DCU: Split

Nolan woke with a dry groan, his mouth like sandpaper and his head pulsing as he thought back to the cluster of last night.

He rubbed his eyes, blinking against the cold gray light bleeding through the narrow slit of a window. His cot groaned beneath him as he sat up, body stiff, muscles aching in places he didn't even know how to use.

The taste of metal clung to the back of his throat.

He turned his head toward the cell across the hall.

Two-Face was already up, dressed, seated neatly on the edge of his cot like he'd been waiting there for hours. His half-scarred face looked oddly composed in the morning light, the clean side freshly shaved, the burned side as unmoving as ever. The bastard looked almost refreshed.

Nolan muttered something under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the cot.

The lights in the hall buzzed once before the buzzers rang. Locks clicked. One by one, cell doors shuddered open.

Nolan stood slowly, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingers.

He and Harvey stepped out at the same time. They didn't say a word.

Neither of them acknowledged the quiet smear on the floor near the far corner where the guard had collapsed, or the faint scuff marks where the linen cart had been wheeled away.

Nothing was said.

Arkham's silence was kind of nice for things of this nature.

They walked in lockstep with the other inmates toward the cafeteria, shoulders brushing with the shuffle of orange and gray jumpsuits, guards barking orders, boots echoing against the concrete floor.

In the line, Nolan took a tray and grimaced as the usual scoop of gray gruel plopped onto his plate. A shriveled apple followed. The scent alone made his stomach twist.

He moved through the line and took his seat beside Harvey, who was already eating with slow, thoughtful bites, flipping his coin between his fingers like it was part of his breathing. 

Eventually Harvey wondered off to talk to some of his associates leaving Nolan all alone. 

A moment later, someone slid into the seat across from him.

He glanced up and paused. Sitting there, calm and unbothered, was Jonathan Crane.

Nolan blinked. "Morning."

Crane nodded politely. "Morning."

There was a stretch of quiet while both men picked at their food. Nolan chewed slowly, trying to remember if Crane had ever sat here before.

"You always eat this early?" Nolan asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

"Depends on the block rotation," Crane replied. "They shuffled the times again. I think I'm on Block D's schedule now."

"Lucky you," Nolan muttered, scooping a bit of bland gruel. "This stuff's somehow worse when it's hot."

Crane gave the faintest hint of amusement. "I've had worse. It's at least warm."

Another pause. The cafeteria buzzed quietly around them chairs scraping, trays clattering, low murmured conversations. It was peaceful in a strange, institutional way.

"You been in here long?" Nolan asked.

Crane shrugged. "Long enough. Here's a tip don't lose the trial you'll be stuck here forever even if you're sane." 

Nolan guffawed, "Yeah, I don't plan on it." 

***

The streets of Gotham pulsed under a hazy orange sky, slick with late rain and framed by sirens in the distance. A humming car rolled to a stop outside a grimy glass building tucked in the Financial District cleaner than most places in Gotham, but still shadowed by its skyline.

Inside the car, Floyd Lawton Deadshot tapped his gloved fingers against the steering wheel.

He checked his gear in the mirror: wrist-mounted guns prepped, rifle broken down into compartments in his case. Mask beside him. His target, a mid-level crime broker known for selling metahuman contraband, was due to exit that building in six minutes flat.

He stepped out of the car, calm and precise. A black duffel slung over his shoulder. No rush.

Five minutes later, the broker plump, sweating, and flanked by two men stepped out into the humid street. Floyd, posted across from him atop an old delivery truck, didn't hesitate.

One shot. Clean.

The broker crumpled to the pavement.

And then all hell broke loose.

The two bodyguards drew guns, shouting. A third figure emerged from the alley behind them, and gunfire lit up the street.

Floyd ducked behind the truck, rolled out, returned fire. One went down immediately. The second stumbled, then dropped after a second shot to the chest. But more men poured out of side alleys eight, maybe ten total. The hit hadn't been clean. This was a trap.

Floyd cursed under his breath. That was when he heard the flutter of a cape.

A batarang thunked into the metal just inches from his head.

"Batman," Floyd growled, "Fuckin Gotham it's almost every time at this point." 

Batman descended from a fire escape, silent and brutal. In one motion, he struck two of the remaining thugs and sent a third into the wall with a boot to the chest.

Floyd darted through the chaos, slipping between gunfire and shouts, keeping distance. He fired several times each bullet precisely aimed at Batman's armored torso.

The Dark Knight dodged most, but one round scraped his side. Enough to slow him. Not enough to stop him.

Meanwhile, Robin landed hard on the opposite end of the alley and instantly dropped into the fray. Staff spinning, he disarmed two thugs and used a grapnel to slam a third into a trash bin.

"I got the riffraff!" Robin called.

"You better," Floyd muttered, already sprinting toward the rooftops.

Batman followed. The chase climbed the side of a maintenance building, crossed rusted HVAC units, then leapt to a scaffolded apartment tower. Rain slicked the rooftop as Floyd turned, fired, missed, turned again. Batman closed in.

Floyd threw down a flash pellet and vanished into the smoke, reappearing behind a steel duct.

The brawl was up close now. Grapple. Strike. Evade.

Batman grabbed Floyd by the arm—Floyd countered with a headbutt and drove a fist into Batman's ribs, twisting out of the lock.

Blood ran down his side from the bullet graze, but he moved like a machine.

Robin finally caught up, flying upward with his grapnel.

A mistake.

Floyd turned and fired instinctively one shot clipped Robin's shoulder midair.

"Robin!" Batman shouted.

The boy dropped.

Batman dove off the edge without hesitation, catching Robin against his chest with the grapnel line hooked into a fire escape rail.

By the time they landed on the sidewalk below, Floyd was gone.

Back at the Continental, Floyd entered through the side service entrance, soaked in sweat and blood. His mask was tucked away, and his side throbbed.

The concierge seemed to materialize out of nowhere, and greeted him without flinching.

"Rough evening, sir?"

Floyd didn't respond. climbed the stairs to the fifteenth floor, and vanished into his room.

As Floyd stripped from his gear he heard a knock, strangely it didn't come from his door but instead a wall, "May I come in sir?" I voice asked 

Floyd picked up his gun, "Sure." He grunted 

The wall seemed to swing forward and our stepped a man dressed in a doctors uniform, "Let's patch you up sir,"