DCU: Split

Chapter 215 215: He’s delusional

Kieran stood just outside the warehouse, staring at the space Batman had occupied only moments ago. The night felt different now, quieter in a way that didn't sit right.

Behind him, his people began to filter back in, cautious at first, then more relaxed as it became clear the encounter was over. A few glanced at him, looking for some kind of read on how it had gone.

Kieran did not offer one.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

Marcy picked up quickly.

"Boss," she said, her voice steady as always. "Did the meeting go well?"

Kieran let out a sudden laugh, shaking his head as he turned slightly away from the others.

"It went well," he said. "Too well, actually."

There was a brief pause on the other end.

"I am honestly not sure if I just spoke to a cloned Batman," Kieran continued, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself, "but instead of the usual one, it was the… nicer version."

Marcy let out a soft laugh.

"That disturbing?" she asked.

Kieran stopped pacing and looked back toward the dark skyline.

"Yes," he said plainly. "Yes, it was disturbing."

He ran a hand through his hair, still half-amused, half-wary.

"You have not had to deal with him directly before," he went on. "But let me make something very clear—he is not nice."

There was a beat before he shifted back into business.

"Anyway," Kieran said, his tone sharpening slightly, "I want everyone who came with me tonight to get a full scrub-down. Myself included."

Marcy did not question it.

"Understood," she replied.

"You never know how many bugs he might have placed," Kieran added. "And send a team to comb through the warehouse. Every inch of it."

"Already on it," Marcy said. "Do you want the others gathered now?"

Kieran glanced at the warehouse, then out toward the docks, his expression settling into something more focused.

Inside, Nolan surfaced again, steady and decisive.

"Yes," he said. "That would be ideal."

"Alright," Marcy replied. "We will be ready."

The line clicked off.

Kieran lowered the phone slowly, the faint smile from earlier gone now, replaced by something more thoughtful.

The conversation with Batman had gone well.

That was the problem.

***

The meeting room was already occupied by the time Quentin walked in.

Marcy stood near the far wall, arms loosely crossed, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. Dre leaned back in his chair, one boot hooked over the opposite knee, idly spinning a knife between his fingers. Naima stood rather than sat, as always, positioned where she could see every entrance and exit. Terrell sat forward at the table, elbows on his knees, his attention fixed the moment Quentin entered.

The room quieted without anyone needing to say a word.

Quentin stepped in fully, rolling his shoulders once as if settling into the body again. There was a subtle shift in presence—less polished than Kieran, less restrained than Nolan. He carried weight differently.

More direct. More dangerous.

"Well," he began, dragging a chair out and dropping into it, "I had a chat with Gotham's favorite vigilante."

That earned him a few looks.

Marcy raised a brow slightly. Dre stopped spinning the knife.

Quentin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, "We made a deal."

Naima's eyes narrowed slightly.

Quentin smirked faintly.

"He gives us access to his maps of Gotham. All of them," he said. "In return, we give him what he wants—and we do this his way."

Terrell frowned, "And his way is?" he asked.

Quentin's smile didn't falter.

"No one goes into those tunnels without him," he said. "And when we find the Court…"

He tilted his head slightly, "They get handled his way."

A brief silence followed.

Dre scoffed under his breath, but said nothing. Naima's expression didn't change, though the tension in her stance sharpened. Marcy simply watched Quentin, measuring.

Quentin waved a hand dismissively.

"It's fine," he said. "It's the only way we're getting down there without walking blind into a grave."

He leaned back in his chair slightly, though his eyes remained focused.

"That said," he continued, his tone dropping just enough to shift the room, "Batman is planning something."

That got their full attention.

"He has to be," Quentin went on. "People like him don't make deals like this without an angle. He's thinking three steps ahead, minimum."

Naima nodded once.

"So we assume betrayal," she said.

"We assume anything," Quentin corrected. "We prepare for everything."

Terrell shifted in his seat, frowning.

"Then why pull in the others?" he asked. "Two-Face, the Khadym, the Rileys… If this is just us, maybe the Jades and Dockyard Dogs hitting the tunnels—why involve them at all?"

Quentin's smile returned, slower this time.

He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table.

"The answer to your question," he said, "is both extremely simple… and extraordinarily complex."

He gestured lightly with one hand.

"Let's break it down."

He glanced at Terrell first.

"Two-Face," Quentin said. "His men are not going down there. He sure as hell isn't either."

A few subtle nods around the room.

"So why approach him?" Quentin continued. "Why put the idea of the Court in his head at all?"

He tapped the table once.

"Because Two-Face has something we don't."

Dre tilted his head slightly, interested now.

Quentin's grin sharpened.

"He doesn't care," he said.

A brief pause.

"He flips that coin, gets the answer he wants, walks into some office where one of those Court bastards works…" Quentin continued, his voice calm, almost conversational, "…puts a bullet in their head in broad daylight…"

He leaned back slightly.

"And then he walks right back out."

No one interrupted.

"Not a care in the world," Quentin finished.

The room sat with that for a moment.

"It's grim," he admitted with a small shrug. "Yeah. But it's also… incredible."

His eyes flicked between them.

"To have that kind of reckless abandonment," he said. "To act without fear, without hesitation, without consequence."

Marcy studied him more closely now.

Quentin spread his hands slightly.

"And here's the important part," he added. "People already know something's going on. They're hearing whispers about the Court."

He leaned forward again, voice lowering just a fraction.

"So what happens," he asked, "when someone like Two-Face starts killing them… and people understand why?"

A slow smile crept across his face.

"They get bold."

The room stayed quiet, the weight of Quentin's last words settling in.

Then he leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose before tilting his head.

"Now," he said, voice calmer, more deliberate, "this is where it gets complicated."

He let that hang for a moment before continuing.

"Why involve the Khadym… and the Rileys?"

Dre stopped the knife completely now, giving Quentin his full attention. Naima shifted just slightly, listening closer. Even Marcy's posture straightened a fraction.

Quentin steepled his fingers loosely.

"Because when we hit those tunnels," he said, "we are not going to get lucky."

He shook his head once.

"We are not stumbling onto the top of the Court. Not Kane. Not the real decision-makers. That doesn't happen by accident."

Terrell frowned deeper.

"We would need timing," Quentin continued. "Meeting schedules. Coordination. Precision."

His eyes hardened slightly.

"And we don't have that."

A brief pause.

"What we will find," he went on, "are their assassins."

Naima gave a small, acknowledging nod.

"Immortal assassins." she said quietly.

Quentin pointed at her once.

"Exactly."

He leaned forward again, intensity building—not loud, but focused.

"Maybe a few low-ranking members," he added. "But nothing that actually hurts them."

He let that settle before shifting gears.

"Which is why," Quentin said, "we don't just hit the tunnels."

His gaze swept across the room.

"We hit everything."

Dre's brow lifted slightly.

"Their fronts. Their holdings. Their safe operations," Quentin continued. "We hit them hard, and we hit them fast."

He tapped the table again, once.

"We scare them."

Another beat.

"We make them uncomfortable," he said. "We make them feel exposed."

His smile returned, thin and sharp.

"And then… we make them act."

Marcy's eyes narrowed slightly, following.

"The idea of the Court is already out there," Quentin said. "Whispers, rumors… people are starting to believe."

He leaned in just a bit more.

"So when we start attacking them underground…" he continued, "they won't stay buried."

His voice dropped.

"They'll rise."

Silence.

Quentin sat back again, letting the thought breathe.

"We're gambling," he admitted. "Make no mistake about that."

He looked directly at Terrell now.

"We're calculating odds."

A slow pause.

"Will Gotham's gangs tolerate something like the Court existing above them?" he asked. "Pulling strings, deciding who lives and dies, like they own the city?"

Dre let out a quiet scoff.

Naima's lips pressed into a thin line.

Quentin's grin widened just slightly.

"I don't think they will."

He gestured lightly with one hand.

"And that," he said, "is why talking to the Khadym and the Rileys matters just as much as talking to Two-Face… or Batman."

Marcy nodded faintly now, seeing the shape of it.

"We're not building an army," Quentin continued. "We're building pressure."

His tone sharpened.

"We need to force action… without making it look like we're forcing anything."

He glanced between them all.

"They have to choose to move."

A quiet beat passed.

"And when the Court loses most of their assassins…" Quentin went on, "what do you think they do?"

Terrell leaned back slightly.

"Adapt," he said.

Quentin snapped his fingers once.

"Exactly."

His eyes gleamed.

"They'll reach outside," he said. "Mercenaries. Ex-military. Professionals."

He gave a small, almost amused shake of his head.

"But Gotham crime?" Quentin added. "It doesn't like outsiders."

Dre smirked at that.

Naima's stance eased just a fraction, understanding clicking into place.

Quentin spread his hands slowly.

"So we bring the whole city against them."

The words landed heavy.

"If I'm right," he continued, voice quieter now but far more dangerous, "then this doesn't end with clean arrests."

His gaze drifted briefly, as if already seeing it unfold.

"And if Batman thinks he can just round them up… put them in cages…"

Quentin looked back at them, smile returning—colder this time, "He's delusional."

"Because the city won't allow it."

***

The cave was quieter than usual when Bruce stepped into it, the low hum of machinery and distant dripping water filling the space where conversation normally lived.

The platform descended slowly beneath his boots, shadows stretching and shifting along the stone walls as he dropped into the heart of it. The suit was still on him, the weight of it familiar, grounding—but his mind was elsewhere.

At the bottom, he stepped off without hesitation.

Robin was already there.

Leaning against one of the workstations, arms crossed, tension written plainly across his posture. The moment Bruce approached, Robin pushed himself upright, clearly having been waiting.

"This is a mistake," Robin said immediately, the frustration already bleeding into his tone. "Working with him? Seriously?"

Bruce didn't answer right away. He moved past him, pulling off one gauntlet and setting it down with deliberate care.

Robin followed.

"Why aren't we using Young Justice for this?" he pressed. "We've handled worse without teaming up with—"

"A criminal?" Bruce cut in, his voice low, even, and edged with something harder beneath.

Robin stopped for half a second.

"Yes," he said anyway. "Exactly that."

Bruce turned then, fixing him with a look that silenced the room more effectively than shouting ever could.

"He knows my identity," Bruce said.

Robin blinked.

The words didn't fully land at first.

"So he also knows yours, Robin," Bruce continued, unmoved. "Don't be foolish."

That hit.

Robin's jaw tightened, the argument stalling for just a moment as the reality of that settled in.

Bruce turned back to the console, pulling up a map only to let it idle, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Whatever reason he gives me for how he found out," Bruce went on, his tone controlled but firm, "it will be a half-truth at best."

Robin stepped closer again, quieter now but no less intense.

"Then why trust him at all?" he asked.

"I don't," Bruce replied immediately.

There was no hesitation in it. No ambiguity.

Robin frowned.

Bruce's gaze shifted slightly, unfocused—not on the screens, but on the larger picture forming in his mind.

"The Underpass has spread faster and wider than anything I've ever seen in this city," he said. "It's structured, disciplined… and invisible when it wants to be."

He finally looked back at Robin.

"They keep their operations and their internal dynamics hidden," he continued. "I haven't been able to determine how it truly functions. I don't know their hierarchy. I don't know their limits."

Robin exhaled slowly through his nose.

"So we just… let them operate?" he asked.

Bruce's expression hardened slightly.

"No," he said.

A brief pause followed.

"He is delusional," Bruce added, his voice dropping just enough to carry weight, "if he thinks he will be walking away from this free."

Robin studied him for a moment.

"You're planning something," he said.

Bruce didn't answer.

Which, in itself, was an answer.

Robin shook his head slightly, frustration still there, but now mixed with something else—understanding, even if he didn't like it.

"And until then?" he asked.

Bruce turned back to the console fully now, the map of Gotham lighting up beneath his fingers.

"Until then," he said, "I pretend to work with him against the court."

—

Action next chapter I pinky promise