Chapter Text
Masquerade!
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade!
Hide your face, so the world will never find you!
The sounds of the stuffy, high-class theater and the menagerie of actors were audible here, in this little side-room, but muffled–a vigorous musical piece rendered background noise. She would probably return to the production; her business in this currently-abandoned dressing room was quite conclusively finished, and a full production of Phantom of the Opera was rare in this city. On principle, yes–the grimy mob city of delinquents, haunt of ne’er-do-wells and the mad, was never quite a beacon of theater culture. But the Seawall Bombing had only further discouraged any level of class here. So this was, she did suppose, an opportunity to respect.
Masquerade!
Every face a different shade
Masquerade!
Look around—there's another mask behind you!
Of course, her tryst, while no mere dalliance, had ruffled her appearance some. That would not do, walking about with even minor imperfections, not at all. Thankfully enough, dressing rooms had plenty of mirrors, and as a proper lady she’d made sure to carry some supplies in her handbag. Especially as this was not a fleeting act of passion. This was her plan all along, and she’d prepared for it.
She took stock. Hair–ruby strands, luscious and flowing, minor straightening. Check. Attire–backless, tight-fitting emerald dress and kitten heels, adjust to maintain the illusion of modesty. Check. Makeup–slightly smudged, but easily corrected…
Just as she finished applying her lipstick–a deep, almost sanguine red–a low groan intruded. Clicking her tongue, the woman turned to look at her latest paramour. Rumi Mori, owner of a successful casino, and an international arms dealer. He’d sold guns everywhere from across the street to across the ocean, and had made himself a pretty penny in the process. Enough to live a comfortable life, and to avoid the eyes of the law.
He was also dying.
Faces...
Take your turn, take a ride
On the merry-go-round in an inhuman race
“Still alive, are you…?” the woman whispered, toeing the line between seductress and sadist. Packing her materials, she sauntered over to the man, who was partly undressed and huddled against a wall. “Oh, if only you’d shown that staying power beforehand , I might’ve had real fun~”
“W-what have you done…?” Rumi gurgled.
She chuckled. Men really tended to be so silly. “I killed you, Mori. And in a few moments, your body will get the message.”
“...Bitch… Why…?”
The woman grabbed another item from her purse, handling it delicately. Slowly cupping the man’s head with her hand–covered in long opera gloves–the woman leaned in close, delighting in how her presence excited the man, even moments before the end. “Simple, darling.” she said, and silenced her victim by placing the sprig of poison ivy between his lips. “Nature always wins.”
Masquerade!
Grinning yellows
Spinning reds...
Masquerade!
Take your fill—let the spectacle astound you!
—
The Batman: Masquerade
By Ian S. ‘Oopart’ McClure
Based on the works of Bob Kane, Bill Finger, Matt Reeves, and Robert Pattinson
—
From the diary of Bruce Wayne:
Thursday, April 7th.
Gotham is healing. Months after the Riddler’s bombs, the city is learning to be itself again. The government has begun rebuilding many sites damaged by the floods, with funding and assistance from what people call ‘the White Knights’. Bella Reál, mayor of the city. James Gordon, commissioner of the police. Harvey Dent, district attorney. And the city’s wealthy golden child, Bruce Wayne.
But I’m there too.
Nashton was a madman, but he had the right of one thing. Bruce is as much a mask as the one I use at night. And he is a useful one; Bruce is seen as, at best, an eccentric but decent soul, and at worst a trust-fundee playing at compassion. No one suspects Bruce Wayne when he asks questions to the rich and influential. No one suspects why he knows every cafe, diner and bar in Gotham, or notices him watching from behind glasses and coffee.
But the White Knights are just people. There is something else that has adopted Gotham. To some, he is hope–an idol, a beacon, a sign of how they can be more. But to others–to them–he is a plague, a dark warrior, always watching. Always ready…
—
It was nighttime, and it was raining. It was always raining in Gotham City.
At the dockyards, despite the recovery efforts, chaos reigned. It was a no man’s land of shattered timber and wrecked concrete. This in some ways made shipments to Gotham easier, as well as harder. No one had time to notice a less-than-official boat appear, with a gang of burly men handling a cargo of unmarked wooden crates.
“Alright, pendejos , hurry it up!” the blonde man shouted, his Spanish stilted and rough. “The boss–our Jéfe–he’s been getting a raw deal. Four shipments of our shit are gone, and this stuff don’t grow on trees!” He slapped the roof of a large crate he was next to, startling the crows that had been sitting there. “So he sent me to make damn sure el producto gets to where it needs to go.”
“Dude, we get it.” a young Latino boy said, eyes rolling. “You’re the chief now, but don’t go acting like one of us, yeah? Tu eres gringo, no chapo, ¿oiste cabrón?” Some slightly-hesitant laughter echoed from the ship.
The man calmly walked over, the crate he was by swiftly reclaimed by the crows. He very calmly pulled out a pistol, and held it to the boy’s head, ignoring the startled cries from the other men. “You ever been to Peña Dura, punk?” he said softly, grinning. “Worst prison shit-hole in the Caribbean, which says a lot. Boss was born there. Serving time for his daddy’s sentence, since pops died serving it himself. Now, I’m not privy to the details, but the boss took it over. Killed the lawmen or the juntas –let’s be real, it was both–that ran the place, and made it the seat of his empire.”
The gun in his hand clicked, the youth’s eyes wide with terror. “In that pit? You’re strong or you die. And me? I wasn’t just ‘strong’. I was bad enough for the boss to make his goddamn lieutenant. So no, kid. I’m not ‘one of you’. I’m so much better .” He holstered his gun then, and turned around. “Alright boys, let’s go, this Venom needs to get to the safehouse ‘fore sunrise, move it!”
Clang.
That single, metallic clang was as loud as a gunshot to everyone present. Weapons were drawn, safeties unlocked, faces scowling. The ‘chief’ huffed. “Look, guy. You a scav? A drophead? Come out quietly, and we won’t shoot you. Just take it nice and easy.” After his offer, the only response was the soft trickling downpour, the soft whistle of the breeze.
“Bird, what do we–” the youth began, spooked.
The crows suddenly looked into the darkness, and were sent into a fearful frenzy. Cawing and flapping at something their eyes only could see. Bird grimaced, and aimed his gun directly at that patch of darkness. “Last chance, come out. Now!” he growled.
And it did.
A slow, steady gait, like a predator sizing up prey. Garbed in black, cape fluttering dramatically behind him. Dark sockets surrounding hateful eyes.
“It’s the frigging Bat.” the boy whispered, terrified.
Bird huffed sarcastically, but he was still grimacing. “You forget your balls on the boat, kid? Ten guns. One guy… The hell’s he gonna do?”
“I’m offering you to surrender.” it growled, seemingly gazing at everyone present unblinkingly. “I. Won’t. Ask again.”
“Wow. You scare your mom with that act?” Bird taunted. “No dice, hero. Light him up, boys!”
And then their boat–still carrying most of the Venom crates–exploded. And then the real hell began.
—
Ten gunmen. Small-caliber, two groups. Easy.
As soon as the explosion–caused by a disc-shaped charge he’d thrown to start the encounter–went off, Batman moved. As the shockwave buffeted his body-armor, it knocked the two closest to the boat onto the uneven, rough ground. It was these that he went after first–rushing past the others amidst the confusion, he simply smashed their pelvises in with quick hammer-blows. Turning on a dime, he used a grapple-gun to grab the third’s sidearm and yanked. The momentum of his weapon being ripped from his hands made him stumble directly into a jaw-shattering uppercut. The fourth and fifth, panicking, rushed him despite having guns–their reward was being each picked up by an armored hand before being smashed together, then tossed aside like garbage.
His next target was their leader–the boy had called him Bird. Primary alias of Angel Vallelunga, known close associate of Bane. He needs to talk, so he needs to be conscious. Batman thought. He tackled the man, hoisting him by the collar and angling him as a hostage. His men wouldn’t dare shoot them–whatever the Batman would do, Bane would do worse, and everyone present knew that. Even as he hoisted Bird, his left ring finger flexed slightly, pressing a button in his glove. On cue, thick, black smoke billowed from beneath his cape, shrouding the two men from view. Once he knew they couldn’t see him, the Batman followed the path he’d plotted mid-battle, ducking behind a collapsed roof and making his escape, Bird’s screaming cut off by being dragged by the shirt.
—
“This is Martinez. We have a 419, suspected 212, at the Monarch. But something’s screwy here, sir; requesting backup. Could use some more eyes on this. Over.”
“I’m on my way. Gordon, send men to Warehouse C at the Dixon Docks–caught a bird for you.”
“This is Bullock. Why the hell is he still on comms, over!?”
“This is Gordon. You mean the Bird? Bane’s guy? Please respond, over.”
“The very same.”
“ This is why, Bullock. I’ll meet you at the Monarch Theater, have some things to go over with you, over and out.”