No Such Person

In the Batcave, the enormous wraparound screens glowed an icy blue.

Bruce Wayne, who had just finished making an appearance before the media, rested for less than fifteen minutes, showered, and come down to the Batcave to look into the data, stared at the compiled information filling the screens and rapidly built a profile in his mind.

Facial scan: no match.

Iris database: no match.

Gotham Public Healthcare System files: no match.

Federal Tax Records: no such person.

He lined up those four negative results on the left side of the screen.

On the right were Spider-Man's recent movements: the East End slums, the edges of the docks, a water tower in the shantytown, and a streetlight outside a convenience store.

There were also some early videos of Spider-Man's activities retrieved from various small civilian cameras.

His range of activity had never extended into downtown. It covered only the poorest neighborhoods.

It was possible that this was because the slums were a little too far from downtown, and without a Batmobile, Spider-Man couldn't make it back and forth in time.

Alfred walked in carrying a data report, his leather shoes striking the steel floor at an unhurried pace, sending faint echoes through the cavernous space.

Bruce didn't turn around.

He didn't drink coffee while working. Caffeine delayed his fingers by a fraction of a second.

Alfred set the report on the edge of the console and glanced at the four enormous negative results on the screen.

"So you're looking for someone who doesn't legally exist."

Alfred's tone was as even as ever. "An illegal immigrant, or someone without any official registration. Considering he has never removed his mask under any surveillance camera, the difficulty of finding his real identity... perhaps you ought to be a little less controlling, Master Bruce."

Bruce didn't reply.

He gave everyone the silent treatment equally.

He pulled up footage of Spider-Man's fights over the past three days.

On-screen, that small, thin figure punched a burly man in the jaw hard enough to shatter his molars.

Before the back of the man's head hit the ground, he fired a wad of webbing beneath it as a cushion.

The whole sequence flowed as if choreographed-not a choreography of fighting, but of rescue.

Oh, look, there was this one too. After saving a girl, he picked up the bills scattered in the muddy water one by one, stacked them neatly, and tucked them back into her flower basket.

Then he crouched in front of her, tilted his head, and asked something. Judging by his lips, he had asked, "Could you lend me two bucks for a burger?"

The girl actually lowered her head to search her wallet, but he sprang onto a wall and fled as if his pants were on fire.

The image froze as he climbed the wall, the crooked stitches across his suit's shoulder facing the camera, a loose thread fluttering in the wind.

Bruce's fingers paused on the armrest.

Want to take him in.

Alfred read those words in Bruce Wayne's eyes.

Bruce filed away a term: tactical mercy. Every strike stayed within nonlethal limits.

Every time he subdued someone, he turned back to check whether they could breathe, whether they might fall off the streetlight, and whether the way they hung from a sign might put pressure on their spine.

Precise control of violence, achieving maximum deterrence with minimum harm while also reducing the intensity of the criminals' resistance.

Bruce leaned back in his chair and tapped the armrest twice.

Every piece of data on this child pointed to one conclusion: he wasn't an ordinary vigilante. His behavioral patterns were too clean, so clean that suspicion was necessary.

From a tactical standpoint, he needed to assess this person's threat level, peak strength, reaction speed, operational range, and potential weaknesses.

Every unknown variable had to be documented.

On a more personal level, this Spider-Man reminded him of a possibility he had once imagined: a pure, untrained sense of justice, like some innate instinct, coupled with precise control over his own strength and a natural urge to protect others.

If Gotham someday needed someone to take his place-not a Batman who judged criminals, but something brighter.

He filed that thought away for now, without a label.

Something deep inside him stirred gently. A child with superpowers, wandering alone in a place like Gotham.

No organization, no logistics, no support. Even his suit was self-sewn, its uneven stitches making it obvious he had never learned to sew.

Bruce knew that feeling all too well. In the years after his parents' deaths, he had stood alone in the manor's empty corridors, hearing nothing but his own breathing.

He remembered that boy crouching in an alley, hugging and showering kisses on a stray dog he had just picked up, swearing all the while, his hands as gentle as if he were cradling an egg.

That wasn't a vigilante on duty.

That was a child soothing another life even more vulnerable than himself. At that moment, he was no longer a threat variable that needed assessment.

He was a child, one as lonely as Bruce Wayne had been standing in Crime Alley all those years ago.

Bruce brought up every record of Spider-Man's fights, no longer to assess a threat, but to see whether the boy had gotten away safely after each rescue.

He wasn't watching a force that needed to be kept in check. He was watching a child who needed protection.

Dangerous people needed to be kept close, and an innocent, pitiful child needed to be kept even closer.

Bruce Wayne began drafting the framework of an adoption agreement in his head: which documents needed forging, how to explain the child's origins, and how to complete all the legal procedures without exposing his identity as Batman.

Wayne Manor had enough guest rooms to run a hotel.

And this child clearly appeared to have no guardian.

The main console's alarm sounded.

"The fifteenth time this week, Master Bruce."

Alfred walked over to the instrument panel and tapped the screen twice, bringing up a live thermal image of the dock district. "The frequency of friction between Falcone and Maroni far exceeds normal levels. Cracks have appeared in the old boss's control. Someone is stirring things up."

"Penguin." Bruce closed Spider-Man's data interface and stood.

He knew it was a trap, but the rockets in the dock district wouldn't wait for him.

A trap was fine too. At least he knew where Penguin was, and he was the only person who could minimize casualties inside that trap.

He walked toward the armored suit, brushed his fingers over the bat emblem on its chest, and put on the cowl.

On top of an East End water tower, Chen Mo was hunched over, rubbing his aching lower back.

Tonight, he had already handled some forty minor incidents: car thieves, phone snatchers, someone who discovered the wallet he had stolen was empty and ended up being chased and beaten by its owner, and someone who burst into tears on the spot after finding that his victim's pocket contained nothing but an expired McDonald's coupon.

Not every robber was worth using webbing on.

Some fled at the sight of a sticky note he had slapped on a wall. Others only needed him to cough from above to put the stolen goods right back.

But seriously, didn't anyone think forty crimes in a single district in one night was a bit much?

And those were only the ones he had seen.

"Gotham's crime rate really is all on me to sort out."

Chen Mo rubbed his still well-defined abs. They were probably the only equipment he didn't have to spend money maintaining.

Only two streets remained on tonight's patrol. Once he finished, he would head back and work on his comic pages.

He still hadn't opened his editor's deadline reminder email, and the next installment's storyboards were still stuck on page three. Fighting didn't require thinking. Storyboarding did.

Then he heard a muffled crash from the convenience store below. A shelf had fallen over.

Chen Mo flipped down from the water tower.

...Why was he on the water tower every time a crime happened at the convenience store?

Inside the store, a tall, skinny robber was pointing a trembling knife at the checkout counter.

The knife was covered in rust, its handle wrapped in half a strip of faded electrical tape. His hand shook like he was plucking cotton, and he was so nervous that even the back of his neck was dripping sweat.

Behind the counter stood a young clerk with enormous dark circles under his eyes, his arms folded expressionlessly across his chest. He even took his time yawning.

"Dude, did you pick that knife out of the trash? Seriously, you came to rob us with that piece of junk?"

He couldn't even be bothered to pull the gun out from under the counter, you know?

The robber froze, looked down at the rusty knife in his hand, then back up at the clerk, who was far too calm for someone being robbed. "Shut up! I want money!"

The clerk pointed at the register. Its LED screen read: manager authorization required. "The boss has the key. He's drowning his sorrows at the bar next to Arkham. Want to wait until he's finished drinking and comes back? He usually drinks until the early hours, though, so you'll have to wait."

Chen Mo pushed the door open, making the wind chime above it ring brightly.

"Hello. Don't move. You know who I am, and you know what happens next. Put down the knife, and I promise I won't hang you from a streetlight. I've hung up so many people these past two days that I've practically turned the East End's streetlights into a cocoon exhibition. It's getting a little visually tiresome. Can we keep this peaceful?"

The robber hesitated for a moment, then laid the knife on the counter, choosing peace. The handle made a faint metallic clink against the surface.

"Can I walk out on my own? Without getting hung up?" Chen Mo gestured for him to go ahead. Head lowered, the robber hurried out, even closing the door behind him.

"So polite. The politest robber of the week."

The clerk pushed the drawer beneath the counter shut and straightened the name tag that had been knocked askew.

"That's the third this week." He leaned against the counter with his arms folded, his voice utterly weary. "The first wanted money for cold medicine. I just gave him an expired box, then claimed reimbursement from the boss for the four hundred and fifty dollars stolen that night. The other came to collect protection money, claiming he was an outer member of the Maroni Family. He happened to run into Falcone's people buying cigarettes. Now he's hanging from a ship's bow down at the docks, cosplaying a siren. I heard they put two big holes in his chest..."

"All right, no need for that much detail."

Chen Mo felt he had seen far too much of the world since coming to this lousy place. Now even hearing such bloody descriptions made him nauseous. What tremendous progress.

"Spider-Man, I'm about to get off work. There's an extra dinner nobody's eating. Our boss specifically told us to save you a serving to thank you for your patrols. Locally produced ham and bread. Nothing imported, but absolutely fresh."

The clerk took a beautifully wrapped sandwich from beneath the counter. Ham slices showed at the cut edge, the bread was lightly toasted around the crust, and the tomato and lettuce between them were brightly colored.

Chen Mo looked at the sandwich. He looked at the creases in the wrapper, the fine grain of the ham, and the clerk's eyes with their dark circles.

After a moment, he accepted the sandwich and tucked it against his chest, feeling the wrapper's warmth through his suit. "Thanks. I'll eat it later."

The clerk smiled. "You're welcome."

Chen Mo pushed the door open and leaped onto the convenience store's roof. Gotham's night wind swirled across the rooftop, carrying the faint sound of sirens from the distant docks.

He took out the sandwich, unwrapped it, and brought it close for a sniff.

His Spider-Sense was practically blaring like an air-raid siren.

In silence, Chen Mo tore off a small piece, crumbled it, and scattered it along the edge of the roof.

A pigeon flew down from the neighboring water tower, tilted its head, and pecked at a crumb.

A moment later, the pigeon toppled sideways onto the tiles and lay still.

Chen Mo looked down at the pigeon and put the sandwich on the rooftop, where no homeless person would come along, accidentally pick it up, and eat it.

"Gotham. You really don't give anyone a moment's peace."

Heavy gunfire and explosions came from the distant docks, flames painting half the sky red.

Chen Mo fired a web and swung toward the flames.