Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 10: Blood in the Water
Penthouse office atop Falcone Imports, just past midnight.
Cloaked in red lamplight and the heavy stench of cigar smoke, thick velvet curtains swallowed the city sounds, muffling Gotham into something distant and dying, like a beast gasping its last breath beneath the weight of its own rot.
Carmine Falcone—the Roman—stood rigid at the towering window, his white shirt damp at the collar with a mixture of sweat and stale whiskey. Dark circles framed his eyes, sharp and haunted. He hadn’t slept in three days.
Batman had struck again.
Two more of his front operations dismantled overnight. Frozen bank accounts, incinerated ledgers, associates disappeared in shadows. The goddamn Red Hood fiasco—a mess that should have buried him—was twisted into a weapon against his empire, a dagger plunged deep in the ribs of his legacy.
Falcone’s empire was unraveling. His power bleeding away like blood from a wound left to fester.
Behind him, a girl lounged on his leather couch, barely dressed, her glassy eyes heavy with the fog of drugs. One of the dozen he kept around for nights like this—nights when the pressure gnawed beneath his skin and sleep slipped through his fingers like smoke.
She murmured something soft, sweet, but empty. Falcone didn’t hear it.
She reached out, her hand barely brushing his shoulder.
That was the last straw.
With a brutal snarl, he spun, grabbing her roughly and slamming her against the wall. The room echoed with her startled yelp.
His hands clamped tight around her throat, his eyes wild, burning with fury. “You think this is funny? You think I’m some clown in a fucking circus?!”
She kicked weakly, gasping for air.
His grip tightened, heart hammering, until suddenly her eyes rolled back and she went limp.
Breathing ragged, Falcone released her. She collapsed to the floor, unmoving.
He stood over her, chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. Slowly, he ran a trembling hand through his slicked-back hair, the rage inside him coiling tighter.
Then, as silence filled the room, he turned back to the window, eyes fixed on the fractured city below.
His phone buzzed—a sharp, urgent reminder.
Falcone snatched it up, voice low and cold as ice. “Yeah, you heard right. We’re putting a hit on ‘em. The only lawyers in this city with the balls to screw with me. Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes.”
He pressed the call through, the final act of a man determined to claw back control—no matter the cost.
Far off, across the cityscape, something moved in the darkness. Something inhuman. Falcone couldn’t see it, but it was there.
Watching.
Waiting.
From the rooftop across the street, a pale figure crouched in the dark, cloak pulled around his frame like a shroud.
He watched Falcone’s window like a cat studying a rat with its tail stuck in a trap.
“He’s twitching,” the man whispered. “He knows it’s coming. He smells it. The end. The big punchline...”
He giggled softly, rocking back and forth.
“I don’t even have to push this time. It’s already happening. All it takes is one more crack ... and then it all falls apart.”
He pulled a card from his coat pocket—a red joker with a devil’s grin—and flicked it into the wind.
“Tick-tock, Roman. Your time’s almost up.”
Wayne Manor – Late Afternoon
Back in the cavernous Batcave, Bruce stood motionless before the sprawling array of glowing screens, their pale light flickering over his sharp features. Each monitor tracked a different thread of Falcone’s sprawling empire—shipping routes, money laundering fronts, known associates—all converging toward a tightening noose. Alfred and Dick watched silently from across the platform, their eyes reflecting concern and determination.
Bruce’s voice broke the heavy silence. “Falcone knows I’m close. He’s desperate. And when a man like that feels cornered, he’s more dangerous than ever. He’ll target the people he thinks I’ll need to stop him.”
Alfred’s brow furrowed. “Meaning...?”
“Legal witnesses. Prosecutors. The only ones with the spine to see this through to trial,” Bruce said, tapping the screen to pull up two names—Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes. “They’re the last line of defense.”
Dick took a step forward, jaw clenched. “You think Falcone will put a hit on them tonight?”
Bruce’s eyes hardened, his voice low but steady. “I’d bet my life on it.” Then, quieter, almost a whisper meant only for himself, he added, “And theirs.”
Alfred stepped closer, his tone gentle but probing. “What do you intend to do?”
Bruce let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting away from the screens. “My options are limited as Batman. Harvey and Rachel are working from two different buildings tonight in opposite corners of town. Protecting both simultaneously is near impossible.”
A flicker of a thought crossed his mind, a name that brought a shadow of a smile. “But if I had a little help...” His eyes settled on the far corner of the cave, where Catwoman’s silhouette lingered in his thoughts—a wild card, unpredictable but undeniably skilled.
“I might just stand a chance.”
Selina Kyle’s penthouse – Late Evening
Rain lashed the windows, hammering the glass in relentless sheets. The distant skyline shimmered, fractured through the oily haze of cigarette smoke curling in the heavy air.
Selina sat poised on the edge of her plush leather sofa, draped in a silk robe that caught the dim light just so. A sleek black cat purred contentedly in her lap, its fur glossy beneath her fingers. Three more lounged lazily nearby, sprawled across shelves and windowsills like silent sentinels guarding their queen.
A sudden knock at the window made her freeze for a heartbeat—then she smiled, slow and sly.
“About time.”
With a deliberate grace, she crossed the room and unlocked the latch. The rain beat harder as the window slid open, and from the wet darkness stepped Batman, his cape dripping, eyes unreadable behind the shadowed cowl.
“Hello, Catwoman,” he said simply.
“You always know how to make an entrance,” she teased, amusement flickering in her voice. “I suppose I should be frightened that you figured it out so quickly, but mostly I’m just relieved. You wouldn’t be much of a detective if you couldn’t sleuth out something so obvious. And I admit ... a part of me was hoping for a house call from you—even if it means another chase.”
Selina turned from him, the soft fabric of her robe swaying as she moved toward the black velvet couch. Her magnificent hips shifted deliberately, a silent invitation. This was the man who had fascinated her since the first whispers of his name in Gotham’s shadows. She intended to bring out all the stops. If things went well, they’d get a lot of mileage out of that couch tonight.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” she purred as she sank onto the couch and crossed her legs, exposing a tantalizing stretch of thigh beneath the robe’s hem. “Decided to finally bring me flowers? Maybe finish our little dance from the other night?”
Batman’s face remained stoic, unmoved by her antics. Still, it was that same cold, unreadable indifference that both maddened her and made her want him all the more—perhaps more than any man she’d ever known.
“I’m here because Harvey Dent is in danger,” came his rough response.
Her smirk faltered, replaced by a wary tension.
Batman’s voice dropped to a low, urgent murmur. “Falcone’s desperate. He’s coming after anyone who can threaten him. Harvey’s on the shortlist.”
Selina folded her arms, skeptical. “So? He’s got cops, doesn’t he?”
“Cops die every day in this city ... the ones who can be trusted to uphold the law, at least.”
“And what about you? Going on vacation?”
“Rachel Dawes is also a target. I’m taking her somewhere safe, but I can’t be in two places at once. While I’m with her, someone has to watch over Dent—someone outside the precinct who hasn’t been bought off by Falcone.”
Selina looked away, jaw clenched. “You’re asking me to protect him?”
“I’m asking you to keep him alive long enough for me to finish the rest.”
She rose smoothly and walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring herself a glass of deep red wine. Her voice was quieter now, almost resigned.
“I could run, you know. I’ve done it before. Let the chips fall.”
“You won’t.”
He stepped closer, voice soft but certain. “You care. Even if you hate that you do.”
Selina took a slow sip and laughed bitterly. “You really do know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
She swallowed hard, the weight of the choice pressing down on her chest. Harvey—so kind, so relentlessly heroic—had always earned her quiet respect, a debt she couldn’t ignore. Yes, Batman pulled at her in ways that unsettled her heart, but that didn’t erase the fact that Harvey needed her now. Running wasn’t an option. Not this time.
Turning sharply, she flicked a hidden switch behind a bookshelf. A panel slid open to reveal a sleek black bodysuit, a coiled whip, and a gleaming cat-shaped cowl.
“I’ll babysit your golden boy,” she said, eyes gleaming with challenge. “But you’d better show up with a hell of a thank-you.”
She glanced back, playful and dangerous.
“And maybe a name. Maybe a phone number. Maybe more.”
Batman closed the distance. Selina almost hoped for a parting kiss, but instead he drew something from his utility belt. A small, sleek black device. No screen, just a single glowing blue button pulsing faintly.
“This is a special communicator. It’s keyed into a private line only I control. The signal’s untraceable, so don’t even bother trying.”
Selina giggled softly as she accepted it. “My own personal Bat-phone. Sweety, you shouldn’t have.”
Unamused, Batman’s voice remained steady and low, that same stoic drawl that set her nerves alight. “Once I’ve taken care of Mrs. Dawes, I’ll tend to Dent. In the meantime, shadow him for me. Let me know if things get too dicey.”
Gotham City Subway entrance – Late Night
Rachel Dawes descended the cold, worn stone steps leading to the subway platform, her polished heels clicking softly against the concrete. The late hour had emptied the station; only a sparse handful of shadows moved through the dim fluorescent glow. The loneliness of the place pressed quietly around her, but Rachel barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere — tangled in the details of the upcoming case she and Harvey Dent were preparing, a plan to finally bring down Carmine Falcone’s stranglehold on the city.
She paused briefly on the platform, brushing a stray lock of her chestnut hair behind her ear. Her eyes, sharp and determined, scanned the empty tracks as she rehearsed her arguments and evidence in her mind. Gordon—the new police commissioner—had assured them that the city was ready to act, that their moment to move on Falcone was near. The long-awaited fresh start for Gotham was within reach, and Rachel could almost taste it.
Suddenly, her reverie shattered.
Two figures emerged from the shadows — rough-looking men, their sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos sprawling over their arms and necks like a chaotic map of rebellion and menace. Their clothes hung loose and grimy, the sloppy fashion of street punks rather than the polished criminality of Falcone’s inner circle. But here in Gotham, every lowlife owed some tribute to the Roman.
“Hey, pretty lady,” one sneered, voice thick with mockery. “Where you off to so late all alone?”
Rachel stiffened, meeting their leering eyes with calm steel. “Hands to yourself, dipshit,” she said quietly, reaching into her purse and producing a compact taser.
The taller thug stepped forward, flicking his tongue with a lascivious grin as he reached for her. “Relax, sweetheart. We just wanna talk.”
Before he could close the distance, Rachel fired the taser. The man jerked violently, collapsing with a strangled cry to the ground, muscles twitching uncontrollably.
The other laughed cruelly, lunging at her with reckless aggression. Rachel twisted and dodged, her self-defense training kicking in as she threw sharp jabs and quick kicks, desperate to keep him at bay. But the man’s strength was overwhelming—each of her strikes met with bone-crushing blocks or heavy grabs that drained her energy. Sweat stung her eyes as she struggled to break free, her breaths coming faster, shallower.
Suddenly, a brutal fist connected with a sickening crack against her jaw. Pain exploded through her skull, and she staggered back, her legs giving out beneath her. Blood blossomed at the corner of her mouth, a sharp, metallic taste flooding her senses. For the first time, the cold truth settled in: she was outmatched.
The hoodlum straddled her, looming close enough that Rachel could feel the heat radiating off his body. His breath was hot and sour, reeking of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey, tickling the sensitive skin near her ear. Sweat gleamed on his tattooed forehead, mixing with the grime smeared across his face like the warpaint of some savage warrior.
From the ground, the thug who had been tased groaned, blinking away the haze. He pushed himself up unsteadily, legs wobbling but his resolve hardening. Locking eyes with his partner, he rasped, “Make the bitch hurt.”
A cruel grin twisted the lips of her would-be executioner as he leaned in, eyes dark and merciless. “Falcone sends his regards,” he hissed, the words dripping with menace and finality.
Rachel’s breath caught, heart pounding in terror as she braced for the worst.
Then came the shadow.
From the darkness, Batman descended — a living nightmare in black. His arrival was sudden, silent as a storm, the edges of his cape flaring wildly like dark wings caught in a violent wind.
In one fluid motion, he lashed out, seizing the thug straddling Rachel by the collar and yanking him off with brutal force. The man crashed to the cold concrete, sliding across the floor with a grunt.
Before the second thug could react, Batman’s fist shot forward, connecting sharply with a resounding crack. A spray of spit flew from the thug’s mouth as the blow landed squarely on his jaw, sending his head snapping back.
Without missing a beat, Batman’s hands moved like lightning — precise, brutal, controlled. He twisted the wobbling thug’s wrist behind his back, eliciting a harsh grunt of pain as the man crumpled to the ground, clutching the injured limb.
The second thug lunged wildly, desperation etched in every movement. Batman met him with a crushing knee to the ribs, the impact forcing the wind from the man’s lungs and dropping him gasping to the floor.
Batman’s cape whipped around him once more, a shadowed tempest in the flickering subway light, as he loomed over the defeated thugs with cold, unyielding authority. Their eyes darted wildly, panic flickering like flames behind their bruised and battered faces. The air between them felt heavy with fear—the kind that settles deep in the bones when you realize you’ve crossed a force far beyond your reckoning.
Batman’s voice dropped to a low, razor-sharp command: “Leave her. And tell Falcone this city is done playing his game.”
The words hung like a death sentence. The thugs didn’t hesitate. Scrambling to their feet, trembling and defeated, they fled into the shadows—alive, but utterly broken by the encounter
Rachel’s eyes widened in awe as he reached down and helped her to her feet. His presence was both reassuring and overwhelming. Without a word, Batman began to lead her away from the dim, dangerous platform, moving with quiet, purposeful strides that melted into the shadows.
“What ... what are you doing?” she asked, voice trembling.
“More will come,” he said steadily. “I need to get you somewhere safe.”
She hesitated, pride urging her to refuse, her breath catching as the weight of uncertainty pressed down. Sensing her indecision, Batman waited patiently, his silhouette steady and calm in the dim light, offering silent reassurance. Something in his voice—a quiet certainty, a promise—broke through her doubt. Slowly, she nodded silently, steeling herself, and let him guide her away from the shadows of the platform and toward an uncertain future.
Gotham Courthouse – Night
Catwoman perched silently on the edge of a nearby rooftop, the city’s muted hum stretching out below her like a taut wire. Her lithe form was draped in shadows, eyes narrowed and fixed on the Midtown Courthouse across the street. Through a large office window illuminated by harsh fluorescent light, she could see Harvey Dent hunched over his desk, the weight of the day etched into the tight line of his jaw. He was buried in paperwork, unaware of the danger creeping closer with every passing minute.
Her gaze flicked downward to the street below the courthouse entrance, where two uniformed Gotham PD officers lingered near a wrought-iron fence. Their badges caught the pale glow of the streetlights, their dark blue uniforms crisp but worn. They watched Harvey with predatory patience, hands hovering near their holstered weapons, as if waiting for the perfect moment.
Catwoman slipped a small earpiece from her belt to her ear, activating a directional microphone aimed toward the men. Their voices, rough and low, drifted up like dark smoke.
“I swear, that bastard, Dent’s, going down the second his shift ends,” one grunted, voice sharp with impatience. “No screw-ups this time. We hit him quick, quiet, and clean.”
The other spat on the cracked pavement. “Quiet? Fuck that. If shit hits the fan, we’ll need backup. Lots of it. That courthouse plaza’s crawling with cameras and uniforms. We do this right, or we don’t do it at all.”
“Damn straight. Don’t worry, more of our boys will be around in five minutes. Just after he clocks out. We swoop in then. No one gets a warning.”
“Good. Can’t wait to see the look on the prick’s face.”
Catwoman’s lips tightened into a frown. The plan was clear—and deadly. She weighed her options quickly, fingers tightening around the cold ledge beneath her as she crouched on the edge of the rooftop. She hated fighting where innocents could get caught in the crossfire. If it came to blows, better to lure them somewhere isolated.
Her mind raced, calculating escape routes, possible ambush points. But first, she needed to move Harvey. Away from the courthouse, away from the danger lurking just outside.
With a small smirk, she tapped her self-phone, slipping seamlessly from the shadowed observer to the seductive Selina Kyle.
The line clicked on. Harvey’s familiar voice answered, tired but cautious.
“Selina?”
Her voice softened, all honeyed warmth and sultry charm. “Harvey, darling. Is there any chance I could convince you to sneak away for a little while? I know of the perfect secluded parking garage nearby ... just the kind of place where we can be uninterrupted.”
He hesitated. “Selina, there’s a lot happening at work. I can’t just—”
She laughed softly, the sound curling through the static like a promise. “I know, I know. But this won’t take long. I miss you—terribly. And there’s something sensational I want to show you. Just a little detour before you head home.”
His sigh was reluctant, heavy with responsibility. “My shift’s almost over, but I don’t know if—”
“Perfect timing. Leave through the back, quietly. I’ll be waiting. It’ll be our little secret.”
Harvey’s voice cracked a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” she purred.
He chuckled. “Alright. I’ll meet you there. But I’m probably going to catch hell for this.”
“Leave that to me.” Her smile deepened, eyes glinting beneath the mask even if he couldn’t see it.
The line went silent as he hung up. She whispered softly to the empty line, “Just get out safe. That’s all that matters.”
Catwoman’s eyes shimmered with satisfaction. For now, Harvey was out of immediate danger—and that gave her the edge she needed. But this night was far from over.
Batcave – Late Night
The Batmobile’s engine growled low and menacing as it rumbled through the secret tunnel, the slick black vehicle sliding into the vast underground chamber like a shadow merging with darkness itself. Its sleek curves caught glimmers of pale blue light from scattered computer monitors, reflecting like liquid obsidian beneath the cavern’s towering stone walls.
Rachel Dawes sat rigidly in the passenger seat, the sharp scent of ozone and leather filling the air around her. The car’s rumble vibrated through her bruised ribs, but it was the silent magnitude of where she was headed that held her breath captive.
The vehicle came to a smooth stop beside a raised platform where towering racks of weapons gleamed, their cold steel surfaces gleaming under harsh LED floods. The walls were adorned with armored suits standing like sentinels in glass cases, and high above, catwalks and bridges spanned the cavern like veins in a great beast’s chest. Far off in the shadows, faint echoes of training echoed—punches landing, the scrape of boots on concrete.
Rachel finally dared to speak, voice barely above a whisper. “This is ... incredible.”
Batman opened the canopy with a hiss, stepping out. The cape billowed briefly behind him—a dark wave caught in a sudden gust—before settling like ink spilled over his shoulders.
Rachel’s eyes swept the cavern again, awe mixing with the sting of pain on her face and ribs. Before she could explore further, Batman disappeared into a shadowed alcove and returned with a compact medkit.
Without ceremony, he knelt beside her and began gently cleansing the scrape along her jawline. The quiet attentiveness was both startling and intimate. Rachel turned her face away, cheeks coloring with a faint blush.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, voice fragile but resolute. “Really.”
He paused, concern flickering behind the mask’s dark lenses, but said nothing more.
As she tried to compose herself, a small movement caught her eye—a boy stepping lightly onto the training platform. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, fists wrapped in tape, eyes steady and sharp beyond his years.
“I’m Dick,” he said, nodding with quiet respect.
Rachel’s breath caught. The boy was unmistakable—the same one from the circus. She recalled the terrible tragedy that had snatched his parents away, and the news she’d read about Bruce Wayne adopting him afterward. A surge of pride bloomed in her chest—for Bruce, for giving this boy a chance at a new life.
“Dick...” she whispered.
Before she could piece her thoughts together, a familiar, gentle voice interrupted.