Chapter Text
You taste Gotham on the air and breath deeply, accepting its filth into your young lungs.
It tasted like tar, ash and villainy. Under you the city heaves, rolling and churning, spewing crime like weeping sores. A hundred million people, every one a stranger, all the same and all so different from what you're used to. Gotham infects them, changes them, warps them, like you can feel it warping you.
You love it.
You stand and catch the tail of the breeze, stretch your legs over the rooftops edge. The winds rush past like a sigh of disappointment.
You are young. Your muscles coil like steel springs, and you leap over the daunting gap, skidding onto concrete. You are running like a deer, running like you were born to run.
A diamond bounces out of the bag at your hip, and you snatch it back easily. You need to invest in better inventory, but the diamond is a cool kiss against your lips. You laugh.
You are going to love this city.
NEW CATWOMAN? DIAMOND STOLEN FROM ART SHOWCASE
You spread the newspaper over your fresh black granite workspace, working your toes into the thick fur carpet. You skim the article with little interest, only slightly annoyed. You'd hoped to be a copy-cat (if you excuse the pun) for a little while longer. The best heist, you reason, is one people don't even realise happened.
Now, there was no way you'd ever be able to fit comfortably in a catsuit, not with all the Cupid Diets, great make-up and boob-padding in the world, but as an illusionist you could take a few liberties. It wasn't the best grade of magic ever, you couldn't illusion-up a proper room or scenario for more than a little while and only on a few people at a time. You couldn't, like, make someone relive their greatest nightmares (not that you'd really want to, to be fair, you did have standards, after all) but it was fairly useful for petty crimes. And not-so-petty crimes.
You stretch over to the expensive cappuccino maker, that makes 'outstanding, beautiful blends'. You don't know how you'd tell if it was any good when all you get is a thimble-size, but there you go.
Maybe you should chose another villain to impersonate. But, damn it, you really enjoyed being cat-woman. You could do flips, make cat-puns, crack a whip about. It was a riot.
And anyway, you reason as the coffee-maker excreted a 'rich and flavourful blend' of god-knows-what, most Gotham villains stole with a purpose. Well, a purpose other than making $$$. The joker stole a giant hot air balloon so he can pump it full of joker-farts or whatever, and burst it over Gotham. Even the penguin stole stuff because he's gotta paint a giant penguin on it and turn it into a bomb or something.
If too many—
“Cuz?” A voice calls from the doorway.
You jerk around, surprised. “Addie?” You frown, glancing at the clock. “I thought you'd be cowering from the sunlight at this hour. What, don't tell me you've finally decided to stop mooching of distant relatives and you're getting a proper job?”
Adalbrecht laughs. “As if. Not all of us are freaks like you.”
You hum, and swallow your coffee in a single gulp. Not as impressive as it sounds. You gesture to the newspaper. “It looks like I can't use Catwoman anymore.”
Adalbrecht leans over your shoulder. “I can't see why not. I mean, you might attract Batman, but if you can get in and get out fast enough it shouldn't be a problem. I don't think Catwoman will sue you for plaguerism.”
You laugh. “Yeah, but I've got a better idea.”
“End of the line, Rough cut, Catwoman.” Batman appears like smoke, shadowed closely by little Robin.
shit shit shit SHIT SHIT.
You try to look calm and collected, draped languidly over the throne. You desperately add details as the pair approach, the bright sheen of new leather, the glint of rough-cut's teeth, but you can't keep up with Robin's sharp, calculating eyes. You really never wanted to face the dynamic duo, especially not with Adalbrecht working as a model.
You sit up slowly, muscles moving like water over a rocks. “You got me. What's to say I leave you the diamonds and we call it even, kids?”
You actually mean it. Heck, you'd nip back home and give them some freebies if you thought it'd help. But it doesn't work like that, and already you're wondering if you have enough skill to leave air copies of Catwoman and Rough-Cut behind while you make a quick get away.
Robin's eyes flashes to Rough-Cut, suspicion growing.
Shit, SHIT SHIT SHIT!! You forgot Rough-Cut was more than a front, he was supposed to be a calculating, evil man. He is supposed to hate woman as well, they'd already be suspicious of his involvement.
Your eyes flicker shut it what you hope is a saucy wink, and Rough-Cut reaches for his gun.
Big mistake.
The batarang sinks into Adalbrecht's chest.
The illusion shatters like glass.
You brother falls, slowly, but you're barely there to catch him. His weight pins you awkwardly to the ground, and you fumble with his chest. Your thoughts are slow and sluggish.
“I didn't—” The Batman tries, taking a step forward, “I thought—”
You pull off your shirt, and press it against the sides of the batarang, applying pressure. You move on instinct, brain still not functioning. “Leave...” you say, quietly.
“Look, I'll call an ambulance,” The Batman moves forward, dark cloak catching the wind.
“LEAVE!” You scream, and Batman stumbles.
Suddenly Robin's attention is on Batman. He moves with such poise and confidence, a stumble in unheard of. Robin's gaze flickers from him to the bleeding teenager, flicking out a batarang of his own. Mind control? He knew they had illusionary powers, but…
The Batman turns on his heel, and walks out. Robin follows mistrustfully, casting glances back at the pair, half-expecting something to happen.
As soon as they leave you turn your attention to Adalbrecht, mind working sluggishly, but speeding up. You flip out a phone, keeping one hand around the batarang.
Your (pretty limited) medical knowledge told you it would be a tough one, but he'd be alright.
You hoped.
“Adalbrecht? Your father's here to see you.”
Adalbrecht glances up from the papers, wincing as pain lances through his chest. He presses a hand gingerly to his ribs, and swallows. Father? Unless a damn zombie came through the door, he really doubted that. He shut off the television with his free hand. “Send him in.”
What walks through the door is the cheesiest, most over the top father figure he's ever seen. A chiselled, square jaw dusted with six-o'-clock shadow, clear blue eyes like January skies, a bushy moustache, ginger hair flecked with grey. A powerful, broad-shouldered build. A monocle.
“Vatti!” Adalbrecht tried his hardest to sound high-pitched and sweet through his laughter.
“Wie geht's, Halbstarke?” You ask, tugging on your moustache. You tried to sound regal, and dammit you succeeded.
“Good, good, Vatti. Got stabbed, but it's all good, really.” Adalbrecht sunk back into his pillows, breathing out a laugh.
“The surgery was okay?” You ask, taking off your hat to reveal a magnificent full-head of hair. The grey around your temples is really just for show. It made a few nurses swoon.
“It's all fine. I'll have a scar, and I won't be able to do strenuous physical exercise for a bit, but all the, uh, knife did was put a big hole in my ribs.” Adalbrecht sighed, then grinned crookedly. “I love the monocle, Vatti. Nice touch.”
“You like it?” You make a move to touch it, but since you can't really feel it you have to guess where it is. You end up making a vague gesture instead. “I got it after a surprisingly successful paycheck.”
“Oh, that got through, did it?” Adalbrecht's grin widened. “Ka-ching!” He mouthed.
“Ja, junge,” You stand up, towering over his bedside, “Ka-ching.”
Robin coils his muscles, white eyes narrowing to the horizon. He slinks through the shadows of Gotham's highest towers, dropping glances down the sprawl of streets, ears pricked to the sound of screams.
It is at times like these, he feels the most powerful, and the least human. He is not Damian Wayne, in this moment. He feels like a warrior of justice, sleepless as the city he roamed, without anger, fear, love or sorrow.
His fingers curl around the edge of the building, eyes slitting at the darkness, tensing his muscles for—
“Robin!” Batman called.
Robin didn't startle, he told himself. He simply froze in order to assess the need to turn. He turned slowly, the dark shadow of Batman solidifying on the rooftop.
“Robin, status report.” Batman orders.
Robin glares, straightening up. All his anger rises to the surface. “Sorry, Grayson, but you're not my father. You don't get to lock me up whenever you feel like it.”
Under the batman illusion, you flinch at the heat of his glare. Batman steels his face. “No, Robin, status report. On the copy-cat illusionist. I mean it.”
Robin's eyes widen, and he leans back a little. “You're no mad at me for sneaking out of the manor…?”
Oh, jeez. You take a chance to glance across the magnificent city, and try to think of something batsy. “I am not angry at you doing your job, Robin.”
Robin's eyes are fixed on Batman for a few minuets, and then something like pride blooms over his features. “They live with their distant cousin, Adalbrecht, in a high-rise apartment in Gotham's city centre. They were adopted into Adalbrecht's family when they were three, after their parents died in a car-crash, and they have lived together in France for three years, then in Germany for five years, where Adalbrecht's parents and younger brother died, and then moved to North Dakota and lived there until a few months ago, when they moved to Gotham and became instantly rich, which no traceable income. The time they moved also matches the sudden increase in crimes linked to Cat-woman, almost to the day.” Robin finishes up, damn near beaming.
“We don't have any evidence strongly linking them to the crimes, so we can't do anything with the information yet.” Batman says sternly. “Their illusions are picked up by the cameras, so we can't counteract it with any breath equipment.”
Robin blinks, surprised, and looks out over the city too.
You suddenly have no idea what to do, or how to leave. You flex your muscles under your suit, watching them bulge while Robin looks away, disgusted. See, Cat-woman never has this problem. She just makes and innuendo, and/or saucy wink and just slips elegantly into the night.
“So, Robin,” You start, coughing awkwardly.
Robin ignores you.
“What do you think of the Copy-cat? As a person, I mean.”
Robin huffs. “They're despicable.”
You resist the temptation to press a hand dramatically to your chest and weep. You are a lot of things, and Drama-Queen is certainly up there. “How so?” you ask, keeping your voice bat-manly. Ha.
“Illusionists are the worst kind of criminals. They twist peoples minds, steal credit from the hard-working, ruin names and families. They're cardboard crooks,” Robin snarls, “Phonies.”
You sigh, and dangle a leg off the building's side. “I don't know, I think this one's kind-of cute.”
Robin snaps his head around, staring.
You stick out your tongue, and blow a wet raspberry.
Robin is twisting around scrambling for his batarangs, but you're already slipping off the building, disappearing into the night.
Your laughter ricochets through Gotham while the batarangs glance uselessly from the steel giants.