Batman is a master of stealth, tactics, and escape, and the Robins who have worked alongside him have learned many of his techniques. Nightwing, the first Robin and the one who has spent the most time with Batman, is the most skilled of them all.

Over the years, more than one person has donned the Batsuit—some temporarily taking his place, others, like Nightwing, doing so as a disguise—but in the end, the suit always belongs to Bruce Wayne.

Thus, “Batman” is an urban legend, a ghost in the city, a figure that strikes terror into the hearts of criminals. Except for the supervillains, most criminals are intimidated by the mere mention of his name, believing he is unbeatable. And the supervillains? Every one of them dreams of dragging him into the abyss.

But right now, it’s Nightwing who’s here.

The deal below was almost complete. Both parties had exchanged what they wanted, and Nightwing knew that if he didn’t move soon, he would miss his chance. So, when Vivi called him “Nightwing,” his first thought was: I knew it.

Did she know the real identities behind the vigilantes, though?

“Alright, Vivi, I’m guessing you’re not hiding a bomb under your clothes this time,” Nightwing said. “So, can you let me go? They’re about to finish the deal and take off.”

They were perched on a gargoyle statue that adorned the building. Behind them was an open, glassless window. Vivi had extended the pipe through that window.

She’d been there longer than Nightwing, having staked out the area deliberately. Thanks to her map, she’d been watching him since he appeared at the edge of it—while he focused on the smugglers, she had focused on him.

Vivi pointed out the window, then raised the pipe, lifting Nightwing—who was much larger than her—like one might lift a cat.

After all, players don’t have strength limits.

Luckily, this was a very cooperative “cat,” who curled up instinctively and made no sound, landing as softly as a real cat when he touched the ground.

Nightwing could see what was happening outside—

Blinding car headlights illuminated the dock as the police made their move. The crooks, growing more desperate, ducked behind the cars, some pulling out guns. With the dark sea behind them, they were cornered.

But from beneath the docks, a shadow surged out of the water. The figure took down the rearmost thug with a single strike and, in one smooth motion, disarmed the others as they turned in shock.

Even from this distance, Nightwing could tell from the efficient movements that this person was highly skilled in combat.

The leader managed to fire off a few panicked shots, grazing the intruder, before he tried to scramble back into the car and drive through the blockade.

But before he could do so, the figure ran up, leapt onto the roof of the car, and punched straight through it.

—Nightwing’s own hand twitched in sympathy at the sight of the punch.

When the woman was finally fully illuminated by the police floodlights, Nightwing recognized her as Bella Bettywen, the warden of Blackgate Prison.

Has Gotham really come to the point where the prison warden has to catch criminals herself?

^[1]TN: hahaha

The woman jumped off the car roof and, looking directly at the window where they were standing, waved off the officers without speaking to them. She then headed straight for their location.

“Alright,” Nightwing sighed, adjusting his cape. “You should probably let me go now, right?”

Vivi cut the flow of mercury.

After engraving it on an item, the player could choose from a menu whether or not to continuously supply mercury to maintain the magic effect. This particular pipe, bought from the in-game store, was reliable, even purifying the air around it—and it had successfully caught the “bird” flying through the night.

“So, why are you looking for Batman?” Nightwing asked. He didn’t bother asking how Vivi knew he was Nightwing—at least she hadn’t called him “Dick Grayson.”

Having successfully caught Nightwing, Vivi figured they were all on the same team, so she explained her purpose.

Meanwhile, Bella—the alter-ego Vivi was controlling simultaneously—entered the building and wiped her face with the cloak Vivi handed her. She’d been hiding under the docks and was still dripping with seawater.

Nightwing raised an eyebrow and glanced at Bella. “The warden could probably train you. Why are you so set on finding Batman?”

“Training with you would be fine, too,” Vivi clasped her hands together, using the same plea she’d tried before. “I want to become a superhero, just like you.”

Once she maxed out her combat skills, all the supervillains would be thrown into jail, and no one could stop her from building her infrastructure empire in Gotham!

“It’s not as simple as that,” Nightwing said, almost reflexively slipping into the default dialogue of the game’s skill trainers. “You have to train day after day, sharpen your skills, and face dangerous enemies. You’ll get hurt—you might even die. Are you sure about this?”

The warden stood aside with her arms crossed, clearly not intending to interfere with their conversation.

“Do you think not learning these things will keep me out of the fight?” Vivi asked.

Dick fell silent.

He also recalled that this girl healed quickly and revived after death. She seemed to treat danger as a gift, a kind of blessing. The comms were silent—both Tim and Barbara were letting him make the call.

“Alright, but I have a condition,” Nightwing said finally. “I’ll train you during the day, but at night, you have to come on patrol with me.”

He could tell that even if he refused, she’d find another way to get involved in dangerous situations. So, why not keep her close, where he could protect her? After all, Batman always looked out for his sidekicks, and Nightwing would do the same.

Nightwing had no idea that his proposal was exactly what the person before him had been hoping for.

Since Bella had become the warden, Vivi couldn’t constantly send her “alternate” out to capture criminals like she had today. After all, she was part of the prison system now, not the police force. She could release prisoners and then capture them again, but she had a feeling Batman’s sense of justice wouldn’t tolerate that for long.

Having vigilantes in the city had its pros and cons—they helped maintain stability. Despite the rotating parade of supervillains, Gotham’s crime and death rates had actually dropped significantly since Batman appeared; Vivi had seen the reports herself.

But she had no desire to end up on a list of “unstable factors” for the vigilantes to monitor—and she was sure they had such a list. Especially Batman. He definitely had one.

Bella moved suddenly, stepping closer to Nightwing and raising her hand—

Nightwing glanced at her, took a deep breath, and raised his own hand. The two of them high-fived.

Bella: “I’m entrusting Vivi to you, no, to all of you.”

Nightwing lowered his voice, “Next time you say something like that, I hope you’ll clarify which identity you’re using when you do.”

Bella shot him a look but said nothing, and the two of them separated. Nightwing caught sight of Vivi, and as she turned her head to watch the warden, he noticed the “VV” brand on the back of her neck, the red letters stark against her skin.

A sinking feeling crept into his chest.

Bella reached over and fastened Vivi’s cloak, covering the brand.

She raised an eyebrow. “At least I’m not pretending to be Batman, unlike someone.”

Nightwing coughed, embarrassed.

Vivi didn’t push the issue of where Batman was—she’d achieved her goal after all.

She made her alternate say goodbye, sending Bella back to Blackgate Prison, and then asked, “So, are we starting tonight?”

Nightwing looked her up and down. “You’ll need a disguise, and… no horseback riding.”

Vivi shrugged. “So, does this count as a mini superhero training course? I’ll pay you, Nightwing.”

Nightwing shrugged too. Wearing Batman’s suit while doing this felt pretty strange.

[You have unlocked a new investment opportunity.]

[Become the investor of “Nightwing’s One-on-One Mini Hero Training Course.”]

[Suggested investment amount: ???]

Vivi smiled, drawing out her words, “I really will pay you, I swear.”

…

Meanwhile, back at Blackgate Prison.

Bruce hid the key up his sleeve. It was the key to the warehouse where the masks were made—only three types of people had access to it: Penguin, the guards, and the warden.

He’d swiped it from one of the guards.

Training a group of hardened criminals to help rebuild the prison? While the reason made sense, Bruce couldn’t shake his suspicions.

When he was assigned to train them, Bruce ended up fighting all of them. And because he couldn’t quite hold back, he’d sent several of them to the prison infirmary—it was hard to be gentle when he was fighting unarmed against multiple opponents.

During all of this, the warden never showed up, and he wasn’t put back in solitary confinement either. Instead, he was moved to a room closer to the training area.

The next morning, he noticed that the men he’d sent to the infirmary didn’t return. Instead, ten more hardened criminals had been added to the group—after all, Blackgate was never short on those. Minor thieves and robbers wouldn’t be imprisoned here; they’d spend a few days in GCPD lockup before being released.

Bruce went through the same routine, beating the new group into submission before teaching them how to operate the machinery. Fearful of Bruce’s strength and the guards’ guns, they followed orders, but they banged on the machines’ outer shells in frustration, making a lot of noise but not showing any real work ethic.

They certainly didn’t seem like people who were ready to work.

Letting these murderers work—weren’t they afraid they might use the opportunity to escape?

The warden must have something else up her sleeve.

Bruce’s mission time was almost up, and he knew he had to take a risk.

That night, after dinner, Bruce snuck out of the library, climbing through a window into the exercise yard. He moved stealthily along the shadows cast by the walls, making his way to the warehouse and using the key to get inside.

Penguin wasn’t there yet, but from overheard conversations, Bruce had gathered some intel: tonight, the warehouse was supposed to be closed. Minor offenders wouldn’t be working, either.

He suspected something would go down tonight.

Bruce hid among the stacked masks in the warehouse. He quickly freed his hands from the handcuffs—it wasn’t hard.

I might have been a spy, or maybe a thief, he thought. The latter seems more likely, though. A detective wouldn’t need such combat skills, and a spy wouldn’t be so familiar with Gotham’s prisons.

If nothing happened tonight, he’d just return to the library before 10:00, and no one would notice his absence.

At 9:12, he heard the door to the warehouse open.

Through the chirping of a bird, he heard Penguin’s grating voice, “Line up, everyone. Grab your uniforms, then pick up a mask and put it on.”

Then, in eerie silence, he heard the shuffling of many feet—yet no one spoke a word.

The storeroom door creaked open, and one by one, uniformed figures walked in, picking up masks as if they were mindless drones. Bruce narrowed his eyes, and then he made his move, grabbing the last person in line and pulling them into the shadows, knocking them out.

He recognized the man—one of the hardened criminals he’d trained earlier that day. But now, the man was acting like an empty shell, like a puppet with no will of his own.

What was Penguin planning to make them do?

Bruce dragged the man to the back of the storeroom and cuffed him, then quickly switched into the prisoner’s uniform.

What on earth was Penguin doing with these men?

He put on a mask, mimicking the others, and slowly shuffled forward in line.

By the moonlight, he saw Penguin standing at the front with his hands behind his back, counting the group one by one. Once there were 30 people, he herded them onto the waiting transport trucks parked on the open ground.

Penguin eventually got into one of the trucks himself, but it wasn’t the same one Bruce was in.

A total of 181 people, spread across six trucks, left Blackgate Prison in a convoy.

“The warden is definitely hiding something,” Bruce thought, copying the blank expressions of the others, while subtly scanning the guards below with his peripheral vision. “The guards don’t seem to be under any kind of control. So, this must be something the warden has approved—maybe even directed herself.”

But where were they headed?

Organ trafficking? Human experiments? Secret executions? Human trafficking?

Half an hour later, Bruce found himself in the East End District’s sewers, holding a shovel.