—or the truth behind it.
Alistair strolled down the cracked sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. His black hair was messily tied back, green eyes dulled behind square-framed glasses. Casual enough—black jeans, sneakers, a faded band tee—but put together just enough to blend in. The everyman disguise worked; he was just another face in Gotham.
As he passed the restaurant's big front window, he let his eyes flick sideways. Inside—chaos. Customers gagged and tied to chairs, some strung from the ceiling like grotesque decorations. One woman's eyes locked on him through the glass, wet with terror. She shook her head desperately, wrists straining against the ropes, her silent plea practically screaming: Help us. Please.
Alistair's expression didn't change. A deadpan mask.
Alistair (quiet, flat): "Yeah… that's not my problem."
He turned, slipping back into the river of pedestrians. Gotham was always drowning in crime; he wasn't in the business of playing hero.
That's when he heard it—vroooom—the sharp growl of a motorcycle engine cutting through the noise of traffic.
His head turned slightly as the rider jumped off the bike mid-roll, helmet pulled free to reveal a flash of red hair. Tight suit, yellow bat-symbol, utility belt at her waist. Barbara Gordon.
Batgirl.
She sprinted past him toward the restaurant without hesitation. The crowd had already started gathering, phones out, whispering and gasping. Gothamites loved a show, even if they were too scared to intervene.
Alistair watched her vanish through the restaurant doors, his mouth quirking into the faintest ghost of a smirk before it disappeared again.
He tugged his hood a little lower and kept walking, swallowed by the crowd, as if he'd never been there at all.
Back Inside the Restaurant
Harley popped up first, pouting as she hefted her oversized mallet onto her shoulder.
Harley: "Ugh, I didn't even get to eat first. Alright, girls—let's get to work."
Batgirl stepped further in, her eyes flicking to the bound and gagged customers, then back to the trio.
Batgirl: "You guys could've done this literally any other day of the week. Why today of all days?"
Harley tilted her head, as if the answer were obvious.
Harley: "'Cause it's Thursday."
Batgirl groaned under her breath, then raised her hand like a referee calling for a timeout.
Batgirl: "Okay—hold up. Timeout. Listen, ladies… right now? I don't really wanna fight. How about we do this: you untie these poor people, and we all go out, grab some food, before I have to send you back to Arkham?"
Harley's eyes lit up.
Harley: "Anything I choose?"
Batgirl: "As long as it's in a reasonable price range."
Harley slapped her thigh dramatically.
Harley: "Cheap and broke. Typical Bat family."
Batgirl: "Hey—I'm trying to help you here."
Harley turned to Ivy, grinning ear to ear.
Harley: "C'mon, Pammy. Let's cut these guys loose. We'll do lunch instead. I'm starvin'."
Before anyone could argue, Harley bounced out of the restaurant, humming happily.
Ivy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before snapping her fingers. Thick green vines slithered back into the walls, releasing the terrified hostages. Before they could scream, a cloud of golden pollen puffed into the air, dusting across their faces.
Their eyes glazed. Their memories—wiped clean.
Ivy (dryly): "Fine. But next time, I'm picking the place."
Selina smirked, already slipping her mask back on.
Catwoman: "You're both insane. But… I'm hungry too."
And just like that—the three most dangerous women in Gotham strolled casually out of the restaurant, leaving Batgirl standing among confused, dazed patrons who had no idea why they were tied up in the first place.
Interior – Catholic Church
The candles burned low, their light flickering across stained-glass windows where saints and angels looked down in silence.
Alistair sat slouched in the pew, a coin dancing across his knuckles, clinking softly in the hush of the empty nave. He wasn't praying. He didn't kneel. He didn't bow. He just sat, staring at the crucifix above the altar—Christ forever frozen in agony.
A man approached quietly. Black, late fifties, silver hair dusting his temples. A faint beauty mark rested under his lip. His cassock was simple, well-worn, his presence calm and steady like the weight of the stone walls around them.
Priest: "What troubles you, my child? You look lost."
Alistair didn't move at first. His green eyes flicked to the priest.
Alistair: "Not sure, Father. I don't… believe in the faith."
The priest gave a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not dismissive—just warm.
Priest: "That doesn't offend me. I've heard worse in this city. But tell me—why?"
Alistair leaned back, his sad smile faint but sharp.
Alistair: "It's not that I don't believe there's a God. I've seen enough… things… to know there's something out there. I just don't call Him my God."
The priest studied him for a moment, then nodded.
Priest: "I see. Then I'll ask again—why?"
The coin stopped spinning. Alistair's fingers pressed it flat against his palm.
Alistair: "Because your God hasn't done a damn thing for me. My life's been misery since the beginning."
Priest: "Religious family?"
Alistair: [a bitter laugh] "My mother's side. They abandoned her when she had me. She was young… too young. I don't think she ever forgave herself. And me? I was just the living reminder."
The priest's face softened, but he didn't pity him. He only listened.
Priest: "You've carried a heavy cross, then. A life of hardship."
Alistair shook his head.
Alistair: "More than hardship. Blood. Death. All by my hands. And the worst part? I remember every face. Every scream. Every pair of eyes looking at me like I was the last thing they'd ever see."
His voice dropped.
Alistair: "I don't deny it. I don't make excuses. I kill. That's what I am. And I carry it. All of it. Every night. The weight… it doesn't go away. Not even when I try to forget. It's always there. Right here."
He tapped his chest.
The priest took a slow breath, then spoke gently.
Priest: "And yet you sit here. In a church. Why?"
Alistair looked up at the crucifix, his eyes shadowed.
Alistair: "Maybe I thought… if He was up there, He'd tell me something. Anything. But He never does. Just silence."
Priest: "God's silence doesn't mean absence, my child. Sometimes… He waits for us to speak the words we've buried."
Alistair gave a low, humorless laugh.
Alistair: "And what words would those be? 'Forgive me'? No. I don't want forgiveness. I don't deserve it."
The priest's voice grew firmer.
Priest: "Forgiveness isn't earned. It's given. The harder part is forgiving yourself."
Alistair's jaw tightened. His coin slipped from his hand, clattering against the wood.
Alistair: "That's the part I can't do. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Every time I breathe, I hear them. You think a man like me can look himself in the mirror and forgive? No, Father. I know what I am. And I accept it."
Priest: "Acceptance without forgiveness is just another kind of chain."
Alistair stared at him for a long moment. Then he smirked, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion.
Alistair: "Maybe so. But it's the only chain I've got left."
Priest: "We often chain ourselves down… because chains are familiar. They're heavy, yes, but they're known. And sometimes, what's known feels safer than what's free. Tell me, then—do you feel guilty?"
Alistair leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the light from the stained glass painting him in fractured colors. His voice was low, almost ashamed.
Alistair: "That's the worst part, Father… I don't. Not anymore. I used to justify it, wrap it in excuses, convince myself I was serving some higher purpose. Now? I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm lost. I'm confused. At certain points, I'm not even sure who I am. The boy who wanted to be a doctor… he's gone. All that's left is a man who doesn't recognize his own reflection."
The priest's gaze softened. He folded his hands calmly.
Priest: "Your road is long, my child. But remember this—no one else can walk it for you. Only you. And one day, perhaps not today, you may understand why the Father placed you on it. Each soul is given a path. Even mine. I do not know where my road ends, either. But I walk it, trusting that He guides my steps."
Alistair scoffed faintly, though there was no cruelty in it.
Alistair: "Blind faith without reason only leads to a bleak end."
The priest nodded.
Priest: "True. But sometimes, faith is not about reason. It is about trust. The beauty of it is that I surrender everything—not because I understand, but because I believe. I am willing to fall back… and let Him catch me."
Alistair's eyes narrowed.
Alistair: "You trust that easily? In a city like this? With what you've seen?"
The priest smiled sadly.
Priest: "I do. Because I've seen what happens when men put their trust only in themselves. Violence. Power. Pride. And yet, even in them, I've seen sparks of something better. Even in you, my child. There is good. I see it. You deny it. You bury it. But it's there, beating like a stubborn ember. You've chosen to smother it… but it's still alive."
Alistair turned away, his jaw tight.
Alistair: "If there is good in me, Father… it's drowned under blood."
The priest shook his head gently.
Priest: "Blood washes. Chains can break. The only question is—will you let them?"
For the first time, Alistair's coin slipped through his fingers. It rolled down the pew, spinning until it wobbled to a stop. He didn't pick it up. He just sat in silence, the weight of the priest's words settling heavier than the chains he spoke of.
Year: 2000
Snow swallowed the world in silence. Alistair dragged his bare feet across the white expanse, each step marked not by his own blood, but by someone else's. His hair whipped in the bitter wind, though he felt none of it. No shirt. Just the tatters of white pants clinging to him, stained crimson.
His hands were still wet with blood when he stumbled and let himself drop, his body leaning against the hulking corpse of a man who could have passed for a monster. The fight was over. The echoes of screams and breaking bones were gone. All that remained was breath steaming in the night.
Another figure approached through the snow. Tony. His blond hair caught the pale light, his bronze skin stark against the white. His uniform wasn't shredded like Alistair's, but it bore its own stains, proof that he had bled and killed just the same.
He didn't speak at first. Just lowered himself into the snow beside Alistair, shoulder brushing shoulder. To call them friends would be a lie too small. Brothers. Anything else was an insult.
Finally, Tony's voice broke the silence, soft, almost swallowed by the cold.
Tony: "You alright?"
Alistair's eyes stayed fixed on the bleeding red moon above them. His lips cracked into a bitter smile that wasn't really a smile at all.
Alistair: "No. I don't ever think I'll be alright."
There was a pause. Tony let the words hang heavy in the air before answering.
Tony: "...Me neither."
The two of them sat there, blood steaming in the snow, leaning against one another as though the weight of the sky might crush them otherwise. No laughter. No bravado. Just two boys staring at a scarlet moon, knowing the world had already taken too much from them.
Flashback End
Alistair rose from the pew, slipping his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie. His boots echoed once against the church floor, then silence as he pushed open the doors.
Outside, the air hit him differently. The sun was sinking, bleeding orange and red across Gotham's skyline, painting the streets in colors that felt too much like memory.
He walked with his head low, deep in thought. The priest's words clung to him like chains, overlapping with another voice, older, colder.
Dee (Death): "You're not a bad person. Nor are you a bad man."
Priest: "There is some good in you. You deny it. You bury it."
The two voices rang against each other in his skull, repeating, tugging at something buried so deep he almost didn't want to feel it.
For so long he had been certain of who he was—the killer, the mercenary, the devil in the dark. But now? With two people telling him the same thing?
He clenched his fists tighter inside his pockets. For the first time in years, Alistair wasn't sure if he was angry… or afraid.
And the worst part was—he wasn't sure of who he was anymore.