Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 7: Red Hood Rising
Diamond District – Evening
The meeting took place in the back room of an old cigar lounge in the Diamond District—Falcone’s territory.
The place smelled like it had been sealed for decades, the air choked with stale cigar smoke, spilled whiskey, and the faint odor of sweat from men who had done terrible things in expensive suits. The ceiling fans turned lazily, more for show than ventilation. On the paneled walls hung black-and-white photographs of Carmine Falcone shaking hands with judges, bishops, and politicians, each one smiling as though they had just won something precious and illegal.
At the center of the long, polished table sat Carmine Falcone himself—immaculate in his white suit, the fabric crisp and unwrinkled, as though even dust and ash feared to touch him. In his hand, he swirled a heavy-bottomed glass of amber liquor, the ice clinking softly. Around him stood five of his top men, hulking shadows with pistols tucked under their coats, each one silent but radiating the promise of sudden violence.
At the far end, slouched nervously in his seat, was Mayor Hamilton Hill. The man looked like he’d been sweating for days, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loose and damp. He dabbed at his glistening forehead with a silk handkerchief that looked more expensive than his nerves could afford.
“I’m just saying,” Hamilton muttered, his voice cracking slightly, “the city’s getting jumpy. This whole ‘Bat’ thing is hurting my numbers. The press keeps asking what I plan to do about it, and I—I don’t even know what it is! Is it a cop? A nutjob? A vigilante?”
Falcone didn’t answer. He just stared at the mayor over the rim of his glass, his eyes hard and unreadable. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn, then set the drink down without a sound.
And then, without warning, he rose from his chair and slapped Hamilton across the face.
The crack rang out like a gunshot.
Hamilton gasped and half-fell sideways in his seat, clutching his cheek in shock.
Falcone’s voice was low, almost calm, but there was steel in it.
“You’re in this seat because I put you in it. So maybe remember who keeps your poll numbers from turning into an obituary.”
“I—I didn’t mean any disrespect—” Hamilton stammered.
Falcone leaned in, so close the mayor could smell the cigar smoke on his breath.
“You’re a puppet, Hamilton. A nervous, expensive puppet. So sit still, smile for the cameras, and shut the fuck up, will ya?”
He straightened, his glare sweeping across the rest of the room.
“And speaking of things I should’ve handled myself...”
The glass in his hand suddenly arced through the air and smashed against the far wall, scattering shards across the hardwood.
“Jim Gordon,” Falcone spat, the name itself tasting bitter. “That smug little prick just got promoted to Commissioner. My Commissioner—Branden—was doing exactly what I paid him to do: look the other way. Keep the streets quiet. Keep Batman off my back.”
He paced, his shoes whispering over the carpet. “Now, because the Bat saved his sorry ass, Gordon’s out there talking to the press like he’s gonna ‘clean up Gotham.’”
Falcone sneered. “Clean it up of me!”
He bit down on his cigar, the ember flaring as he spoke through clenched teeth.
“This freak in a cape thinks he’s clever—picking off my dealers, putting Gordon on top, making a name for himself. But he’s not the only one who can wear a mask.”
From the shadows, one of his men spoke carefully. “So what’s the play?”
Falcone stopped pacing. His voice dropped into a dangerous purr.
“We give him a distraction. Something stupid. Loud. Bright. A gimmick.”
Another man frowned. “Like what?”
Falcone smirked, a wolf’s grin.
“The freak wants a circus? I say let’s give ‘em one. I’ve got an old prop from a failed nightclub job in the Narrows—red helmet, cape, tuxedo.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound low and mean.
“Let’s start a rumor. A criminal mastermind called the Red Hood. Different guy wearing the getup every week. Maybe they rob a store. Shoot up a casino. Scare a few rich folks. Nothing serious.”
Falcone sank back into his chair, lighting a fresh cigar as though the matter were settled.
“While Bat-boy chases a cartoon, we clean house where it really matters.”
Wayne Manor – Noon
The sublevel beneath Wayne Manor was dim and hushed, the kind of quiet that made every sound seem amplified. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and newly cut steel—evidence of recent work. Shadows pooled along the walls, broken only by the faint, sterile glow of recessed lighting.
Lucius Fox, sharp in his tailored charcoal suit, led Bruce across the echoing floor. His polished shoes clicked against the concrete as he stopped before a towering, steel-reinforced sliding door. The man’s easy smile and calm, measured confidence contrasted with the imposing industrial setting around them.
With a low, mechanical groan, the door slid open to reveal a vaulted chamber of reinforced concrete and steel catwalks overhead. At the room’s center sat a hulking shape under a black tarp, its angular silhouette already hinting at something powerful.
Lucius stepped forward, gripping the tarp with both hands, and in one swift motion pulled it free.
“Meet the Batmobile.”
The machine beneath looked like a predator at rest—sleek, jet-black, armored from nose to tail. The body’s sharp contours flowed into an aerodynamic spine, while a turbine intake jutted like the snout of a jet fighter. Grappling ports were embedded in the wheel wells; a plated belly offered protection against explosives; glowing blue exhaust vents promised speed and fury.
“Reinforced titanium-alloy shell,” Lucius said, circling it like a proud craftsman. “EMP shielding. Jet-boosted afterburner. Front-mounted cannon pods—nonlethal, of course. And a GPS system routed through a secure defense satellite. All yours.”
Bruce stepped closer, his long frame casting a shadow over the polished plating. The cockpit hissed open at his touch, revealing a command center of flickering screens and precision controls. He slid inside, running a hand over the grip of the steering column. The displays came to life in a cascade of blue light.
“I like it,” he said, his voice low.
Lucius smirked, eyes gleaming. “You’ll love it.”
He tapped a panel on the dashboard, bringing up schematics of other designs. “I’ve also got plans for a Batcycle—lightweight, rooftop-friendly. And maybe something...” He trailed off, a hint of mischief in his tone. “ ... airborne.”
“A Batplane?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.
Lucius shrugged. “You’re the one who likes naming things.”
Burnley, Gotham City – Late Afternoon
It started with a bank robbery in Burnley.
A man in a red helmet and cape stormed into the lobby, slipping almost immediately on the polished marble floor. His momentum carried him face-first into the first vault door, the clang echoing across the startled room. By the time Batman arrived, the man was unconscious, drooling slightly, and already in police custody—officers trying, and failing, to keep straight faces.
Two nights later, another so-called Red Hood hijacked a hotdog cart in Tricorner.
No cash. No coherent plan. Just incoherent screaming, a plastic pistol, and a rain of mustard packets hurled at passing pedestrians. Batman dropped silently from a nearby rooftop, landing behind the imposter with the precision of a predator. One nerve strike, and the man crumpled without a sound.
Then came the rooftop preacher in the Bowery—a Red Hood bellowing about revolution while chugging gasoline straight from the can. The live-stream caught only the first syllable of his next rant before a batarang struck his hand, sending the container clattering away. By the time the camera steadied, he was zip-tied and dangling by his ankles for the GCPD to collect.
And it didn’t stop.
A Red Hood who tried to rob a flower shop.
One who ran screaming through a parking garage pretending his cape was on fire.
Another who climbed the Ferris wheel at Monarch Park and demanded the Mayor’s resignation—naked beneath a tuxedo jacket.
Every time, Batman showed up.
Every time, the costume was the same—red helmet, cape, gray tux.
But the men were different. Different levels of skill. Different degrees of sanity.
He started to notice a pattern.
The Batcave – Night
Gotham’s map glowed across the main monitor, dotted with Red Hood sightings—clusters across Midtown, Uptown, the East Village.
Always noisy. Always messy.
Always nowhere near Falcone’s key operations.
“They’re bait,” Batman muttered.
Alfred’s reflection appeared in the monitor before he stepped into view. “Another red-helmeted fool was tackled at the museum this morning. He tripped over a fountain and knocked himself out.”
Batman didn’t laugh.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, layering a filter over the map—Red Hood-free zones flashing in pale blue. Shipment logs overlaid the gaps like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
Docks. East End. Chemical Row.
Falcone was drawing attention away from where his real money was moving.
Bruce’s lips curved in a thin, knowing smirk.
“Got you.”
The Roman’s Lounge – Private Booth, Midnight
The booth in the farthest corner of The Roman’s Lounge was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the ember-red glow of Carmine Falcone’s cigar. The air was heavy with the tang of expensive whiskey, cigar smoke, and the faint hum of jazz from the main floor. A bulletproof window framed the Gotham skyline, gleaming faintly beneath the mist—a city Falcone had once ruled without question, now slipping through his fingers.
Around him, his lieutenants sat in rigid silence, their faces half-hidden in the dim light, their fear more palpable than the smoke curling in the air.
Falcone’s gaze never left the city. His voice broke the tension like a blade.
“Nothing.”
The word was low, but it carried the weight of an execution order. He turned toward the table, voice swelling like a gathering storm.
“Fucking nothing! All these red-hooded morons running around like a goddamn circus, and Batman still hits three of our drug fronts last week! East End’s fucked. Chinatown’s under surveillance. And now the prick’s sniffing around the docks!”
One of the younger men cleared his throat. “We didn’t think he’d catch on so fast—”
CRACK!
The whiskey glass exploded in Falcone’s hand, shards scattering across the table. Every man at the booth flinched.
“He’s not chasing the clowns anymore because he knows they’re fake!” Falcone roared. “He’s onto us!”
He started pacing, long shadow stretching across the red-lit walls, jabbing the air with the burning tip of his cigar like it was a knife.
“This asshole in a cape made us look like fucking amateurs. Like we’re running some two-bit Halloween parade! We need to pull him back in. Force him into a goddamn corner.”
The table stayed deathly still.
Falcone finally sank back into his seat, jaw tight, drawing a slow breath through his nose before letting smoke curl from his lips.
“I want one more Red Hood. One more show. But this time ... we make it personal.”