Bruce hung his head low, hiding his face from the guards outside of his cell. They had begun standing there regularly after his lawyer had left to ensure that he behaved between visiting hours. As a dirty billionaire who used his money to get his way, they needed to guarantee that he wouldn't try anything with anyone who visited him, only told leave if Pamela returned, which- to date- had not happened yet. One of the guards had even boasted about the authority given to him by the commissioner to "suspect the worst and respond appropriately."

 

Technically, if they knew exactly what it was that he hid by hanging his head, they would definitely enter his cell to beat him down and cart him off to the hospital. He had considered letting them see the red lipstick on his face a few times now; Bruce knew that all guards of Blackgate and Arkham were trained to identify the mind controlling lipstick of Poison Ivy, as he was not the first prisoner brought in whom had been given a tube to apply to himself with. If they entered his cell to restrain him and move him to another location for reconditioning, he'd have a chance to escape. They'd be trained to identify lipstick, but nobody could adequately train them to fight the Batman.

 

There were problems with that, however. Firstly, if he did escape, he had no idea where Tim was. He'd either wander around Blackgate to look for him- potentially causing a riot if he took out every guard in his path- or escape without him, which could cause Tim to get punished for him. Second, Ivy had to have had something planned with him after this. If he blew his cover and revealed himself to be under Ivy's control, then not only would Gotham be hunting for them, but the Justice League would be as well. Third, even if, by some miracle, he managed to escape without tipping off the guards that he was under Ivy's control, Ivy would likely not be safe if the police decided to search his mansion for clues to his disappearance. Sure, they'd never be able to take her down, but if it was discovered that she was there, it would only be a matter of time before the Justice League got involved.

 

And so, he waited, sitting on his cot. He kept his head low to hide the red smears. He kept his eyes shut to let the time pass faster. He kept his breath quiet so as not to infuriate himself.

 

The guards outside shuffled. Bruce guessed they were getting anxious to leave. They started stamping their feet impatiently. One of them began coughing.

 

Bruce sighed. Visiting hours would be over soon. Then he could lie back comfortably without fear of them seeing the lipstick. It would fade after a while, but the spores it left behind in his skin would maintain their effect. Just a few minutes longer.

 

"Goddammit, Bruce. You never let me have any fun; only two guards, really?"

 

Startled, Bruce twitched his head up for half a second before remembering that he needed to keep his head low. He knew the voice, fortunately, so he was able to relax. "I'm not here by choice, Nightwing."

 

Dick stepped out of the shadows, letting Bruce see his legs, along with four more legs laying horizontally on the ground. What Bruce had mistaken for the guards getting impatient had actually been Nightwing choking them out. Bruce hoped that none of the guards had been able to identify Nightwing in the dark.

 

He didn't look up to meet his former squire's eyes. It wasn't out of the ordinary; he used to brood in a slump a lot before Ivy had come into his life. 

 

"You sure? I always thought you loved putting people behind bars."

 

"The people who need to be here. People who break laws."

 

"You break laws all the time," Nightwing pointed out. "Unlawful imprisonment, assault, surveillance, obstruction-"

 

"What are you doing here, Dick?" Bruce interrupted. 

 

"Just checking up on you," Dick said.

 

"Did you have to attack the guards? Visiting hours are over soon."

 

"Hey, I got things to do, man," Nightwing said. "Somebody's gotta protect Gotham while you're in here."

 

"Stephanie's got it covered," Bruce said, shifting on his cot to look at the mirror above his sink. The lipstick was almost invisible now, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Go back to Bludhaven."

 

"And why is Tim in here too? Did he really almost kill everyone at the precinct?"

 

"No," Bruce lied. "Someone's set him up."

 

"Then what's this about video evidence? D.A. Grange says there was a security camera footage that identified him."

 

"I don't know, Dick. When I get out, I intend to find out."

 

"You want me to investigate?" Nightwing asked. "Maybe Cobblepot's got something to do with this; Barbara told me that he's been aggressively expanding ever since the precinct attack."

 

"I said I'll find out when I'm out of here."

 

"Yeah, that's another thing," Dick said. "Barb told me about your new lawyer. Tim got a girlfriend and you didn't call me?"

 

"Dick..." Bruce replied sufferingly.

 

"Seriously. Why take her on as a lawyer when you've got Alfred?"

 

"She has more experience than Alfred in practical cases."

 

"Yeah." Dick paused. "Bruce, you sure you don't need anything? I can bust you and Tim out if you want."

 

Bruce contemplated the idea. The guards might think that Batman would have abducted them for his own interrogation, but the more likely scenario would be that they would think he had hired someone to break him out and knock out anyone in his path. They'd storm the mansion in that case, something he could not allow.

 

"No," Bruce decided, keeping his eyes on the floor. "We'll be fine."

 

"Alright," Nightwing said. "Just... hang in there, I guess. I've got my own place in Gotham near the water; I'll be there."

 

"Good." He felt relieved that he wouldn't be going to the manor. "But keep your eye on Bludhaven. Stephanie can deal with the streets of Gotham."

 

"Whatever you say, Bruce." Nightwing's legs went back into the shadows without a sound.

 

 

Deathstroke stepped forward slowly. He was in a long hallway with windows on either side of him. Outside of the windows were metal bars that would prevent anyone from coming in or out through them. Beyond the bars were moonlit gray buildings of stone, all with jagged pillars and barred windows as well, giving the area a more medieval feel than a modern penitentiary.

 

He knew this place well; he came here every night.

 

Deathstroke stepped forward slowly, looking around for any motion. He knew he had heard something, and he felt drawn to the source somewhere down the hall. He didn't know who or what it could be, as he was supposed to be alone in this building.

 

He knew this place well; he came here every night.

 

Deathstroke stepped forward slowly, feeling exposed without his armor. The plating kept him protected from whatever blows managed to sneak past his reflexes. Instead of metal, he wore a heavy jumpsuit colored black and white in stripes. He was a prisoner, after all, so he had no reason to expect anything else.

 

He knew this place well; he came here every night.

 

He reached the end of the hallway, finding a turn to his right. Deathstroke found a large, thick door made of oak wood at the end of a slightly shorter hallway. There was a lot of light behind it, as he could see some filter through from beneath the door. It looked like it could never be broken.

 

But then it broke, getting smashed in from the other side in what appeared to be a single strike. A black object crouched on top of it as the frame crumpled and toppled to the floor toward Deathstroke. It stood up, revealing long arms and legs and even longer antennas upon its head.

 

The humanoid bat hat two white triangles for eyes; shapes that leaked light. The light from behind the door backlit the thing as it sprung toward him.

 

He awoke, instantly jumping to his feet and assuming a fighting stance. He felt sweat coating his clothes and eye patch. Deathstroke warily turned around in a circle. Satisfied that nothing was in his room, he dropped his arms and stood up straight.

 

He looked down at the ground where his blanket and pillows lay in a mess. He hadn't used a bed in years because he preferred to be prepared for less than ideal conditions he would face on the job. 

 

Deathstroke smoothed out his pillows and lay back down, pulling up the blanket to cover his waist. That dream had not been very detailed, but he knew what it meant. He was prisoner to the Batman by not being able to beat him. His mind and body, despite a lifetime of fighting, still was not enough. The one contract that he had never been paid for. Others had escaped, but none had ever actually beaten him and sent him to prison, if Arkham could even be called that.

 

Deathstroke tried to let it slip away before he went back to sleep, but he knew it would be fruitless. He knew that dream well; he had it every night.