The first light of dawn struggled through Gotham's cloud cover. What little sunlight managed to break through fell across the East End Precinct in weak, grey rays that did nothing to warm the blood-soaked ground below.
The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving everything slick and cold.
Darnell stood at the precinct's main entrance with five other officers, all of them sporting matching dark circles under their eyes. They were working together to shift the last few sandbags that had been piled against the door, moving around the tripwire Edward had rigged to a flashbang and pepper spray canister.
"Easy," he muttered, crouching down to examine the mechanism. "Ed really outdid himself with this one. Look at this shit... the wire's connected to three separate triggers. You trip one, all three go off."
One of the officers, a kid named Hayes who'd only been on the job six months, swallowed hard. "Can you disarm it?"
"Yeah. Just... nobody breathe on me for a second."
Darnell's hands moved slowly, disconnecting the wires one at a time. When the last wire came free, he let out a breath.
"Clear."
The officers grabbed the final sandbag and hauled it aside. Together, they gripped the door's handle and pulled.
Screeeech.
The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed across the empty street as the door slowly swung open. The hinges protested every inch of movement, grinding like they'd been welded shut and then forced apart.
And then they saw what was waiting outside.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Hayes breathed.
Bodies in black tactical gear were scattered everywhere, some sprawled flat on their backs, others crumpled in heaps. Most were unconscious.
Some of the bodies were charred black, skin cracked and peeling from high-voltage electric shocks. Others snored like chainsaws, knocked out by whatever sedative Edward had cooked up. And then there were the ones who'd triggered the lethal traps. They were very clearly dead.
Rain had washed some of the blood away, but not enough.
"Holy shit," Darnell said quietly. He'd known the fighting outside had been intense. He'd heard it through the walls.
One of the officers leaned over and vomited into a bush.
Gordon stepped through the door, a half-smoked cigar clamped between his teeth. He surveyed the scene. His coat was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and there was dried blood on his sleeve, not his own, from the look of it.
He picked his way through the debris field, stepping over bodies and spent shell casings, until he found a relatively clear spot near the street. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed headquarters.
The line rang three times before someone picked up.
"Logistics, Brennan speaking."
"Brennan, this is Gordon. I need transport to the East End Precinct. Multiple units. We have a situation. I need at least seven prison vans, plus additional vehicles from the morgue. Bring body bags."
There was a pause on the other end. "How many prisoners are we talking about?"
Gordon looked around, doing a rough count in his head. "I don't have an exact number. Alive and dead combined, at least forty. Possibly more. They're high-risk criminals. Armed and dangerous, or they were. Most of them are down now. Send all survivors to Blackgate. Lock up as many as you can. The dead go straight to the morgue."
"Forty?" Brennan's voice went up an octave. "What the hell happened over there?"
"You don't want to know." Gordon hung up before the guy could ask more questions.
He stood there for a moment, and shook his head slowly. This was probably the largest single haul of high-risk criminals in GCPD history. The paperwork alone was going to be a nightmare. And most of them hadn't even been taken down by cops.
He nudged one of the corpses with the toe of his boot and sighed.
"How am I supposed to write this report?"
---
Marco emerged from the precinct lobby, rubbing his temples. Every muscle in his body ached, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled something in his shoulder during the fight with the shadow demons.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw the battlefield.
"Damn."
He'd known it was bad. But seeing it laid out like this was something else.
"The cleaning company's definitely charging extra for this."
Darnell snorted. "You think?"
Marco turned and waved at the cluster of East End officers standing behind him in the lobby, all of them looking about as rough as he felt.
"Alright, listen up. Leave a few people here to help Gordon inventory the bodies and bag evidence. The rest of you, Dale, take them to the cafeteria in the new building. See if they're serving breakfast yet. Buy as much food as you can carry and bring it back here. We're gonna need it."
Darnell's eyes lit up. "Your treat?"
"Put it on the chief's tab."
"Hell yeah!" Darnell perked up immediately, waving over a few officers who looked like they could still walk without passing out. "You heard the man. Let's go get some food."
They headed off toward the new building. Marco stood in the doorway for another moment, watching Gordon coordinate the cleanup effort, then turned and headed back inside.
He'd almost forgotten, there were still two people locked in the holding room.
---
Marco unlocked the door to the holding room and opened it.
Dr. Quinzel was sitting on the edge of the cot, looking surprisingly energetic for someone who'd spent the night locked in a cell. She was fixing her hair in a small compact mirror, adjusting her glasses, humming something under her breath that might've been a pop song.
Raven sat cross-legged on the other cot, eyes closed. Her face looked better than it had last night.
"Hi, Captain!" Dr. Quinzel chirped, snapping the compact shut. "Can I go out now? I forgot to bring my makeup bag in."
"Yeah, you're good." Marco stepped aside to let her pass. "While you're at it, use your expertise and check on the officers who got possessed last night. Make sure there's no lasting psychological damage or I don't know, demon residue."
"Oh, demon residue! I like that. Okay, no problem! I'll give them a full workup. Cognitive function tests, emotional baseline assessments, maybe some Rorschach inkblots if I can find any—"
"Just make sure they're okay."
"Got it!" She skipped out of the room.
Marco watched her go, then sighed. "Why does it feel like she's getting more unhinged every day?"
"Because she's the type who chases excitement," Raven said without opening her eyes.
Marco turned back. Raven was looking at him now, those strange violet eyes calm and unreadable.
"I can sense her soul's fondness for chaos and disorder. It might not show in everyday life, but if there's a sudden temptation or stimulus, she could slide into something irreversible. She's standing at the edge of a cliff, and part of her wants to jump."
Marco rubbed his face. "Don't tell me she became a psychologist just so she could enjoy watching other people fall apart."
He glanced through the doorway. Out in the main hall, Dr. Quinzel was clapping her hands together, gathering the tactical team around her. The guys perked up the moment she started talking. She had that effect on people. Or maybe it was just that none of them wanted to look weak in front of a pretty woman.
She praised them, teased them, gently scolded a few who'd made tactical mistakes. And every single one of them took it without complaint.
"Professionally speaking, though," Marco admitted, "she does seem pretty competent."
Raven said nothing. She just watched Dr. Quinzel work.
---
Noise erupted from outside as Darnell returned, already leading a small convoy of officers carrying boxes stacked high with food.
Burgers. Fries. Coffee. Hot chocolate. Soda. Donuts. Breakfast sandwiches.
The smell hit Marco hard. His stomach growled so loudly that he was pretty sure Raven heard it from across the room.
"Alright, everyone," he called out. "Grab some food first. You've earned it."
He reached out and pulled Raven to her feet. "Come on. But don't drink too much soda. You'll crash later."
Raven gave him a look, but didn't argue. She let him lead her toward the main hall. Halfway there, Edward hurried over, looking agitated.
"Marco, there's something I need to tell you."
Marco glanced down at Raven. She shot him a sideways look.
"I'm not mute. If there's danger, I'll yell."
"Okay." Marco patted her shoulder and stepped aside with Edward. "What's up, Ed?"
Edward pushed his glasses up his nose. "Early this morning, around three-thirty, Jim went somewhere secluded to take a phone call."
Marco blinked. His brain was moving through molasses. "And... what's the problem with him taking a call?"
"Three-thirty in the morning," Edward repeated, like this should be obvious. "Who would be calling him at that hour? His wife? There was no need for him to hide the conversation. He used to be the type who liked showing off how much his wife adored him. I've heard him take calls from her in the middle of briefings."
He frowned, thinking it through out loud.
"Or maybe he's an inside man for the assassins? No... that doesn't track. His character wouldn't allow for betrayal."
Marco rubbed his face, trying to wake his brain up. "Maybe it was some government agency still working at—"
He stopped mid-sentence, realizing how ridiculous that sounded.
"Just tell me the answer, Ed. Don't make me guess. My brain's barely functioning right now."
"I think," Edward said, "that the most likely explanation is the vigilante who was fighting outside. Jim has his contact information. He probably knows his identity. Should we find a way to arrest him?"
Marco's exhausted brain finally caught up.
Oh. Right. Batman.
He'd almost forgotten. Loeb might be gone, but the warrant for Batman's arrest was still technically active. Essen hadn't officially canceled it, doing so would look like endorsement of vigilante justice, which would open a whole can of political worms. So everyone just pretended not to notice. Cops on the street looked the other way. The bureaucrats didn't bring it up. And Batman kept doing his thing.
"Well..." Marco sat down on a nearby bench, gesturing for Edward to join him. "Think about it this way, Ed. If we arrested that guy, who would've dealt with the dozens of assassins outside last night?"
Edward considered this. "That's a fair point. But aren't you curious about who he really is?"
"Why would I be?" Marco shrugged. "Whoever's under the mask, he's working for free. We're benefiting from it. So we should respect his little quirks, don't you think?"
Edward thought about it for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I suppose you're right. What he does doesn't really affect us, as long as he's helping."
Marco clapped him on the shoulder. "Now come on. Stop worrying about other people and go eat something. How much energy does the brain use again?"
"About twenty to twenty-five percent of the body's total energy expenditure," Edward said automatically. "During focused cognitive work, consumption can increase by another five to ten percent."
He paused, then smiled slightly.
"You're right. I should eat."
---
They walked toward the entrance together. The officers and tactical team members gathered around the food like scavengers around a carcass. They forgot about the bloodstains on the floor, the unconscious prisoners being loaded into vans outside, the aches and pains in their bodies. They were too busy fighting over the biggest burgers, the crispiest fries, and the last chocolate donut.
Marco grabbed a coffee and a breakfast sandwich, then leaned against the wall to watch.
Darnell was arguing with Hayes over who got the last bacon cheeseburger. Dr. Quinzel was perched on a desk, swinging her legs and eating fries while she chatted with three officers who were hanging on her every word. Gordon stood near the door, chewing on a donut and looking at his phone.
Raven sat by herself in the corner, nibbling on a plain bagel and sipping orange juice. She looked out of place among the chaos, like a ghost watching the living go about their business.
Edward joined Marco by the wall, holding a cup of tea and a muffin.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I think this might be the first time in GCPD history that we've had breakfast on a battlefield."
Marco snorted. "Probably. Don't put that in the report."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
They stood there in silence, eating their food.
---
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