Carmine Falcone lit up a cigar. He puffed a cloud of smoke right into Bruce Wayne’s face. The boy didn’t even flinch. His blue eyes remained as stern as ever.

“You know why I’m here,” Bruce said.

Carmine raised a hand. “Hold on. Years back, during the Long Halloween as the cops call it, I offered you and your company a deal.” Carmine started twirling his fingers, staring at his fingernails. “You pretended you were better than me, that your company, the company your father built might I add was better than what we had in mind for it. And now, some freak that belongs in Arkham brings up the ugly details about your father’s past and now you come rushing in here without a notice? You don’t even address me with the respect I deserve, and you expect what… information?”

Brucie boy was silent. Carmine never could get a read on him, even when he was a boy.

“You know how much I could get if I told the media that Bruce Wayne son of the money laundering, tax evading Thomas Wayne came to my office for my advice just like his father before him.” Carmine leaned back, flicking his cigarette. “Why I’d make a fortune. The media hounds would eat it up.”

“You’d be incriminated,” Bruce said.

Carmine laughed. “I’ve been incriminated a thousand times before, what’s one more?”

Carmine set his cigar on his ashtray. “Say what you want about Thomas, but at least he knew about respect.”

Bruce was silent. Carmine could see the hate in those blue eyes of his. Hate that just made him smile. Underneath all that muscle and cockiness, Bruce Wayne was still just a naïve little boy who didn’t understand how the world worked.

“Fine,” Brucie boy said, his voice hard. “Mr…”

“Uh uh,” Carmine said.

Bruce paused, staring hard into Carmine’s eyes. “Godfather Falcone.”

Carmine grinned. “Yes, Bruce. How can I help you?”

“That information on my father…”

Carmine chuckled. “So, you have been watching the news. Bravo.”

“I want to know everything,” Bruce said. “Every transfer, every transaction. I want to know what types of deals you made. I want to know everything that happened between you and my father.”

Carmine smiled. “And mother.”

Bruce looked away. “And mother,” he said under his breath.

“I’d love to,” Carmine said and then turned to one of his guards. “You know this boy’s father helped me out with a bullet once. One of Maroni’s thugs got in a lucky shot. I would’ve died if it wasn’t for his father.”

Carmine turned and looked Bruce in the eye. “And you were watching, weren’t you? Up from the staircase. I remember the look in your eyes.”

Carmine flicked his cigar. “You don’t forget a debt like that. A favour like that. I sure as hell didn’t. But that’s bygones. It was your father, not you that performed that life saving surgery. I’m going to need something else from you, the information I have doesn’t come cheap, you know?”

Bruce did the smallest of shifts in his chair.

“What do you have in mind?” Bruce said.

“That company of yours,” Carmine said. “What exactly do you keep in your warehouses?”

…

Spider-Man looked at the wall of police tape surrounding the Curt Connor’s house and GCPD vehicles parked around the perimeter.

“Yep,” Spider-Man said over radio. “We’re not getting in.”

Barbara sighed. “Dammit.”

After the fallout with Bruce, despite Peter’s best arguments, Barbara decided to continue with finding a cure for Batchild’s condition. That meant, stupid patrols in front of Connor’s house for any traces of evidence. A house that, according to Barbara, was being patrolled 24/7. Spider-Man barely managed to enter the house before the cops were on him. He was glad they hadn’t managed to identify him.

And thanks to his little stunt, the cops had tightened their security even more.

“How’s it on your end?” Spider-Man asked. “With the databases.”

“They’ve toughened up their encryption,” Barbara said. “But It’ll be done by the end of the day. Some files are done but I’m still unscrambling them so we should have something in a few hours.”

“Good,” Spider-Man said, letting out a sigh. “My leg is killing me.”

Ah yes, the leg Doc Ock had pierced with those blades in his tentacles. Most of it had healed but Peter still had a limp, and he didn’t want Aunt May asking questions so he’d be spending most of his days and nights at school and well…

Barbara’s house.

On the couch, of course! Not on her bed or anything! Of course, Aunt May wasn’t taking that excuse though.

Peter, be sure to use protection.

I better not be having any grandkids.

Peter was glad that the Commish was busy with his work because despite Aunt May’s concerns, things did get a little steamy when they started to make…

“Hello, Pete!”

“Yeah, what?” Spider-Man said, snapping out of his daydream.

“How’s your leg?” Barbara asked. “Is it still…”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man said. “Yeah. Still needs a little bit of stretching from time to time but…”

“You’re so lucky,” Barbara said under her breath.

Her saying those words in that tone brought back memories of an argument they still hadn’t resolved.

“Hey, Babs,” Peter said. “Can we talk about something?”

Barbara chuckled. “You suddenly sound serious. What about?”

“I remember when Bruce and I were arguing,” Peter said. “Before the whole Ock thing.”

“Oh yeah,” Barbara said. “If I knew Bruce was going to be such a dick I…”

“No,” Peter said. “You said I should be grateful.”

“I…”

“What did you mean by that?”

Barbara paused before saying…

“No,” Peter insisted. “No excuses. No avoiding the topic. I want you to be honest with me.”

“Fine,” Barbara said. “You’re lucky you can still walk around, run around. Do your… your thing while I’m still stuck on a wheelchair. Useless and…” She let out a frustrated sigh.

“Barbara, you know I don’t…”

“Yes, I know you don’t want this,” Barbara said. “But that’s what makes you so damn selfish.”

“I did not just hear you call me that,” Peter said, a cold pit of anger in his stomach.

“You wanted honesty, didn’t you?”

“Barbara we’re not going to…”

“The data’s unscrambled,” Barbara said, avoiding the topic again. “We need to get back to work.”

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

“Work?” Peter said. “No, we’re going to talk. You’re not going to pull a Bruce on…”

Barbara hung up. Peter let out a sigh, sagging on the tree branch and letting his legs dangle at the edge.

Why did relationships have to be so damn hard?

…

Falcone was leaning back against his chair, resting his cigar arm on the handlebar. “Judging by your reaction you seem hesitant but like I said, information like the one I’m about to give you doesn’t come cheap.”

Bruce was at an impasse. Letting this parasite have any sort of control over his warehouses would be a net negative for Gotham. Drugs, weapons and money to buy those would be flying around right under his nose using his company.

“Your parents did the same thing,” Falcone said. “You don’t have to feel ashamed about it.”

He’d find a way to stop it, Bruce thought. He’d always find a way to stop it. Bruce told him.

Falcone smiled. “Good. I’ll leave you in charge of finding my men some positions in your company.”

In accepting the offer, Bruce felt a tiny part of him die.

…

After doing some odd jobs and raiding a few clothes stores, Jason managed to get Curt an okay fitting shirt and trousers. The old professor seemed to have calmed down a little because he was talking a lot more clearly than last night.

“I’m really grateful for your help, Peter,” Curt said. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if I…”

Another thing he learned from Bruce was during an investigation, never give your real name especially if the person you were talking to was an alleged murderer.

“No problem, Mr. Connors,” Jason said. “When you’re in Crime Alley it’s always good to watch your back.”

“That’s very curious,” Curt said. “Because I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing here in the first place.”

The more curious thing was how he had forgotten about the murder. Jason went through lengths to make sure he didn’t do anything to remind himself of it too, like hiding newspapers and making sure his mum’s crappy old radio didn’t have any batteries in it. Different people had different types of crazy and Bruce had taught him to each case of crazy differently. Not Bruce’s exact words but Jason figured that was the gist of it.

“Thanks for all the assistance these past few days,” Curt said. “But I think it’s about time I left and…”

“No!” Jason said. Curt was taken aback by his sudden burst of energy.

“Why?” Curt asked.

“You still haven’t recovered,” Jason stammered. “When I found you, you…”

Curt smiled. “I think I’m perfectly fine now, thanks to you.”

Shit, that was true. “How about I uh… grab lunch first and then…”

It was just lucky timing for Jason that Curt’s stomach started to growl at the exact moment he suggested that.

Curt laughed. “That’s right! Let’s grab some lunch first and then I can think of leaving.”

“You stay here,” Jason said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Jason thanked whoever was up there for his lucky break. As he made his way to the convenience store, memories started flashing of all the times he did this for his mother. Having to take care of her instead of the other way around. Feelings of resentment started to build up in his heart. Why should he get that stupid killer lunch anyway? Why did he have to take care of his mother instead of the other way around?

“Kid, you okay?” asked the clerk.

Jason saw the anger fade from his reflection. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… keep the change.”

The clerk scoffed. “Your loss.”

Jason put on his hoodie, a black one this time. He shoved one of his hands in his pocket, the other holding a plastic bag. As he made his way to his dilapidated little safehouse, the ‘Hoodiecave’ as he sometimes jokingly called it and tried putting on his best smile as he opened the door.

Why the hell did he have to fucking pretend everything was okay? Again, and again…

“… The manhunt for Curt Connors continues…” crackled the voice of the radio static on Connor’s hand. He sat on the patchwork bed, his face pale. “Prime suspect in the murder of Martha Connors and Sam Matthews, citizens are authorised…”

His fingers ticked against the radio.

“It wasn’t me,” he whispered.

I’m sorry, said his mother. Needle at her wrist.

“Look, let’s get that away from you,” Jason said. Hands held out defensively. “We’ll deal with this later.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said in such a way that made Jason pause. His voice, it sounded different like he was hissing.

He closed the gap with Curt (mum) and pulled away the radio (the needle) from him. And, maybe, maybe things would be fine.

But Curt’s grip was strong.

“Curt, could you please hand that over?” Jason said as he was talking to a child.

“It wasn’t me,” Curt said in that hissing voice of his.

“I know,” Jason said, his instincts screaming at him to back off. Something was off, something was wrong.

“It wasn’t me,” Curt said.

Jason paused. There was something wrong with his eyes.

He started to back off, he knew that look. It was like his father’s. And when he saw that look it meant…

“Who are you?” Jason asked. Something about Curt changed, his body started to grow. He no longer hunched over, his clothes were starting to tear. He wasn’t Curt anymore.

”It was me.”

The Lizard lunged.

…

“You know your company well,” Falcone said after Bruce painfully gave away the logistics. “Very well, for a man who doesn’t attend to its affairs.”

Carmine flicked put the stub of his cigar to rest in the ashtray. He crossed his fingers. “I know you have something to hide. I know the look after years of being in this business. We didn’t speak about it, but you have my word that things stay within these four walls.”

Falcone made a motion, and his guards left the room.

“Now,” Falcone said, the look of his face solemn. “It’s time to talk about your parents.”

…

As Spider-Man swung through the buildings of Gotham on his mad dash to Barbara’s house he got a call from his aunt.

“Peter,” Aunt May said and judging from the tone in her voice it was going to be a serious conversation.

“Aunt May,” Peter said. “What can I do for you?” He grunted as he swung through the cityscape below.

“You sound busy with something…”

“Exercise,” Peter said quickly. “It’s okay we can talk.”

“It’s about…”

Peter should have known. “Yeah.”

“I know you’re at Barbara’s,” May said. “But is it because of that or…”

“No,” Peter said, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced by the sound of his own voice. Aunt May didn’t, either.

“It’s…”

“I know,” Peter said. “It’s just, I’m angry.”

Peter landed atop a building, the city moving beneath him.

“Angry at me?” Aunt May said. “Or…”

“I’m angry at you, okay,” Peter said. “I’m sorry, May. But he just died last year and now you’re seeing someone new.”

“I still love him…”

“I’m not convinced,” Peter said. “How can you say you love him and then…”

Peter sat on the edge of the building, his legs swinging on the edge.

“Just move on,” Peter said. “How do you… do you just… move on?”

“Are you mad at me?” Aunt May said. “Are you mad that I moved on?”

“I’m…”

His Uncle’s last words were with great power come great responsibility. That was why he couldn’t look away, that’s why looking away wasn’t a choice. But on some days he wished he hadn’t heard those words. Some days he wished he could look away. He wanted to move on.

“Peter?”

“I’m mad you moved on,” Peter mumbled out finally, the city always constantly moving but when said those words he felt the weight in his heart lift a little. “I’m mad you moved on.”

…

“Hey, Babs,” Peter said, crawling in through the window. Barbara could tell that he wasn’t as enthusiastic to see her as those other times he crawled into her house.

“Hey, Pete,” Barbara said, her tone grim. “I managed to descramble the files going through the GCPD computer and…”

“Before that, are we going to talk…”

“There’s somethings about Curt,” Barbara said. “And his involvement in The Master Planner’s secret project. It has something to do with James.”

Barbara figured that was a good enough answer to the ‘talk’ question.

“Tell me more great news,” Peter sighed. He took off his mask and leaned on her chair. “What did you find?”

“Sometime around last year, someone called the Master Planner heard about Connor’s research,” Barbara said. “He needed his research and skills to conduct an experiment, what he needed it for, I don’t know but judging by the fact that when you saw him, he had a wheelchair…”

“We can take a good guess.”

“Around that year judging by some of the documents,” Barbara said. “It was when Connor was amid divorce proceedings. That, paired with the fact that the Wayne Veteran Programme and some of the Employment Grants were starting to slow down…”

“Connors was desperate,” Peter said. “He made a deal with the wrong person.”

Barbara nodded. “Connors was indebted to MP and because of that he started work on Otto’s little project.”

Peter was silent. Barbara cast a quick glance at him and could see the conflict written on his brown eyes.

“And?” Peter said.

“I don’t know the exact date,” Barbara said. “But I can take a quick guess that it was sometime around the end of last year. Otto looked for kids with disabilities, defects. Blind kids, deaf kids, kids missing a limb. He looked everywhere, his men promising fake cures and sometimes even resorting to kidnapping to get his way.”

Peter sighed. “We know what happened to one of them, but what about the rest?”

Barbara sighed, clenching her fist. “I wish I knew, Pete. I wish I knew.”

“After a while, Curt had enough,” Barbara said. “But by the time that happened he was already in to deep. And because Otto’s men helped him with the divorce things…”

“He has no way out,” Peter said.

Barbara nodded grimly. “Yep.”

“Can’t you or the GCPD get this info out there,” Peter said. “Link Curt and the Master Planner so people here know he’s a sham?”

Barbara’s sigh was defeated. “I wish I could but there’s no link between the Master Planner doing the deals and these godawful experiments. The only way we’d be able to is if we got Curt’s word on it.”

“And what about the…” Peter sighed. Admitting his boss was a murderer was hard. “Murder. How does any of this link to the murder?”

“I wish I knew Pete,” Barbara said. “All we know is that Curt was seen taking a cab to his ex’s house around the time of the murder, the rest is all murky.”

Peter spun to the side in rage. “Dammit! We need leads. We need something! We can’t just…”

“We do,” Barbara said, rolling her chair over to him and touching his back. Peter pulled away. “But getting angry won’t…”

Suddenly, Peter’s phone started to ring. When Peter saw the caller ID, a look of confusion spread across his face.

“It’s Jason,” Peter said to Babs before picking up.

“Jason…”

“I have no time to explain!” Jason yelled. “Come to Crime Alley, I think I know where Curt is!”

…

The Wayne Memorial Hospital, built after the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne was one of the largest hospitals in all of Gotham. Around 3 acres in length, it was largely funded by many Wayne subsidiaries in order to provide the people of Gotham with affordable healthcare and medical services.

It was also one of the three major hospitals in Gotham that were the subject of the Master Planner’s next attack.

In the mostly empty parking lot, a black Mustang was parked. The tinted black window at the back rolled down and through a tiny slit, the cold blue eyes of Bruce Wayne scanned the premises.

“Are you sure this is the target?” Alfred asked. “It seems a little too extreme, even for him.”

Bruce nodded. “It is.”

Alfred paused, after his most recent meeting with Falcone, something about the Master fundamentally changed. There was a coldness to his blue eyes that weren’t there before, his expression darker than usual.

“What exactly did you find out from Falcone?” Alfred asked.

Bruce was quiet.

“The Master Planner,” Bruce said, through the rearview mirror Alfred caught what looked like a deep sadness in his Master’s eyes. “What he’s been saying about my parents, all of it… it’s…”

Bruce turned, meeting Alfred’s eyes through the mirrors. “It’s true.”

To be continued…