Marvel's The Caped Crusader

Chapter 8

The Cave, 11.00 pm

The Batcave was alive with subtle motion—bats flitted across the shadowed ceiling, their wings brushing the damp stone, their shrill screeches echoing off the walls like whispers in a cathedral. In the distance, the thunderous roar of the waterfall that concealed the Batwing's entrance rumbled like a living heartbeat, masking the world above. The Batwing itself sat parked on an elevated grated platform, mist curling through the air like silent steam.

At the center of it all sat F/N Wayne—Batman—shirtless, perched at the crime computer with a curved needle in hand, calmly stitching the savage bite wound carved into the thick, chiseled muscle of his upper trap. Croc's parting gift. The pale glow of the crime computer's screens bathed his torso, the light casting bold contours across his muscular upper body—refined and powerful, each line and scar a testament to battles survived. He sat like a silent statue carved from grit and pain, surrounded by shadows and memories.

His cowl lay beside the keyboard, streaked with sweat and blood. Pain pulsed with each tug of the needle, but F/N paid it no mind. After nearly three years behind the cowl, he'd learned to make pain an ally. His thoughts drifted to Cassandra—her calm voice and unyielding resolve. He remembered the way she taught him to compartmentalize pain, to break it down into something he could control, even master, instead of letting it consume him. He stitched with mechanical precision, the rhythm of it carved into his muscle memory. Each scar across his body wasn't just a record of battles—they were the verses of his crusade, every line a tribute to what he'd sacrificed for a city that devoured hope.

On the towering monitors before him, the crime computer ran diagnostics on the recovered tech used by the Red Hood Syndicate. Foreign components, Stark-grade cores, black-market firmware. Dangerous things. Designed not just to kill—but to outperform, to outthink. Each piece of tech was a chess move in a larger game. A war game.

The results were damning. The weapons bore adaptive targeting systems, nanite-enhanced projectiles, and trace code unmistakably lifted from Stark Industries prototypes. Some of the signatures even matched tech that F/N's father had encountered during joint SHIELD operations he once coordinated under his prior alias, The Bat.

"Most of our countermeasures didn't even register the first wave," F/N muttered, eyes narrowing. One screen replayed Batwing's sensor logs from the BlackGate siege. "Missiles locked onto me before I was even in visual range... that shouldn't be possible."

To his left, a monitor flickered with live footage from GCTV. Gotham's favorite blonde anchor kept her tone neutral, but the worry bled through.

"...an unprecedented assault on BlackGate Prison by what sources now confirm was the Red Hood Syndicate. The attackers utilized high-grade military technology. Aerial footage captured during the siege revealed Batman engaged in close combat with what authorities now identify as a mutated human—the individual known as Killer Croc, now identified as Waylen Jones. Viewer discretion is advised."

The video played.

A grainy clip, but unmistakable—F/N, bloodied, locked in primal combat against a monster. Killer Croc was more than a myth now—ten feet tall, eight hundred fifty pounds of muscle and murder, yellow eyes gleaming with malicious intent. His claws, his teeth, all caked with blood. Croc had been whispered about in Arkham for years—an urban legend given form.

Footsteps echoed from the grated pathway—measured but brisk.

"You can't help but make a bloody mess of yourself, can you?"

Alfred Pennyworth descended with his usual poise, glasses perched on his nose, a tray in one hand, first-aid kit in the other. He didn't ask permission—he never needed to. He simply took the needle from F/N's fingers and continued the stitching himself.