[MJ POV]
The library was almost empty by the time MJ packed up her notes, the evening's study session with Harry Osborn lingering in her mind like a song she couldn't quite shake. She tucked her quantum physics textbook into her backpack, her thoughts drifting from dimensional barriers to the puzzle that Harry had become over the past few months.
Six months ago, Harry Osborn had been the definition of privileged indifference—a trust fund kid who drifted through classes with minimal effort, whose only real talent seemed to be throwing parties that made the gossip columns. She'd tolerated him mostly for Peter's sake, never understanding their friendship beyond their shared childhood history.
Then something changed. After the Stark Expo attack, Harry had transformed almost overnight into someone unrecognizable—focused, brilliant, engaged with the world in ways that defied explanation. The shift was so dramatic that MJ had initially suspected some kind of mental health episode or even substance abuse.
But this wasn't manic energy or chemical enhancement. This was... evolution.
"You coming, Jones-Watson?" The librarian's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Closing up in five."
"Yeah, thanks." MJ shouldered her backpack and headed for the exit.
Outside, the cool evening air carried the first hints of autumn. She paused on the library steps, debating whether to catch the subway or splurge on a rideshare. Her apartment was only twenty minutes away by train, but something about the night made her hesitate.
It wasn't just the usual New York wariness that every woman developed as a survival instinct. It was a strange feeling that had started creeping up on her lately—a sense that the city was changing in subtle ways, that forces were moving beneath the surface of everyday life.
Or maybe she was just projecting her confusion about Harry onto the world around her.
Their conversation tonight had left her unsettled in ways she couldn't quite articulate. The way he'd responded to her dimensional theory without a hint of condescension. The genuine interest in his eyes when she spoke. The moments when something profound seemed to flicker behind his expression, as if he carried knowledge that went beyond textbooks and lectures.
"Stop it," she muttered to herself, starting down the steps. "He's just a guy who finally started paying attention in class."
But that wasn't the whole story, and MJ was too honest with herself to pretend otherwise. Harry Osborn had become interesting. Challenging. Unexpectedly attractive in ways that went beyond his obvious physical appeal.
And that was a complication she absolutely did not need.
She opted for the subway, needing the familiar routine to ground her. As the train rumbled beneath the city, MJ pulled out her phone and found herself scrolling to Harry's contact information, thumb hovering over the message icon.
What would she even say? Thanks for not being a condescending jerk about quantum physics? I've officially crossed the line from tolerating you to actually enjoying your company?
Instead, she opened a news app, scanning headlines to distract herself. A small item caught her attention—reports of a dark figure intervening in criminal activities around Manhattan. Witnesses described someone moving with impossible speed, leaving perpetrators restrained with some kind of adhesive substance.
Another vigilante joining New York's growing collection. First Daredevil in Hell's Kitchen, now this "Batman" figure covering midtown. The city was becoming a playground for larpers.
MJ's journalistic instincts prickled with interest. There was a story here—not just about the vigilante himself, but the very idea of regular people taking extraordinary measures to address societal problems.
She made a mental note to research similar incidents, maybe pitch a feature to the university paper. It would be a good distraction from her increasingly complicated feelings about Harry.
As her stop approached, MJ found herself wondering what Harry would think about this Batman character. A perfectly legitimate reason to text him tomorrow, she decided. Strictly professional curiosity. Nothing to do with the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled or how his voice dropped slightly when discussing something he was passionate about.
Nothing at all.
[End of POV]
______________________________________________
Three weeks into Batman's existence, and already the city feels different. Crime statistics haven't changed significantly yet, but the pattern is shifting—nervous whispers spreading through criminal circles, operations relocating away from my established patrol routes, increased security at illegal exchanges.
They're adapting to my presence. Which means I need to remain unpredictable.
Tonight's patrol focuses on Oscorp's satellite research facility in Queens—a nondescript building housing some of the company's more sensitive telecommunications projects. Intelligence gathered from police scanners and my own surveillance network indicates unusual activity in the area. Not enough to warrant official security concerns, but sufficient to draw Batman's attention.
The suit has evolved since its first deployment. The power regulation issues have been resolved, the stealth systems refined, and several new features added—including enhanced audio surveillance capabilities and improved gliding mechanics. Still not the complete Batman Beyond vision, but increasingly effective with each iteration.
I launch myself from the platform, wings extending to catch the air currents. The sensation of controlled falling never loses its thrill—a reminder of how far beyond ordinary human experience my existence has become. The heads-up display plots an efficient course toward Queens, identifying optimal swing points for my web-shooters.
Midway through the journey, my comm system intercepts a security alert from the Oscorp facility—silent alarm triggered, security protocol Delta initiated.
I frowned....Someone has breached the outer perimeter without triggering the primary alarms, suggesting professional-level infiltration skills.
What the fuck.
I adjust my trajectory, pushing the suit's gliding capabilities to their limits. The facility comes into view—a three-story concrete structure surrounded by a fence topped with sensor arrays disguised as ordinary security measures. To the untrained eye, it looks like standard security. In reality, it's a sophisticated defense system protecting technology that won't be publicly available for years.
The breach point isn't immediately obvious, which again, speaks to the intruder's skill. I activate the suit's enhanced vision modes, cycling through thermal, electromagnetic, and motion detection filters. There—a subtle thermal anomaly on the roof, moving with deliberate precision toward the central air handling unit.
I land silently on the opposite side of the roof, using the suit's stealth systems to approach undetected. The intruder is clad in black, moving with feline grace that speaks of extensive physical training. As they work to bypass the access panel securing the ventilation system, I catch a glimpse of platinum blonde hair escaping from their mask.
Holy shit.
Felicia Hardy. The Black Cat. She shouldn't be active yet according to the timeline I remember, but clearly operational in this reality.
I allow her to finish bypassing the security panel, curious to see her methodology. Her technique is impressive—efficient movements suggesting years of experience, though she can't be more than her mid-twenties in this timeline. Finally, as she prepares to enter the now-accessible ventilation shaft, I disengage the suit's stealth system.
"Breaking and entering is still a crime, Ms. Hardy," I say, my voice modulated through the suit's systems. "Even when done with style."
She freezes momentarily, then spins into a defensive stance with impressive speed. Her mask covers the upper portion of her face, but I can see the shock in her eyes—not just at being discovered, but at hearing her name from a stranger.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" she asks, her voice steady despite the surprise. Her gaze takes in my suit, lingering on the stylized bat emblem. "Little early for Halloween, isn't it?"
"I could ask what you're doing at an Oscorp facility at 1 AM, but I think we both know the answer." I remain perfectly still, analyzing her posture for signs of potential attack vectors. "The question is what you're looking for specifically."
"Maybe I'm just exploring career opportunities," she replies, shifting her weight subtly—preparing to either fight or flee. "Oscorp's always hiring talented individuals."
"The telecommunications data you're after won't be accessible through that entry point," I say, watching her eyes widen slightly behind her mask. "The server farm is two floors down, southeast corner, with isolated climate control systems. That ventilation shaft only leads to standard office space."
Her surprise gives way to wariness. "You seem well-informed for a bat-themed vigilante. Oscorp security moonlighting in costume?"
"Just someone who doesn't like seeing advanced technology falling into the wrong hands." I take a deliberate step forward. "Whatever you've been hired to steal, it's not worth the consequences, Felicia."
The use of her first name visibly unsettles her. "H-How do you know who I am?"
"I make it my business to know who and what goes in and out of my city," I reply, the half-truth coming easily. "Your father's reputation preceded you, though your techniques show significant refinement over his methods."
The mention of her father—Walter Hardy, the original Black Cat in most timelines—causes a momentary break in her composed facade. "S-Shut the fuck up!", she continues, "You don't know anything about me or my father."
"I know you're too skilled for petty corporate espionage. Whoever hired you is using your talents for something far below your capabilities."
A flash of genuine emotion crosses her features before the professional mask returns. "You don't know my situation."
"I know there are better paths available to someone with your abilities." I take another step forward. "This is courtesy warning, not a threat. Oscorp's technologies aren't toys, and some of what they develop could cause serious harm in the wrong hands."
She studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing her options. "And if I ignore this friendly advice?"
"Then next time won't be a conversation." I let a hint of steel enter my modulated voice. "I'm giving you an opportunity most don't get, Ms. Hardy. I suggest you take it."
Something shifts in her expression—not fear, but a reluctant respect. "You're not what the streets say you are. You been out there for a few weeks and now feel that you can dictate what goes on?"
"Yes," I reply dryly. "Now go. Security teams will be doing a physical check within approximately two minutes."
She hesitates, then nods once. "For what it's worth, I research my targets thoroughly. Whatever's in there... you're right to protect it." She moves toward the roof edge with practiced ease. "See you around, Bat."
"Hopefully not under similar circumstances."
As she disappears over the ledge, I wonder briefly if letting her go was the right call. In the original timeline, Black Cat operates in a moral gray area—sometimes villain, sometimes ally, always pursuing her own agenda. Those types are going to be a pain if the fucking ass to deal with. I make a mental note to establish a more comprehensive file on Felicia Hardy, including her current associates and potential motivations.
Speaking of technology, I access the facility's security systems through a backdoor I established weeks ago as Harry Osborn during a legitimate system audit. The silent alarm is reset, the record of intrusion erased. No need for Oscorp security to know either Black Cat or Batman visited tonight.
The Cave hums with activity as I work on the suit's stealth systems. Black Cat's near-successful infiltration of an Oscorp facility has highlighted a critical vulnerability—while my current technology can render me virtually invisible to conventional detection, it wouldn't hold up against enhanced senses or specialized scanning equipment.
Bernard moves quietly around the peripheral workstations, organizing the growing collection of intelligence data I've amassed over the past weeks. He's adapted to his role as Batman's support with remarkable efficiency, his butler's composure extending seamlessly to handling vigilante logistics.
"Sir, I've completed the analysis of patrol patterns for the NYPD's specialized units," he announces, setting a tablet beside my workstation. "They've established a task force specifically focused on vigilante activities, though they appear to be concentrating primarily on Hell's Kitchen at present."
"Daredevil's been active longer," I reply, not looking up from the circuit board I'm modifying. "They'll expand their focus once Batman becomes more than an urban legend."
"Indeed. Also, I've taken the liberty of preparing your remarks for tomorrow evening's charity function. The Maria Stark Foundation has requested you speak about Oscorp's new medical research initiatives."
I glance up from my work. "The function I specifically said I would avoid due to patrol priorities?"
Bernard's expression remains perfectly neutral. "The same function where your absence would be noted by individuals who maintain close relationships with your father, potentially raising questions about your whereabouts during hours when Batman has been reportedly active."
He has a point. Three weeks into Batman's existence, and already maintaining the dual identity requires increasingly complex scheduling accommodations. Norman has begun watching Harry Osborn's movements more closely, particularly evening activities that take me away from established social circles.
"Fine. Twenty minutes of corporate philanthropy talk, then an early exit with a plausible excuse." I return to the circuit modifications. "What about the Russian operation? Any movement?"
"Surveillance indicates they're proceeding with the exchange tomorrow night. The weapons shipment will arrive at the waterfront facility at approximately 11 PM, with the exchange scheduled for midnight." Bernard pulls up relevant footage on a nearby monitor. "They've doubled security since their last two operations were... interrupted."
By "interrupted," he means brutally dismantled by Batman. The Bratva's operations have become a primary focus of my activities—not just because of the weapons trafficking, but because they represent the most organized criminal element currently active in my patrol zones.
"They're adapting," I note, studying the security arrangements visible in the surveillance footage. "Professional mercenaries supplementing their usual muscle. Those aren't standard street thugs."
"No, sir. Military backgrounds, based on their movement patterns and equipment. Perhaps former Spetsnaz or similar special operations personnel."
I connect the modified circuit board to the suit's central processing unit, initiating a diagnostic sequence to evaluate the enhancements. "The Russians are escalating. The question is why? Standard weapons trafficking doesn't warrant this level of security investment."
"Perhaps what they're trafficking isn't standard," Bernard suggests. "The intelligence you gathered from their last operation mentioned experimental technology."
My mind jumps back to the fragments of conversation I'd overheard during my last encounter with the Bratva—whispered references to "enhanced weapons" and "special merchandise." At the time, I'd assumed it was typical criminal exaggeration, but Bernard's observation merits further consideration.
The diagnostic completes, showing promising results for my modifications. The stealth system now generates a field that not only bends light around the suit but also dampens thermal signatures and masks electromagnetic emissions. A significant improvement, though still not the complete invisibility technology I'm working toward.
"I think we've found our breakthrough," I tell Bernard, allowing a rare note of satisfaction into my voice. "This should prevent detection from most advanced scanning systems, even those designed specifically for stealth technology."
"Most impressive, sir." Bernard examines the readout with genuine interest. "Your modifications exceed what Oscorp's research teams have achieved with similar technology."
"Different motivation," I reply simply. "They're building for military contracts with specific parameters. I'm building to survive encounters with enhanced individuals and advanced threats."
I stand from the workbench, stretching muscles that have been stationary too long. "I need to test this in the field. The Russian exchange provides a perfect opportunity."
"Before you resume preparations, sir," Bernard interjects, "there's one other matter. Regarding your linguistic studies."
Since awakening in this body, I've been systematically expanding my language capabilities—Russian, Mandarin, Arabic, and several others. The spider bite enhanced my cognitive functions along with physical abilities, allowing for accelerated learning that would be impossible for a normal human.
"The Russian material you requested has been uploaded to your secure server," Bernard continues. "Including the regional dialect variations specific to the Bratva members operating in New York."
"Perfect. That should help with tomorrow's operation." I access the files immediately, the enhanced processing capacity of my brain absorbing the linguistic patterns with remarkable efficiency. "What's our cover story for tomorrow night if I need to leave the charity function early?"
"I've arranged for an urgent call regarding Oscorp's Tokyo operations to come through at 10:30 PM. Given the time difference and the importance of the Japanese market to your current corporate initiatives, your immediate attention would be both expected and unquestioned."
"And if anyone checks with Tokyo?"
"The regional director owes you a favor after your intervention in the Fujikawa negotiations. He will confirm the urgency of the situation without revealing details, citing confidentiality concerns."
I nod, appreciative once again of Bernard's thoroughness. "You've thought of everything."
"That is quite literally my job, sir." The hint of dry humor in his voice is one of the few indications of the evolving relationship between us—still formal, still defined by our respective roles, but increasingly colored by shared purpose.
The solution I've implemented is effective but still relies on conventional approaches to concealment. True Batman Beyond capability would require technology that doesn't just hide from detection but exists partially outside conventional physical parameters.
Progress baby, progress.
__________________________________________
The waterfront warehouse emerges from the fog like a decaying monolith—rust-stained walls rising from cracked concrete, loading bays gaping like toothless mouths. Security lights cast harsh pools of illumination that only emphasize the surrounding darkness, creating a chiaroscuro landscape of light and shadow.
Perfect conditions for Batman.
I observe from atop a nearby storage facility, the suit's enhanced vision modes cataloging security measures both obvious and concealed. Bernard's intelligence was accurate—the Russians have significantly upgraded their protection. Armed guards patrol in disciplined patterns suggesting military training. Snipers occupy elevated positions with overlapping fields of fire. Electronic countermeasures scan for surveillance devices or approaching threats.
Standard tactics won't work here. Time for the new stealth system's first field test.
I activate the enhanced camouflage, feeling the suit's surface reconfigure as the technology engages. The heads-up display confirms optimal function—thermal signature masked, electromagnetic emissions suppressed, light-bending field operating at 97% efficiency. For all practical purposes, I'm invisible to conventional detection methods.
Moving with practiced silence, I descend to ground level and approach the warehouse perimeter. The guards show no reaction as I pass within meters of their positions, their sophisticated scanning equipment failing to detect my presence. The modification works better than expected.
I access the warehouse through a maintenance entrance, bypassing security systems with techniques that blend technological solutions with the physical capabilities granted by my spider powers. Inside, the operation is fully underway—crates being inventoried, weapons inspected, money counted. At least thirty Bratva members occupy the main floor, with another dozen visible in the overhead offices.
I position myself in the rafters, activating the suit's audio enhancement systems to monitor conversations. Most are in Russian, but my accelerated language studies allow me to follow the discussions without difficulty.
"...shipment is complete. All items accounted for."
"The buyers will be here within the hour. Ensure everything is prepared exactly as specified."
"What about the bat creature the Americans are talking about? Security says—"
"Security says what they're paid to say. Focus on your assigned tasks."
The dismissal of Batman as a credible threat is interesting—either confidence or denial. Either way, it works to my advantage. These idiots won't have a choice but to believe in me soon enough.
I move silently through the overhead beams, positioning surveillance devices at strategic locations throughout the warehouse. These micro-cameras will continue gathering intelligence long after tonight's operation concludes, providing insights into the Bratva's broader network and activities.
As I place the final device, movement at the main entrance draws my attention. A new group enters—different from the Russians, based on both appearance and the sudden tension that ripples through the warehouse.
The newcomers move with precision but lack the distinctive characteristics of the Bratva members.
Oh, their leader, a hard-faced man with a scar running from temple to jaw, steps forward to meet the Russian operation chief.
"You're early," the Russian says in accented English, clearly displeased.
"Change of plans," the scarred man replies. "Our employer wishes to verify the merchandise personally before completion."
The Russian's expression darkens. "That was not our arrangement."
"Arrangements evolve. The payment has been increased by fifteen percent to accommodate the inconvenience."
Money soothes the Russian's concerns, as it typically does. He gestures toward the main collection of crates. "Your inspection is welcome. The merchandise meets all specifications."
I enhance the audio further, focusing on the conversation as the scarred man examines the contents of the primary shipping container. The weapons inside aren't the conventional arms I expected—they're advanced energy weapons with a distinctive design aesthetic I recognize instantly.
Wait... WHAT? Chitauri technology. Hold on, the timeline doesn't align—the Chitauri invasion hasn't happened yet in this reality, which means these weapons have a different origin.
The scarred man lifts one of the weapons, examining it with professional appreciation. "And the control modules? The targeting systems?"
"Exactly as requested. Undetectable by conventional scanning methods, effective against both standard and enhanced targets."
Enhanced targets. The explicit confirmation sends a chill through me. These weapons aren't just for criminal enterprises—they're designed to combat superhumans. The implications are disturbing on multiple levels.
The scarred man activates a communication device. "Merchandise confirmed. Proceed with transfer."
As he speaks, my eyes widen. I notice something I had initially overlooked—a small pin on his lapel, partially concealed by his collar. The symbol is unmistakable, even from my elevated position.
HYDRA.
Rage flares instantly—a visceral response to the organization responsible for decades of suffering, manipulation, and death across multiple timelines. HYDRA's presence changes everything about this operation. This isn't just criminal weapons trafficking; it's a supply chain for one of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in history.
I've seen enough. Time to end this.
I move to the electrical control panel on the warehouse's east wall, planting a device designed to create a specific type of power disruption—enough to disable conventional lighting and most electronic systems without affecting my suit's specialized technology.
The warehouse plunges into darkness as the device activates, emergency lighting failing to engage due to the particular frequency of the electromagnetic pulse. Confusion erupts below as both Russians and HYDRA operatives are suddenly blinded.
"Security positions! Now!"
"Activate secondary systems!"
"Protect the merchandise!"
My enhanced vision allows me to navigate the darkness perfectly, tracking movement and identifying priority targets. I descend into the chaos.
I drop behind the first guard, gloved hand muffling his scream as my elbow cracks his C4 vertebra—non-lethal, but he won't walk unassisted for months. His comrade spins toward the noise, AK-12 rising. My bootheel crushes his trachea before he exhales. Two down.
Muzzle flashes erupt near the Chitauri crate. I count eight shooters by staccato bursts. A HYDRA operative bellows orders in Russian. Priority target.
Grappling line snaps me into rafters. Below, thermal scopes sweep erratically. I detach two cryo-batarangs—customized to overload infrared sensors. The twin detonations spray supercooled gas. Screams follow as eyepieces fuse to skin.
"Blyad! My face—!"
"Form on me!" the scarred leader snarls, back against the crate. Good. Anchored prey.
I dive feet-first into the tightest cluster. A radial kick shatters three knees—fibulas protruding through fatigues. Before the screams peak, my palm thrusts a micro-taser under the leader's jaw. His teeth crack on the gunstock he's biting.
"Chto ty?" he gasps in Russian. [What are you?]
"Vozmezdie," I reply in his native tongue. [Retribution.]
"AGHHHHHHHHHH"
........
....
.....
The remaining operatives form a defensive perimeter around the scarred leader, who has abandoned any pretense of business partnership with the Russians. "Kill him! Priority alpha!"
They switch to specialized weapons—not the Chitauri technology they were purchasing, but advanced firearms that fire projectiles designed to penetrate enhanced body armor. My spider-sense screams warnings as I dodge the first volley, one projectile grazing the suit's shoulder section and penetrating deeper than conventional ammunition could manage.
Motherfucker.
Time to make an example out of these deplorables.
I throw specialized smoke pellets that release compounds designed to disorient without causing permanent damage. As the operatives struggle to maintain cohesion through the chemical fog, I move among them like a vengeful spirit—striking from impossible angles, appearing and vanishing between heartbeats.
"Monster! He's a monster!"
"Can't see him! Where is he?"
"Fall back! Regroup at—"
The scream as I drop from above silences the attempted coordination. Bones break beneath my calculated strikes. Bodies crumple as consciousness is efficiently extinguished. I am not killing, for now. That line remains for those who deserve it and if I deem it necessary, but neither am I showing mercy to HYDRA terrorists.
The scarred leader, witnessing his force systematically dismantled, makes a decision that even surprises me...
He shoots himself through the mouth, dying instantly on the spot.
"Well, shit."
....
....
...
With the HYDRA leadership gone, the remaining Russians offer minimal resistance. Some flee, others surrender, a few fight with diminishing effectiveness as they realize the futility of their situation. Within minutes, the warehouse is secured—HYDRA operatives and Russian Bratva bound with specialized restraints, weapons cataloged and disabled, evidence preserved for law enforcement.
I access one of the Chitauri-like weapons, examining its construction with the suit's analytical systems. The technology is sophisticated but distinctive—not actually Chitauri, but something trying to replicate similar effects. The power source contains isotopes consistent with Stark Industries' early energy research, suggesting these weapons represent stolen or leaked technology rather than alien origin.
That's a relief.
Still disturbing, but slightly less concerning than actual alien tech circulating years before the invasion occurs.
As police sirens approach in the distance—anonymous tip called in through untraceable channels—I secure critical evidence for my own investigation. One of the HYDRA communication devices, a data drive from their operational leader's abandoned equipment, and a small sample of the weapon's power source.
The final touch is a batarang embedded in the central support column—a calling card that will further cement Batman's reputation among both law enforcement and criminal circles. Symbolism matters in this line of work.
I exit through the roof access moments before the first police units arrive, the suit's stealth systems ensuring no one tracks my departure. From a nearby rooftop, I observe the NYPD securing the scene, cataloging the significance of what they've discovered. The weapons alone will trigger major investigations; the HYDRA connection will eventually draw higher-level attention.
But what disturbs me most is what this operation represents—HYDRA actively arming itself with advanced technology specifically designed to combat enhanced individuals.
Again, not surprising. It's fucking HYDRA. I'm just shocked at how early on they're making moves.
Looks like I'll need to slaughter that organization from the inside out. For good of us all.
_________________________________
"Your speech was exceptionally well-received, Mr. Osborn," Bernard says as we ride the elevator to my penthouse apartment. "The Maria Stark Foundation director was particularly impressed by your insights on adaptive medical technologies."
"Good. That should maintain my cover as the reformed corporate heir for at least another few weeks." I loosen my tie, the formal wear feeling increasingly like a costume compared to the Batman suit that represents my true identity. "Any complications during my absence?"
"None whatsoever, sir. Your Tokyo emergency was accepted without question, though Miss Watson did express disappointment at your early departure."
MJ had attended the charity function as a student journalist covering the event for the university paper. I couldn't resist poking fun at her trying to be super serious, she did the same to me of course.
"What about the evidence from tonight's operation? Any progress on analysis?"
Bernard's expression turns more serious as we exit the elevator into my apartment. "I've begun preliminary decryption of the HYDRA communication device. The encryption is... unusual. Not consistent with current methodologies."
"Let me see." We move directly to my secure study, where a workstation connected to the Cave's systems allows for remote analysis of sensitive materials.
The decryption progress displays on the central monitor—complex algorithms attempting to break through security measures that appear more advanced than should be possible in this technological era. Another timeline inconsistency.
"There's something else, sir." Bernard activates a secondary display showing satellite imagery. "I've been tracking energy signatures matching the teleportation technology used by the HYDRA commander to arrive in New York. Three similar events have been recorded in the past week—all in locations with connections to advanced research facilities."
"They're gathering technology," I conclude, studying the pattern. "Building toward something specific."
"So it would seem. Additionally, facial recognition has identified the scarred individual." Bernard brings up a personnel file. "Colonel Luchkov, formerly of Russian military intelligence, reportedly killed in action three years ago in Chechnya."
"Clearly, reports of his death were exaggerated." I examine the file, connecting it to known HYDRA methodologies from other timelines. "He's probably been HYDRA all along, using Russian intelligence as cover for their operations."
They're everywhere, it's honestly freaky as shit.
"Sir, the decryption program has isolated fragments of communication data." Bernard indicates the main display, where broken text strings appear among the encryption noise.
Most are fragmented beyond usefulness, but one phrase stands out with perfect clarity:
WINTER SOLDIER DEPLOYMENT SCHEDULE: PHASE ONE TARGETS
The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Active decades before his canonical appearance in the timeline I remember.
"Bernard, we need to accelerate our intelligence gathering operations." I begin typing commands into the system, establishing new search parameters for our surveillance network. "Focus on any references to Soviet-era programs, cryogenic technology, or assassinations matching the Winter Soldier's methodology."
"Very good, sir." If Bernard is confused by the sudden urgency, he doesn't show it. "May I ask the significance of this 'Winter Soldier'?"
I consider how much to reveal. Bernard has proven his loyalty repeatedly, but some knowledge carries inherent danger—especially regarding future events that may unfold differently in this altered timeline.
"He's a weapon," I say finally. "Possibly the most dangerous assassin ever created. And if HYDRA is re-deploying him now, years ahead of when they should, it means something has changed in their strategic calculations."
"Something like the appearance of Batman, perhaps?" Bernard suggests quietly.
The possibility hangs in the air between us—that my actions as Batman might be accelerating HYDRA's timetable, forcing them to deploy assets earlier than in the original timeline. The weight of potential unintended consequences settles heavily on my shoulders.
"Perhaps," I acknowledge. "Which means I need to be better. Faster. More effective."
Bernard studies me with unexpected compassion. "If I may, sir... even Batman requires rest occasionally. You've been operating at an unsustainable pace these past weeks."
"I'll rest when HYDRA isn't arming itself with weapons designed to kill enhanced individuals," I reply, the edge in my voice sharper than intended. "When secret Nazi organizations aren't deploying brainwashed super-soldiers decades ahead of schedule."
The anger building inside me isn't just about HYDRA's existence—it's about the knowledge I carry, the foreknowledge of their infiltration at every level of government and security organizations. In the original timeline, they operate unchecked for years, manipulating events and causing incalculable suffering before their exposure.
I have the power to change that. The responsibility to act on what I know.
"Prepare the suit for tomorrow night," I tell Bernard, already formulating new patrol patterns focused on potential HYDRA operations. "And expand our surveillance network to include all SHIELD accessible facilities in the tri-state area."
As Bernard withdraws to carry out these instructions, I remain at the workstation, staring at the fragmented HYDRA communications.
They would need to be put down, like the rabid dogs that they are.