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Batman in Spiderman's World, Ch 9-12
🕑 Added 2025-10-01 21:30:28 +0000 UTCChapter 9: The First Batsuit
The moment May Parker pulled him into her arms, Batman’s pupils dilated. His body went rigid, shock and fear flooding through him.
For a few seconds, he wanted nothing more than to bolt. Deep inside, the eight-year-old Bruce Wayne screamed to cling to this fleeting warmth—but Batman crushed that urge mercilessly.
Everything he did in this world was for one goal: to return to Gotham. Peter Parker’s identity was just a means to that end.
“Peter… oh God, you’re hurt.”
She looked up and saw the bruised swelling around his eye. Gasping, she covered her mouth, then hurried him inside and forced him into a chair.
During the fight with the Spider-Slayer, Batman had let a few punches through in the name of efficiency. He hadn’t thought twice about it. But May saw the blackened eye and burst into tears.
Sobbing, she rushed to the fridge, pulled out an ice pack, and pressed it to his face. The guilt and worry drained the strength from her.
I am Batman. I must play Peter Parker’s role. I… will protect May Parker, Peter. At least until I return to Gotham.
His hands trembled slightly. Rising, he steadied her and wrapped her in a gentle embrace.
“Aunt May, I’m fine. I just tripped.”
Batman wasn’t sure how the rest of Peter Parker’s birthday went. After a hasty farewell, he returned to the dark, isolated ruin of the shipyard.
No rest. No pause. He tore the Spider-Slayer’s powered armor and Glider apart piece by piece, then rebuilt them into something new—something that fit his needs.
As the night deepened, the suit slowly took shape.
By 2 a.m., in a back alley behind an orphanage in Hell’s Kitchen…
“Boss Joseph, are you sure we’re starting with this place?” one of the men asked, staring up at the broad figure ahead with admiration.
“That’s right. This is Kingpin’s turf. Word is he volunteers at this orphanage all the time. We burn it down, he’ll know exactly who’s coming for his throne.”
The figure turned. Under the dingy streetlight, his square face came into view.
“And don’t call me Joseph anymore. That’s the past. From now on, use my new name… Hammerhead.”
The man swallowed hard. Before, he’d followed Joseph out of desperation. Now he followed Hammerhead out of awe—at both his ambition and the steel skull that made him nearly unkillable.
In the abandoned shipyard, Black Cat’s bullet had shattered Joseph’s forehead. But he hadn’t died. Instead, surgeons replaced the broken bone with metal.
A curse turned blessing. With his new skull, Joseph no longer feared bullets. His ambitions grew beyond leading a ragtag gang of thugs. Now his sights were set on Kingpin himself—the man expanding across New York’s underworld.
“Post the lookouts. Paul, you start the fire,” Hammerhead ordered.
Paul nodded, signaled the others to spread out, and pulled bottles of stolen alcohol to craft Molotovs.
Halfway through, he froze.
“Hammerhead… that guy won’t show up again, will he?”
The arms deal at the shipyard had been Joseph’s first attempt at stepping up. With the weapons, their tiny crew of eight could’ve ballooned into fifty strong. He’d even hired Squid-Man to guarantee success.
But it ended in disaster. A shadow had torn their plan apart. Joseph had taken a bullet to the head. Squid-Man had bolted.
“That was in Manhattan. This is Hell’s Kitchen,” Hammerhead scoffed. “New York’s too damn big—even Spider-Man can’t be everywhere.”
“Relax. We torch the place and—”
The streetlight above them flickered, dimmed. A sharp crack split the air, followed by a muffled, pained whimper.
Paul froze, Molotov half-finished. His mind flashed back to that shadow.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Hammerhead snarled. His hand brushed his steel skull. With it, he feared nothing.
Bam!
No answer. Only the sound of something heavy slamming into flesh.
Hammerhead’s jaw twitched. He peered into the alley’s darkness but saw nothing.
Bam!
The blows kept coming. One after another, echoing through the alley. Hammerhead tried to call his men in closer, but silence answered. Gritting his teeth, he drew his pistol, thumbed the safety off, and advanced step by step into the shadows.
Paul followed reluctantly, gun raised. Both men froze as their eyes adjusted.
Something dangled above.
A figure swayed in the dark, twitching like some inhuman beast about to pounce.
“Boss…” Paul whispered. His legs trembled, ready to bolt.
Hammerhead shot him a razor glare.
“Stay with me.”
Paul swallowed, heart hammering, but followed anyway.
Together, they stepped out of the yellow light and into shadow. At last, the shape became clear.
One of their own men hung there—limbs twisted, neck bent grotesquely, foam at his mouth. Barely alive, but close enough to death to look like a corpse.
Relief flickered, but fear returned sharper.
Who could do this silently, right under their noses? Their men had been barely twenty meters away under the lights.
“We’re pulling back—now…” Hammerhead’s breathing quickened. Something told him they’d stirred up a monster.
At those words, Paul spun, desperate to run. But behind him came a heavy thud, then the crack of breaking bones.
Paul froze, paralyzed. His legs refused to work. His gut told him not to look. But slowly, against his will, he turned.
Two pointed ears.
And a pair of cold, inhuman eyes staring straight into him.
“You’re telling me there are vampires in the city? Like the ones in the movies—come out at night, drink people’s blood?”
George Stacy studied the man in the interrogation room.
Two nights ago, it had been gangsters. Yesterday, Squid-Man. And now this morning, another batch of bound and battered criminals had been dumped outside the precinct.
Every single one of them was injured. The lucky ones had broken arms, ribs snapped. The unlucky ones had fractured spines or twisted necks.
Whoever did it knew the human body well—crippling the thugs completely while still leaving them barely breathing.
“Yes! A vampire! I saw it with my own eyes!”
Handcuffed to the table, Paul shouted in desperation. But no matter how frantically he insisted, no one in the precinct believed vampires were real.
“He’s probably concussed from that beating. Get a doctor to sedate him.”
George Stacy shook his head and turned away from the rambling thug. He called over his assistant.
“Have the identities of Squid-Man’s victims been confirmed? Court’s tomorrow. If the evidence lines up, the death penalty’s a given.”
“And double patrols tonight with the other precincts.”
Auggie nodded and hurried back to his desk—only to find the report he’d spent a full day compiling was gone.
The mystery vigilante who’d captured Squid-Man had already provided enough clues to save the police weeks of work. Without that list, they’d be chasing their tails again.
“Who took my file?” Auggie barked at the squad room.
Everyone shook their heads.
“Damn it, I left it right here!” He bent down, searching under the desk. Nothing. When he looked back up—the file sat neatly on top of his papers as if it had never moved.
His instincts kicked. He snapped his head toward the precinct doors—just in time to see a figure in black, hat pulled low, slipping out.
“Hey! Stop!”
Auggie bolted after him. Confused but not hesitating, the other officers grabbed their sidearms and followed.
“Auggie! What the hell are you doing?” Captain Stacy demanded as he caught up, finding only his assistant panting at an empty street corner.
“Some guy… he stole my report. No—he put it back. I don’t get it. Why bother? It’s just the victim profiles. What the hell was he after?”
“Doesn’t matter. Put protection on everyone on that list, effective immediately,” Stacy ordered, clapping his assistant on the shoulder.
Three blocks away, Batman stripped off the black coat and cap, tossing them into a trash bin. He emerged onto Manhattan’s streets in a plaid shirt and casual slacks.
“Hired by the gangs… Squid-Man took payment for eight kills. Seven were gang members from across New York.”
The last name had been his own.
He bought a copy of the Daily Bugle from a corner stand. Without even skimming it, he headed back to the abandoned shipyard.
There, amidst rusting machines and heavy counterweights, he worked his body while his mind raced.
The seven-point-six million dollars he’d seized from Squid-Man’s den had one purpose: arm himself further and keep striking the underworld. Especially Kingpin.
But the armor problem had been solved with the Spider-Slayer. That freed him to focus on the gangs—and on building the capital he needed.
In Gotham, between nights as Batman, he’d always worn the mask of Bruce Wayne, the businessman. Managing money was second nature.
“When the funds are high enough, I’ll set up a company. Buy into Dr. Octavius’s nuclear fusion energy project.”
With a heavy thud, he dropped a twenty-five-ton weight stack to the floor—the peak of Peter Parker’s current strength.
The training wasn’t just to master this body. It was insurance. If Parker’s mutated genes ever failed him and his powers vanished, Batman would still have the strength he’d forged with his own hands.
Even if the odds were small, he treated them seriously.
With the right training, and with specialized suits, he could still fight. But such suits would cost tens of millions apiece. Not possible without an empire of his own.
The end of his session brought the rustle of newsprint. He unfolded the Bugle. The headline stopped him cold.
“Osborn Corporation Announces Breakthrough in Nuclear Fusion Energy, Seeks Outside Investment.”
He rubbed his chin.
“Fake. Just yesterday, Norman Osborn froze every project—including Octavius’s—to funnel everything into the Super Soldier Serum.”
“So this is misdirection. Dangle fusion energy as bait, lure in investors, then divert the funds elsewhere.”
“Osborn’s not fooling anyone. He’s just flailing.”
He folded the paper neatly, stacked it with the others he’d collected, then made his way to Parker’s rented apartment for a brief appearance before heading straight toward Octavius’s lab.
The Bugle’s headline was smoke and mirrors. But Octavius’s work in nuclear fusion was very real. And it was part of Batman’s plan.
“Let’s hope nothing’s gone wrong there.”
The lab was in Brooklyn, a good hour’s walk from Parker’s apartment.
“I could wear the Spider-Man suit, swing there in minutes…”
He killed the thought instantly. No. That mask wasn’t his.
Instead, he hailed a cab.
“Peter.”
Dr. Octavius looked nothing like the man Batman had met days earlier. The proud, confident scientist was gone. What greeted him was a hollow, weary figure slumped in a chair, eyes dulled.
The lab’s machines were shut down. Octavius sat motionless among them.
He’d found the flaws in his experiment. Given time, he could fix them. But yesterday, Osborn Corporation had cut off his funding entirely. Years of effort ended overnight.
“Doctor, what’s your next move?” Batman asked, taking a seat beside him.
“I thought about seeking private sponsors. But look at this.” Octavius handed him the Bugle. “Osborn made sure to close that door.”
Batman took the paper, pretending to read. But his eyes weren’t on the print.
They were on the lab. On the new machine that hadn’t been there last time.
Four gleaming metal arms—mechanical tentacles, disturbingly similar to the ones worn by Squid-Man.
Chapter 10: Doctor Octopus
“How much more funding do you need to keep the experiment going, Doctor?”
Batman set the Daily Bugle aside and asked.
“That’s exactly the problem.” Dr. Otto’s brow furrowed. “My research is already in its final stages. At this point, the only expenses are equipment maintenance and electricity. Compared to the hundreds of millions we invested at the start, those costs are practically negligible.”
“But now, that so-called negligible part has become the wall I can’t climb. Thirty million! With just thirty million dollars more, my fusion project will bear fruit!”
Batman had seven-point-six million to his name. Not even half of what Otto needed.
Otto hadn’t expected help from the young man in front of him anyway. He was venting—furious that Osborn Corporation had pulled out on a whim.
“Thirty million dollars…” Batman calculated silently.
Back in Gotham, that kind of money wouldn’t even cover the Batmobile’s price tag. But here in New York, even he couldn’t pull that sum out of thin air.
Give me three days. I can turn seven million into thirty. And maybe Osborn cutting his funding is the perfect opening for me.
Batman thought, then looked at Otto.
“Doctor, I have an idea. Could I see the contract you signed with Osborn before the project was established?”
“You want me to fight them in court? Won’t work.” Otto shook his head, but still rose to hand him the thick paper file.
“According to the contract, even if Osborn pulls out, all I get is five years of usage rights over the equipment.”
Batman said nothing, just flipped through the contract carefully.
Otto was right. Even if Osborn had withdrawn for purely personal reasons, the fusion lab itself would never become Otto’s property.
He had the right to use the equipment, not dispose of it. Worse, he was obligated to keep it maintained. If Osborn resumed funding and the machinery wasn’t in working condition, Otto would be the one liable.
Batman didn’t waste time picking apart loopholes. He handed the contract back.
“Doctor, you might consider hiring a lawyer. Someone who could analyze this from a professional angle. Best case, they could help you sever ties with Osborn entirely.”
“I don’t even have money for a lawyer right now.” Otto gave a bitter laugh. “Better I figure out where to scrape together funds first.”
Batman rubbed his temples, feigning a headache as he drifted toward the four metal arms. “And these?”
“A set of assistants for the experiment. But without an experiment, they’re nothing but scrap metal.” Otto glanced at them dismissively.
Batman didn’t linger much longer. Out on a Brooklyn street, he flagged down a cab.
“Lower Manhattan.”
He intended to find a lawyer for Otto himself. And since Black Cat was also looking for one to go after Kingpin’s laundering operations, maybe he could take care of both matters at once.
But Batman couldn’t meet Black Cat as Peter Parker. He’d need to suit up in Manhattan first, then head to Hell’s Kitchen.
After Batman left, Otto remained alone in the lab.
“Thirty million dollars… all I need is thirty million to finish my work. But where could I possibly get it?”
He pressed his fingers to his forehead, sinking deeper into thought.
“Robbery? No, that’s impossible. Unless I robbed a bank, who carries that kind of cash on them? And stolen money’s useless—you can’t spend it.”
He immediately rejected the dangerous idea.
“Wait… maybe… If I ignore maintenance, the only real cost left is the massive electricity bill.”
“What if I tapped into the underground power cables?”
“No. I can’t.”
Memories flashed—his father’s fists, his mother’s cries.
His father had been a power plant worker, breaking his body in brutal, dangerous shifts for barely enough to keep them fed. On top of that, the man was a drunk, treating Otto and his mother like burdens, lashing out with violence.
Otto had sworn as a child that he’d never become his father. He would be a physicist—he would master nuclear physics.
He would give the world limitless energy, so no family would ever again suffer under the shadow of a power plant worker’s rage.
“I’m doing this for humanity. At this point, tapping into the underground grid is my only choice.”
But if he did, the police would eventually come sniffing. That meant relocating everything to somewhere safer.
Otto’s mind cleared. His gaze swept the lab, then settled on the four steel arms.
The hesitation was gone. His expression hardened into determination. For the first time in days, he looked alive again, hair sticking up in wild tufts from stress but eyes blazing.
He stood before the mechanical arms, feeling each neural connector slide into place along his spine.
...
“Otto’s arms… were they inspired by Squid-Man? I’ll have to check in on him more often. But I mustn’t provoke him.”
Deep inside an abandoned shipyard, Batman donned the suit he had rebuilt from the Spider-Slayer armor.
Compared to his standard Gotham gear, this suit was sharper, harsher. Gunmetal gray and black, lined with seams and scars of battle.
The bat emblem across his chest had been reforged from four talons of the Spider-Slayer’s underarm claws—now a symbol, and a weapon if needed.
The Slayer’s arm blades were gone, replaced with three retractable knives. The gauntlets integrated both the Web-Shooters and the Grapple Gun, merged into his hybrid Bat-Claw.
No cape. He’d stripped the Spider-Slayer’s Glider down, fusing its armor plating and boosters onto his back. Folded, it sat like an armored shell. Opened, it let him glide—not truly fly, but enough.
Given time, he could redesign it for full flight. But for now, that wasn’t essential.
The boots were standard combat boots. The belt a simple black tactical rig, bought secondhand off a military surplus shop in New York.
Compared to the dozens of suits in the Batcave, this one looked almost shabby.
But it would do. For now.
“I thought you were some kind of creature of the night. Didn’t think you’d ever show your face in daylight.”
Inside a deserted low-rise in Hell’s Kitchen, Black Cat lounged in a chair, dressed in a crop top and hot pants, eyeing the armored figure across from her.
“And seriously—wearing that getup in broad daylight? Who are you planning to fight? Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I came to talk about a lawyer.” Batman’s face was hidden behind the cowl, unreadable.
“That’s exactly what’s been giving me a headache.” Black Cat sighed. “At first things looked good. But the second those lawyers heard the name Kingpin, they all bolted.”
“Cowards.”
“We need one who’s got guts and the skills to match,” Batman said.
“Obviously.” She rolled her eyes. “You care about this a lot, huh?”
“No. I need one too,” Batman replied. “A scientist I know needs to sue Osborn Corporation.”
“Osborn really must’ve burned you bad.” Black Cat smirked. “I’m dying to know who’s under that suit. Don’t tell me you’re that new legend everyone’s whispering about—the ‘vampire of New York’?”
She moved to the window, leaning on the sill as she watched pedestrians hurry by below.
“Every day we waste without a lawyer is one more day Kingpin gets closer to laundering his money clean. Once that happens, he’ll flip from crime lord to respectable businessman. And when that day comes, bringing him down will be a nightmare.”
Her words hung in the air. Silence answered.
Black Cat turned back—and the spot where Batman had been was empty.
“…What, am I that ugly? Why does he never stick around?” Bored, she swung herself out the window and vanished into the city.
—
At the NYPD’s Manhattan precinct, Captain George Stacy supervised officers loading Squid-Man into a transport truck.
The vehicle had been heavily modified: electrified walls in the holding bay, reinforced plating across the frame. There’d be no escape attempt this time.
Thanks to the mysterious informant’s tips—and Auggie recovering the lost victim list—the case had moved at lightning speed.
After today’s hearing, barring surprises, Squid-Man was headed straight for the death penalty.
George slammed the truck’s doors shut and waved the convoy forward. Engines roared as it rolled out toward the courthouse.
“Dad, is that Squid guy really so dangerous you need an armed escort?”
Beside him stood a girl in a pale yellow blouse and plaid skirt, watching curiously.
Her long blond hair shimmered in the breeze, strands spilling across her porcelain face, framing features so delicate she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting.
“Gwen, I told you not to come to the precinct while I’m working.” George frowned.
“I was just curious. And… wondering if you’re coming home for dinner tonight?” Gwen’s lips curled into a pout.
“Of course. That mysterious man’s been dumping criminals at our doorstep for days—I haven’t had a chance to leave early in forever.” George chuckled at her sulky expression.
“Really?” Gwen’s smile broke through instantly, her pout flipping into delight. “But what’s the deal with that guy?”
George, seeing no way to dodge the question, gave her the short version of the past week’s events.
“So he’s like Spider-Man—a friendly neighborhood hero,” Gwen mused.
She hadn’t expected her father’s face to harden. He looked her straight in the eye.
“He’s nothing like Spider-Man. And Spider-Man himself isn’t the saint the papers make him out to be.”
“Spider-Man thinks a mask gives him license to enforce the law. Half the time, when officers respond to calls, they find smashed glass, a trashed crime scene, and crooks hanging from webs. Sure, the job’s done. But it’s all him, alone. He hogs the headlines. He makes the rest of us look like we’re just janitors cleaning up after him.”
“During his active streak, resignations in every precinct across New York spiked. Officers felt useless. They thought Spider-Man made the badge obsolete.”
“At this rate, New York will collapse under crime. How many villains can he realistically fight by himself?”
Gwen shrank under her father’s stern tone, her voice barely a whisper.
“Then… what about the mysterious guy?”
“He’s worse. A terrorist hiding behind the excuse of fighting crime—just another thug venting his violence.”
Auggie passed by just then, overhearing. He leaned in quickly.
“Should we issue a warrant, Captain? Put out a notice for him?”
George shook his head firmly.
“No name. No face. We don’t even know if he’s human. One perp swore he was a vampire.”
He snorted. “We both know that’s nonsense. But if we issue a warrant without facts, all we’ll do is stir up panic.”
He watched the convoy vanish down the street before finally turning back into the precinct.
—
High above, on the roof of a skyscraper, Batman stood at the ledge, following the transport’s path with sharp eyes.
Only when Squid-Man was locked in a cage and carried into the courthouse without incident did Batman slip into the shadows.
Back at the abandoned shipyard, still armored, he powered up the computer and started digging into “Silver Sable.”
Black Cat’s search for a lawyer had stalled. They couldn’t keep wasting time.
She’d been right: once Kingpin’s money was fully laundered, their chances of toppling him would shrink to nothing.
And if Silver Sable ran a private security outfit, she had to have ties to the underworld. Somewhere in her orbit, there had to be a lawyer willing to take on Kingpin—and Osborn Corporation.
He didn’t know her real name. Again, he sketched her face by hand, fed it into the computer for recognition.
“Silver Sable. Real name: Silver Sablinova. Daughter of the government-appointed commander of the Wild Pack. After her father’s death, the group went private. She founded Silver Sable International, serving as both CEO and president…”
Chapter 11: Silver Sable’s Method
A bank card spun between Silver Sable’s fingers, flicked toward the wall and snapping neatly back into her grip.
It held three million dollars—the “hush money” Norman Osborn had paid her after she uncovered the human experiments hidden on the second sublevel of Osborn Corporation.
Sitting in the president’s office of Silver Sable International, she tossed the card toward the open window.
Her throw made it clear—she had no intention of keeping it. The three million meant nothing to her.
Snap!
Just as the card flew past the frame, two fingers darted in from outside, catching it midair and flicking it back onto her desk.
Someone was outside. Nothing unusual. But Silver Sable’s office was on the twentieth floor.
An intruder.
She braced both hands on the desk, vaulted over it, and without even glancing to see who it was, lashed out with a swift kick.
As president and CEO of a private security company, she’d survived more than her share of attacks from rivals and enemies. But never one bold enough to stride in broad daylight through a twentieth-story window.
Her kick landed solidly—yet her stomach dropped.
It was like kicking steel. The intruder hadn’t budged an inch. Her foot throbbed with the impact.
Instead of pressing the attack, Silver Sable rolled with the momentum, tumbling across the floor and springing up, fists raised in a tight guard.
And now she saw him clearly: armored in gray and black, his suit lined with sharp, angular plating. Two pointed ears jutted from his cowl like blades.
The exposed chin suggested human. But after seeing “Squid-Man” splashed across the Daily Bugle, and feeling the iron hardness of his body, Silver Sable wondered if that bare skin was nothing but a trick.
“Who hired you? I’ll double the price.”
The moment she laid eyes on him, she’d decided it was better not to make an enemy. That kick of hers could’ve shattered ribs. He was standing steady, untouched.
It was Batman. His voice came low and deliberate.
“I didn’t come here to fight you, Silver Sable.”
“And you are?” She tucked her silver-gray hair behind one ear, keeping her sightlines clear if things went bad, but spoke in a calm tone.
“Norman’s lab. Second sublevel,” Batman prompted.
Recognition dawned. Her eyes narrowed.
“You were the man in black that night?”
Back then, he’d worn only a simple stealth suit. Now, armored and imposing, she hadn’t made the connection.
“It was me,” Batman confirmed.
“What do you want?” Silver Sable lowered her guard and eased back into her chair.
“I need a lawyer,” Batman said, unmoving by the window.
“A lawyer?” She leaned back, relaxed. “Funny. I thought you came to talk strategy. To figure out how to drag Norman Osborn’s crimes into the light.”
“I sent that video I shot to the Daily Bugle, but the next day it was like nothing happened. You know why?”
“The military buried it,” Batman answered.
“Of course he’s got military backing,” Silver Sable muttered. “That complicates things. Even if we post the evidence online, it’ll be wiped clean.”
Batman was quiet for a long moment.
“…Then what’s your plan?”
He’d come for a lawyer. Instead, he found she wanted to take Osborn down too.
“You know who in the military is backing Norman?” she asked.
“General Ross. United States Air Force. Lieutenant General.”
Silver Sable stiffened, eyes widening.
“A lieutenant general? Christ. Silver Sable International has two hundred men. He can mobilize divisions.” She leaned forward suddenly, palms slamming onto the desk. “Say that name again.”
“General Ross,” Batman repeated.
A sharp smile curved across her face.
“Then I’ve got a way to strip Norman of his cover. Ross has one obsession—capturing the Hulk. If I find Hulk and force Ross to deploy, he won’t have time to babysit Osborn.”
She began pacing the office, her excitement building.
“Ross shields Norman because he wants Osborn’s science for his Hulk project. That’s why he lets those human experiments slide. But if I can dangle Hulk in front of him…” She stopped, eyes gleaming. “I’ll start preparations. In a few days, I leave to find Hulk.”
She looked back at Batman. He hadn’t moved an inch, still framed by the window like a statue.
“Oh, right. You said you needed a lawyer. But why come to me? There are hundreds of firms in New York.”
“Because I’m targeting Osborn Corporation too,” Batman said.
“Sorry. Silver Sable International doesn’t keep lawyers on retainer. If we did, I’d introduce you…”
Before she could finish, the light in the room shifted. She turned, but Batman was gone.
Knock. Knock.
The office door opened and several of her people stepped in.
“Jason,” Silver Sable ordered, “dig into Norman Osborn’s backers. See if what that man said checks out.”
“You don’t believe him?” Jason asked, glancing at the window. “I thought he came just to hand you intel.”
Silver Sable gave a small laugh, shaking her head.
“I don’t even know him. Why would I trust him?”
Batman had expected finding a lawyer with the courage and skill for this fight would be difficult. He hadn’t thought it would be nearly impossible. For now, he’d shelve the search. First, he needed to secure funding for Dr. Octavius’s research.
—
On a rooftop, Batman crouched.
Pfft.
A faint hiss as compressed nitrogen launched his line. The webbing snapped taut and yanked him skyward.
Silver Sable International’s tower sat at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. He needed to get back to the abandoned shipyard, strip off the suit, and resume life as Peter Parker.
But a short staff came whistling at the back of his head.
He released the line, twisted, and slapped it aside with one gloved hand.
The weapon clattered across the rooftop, rolling to a stop at the feet of a man in a dark red suit—horns jutting from his cowl.
Even when facing Hammerhead’s thugs—the ones who tried to burn down the orphanage—Batman hadn’t used the full twenty-five tons of force Peter Parker’s body could unleash.
If he had, those men would’ve been nothing but paste. That wasn’t Batman’s goal. He needed them alive to spread fear. So instead, he shattered most of their bones.
Now, in Hell’s Kitchen, the afternoon sun glared across the rooftops. But in the shadows, black and red figures clashed as if the light couldn’t touch them.
Bang! Bang!
Fists and kicks struck, the sounds echoing several times each second, mingled with the occasional grunt of impact.
Batman’s armor was reinforced, but the other man’s short staffs blurred through the air, leaving afterimages. In mere moments, they had traded a dozen blows, neither gaining the upper hand.
With a clash—bracer against staff—they both broke apart, retreating a few steps.
It looked intense, but both of them were probing, testing. Neither had gone all in.
“Who are you? Why block my way?” Batman’s voice was low, edged with warning.
“You can call me Daredevil.” The man in dark red dipped his head. “Last night you broke several bones in Hell’s Kitchen. I want to know why.”
Batman’s eyes locked on him. During their fight he’d noticed the mask covered Daredevil’s eyes entirely. Yet somehow, the man blocked every strike with pinpoint precision—without sight.
“They robbed a convenience store,” Batman said.
“If that’s all, you didn’t need to cripple them. Some of them will never walk again.” Daredevil’s grip tightened on his batons as he shifted into another stance, weight low and coiled.
“…And then they used the stolen liquor to make Molotov cocktails. They tried to torch an orphanage.” Batman’s gaze hardened. “You still want to keep fighting me?”
He’d been holding back the whole time—no gadgets, no advanced armor, nothing like what he had in Gotham.
But if Daredevil insisted, Batman didn’t mind proving whose skill truly came out on top.
Instead, Daredevil let out a quiet laugh.
“Heh. Fine. You ruined my setup, but no one could sit by and ignore something like that.”
“Another time, maybe. Right now, I’ve got to get back to work.”
Sliding his batons into the sheaths at his thighs, Daredevil turned to leave.
“Barry Allen always says the same thing after a fight…” Batman thought grimly.
Watching him walk away, Batman pulled a batarang from his belt—a crude one, machined in an underground workshop—and flicked it silently across the gap.
The blade sliced through the air toward Daredevil’s back.
But just before it struck, Daredevil tilted aside, hand snapping up to catch it.
“As I thought. You don’t need your eyes to perceive the world around you.”
Batman stepped forward, fists slowly curling.
“You said the firebombing ‘ruined your plan.’ Explain that.”
Clink.
Daredevil dropped the batarang, letting it ring against the rooftop. He turned back toward Batman.
“I’m the one who led them to it.”
“I needed to spark a gang war in Hell’s Kitchen—to smoke out their leader.”
Batman’s mind flicked instantly to Kingpin. But he held his tongue, pressing instead:
“So you were ready to sacrifice those orphans for your plan?”
Daredevil gave a humorless laugh.
“That orphanage moved out last week. If I’d really endangered children just to get at criminals, God wouldn’t forgive me.”
Batman’s face stayed unreadable. He’d already known the orphanage was empty, but he needed to hear Daredevil confirm it himself. He couldn’t risk this so-called Daredevil making reckless moves that gambled with innocent lives.
Without another word, Batman vaulted off the roof. His glider wings unfurled, catching the wind, and he vanished into New York’s steel and glass skyline.
“A blind man. Yet world-class combat skills. Wants to incite a gang war in Hell’s Kitchen… no facial detail, voice disguised like mine. No way to pin down his identity.”
“He relies on senses beyond sight—something like Spider-Sense, but constant, not just triggered by danger.”
“A sonic weapon should be enough to shut him down.”
Back at the abandoned shipyard, Batman stripped out of the suit and pulled on a flannel shirt.
“I still don’t know why Daredevil wears that suit. Personal vendetta? Or is he, like me, trying to fight crime?”
He shook his head. No time to dwell on it. Once Dr. Octavius’s funding was secure, he needed to start building—sonar systems, detective mode, tasers, wiretaps… the full arsenal.
Even the Batmobile, the Batwing, and a Batcave command center.
With those, no one could hide from him.
But first, he needed a company.
In New York, with its bustling economy, company registrations could take weeks or even months. Luckily, there was an expedited process—if you had the money.
A few hours later, he held the paperwork in hand.
The new company was registered under the guise of AI development. A shell, nothing more. Batman had no intention of spending years building real AI. Too slow. He needed funds now.
“Stark Tower,” he told the cab driver.
He’d bait investors with a slice of his old AI—civilian-grade tech, like the obstacle recognition once used in the Batmobile.
Countless firms in New York might fund it. Batman ignored them all. His eyes were on Stark Industries.
He hadn’t forgotten the name Howard Stark—buried in the CIA’s files on the Cosmic Cube.
It was the perfect play: fast capital, direct contact with Stark, and a chance to sniff out the Cube.
—
At a law office in Hell’s Kitchen, Matt Murdock shed his dark red armor, replacing it with a crisp suit and a pair of red-tinted glasses. Straightening his tie, he called out:
“Foggy, anyone drop by with a case?”
His friend, classmate, and partner, Foggy Nelson, threw up his hands.
“Come on, Matt. We’ve had one client since we opened. You were gone for all of five minutes—you think a case just waltzed in while you were in the bathroom?”
“But seriously, if no one hires us soon, this firm won’t last.”
Matt only smiled faintly, settling into his chair, lost in thought about the man he’d just fought—the toughest opponent since becoming Daredevil.
“His heartbeat and breathing never faltered, even in combat. His techniques blended every fighting style I know—and some I don’t.”
“…Friend? Or enemy?”
Chapter 12: Batman’s Exclusive Tech
“Sorry, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
Stark Industries’ tower stood tall in Manhattan. Wearing a flannel shirt, Batman—under the identity of Peter Parker—was stopped in the lobby by security.
“No appointment. But if you take me to Mr. Stark, I guarantee from today on you won’t just be head of security anymore.”
“Because I’m carrying technology that could double Stark Industries’ market value.”
Batman’s gaze locked on the guard blocking his way: Happy Hogan.
Happy opened his mouth, uncertain. The kid looked like a college student, but his tone and presence didn’t match his age at all. Still, instincts had him glance at the case in Batman’s hand.
“Mind if I check what’s inside?”
“Of course. It’s just a computer.” Batman flipped open the case. “Not a weapon. This is the technology I’m talking about.”
“…Well, whatever my boss thinks, you’ve convinced me.” After a pause, Happy sighed and led him to the elevator. He pressed the button and muttered, “Good luck.”
The elevator shot smoothly from the ground floor to the top penthouse—Tony Stark’s home and office combined.
A private party was underway. And at the center of it all, of course, was Tony Stark.
The reality matched the profile Batman had researched: a self-indulgent playboy coasting through life. Champagne in hand, model on his arm, robe hanging loosely off his shoulders.
His frame was still in shape, but the dark circles and soft muscle told Batman everything—this man’s body was running on fumes.
“I thought I made it clear—work hours, personal hours, nobody interrupts me. Who the hell are you?” Tony called out loudly.
“Tony Stark. World’s richest man. CEO and chairman of Stark Industries. Net worth in the hundreds of billions…”
Batman’s face didn’t shift as he stared at the playboy feeding champagne to the model in his lap.
“But as far as I know, you don’t actually control your father’s legacy. The board has shut you out. They could throw you out of Stark Industries whenever they want.”
“In other words, you’re just their puppet.”
Tony set down his glass and grabbed the phone at his side.
“Happy? Get up here and throw this lunatic out.”
“…Happy?”
Batman sat himself down without asking.
“From the moment I stepped off the elevator, the entire floor’s security protocols were already compromised. You can’t contact the outside. And the outside can’t contact you.”
Tony froze, then slipped free of the model’s arm and strode to his workstation. Fingers flew over the keys. When he confirmed the truth, he clapped his hands sharply.
“Ladies, night’s over. One minute to clear out.”
The women hurried off. Alone at last, Tony turned, eyes sharp.
“Who are you? What do you want? If this is a shakedown, the cabinet behind you has a stack of bank cards. Take one—or all of them. Codes are written on the back.”
“My name’s Peter Parker. And I came to show you this.” Batman opened the case he had carried in.
Inside was the computer hardware he’d customized himself—now repurposed as an encrypted container.
Tony gestured at the big-screen TV. “Hook it up.”
Lines of data scrolled across the screen. Tony frowned. “This… some kind of digital model?”
“An AI model,” Batman said flatly. “I know you don’t sleep much, Stark. Your brain runs too fast. The world moves too slow.”
“That’s the curse of being too smart. This AI is the only thing that can keep up with you. It won’t tell you no—it’ll tell you there’s another way.”
It was 2006. Artificial intelligence was little more than a concept. No company had a real product yet.
Batman knew Tony would see its worth.
The model was based on the Batmobile’s obstacle-avoidance system. A stripped-down version, yes—but its purpose was far greater.
It could take human commands, interpret them, and execute with precision.
“You’re lucky you came today. Two months from now, I wouldn’t need this,” Tony said, sipping a fresh glass of whiskey. “I’ve been developing my own AI program. Your model might save me some time.”
Tony Stark, already developing AI?
Batman’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t uncovered that in his prep. But he trusted his own system.
"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" Tony called into the air.
"How may I assist, sir?" an AI voice responded through the speakers.
"Pour a whiskey for our guest," Tony ordered.
"I'm sorry, sir. That function is beyond me," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.
"J.A.R.V.I.S. is an AI I designed myself," Tony said, personally pouring Batman a glass. "Right now, he's more like a talking Wikipedia. Ask him to pour me a cup of coffee and he'd spill it everywhere."
Batman accepted the glass but didn't drink, setting it back on the table.
...
At the peak of the Empire State Building, one of New York's landmarks, on the edge of the cylindrical tower more than four hundred meters above the ground, fierce winds howled.
Batman gripped the tower with one hand, his body motionless against the gale, his gaze piercing through his mask toward the bustling traffic below.
Unlike most brightly lit buildings, the distant Osborn Corporation tower was shrouded in darkness.
With a slight exertion of his arm, Batman's body tilted and fell, leaping from the top of the Empire State Building.
Using his Bat-Claw, he quickly reached the top floor of Osborn Corporation, firmly attaching webbing to the roof before descending along the outer wall floor by floor.
Yesterday, Batman had rushed straight to the underground laboratory on the second basement level, but found it empty. Later, on the twenty-fifth floor, he discovered only a group of scientists conducting computer simulations—Norman Osborn wasn't there.
Today, Batman learned from his mistake. Instead of heading straight underground, he started from the topmost sixtieth floor.
Still the twenty-fifth floor, still the same group of scientists, now engaged in heated discussion.
Batman watched silently for a while, then continued searching the lower floors for Norman Osborn's figure. After failing to find him, he left for Hell's Kitchen.
He had prepared listening devices, but after two consecutive days of not seeing Norman Osborn, the bugs remained temporarily useless.
Half an hour after Batman left, Norman Osborn drove to Osborn Tower, taking the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor where the scientists were in heated debate.
"Stop arguing. Prepare for human experimentation," Norman Osborn said.
"All the test subjects are dead, Mr. Norman. Have you captured more homeless people?" asked a bald researcher.
The others all turned to look at Norman Osborn.
"No. To prevent General Ross from using the human experiments as leverage against me... I've decided to test it on myself." Norman Osborn seemed to have made up his mind, his voice carrying no hesitation.
"But Mr. Norman, you don't need to take such a risk. There's still plenty of time before General Ross's deadline," asked another researcher—a middle-aged woman with glasses and graying hair.
"I know, but the Spider-Slayer was arrested by police, and Spider-Man is nowhere to be found. I must rely on myself." Norman Osborn impatiently urged the research team. "Hurry up. If anyone has questions, ask them now. Don't delay my experiment."
Seeing Norman's persistent urging, the researchers had no choice but to follow him into the elevator.
"Mr. Norman, I've never understood why you're so interested in General Ross's so-called 'Super Soldier' program. Is it just because of the business cooperation he promised?" This time it was a masked researcher speaking.
Norman Osborn didn't show anger at his subordinate's questioning. These were his most loyal research team since founding the company, so he tried to explain patiently:
"Do you remember what Osborn Corporation's motto is, as a company based on biotechnology?"
"'Human evolution through science.' This isn't just the corporation's motto—it's been my greatest wish since founding the company."
"Previously, Osborn Corporation focused on genetic technology research. Although we developed various genetically modified foods and genetically mutated organisms, we were still far from achieving the goal of 'human evolution.'"
The elevator had reached the first floor but didn't stop, continuing downward until it reached the third basement level.
The first basement level housed powered armor and glider development and testing facilities. The second basement level was for human experimentation research.
The third basement level was where Osborn Corporation truly conducted human experiments.
The space wasn't large. A transparent octagonal cage of more than ten square meters occupied most of the area, with a metal frame inside capable of securely restraining a person.
Four containers were distributed around the transparent octagon, connected to the cage, with a control panel directly in front.
Norman Osborn removed his shirt and entered the transparent octagonal cage, while the other researchers positioned themselves at the control panel, pressing various buttons.
"It wasn't until General Ross approached me that I realized I'd been on the wrong path... That redneck's vision is too narrow. His Super Soldier program is just to create a superhuman army."
Norman Osborn locked himself into the metal frame, the cold metal touching his skin making him gasp involuntarily:
"Imagine if Osborn Corporation actually developed this—even if it's not powerful enough to turn ordinary people into super soldiers, it would be sufficient to cure any disease in the world."
"Osborn Corporation would achieve glory, and there would be no more diseases in the world. Isn't such a win-win situation worth my complete investment?"
"Using the lives of those insignificant homeless people in exchange for the lives of millions suffering from illness worldwide—even God would forgive me."
"Unfortunately, someone exposed my plan. Continuing to use homeless people would create unnecessary trouble and give General Ross more leverage over me. Now I can only test it on myself."
A tongue depressor was placed in Norman Osborn's mouth to alleviate pain. Biting down on it, he gave a muffled order:
"Begin!"
Following Norman Osborn's command, the transparent octagonal cage was completely sealed, the metal frame gradually tightened around him, and green mist began to be released inside.
The mist grew denser until Norman Osborn's figure was completely obscured, with only agonized screams emerging.
The researchers nervously monitored various data on the control panel. A white-haired, slightly hunched old man pressed himself against the transparent octagonal cage, shouting loudly:
"Norman? Are you alright?"
Hearing only screams from inside, he quickly waved at the others:
"Stop! He can't hold on!"
The others hesitated, about to terminate the experiment when Norman Osborn's weak voice came from within the green mist:
"...Continue! I can still hold on!"
"Norman!" the white-haired hunched old man called anxiously.
"I said, continue!" Norman Osborn's voice suddenly became much louder.
The researchers exchanged glances and could only let the experiment continue until the green mist gradually dissipated and Norman Osborn's voice also quieted down.
"Quick! Check his vital signs!" someone shouted.
Fortunately, the instruments on the control panel showed Norman Osborn still had a heartbeat—he seemed to have just passed out.
"Did it succeed?"
"Perhaps..."
"Thank God, Norman didn't turn out like those test subjects..."
"Is it my imagination, or does Norman look like he's gotten much more muscular?"
The researchers all breathed sighs of relief, chattering as they worked together to open the transparent octagonal cage and lift Norman Osborn out.
Suddenly, Norman Osborn—who should have been unconscious—opened his eyes. His eyes had turned completely green, and with one motion, he violently tore apart the metal frame restraining him.
"Norman, you..." the hunched old man stammered, starting to speak.
Before he could finish, Norman Osborn struck out with his hand. The old man's head immediately separated from his neck, rolling away.
Screams and blood instantly filled the entire third basement level. Minutes later, except for bodies scattered on the ground, no one remained standing. Norman Osborn was nowhere to be found.
