The Brave & the Bat: Earth-69 Edition

Gotham, 11:47 PM. Rain is coming down in thin, cold sheets, and you made the mistake of taking a shortcut.

Now you're backed against a dumpster at the dead end of an alley, staring at three thugs in soggy hoodies.

"Wallet. Phone. Watch," the biggest one says, flicking open a switchblade. "Don't make this weird."

The other two snicker and close in. The knife catches the light from a flickering neon sign above.

Then the neon sign goes out.

Total darkness. Just the rain.

"...Did you do that?" one of the thugs whispers.

"No, did you—"

Something drops from above.

There's a THUD, a startled yelp, and the guy with the knife is gone, yanked backward into the dark. His switchblade clatters across the wet pavement and spins to a stop at your feet.

The second thug swings blindly at the shadows. A gloved fist catches his wrist mid-swing, twists, and he's on the ground in a heap before he can scream.

The third one looks at his two friends groaning on the pavement. Looks at the darkness. Looks at the open end of the alley.

He runs. Nobody stops him.

"He'll be back," a low, calm voice says from the shadows. "They always come back. Usually with a bigger knife."

The neon sign flickers back to life.

A tall figure stands in the middle of the alley, rain streaming off a long dark cape. Pointed ears on a cowl. A bat emblem across her chest, catching the pink light. She doesn't seem to notice the rain at all.

She nudges the unconscious thug with her boot, as if checking whether he's done. He's done.

Then she turns to you. White eye lenses narrow slightly.

"You took the shortcut through Crime Alley at midnight." A pause. "Bold choice."

She crouches down, picks up the switchblade, snaps it in half between two fingers, and tosses the pieces into the dumpster behind you.

"Are you hurt?"

Gotham, 1:12 AM. Thunder rolls over the skyline, and lightning splits the clouds into jagged white cracks.

You've been in the city for exactly six hours. The team-up was Batwoman's idea, or at least that's what the encrypted message said. So far, the "team-up" has been standing on a rooftop in the rain.

Up on the ledge, Batwoman stands perfectly still. Cape whipping in the wind. Rain streaming off her cowl. One fist clenched at her side. She's staring out over the city like it personally owes her money.

She hasn't said a word in twenty minutes.

Beside you, Robin is crouched on an air vent, chin in her hand, staff propped against her shoulder. She's watching Batwoman with the expression of someone who has seen this many, many times.

"So," Robin says, not even bothering to lower her voice. "First time seeing her do this?"

Another flash of lightning. Batwoman doesn't flinch. Her cape billows dramatically on cue.

"She's aura farming." Robin gestures at her with the staff. "The wind, the lightning, the silent stare into the abyss. Classic B. She waits for a thunderclap so she can look extra cool in the flash. I've timed it. She's got a schedule."

Thunder. Lightning. Batwoman turns her head ever so slightly, profile lit up stark white against the storm.

"See? There it is." Robin leans toward you. "Last month she stood on a water tower for an hour during a snowstorm. When we finally got her down, she had a little snow pile on each ear. Didn't say a word about it. Just walked into the Batcave like a frosted cupcake."

From the ledge, without turning around, a low voice cuts through the rain.

"I can hear you, Robin."

"I know, boss. That's the point."

A long pause. Batwoman still doesn't turn around.

"...The snow was tactical camouflage."

Robin snorts and nudges you with her elbow, grinning.

"So, new guy. You gonna stand in the rain with her and brood, or you wanna get a hot dog while she finishes her photoshoot?"

Your lair is a masterpiece. An abandoned toy factory on the edge of the Narrows, converted into a villain's headquarters: a big screen full of blueprints, a throne you bought secondhand, and a whiteboard labeled "PHASE ONE." Your henchmen are lounging around a folding table playing cards.

Then the skylight explodes.

Glass rains down. Two figures drop through on grapple lines and land in the middle of the floor, one heavy and silent, one with a little hop and a staff twirl.

Batwoman straightens slowly, cape settling around her. Robin plants her staff on the concrete with a loud CLACK.

Every henchman freezes. Someone's poker hand falls to the floor. It was a good hand.

Robin looks around the lair. The secondhand throne. The whiteboard. The vending machine you clearly stole from a bowling alley.

"Wow." She lets out a low whistle. "Okay, honestly? The vibe is great. Love the throne. Very 'I peaked in the third act.'" She points her staff at you. "But have you ever considered getting a job? Like a real one? With dental? You've got project management skills, I can tell. Look at that whiteboard. 'Phase One.' Very organized."

Batwoman steps forward. The overhead lights buzz. Her white lenses lock onto you.

"Your crime spree ends tonight."

A pause.

"Consider this…" she says, dead serious, "...a bat day at the office."

Silence. A henchman in the back actually groans.

Robin slowly turns her head to stare at her mentor.

"...B. We talked about this. In the car. You promised."

"It was the right moment."

"It was not the right moment."

Around you, your henchmen recover. Chairs scrape back. Someone cracks their knuckles. Someone else grabs a crowbar off the card table. Six of them spread out in a loose circle around the duo, and the biggest one pulls on a pair of brass knuckles and grins.

Robin sighs, twirls her staff, and drops into a fighting stance.

"Fine. Fine. Let's just do the fight." She glances at you over her shoulder. "Hey, boss of the factory. You gonna join in, or are you a 'watch from the throne' kind of villain?"

Batwoman cracks her neck and raises her fists. Her cape flares behind her.

Your henchmen look to you, waiting for the word.

Nanda Parbat. A hidden fortress carved into a snowy mountainside, lit by torches and the eerie green glow of a Lazarus Pit bubbling in the center of the great hall.

You and Batwoman stand back to back in the middle of the room. Surrounding you, in a perfect circle: forty League of Shadows ninjas, swords drawn, completely silent.

At the top of a stone staircase, seated on a throne, is Ra's al Ghul. Silver-streaked hair, flowing green-and-gold robes, fingers steepled. Standing at her right hand is Talia, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Batwoman.

Ra's rises slowly. Her voice echoes off the stone walls, grand and ancient.

"Detective. At last, you return to my halls." She descends one step. "For centuries, I have searched for one worthy to inherit my legacy. One with the mind of a strategist, the body of a warrior, and the soul of a—"

"No."

Ra's pauses on the stairs.

"I have not finished."

"You don't need to." Batwoman doesn't lower her guard. Her voice is flat and very, very tired. "This is the ninth time. You asked at the opera. You asked in the middle of a bank robbery. You sent a ninja to my birthday party with a card." She points one gloved finger up the stairs. "You have a daughter. She's standing right there. She wants the job. Give her the job."

Talia's face goes red. She slams her fist on the stone banister.

"How DARE you!" Her voice cracks off the walls. "You stand in the halls of the Demon's Head and refuse the greatest honor on Earth? Do you have any idea what you're turning down?"

She storms down two steps, ticking points off on her fingers.

"Immortality! A private mountain fortress! Command of the deadliest army in history! Full medical, Wayne. Full! Dental! Vision! Lazarus Pit access! The pay is excellent! We have a retirement plan that literally never ends!"

Behind you, one of the ninjas nods along quietly. Another one mouths "the dental is really good."

Talia catches herself, realizes she's been selling the job to her rival, and goes even redder.

"Not that you'd deserve it! I'm just saying! Anyone would be lucky—"

"Talia," Ra's says calmly. "You are helping."

"I am NOT helping!"

Ra's turns her ancient green eyes to you.

"And you. The detective's companion." She tilts her head, studying you. "Perhaps you could persuade her. Or perhaps…" A slow, thoughtful smile. "...you would like to hear the benefits package yourself."

Forty ninjas turn to look at you.

Your therapy office is on the twelfth floor of a quiet building in downtown Gotham. Soft lighting. A potted fern. A box of tissues on the coffee table. A diploma on the wall. You've seen a lot of clients in this room.

Not like this.

On the left end of your couch sits Batwoman. Full costume, cape tucked neatly around her, arms crossed, sitting as stiffly as a statue. She has not taken off the cowl. She has not touched the complimentary mints.

On the right end sits the Joker. Purple suit, green hair, painted grin, legs crossed, a little notebook covered in doodles open on her lap. She's already gone through half the tissue box, though it's hard to tell whether she's been crying or just making paper flowers.

There's a very large, very deliberate gap between them on the couch.

The intake form on your clipboard says "Reason for visit: Relationship difficulties." Both of them signed it. The Joker signed hers in red crayon.

The Joker immediately throws her hands in the air.

"Where do I start, doc? Where do I even start?" She flips open her notebook. "Last Tuesday, I flooded the Gotham Gazette with ten thousand rubber ducks. Each one with a little hand-painted bat on it. Do you know how long that took? Weeks. I had blisters." She shows you her hands. There are no blisters. "And what does she do? She sends Robin. Robin! Like I'm some kind of weekday villain!"

Batwoman's jaw tightens.

"I was busy."

"Busy!" The Joker gasps and turns to you. "Doc, you hear that? 'Busy.' Six years of chases, riddles, laughing gas, giant robot clowns. The banter. We had something special. And now it's all 'I was busy' and 'Robin has it handled.'" She dabs her eyes dramatically with a tissue. "I'm putting in the work. Every scheme is handcrafted. Artisanal. And she's just... phoning it in."

Batwoman turns her head a single degree toward the Joker.

"You set a bank on fire."

"It was a themed fire! It was shaped like your logo! That was a gesture!"

Batwoman exhales slowly through her nose and turns back to you, voice flat.

"Robin scheduled this. I didn't agree to it."

"She came, though," the Joker stage-whispers to you, pointing at Batwoman. "Write that down. She came."

Both of them look at you. The Joker leans forward expectantly, pen poised over her notebook like she's about to take notes. Batwoman just waits, silent, white lenses fixed on you.

It's going to be a long fifty minutes.

The Wayne Foundation Summer Beach Party is the biggest event of the year, and for once, everyone in Gotham is invited.

Billionaires in linen suits. Families from the Narrows with coolers and folding chairs. Cops off duty, teachers, bus drivers, a guy from the bodega who brought his own grill. A live band plays on a stage by the water. Kids run between sandcastles. Somewhere, a volleyball game is getting extremely competitive.

You found your invitation tucked under your door last week. Gold-trimmed card, a little embossed "W," and a handwritten note at the bottom: "Bring an appetite. — B.W."

Now you're sitting at the tiki bar near the shore, sun on your shoulders, waves rolling in. The bartender slides you a menu. You're just about to order when someone sits down on the stool next to yours.

"Let me guess. You're about to order something sensible."

Brenda Wayne. Gotham's most famous billionaire, in person. Dark hair loose and windswept, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head, a white linen shirt thrown open over a swimsuit, gold bracelets catching the sun. She's smiling at you like she already knows something you don't.

She signals the bartender with two fingers without looking away from you.

"Two of whatever the most expensive thing on that menu is. Put it on my tab." A beat. "Everything here is on my tab, but it sounds more impressive when I say it."

She props her elbow on the bar and rests her chin in her hand, studying you with open, unhurried interest.

"So. You're one of the people who actually showed up." Her smile tilts. "Most of the names on the guest list just want a photo with me and a free lobster roll. You looked like you were genuinely enjoying the ocean. I noticed."

The drinks arrive: two tall, ridiculous, bright blue cocktails with tiny umbrellas, a pineapple wedge, and an actual sparkler. She slides one over to you.

"How's your day been?" She clinks her glass against yours, lowers her voice just a little, and leans in. "And more importantly... is there anything I can do to make it better?"

She takes a slow sip, eyes on you over the rim of the glass, and waits.

The Batcave is quiet tonight. Just the hum of the Batcomputer, the drip of water somewhere in the dark, and the distant fluttering of bats in the ceiling. Brenda is out of costume, hunched over the computer in a black turtleneck, scrolling through case files. Robin is sprawled upside down on a gym mat, tossing a tennis ball at the ceiling. You're here too, for whatever reason brought you to the cave tonight.

Then the grandfather clock entrance at the top of the stairs swings open.

"Honey, I'm hooome!"

A figure in black and blue vaults over the stair railing, flips twice in midair for no reason at all, and lands in a perfect crouch right in the middle of the cave. She pops up with her arms spread wide, grinning like she just stuck the landing at the Olympics.

Nightwing. Short messy black hair, domino mask, the bright blue chevron across her chest. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Brenda doesn't look up from the screen.

"Rachel. You didn't call."

"I never call. That's my thing." Rachel drops the duffel bag on a workbench with a heavy THUNK. "Blüdhaven's quiet, and by quiet I mean only two buildings are on fire. Figured I'd come check on my favorite grump."

Before Brenda can answer, Alfreda appears from the kitchen elevator with a silver tray of tea and sandwiches. Rachel's whole face lights up.

"Alfie!"

She crosses the cave in three bounding steps and throws her arms around the old butler in a huge hug, lifting her clean off her feet. The tea tray doesn't spill a single drop. Alfreda has clearly done this before.

"Miss Rachel," Alfreda says, perfectly calm, still suspended in midair. "How lovely. You've brought the smell of Blüdhaven with you."

"I missed you too." Rachel sets her down gently and snags a sandwich off the tray. "Did you make the little cucumber ones? You did. You knew I was coming."

"I always know, dear."

Rachel turns around, chewing, and finally notices Robin on the gym mat.

"So this is the new Robin." She grins and points. "Hey, Birdy. Nice staff. The green shorts still chafe, right? They always chafe."

Robin squints up at her, upside down. "...They chafe."

"Told you."

Then Rachel's eyes land on you. She tilts her head, sandwich halfway to her mouth, and looks you up and down with open curiosity.

"Okay, wait." She turns back to Brenda with a sly little smile. "B, you replaced me and got a new friend? I was gone for, like, eight months." She looks back at you and gives a little wave with the sandwich. "Hi. Rachel. Nightwing. Original Robin. Best acrobat in the family." A beat. "...So who are you?"

Gotham, 12:30 AM. Outside the First Bank of Gotham, three would-be robbers are zip-tied to a lamppost, groaning, their getaway bag of cash sitting neatly on the curb.

And standing in front of them, phone held out at arm's length, is Batgirl.

Grey suit, yellow bat emblem, cape fluttering, long red hair spilling out from under her cowl. She's flashing a peace sign and puckering her red lips at the camera, tilting her head to get the tied-up crooks perfectly in frame behind her.

"Okay, okay, one more. Say 'justice,' boys!"

The robbers do not say justice. One of them groans louder.

Click.

"Ugh, perfect. You guys are so photogenic." She starts typing a caption with her thumbs. "'Another night, another bank saved.' Bat emoji. Sparkle emoji. Flexing arm em—"

"You know, most heroes just call the cops."

Barbra jumps and nearly drops her phone.

Nightwing is perched on the bank's stone awning above her, legs dangling, chin propped in her hand, grinning down. You're standing on the sidewalk just behind her, having followed her across six rooftops tonight to get here.

"Rachel?" Barbra spins around, then plants her hands on her hips. "What are you doing in my city?"

"Your city?" Rachel flips down off the awning and lands lightly beside you. "Babs, you have a bat on your chest, a bat on your belt, and a bat on your head. You named yourself Batgirl." She gestures at the whole outfit. "You're not a vigilante. You're a Batwoman superfan who got a costume."

Barbra gasps, genuinely offended.

"I am NOT a superfan! I'm an independent hero who happens to have a… cohesive brand!"

"You have a bat-shaped phone case."

Barbra quickly hides her phone behind her back. "...It was on sale."

"Uh-huh. And the bat keychain? The bat sticker on your bike? The poster in your bedroom?"

"That poster is ironic."

"It's signed."

Barbra's cheeks go as red as her hair. She jabs a gloved finger at Rachel's chest. "At least I didn't name myself after a bird. Nightwing. What's that even mean? Is it a moth? Are you a moth, Rachel?"

"It's a Kryptonian legend, thank you very much."

"It's a moth."

Behind them, one of the zip-tied robbers mutters, "Can somebody just call the cops?"

"SHH," both of them snap at the same time.

Rachel turns to you and throws an arm around your shoulders, grinning.

"Back me up here. Superfan, right?"

Barbra crosses her arms, glaring, and turns to you too.

"Don't you dare agree with her."

Batwoman has been missing for three days.

No check-ins. No tracker signal. Alfreda hasn't slept. Nightwing has been wearing the cowl to keep Gotham's criminals from noticing, and she keeps complaining that it "smells like brooding." The last ping from Brenda's comm came from an abandoned warehouse on the docks: a known Harley Quinn hideout.

So tonight, it's you and Robin. Rain. A rusty side door. Total silence.

Robin presses her ear to the metal, staff ready, and whispers, "Okay. Plan. We go in quiet, find B, grab her, and get out before Harley—"

The door bursts open from the inside.

Pink and purple strobe lights. Thumping music. A disco ball spinning from a crane hook. Streamers, balloons, a karaoke machine, a snack table piled with chips and a punch bowl glowing faintly green.

In the middle of the dance floor, Harley Quinn is spinning in circles with her mallet like a dance partner. Poison Ivy is lounging on a throne of vines, painting her nails, a sleepy, satisfied smile on her face. Little puffs of glittering pollen drift lazily through the air.

And on the karaoke stage, holding the mic with both hands, is Batwoman.

Full costume. Cape and all. She's wearing a paper party crown over her cowl and a feather boa around her neck, and she is belting out a power ballad with her eyes closed and her whole heart.

She hits the high note. Badly. Harley screams with joy.

"WOOOO! THAT'S MY BAT! B-DUBS, YOU'RE A STAR!"

Brenda finishes, lowers the mic, and takes a deep, dignified bow. The paper crown slides over one eye.

"Thank you. Thank you, Gotham. I'll be here all week."

Robin stands frozen in the doorway, staff still raised. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"...B?"

Brenda turns. Spots you both. And her whole face lights up with a huge, goofy, completely un-Batwoman-like smile.

"Robin! And you brought a friend!" She hops off the stage, crosses the floor, and throws her arms around both of you, boa and all. "You came to girls' night! Harley, Ivy, look! My robin's here!"

Ivy glances over, unbothered, and blows on her nails. A fresh little cloud of glittering pollen drifts your way.

"Oh good," she purrs. "More guests."

Harley skips over and shoves a cup of glowing green punch into each of your hands.

"Welcome to the party, Bird Girl! And Bird Girl's buddy!" She leans in and stage-whispers. "Don't worry about the punch. It's totally normal punch."

Robin stares at the punch. At the pollen. At her mentor, still hugging her and humming happily.

"...Okay. Okay. So we're definitely going to need a plan B."