Shadows, Plans, and Trust Issues
The sun hadn’t risen yet, but Gotham didn’t care. It never slept, just shifted. The streetlights buzzed overhead as Peter followed Tim along a quiet stretch of old warehouse district, both of them dressed in muted civilian clothes, their movements sharp and calculated.
They hadn’t slept. Not really. After the bar encounter and the name Gaskill, Tim had dragged Peter back to his safehouse, where they began dissecting every known alias, location, and contact connected to that one word. And now they were here.
“This is the place,” Tim said, voice low. “Gaskill’s been known to operate out of here when he’s keeping something or someone off the books. If Malik’s anywhere near him, this is where we’ll start.”
Peter nodded, eyes flicking to the rusted-out loading bay and the broken windows above them. “You think Joker’s involved with Gaskill?”
“Joker doesn’t ‘do’ partners,” Tim said, glancing around. “But he uses people. Gaskill might just be a pawn. Or bait.”
“Awesome,” Peter muttered. “Nothing like walking into a trap with a smile.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “You usually do?”
Peter flashed a quick, tired grin. “Only when I’ve had coffee.”
They scaled the side of the building silently, Peter’s movements effortless with his enhanced agility, Tim’s practiced and precise. Once on the roof, they ducked behind a rusted air duct and surveyed the building below. No guards. No lights. But something felt off.
Peter frowned. “You feel that?”
Tim nodded. “Too quiet.”
Peter activated his lenses, the faint blue of his enhanced vision scanning the interior. “I count heat signatures. Three, maybe four guys. One’s pacing. Two are sitting. And one—" he paused, narrowing his eyes— “not moving.
Could be asleep or… something worse.”
Tim slipped a small camera drone out of his pack. “We’ll know soon.”
They sent the drone in through a cracked window. The tiny device zipped through the warehouse, its silent footage transmitting directly to Tim’s phone. The images flickered: crates, discarded furniture, a table with maps, and then—Malik.
Peter leaned in. “That’s him.”
Malik was curled up on a dirty mattress, thin and pale but breathing. One man sat near him, idly scrolling on a burner phone. The others were scattered, looking bored. It didn’t look like they were expecting company.
“Okay,” Tim said, already calculating. “We go in quiet, non-lethal. We take out the guards, get the kid, get out.”
“And Joker?” Peter asked.
Tim hesitated. “One thing at a time.”
Peter nodded, but his stomach turned. The Joker wasn’t the type to let things go. And Peter had promised him a role in finding Malik. If Joker found out they went around him…
“Alright,” Peter said, voice firmer. “Let’s move.”
The takedown was clean. Tim slipped in through the side door while Peter descended silently from the ceiling. They coordinated without words—Tim stunning the guard by the door with a swift blow to the neck, Peter webbing another to the wall before he could reach for his weapon.
The last one put up a fight. Peter caught a pipe to the shoulder before webbing his legs out from under him and slamming him into the floor.
“Malik,” Peter whispered as he knelt beside the boy. “It’s me. It’s Peter.”
Malik stirred, eyes fluttering open in slow confusion. “Spider…?”
“Yeah, bud. I’m here. We’re getting you out.”
Malik’s lips trembled. “He said… said you wouldn’t come.”
Peter’s heart clenched. He didn’t ask who he was.
They got out before sunrise, slipping through the alleys with Malik slumped against Peter’s back, his arms around Peter’s shoulders in a loose, tired grip. Tim walked slightly ahead, eyes scanning constantly.
Once they were back at the safehouse, Tim gave Malik food, water, and a spare blanket while Peter patched up a shallow cut on his side.
“You’re lucky,” Tim said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “No reinforcements. Either Gaskill was acting alone… or Joker’s already three steps ahead of us.”
Peter leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I need to talk to him.”
Tim stared at him. “You what?”
“I made a deal,” Peter said. “And like it or not, Joker might know something we don’t.”
¨
Tim shook his head. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“No,” Peter agreed. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t make it our problem if I ignore him. If Joker thinks I’m breaking my word, who knows what he’ll do next? He’s unpredictable.”
Malik, who had been half-asleep, opened his eyes. “The guy with the red smile?”
Peter turned. “You saw him?”
Malik nodded slowly. “He came once. Just watched. Didn’t say anything. But he smiled at me.”
Tim stood up sharply. “He knew where Malik was.”
¨
“And didn’t do anything?” Peter asked.
Malik looked down. “He laughed. Then walked away.”
Peter’s fists clenched, his thoughts racing.
Joker hadn’t helped. He’d known—and just let it play out. Because he wanted Peter to come to him.
He stood suddenly. “I need to see him. Tonight.”
Tim grabbed his arm. “You go alone, he wins.”
Peter looked at him. “He already won the moment I made that deal.”
Tim didn’t argue. Not this time.
That night, Peter walked alone through Gotham’s twisting streets, his hoodie pulled up, his eyes alert. He didn’t need to go far—Joker always had a way of finding him.
And sure enough, he did.
The same bar. The same damn bar from all those nights ago.
Peter stepped inside and there he was—Jack Napier, sipping something dark in a chipped glass, wearing that same infuriatingly casual smirk.
“Well,” Jack said, grinning wide. “Look who actually showed up.”
Peter sat down, his chair scraping loud across the floor. “You knew where he was.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You could’ve said something.”
“I could have,” Jack agreed. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Peter’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “He’s a kid.”
“And you’re a fool who thinks this city plays by rules,” Jack replied, unbothered. “I gave you a chance. I was curious. But now?” He sipped his drink. “Now I’m bored.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “Then help us. Help me find out who was pulling the strings. Who gave Gaskill the order.”
Jack’s eyes gleamed with a manic light. “Now that... that could be interesting.”
Peter waited.
Jack leaned in. “You’re lucky, Spider-boy. I like you. You’re sad. You’re messy. You don’t belong here.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his coat and slid it across the table.
A name.
A location.
Peter didn’t touch it.
“What’s the price?” he asked.
Jack’s smile stretched. “Tell me a story.”
Peter blinked. “What?”
“From your world,” Jack said. “Tell me a story. One I haven’t heard. One that hurts.”
Peter didn’t want to. But he nodded.
He told him about May. About the apartment. About forgetting what home felt like. About watching his friends forget him.
By the end of it, Jack just nodded.
“Fair trade,” he said, standing. “See you soon, Parker.”
And he left.
Peter sat there alone, staring at the crumpled note.
He wasn’t sure if he’d won anything. But at least now, they had somewhere to go next.
And this time, he wasn’t doing it alone.
Peter walked the long way back.
He didn’t trust Joker’s information—not completely—but he trusted the game. And Joker didn’t play unless he was invested. That made the paper in his pocket both valuable and terrifying.
The name scrawled across it in looping, theatrical cursive: V. Korin – Blackgate Yards. Docks. South side. Midnight, Tuesday.
He read it five times on the walk back. Memorized every letter, the smudged ink from Joker’s damp fingers, even the way the paper had folded itself like it had been waiting in his pocket the whole time.
The address meant something. Tim would know.
When he reached the safehouse, the lights were dimmed. Malik was asleep on the foldout mattress, curled tightly beneath two blankets. He hadn’t said much after they brought him in. Just a few short answers, a handful of broken thanks. Peter figured it would take time. He didn’t blame him. Gotham left its marks.
Tim sat at the table, still in uniform, mask pulled up to rest against his forehead. His hair was a mess and he was halfway through a pot of coffee that had gone cold.
He looked up when Peter entered.
“Well?”
Peter dropped the paper on the table and sat down across from him.
Tim read it once. Then again. His expression stayed unreadable, but his shoulders stiffened. “This name. Korin. He used to work for the Penguin, did security. Went off-grid after a shootout in the Narrows two years ago.”
“You think he’s working with Joker?” Peter asked.
“I think Joker wants us to think that,” Tim said. “But if this is real—if Korin’s at the docks next Tuesday—we’ll know more than we do now.”
Peter leaned back in his chair. “He wanted a story in exchange.”
Tim blinked. “What?”
“He said he’d give me the name… if I told him a story. From my world.”
“What did you tell him?”
Peter didn’t answer right away. He stared at the chipped surface of the table. “The truth. The kind I don’t even like saying out loud.”
Tim looked at him for a long time, then finally nodded.
“I don’t trust him,” he said. “But I trust that he likes attention. If he wanted us dead, he wouldn’t bother with clues.”
Peter reached for the coffee and made a face. Cold. Bitter. “This is awful.”
“It was warm at some point,” Tim said.
They both chuckled, just a little.
Then Tim stood and grabbed a folded city map from a drawer, spreading it across the table. “Alright. Let’s work this through. Blackgate Yards are a mess. It’s not just docks—it’s an old train depot, storage lots, and a series of tunnels that haven’t been maintained in years.”
Peter moved beside him, scanning the layout. “That’s a lot of places to hide someone. Or something.”
Tim circled the southern edge with a marker. “If Korin’s meeting someone, it’ll be here. Pier Nine. It’s isolated, no security cams, no live feeds. But if Joker’s involved, we can’t just show up with flashlights and good intentions.”
Peter crossed his arms. “So what do we do?”
Tim looked up at him. “We plan. Surveillance first. Drones, thermal scans, motion sensors. I’ve got equipment stashed around the city. I can set it up without alerting anyone.”
“And me?” Peter asked.
“You,” Tim said, grabbing another marker, “are going to be our wildcard.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be flattering?”
“Not even remotely,” Tim said. “But it means you’re not tied to the Bat’s patterns. Joker doesn’t know how you think. You’re not part of this world—so we use that.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Alright. So what’s the plan?”
Over the next two days, they worked nonstop.
Tim operated like a tactician—surgical, exact, almost obsessive. Peter watched him disassemble and rebuild a drone in under ten minutes, reroute a feed through a handheld, and hack into a defunct GCPD signal tower like he was solving a crossword puzzle.
Peter handled the physical end. He planted motion detectors near the waterline. He climbed the skeletal framework of cranes and broken scaffolding, rigging micro-cams at high angles. He memorized the layout, practiced every approach and escape path. Webbed key locations with silent alarms only Tim could detect.
At night, when the city went cold, he sat by Malik’s side while the kid slept. Sometimes he thought Malik would wake up and say something. Other times, he just stared. Peter recognized that silence. It had lived in his bones too once—still did.
By the third night, they had a map. A real one. Of movements. Of patterns. Of possible escape routes. And Joker still hadn’t made another move.
Peter stood at the window of the safehouse, watching the rain streak against the glass. Tim was across the room, scanning blueprints of the warehouse adjacent to the docks.
“You ever wonder if he’s leading us into a trap?” Peter asked quietly.
Tim didn’t look up. “He is.”
Peter smiled, tired. “But we’re going anyway.”
“Of course.”
Peter turned back to the window. “You ever feel like you’re always ten steps behind him?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “Sometimes I think he’s the only one who isn’t following the plan.”
Peter turned, leaning against the wall. “I hate how much he enjoys it.”
Tim nodded. “Joker doesn’t care about winning. He cares about playing. And he thinks we’re worth the time.”
Peter swallowed hard. “He told me he was bored. That I was interesting because I didn’t belong.”
Tim finally looked over. “Then let’s prove him wrong.”
The night before the meet, Peter sat on the fire escape just outside the window. Gotham was buzzing faintly—sirens in the distance, a low hum of life and violence.
Malik came out quietly and sat beside him, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“You think you’ll get him?” he asked.
Peter didn’t ask who.
“I hope so,” he said.
Malik looked at him, eyes tired but clear. “You look different.”
Peter glanced at him. “Yeah?”
“You’re quieter now. Less… I don’t know. Superhero-y.”
Peter huffed a soft laugh. “That’s Gotham for you.”
They sat there in silence, watching the lights of the city blink in the dark.