Lance had to admit that Batman was not a "good person" in the conventional sense. But all things considered, he could still be placed in that category.
His need for control, however, was excessive.
That much was obvious when, right after Batman left the office, Lance managed to dig out no fewer than ten listening devices from his own place.
Ten of them.
What did Batman think this law firm was, a HYDRA base?
"I thought we were friends." Lance pinched one of the devices between his fingers, muttering at it before crushing it without mercy.
Before the resulting static could even fully break through, Batman had already removed his earpiece and tossed it aside without a change in expression.
Sharp counter-surveillance instincts.
Batman silently added another note about Lance.
That was right. Even though Lance had not shown any clear criminal tendencies so far, Batman trusted no one. Especially not Lance Prescott.
In his view, there was nothing wrong with what he had done. If installing listening devices helped eliminate potential threats, then it was a necessary precaution.
Having been led off track by his earlier exchange with Lance, Batman felt entirely justified in that reasoning.
Lance, meanwhile, had no idea that his casual words had nudged Batman further down a darker path. The shadow of Gotham's Dark Knight was quietly growing heavier.
If Lance had known, he would have gone back in time and slapped his earlier self for running his mouth so freely.
Unfortunately, even in a world like DC and Marvel, there was no such thing as a regret pill. He had no choice but to deal with the Batman he had helped shape.
After clearing out all the listening devices, Lance clapped his hands and looked at Waylana Jones, who was still crouched on the floor, searching for more.
"That's enough. Stop."
Waylana stood up. The scales on her face reflected a damp sheen under the lights.
Lance studied her increasingly obvious mutation, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
"Did Batman say something earlier about experimental genetic serums circulating in the East End's black market?"
Waylana shook her head blankly, then nodded.
Whatever that man in black had said earlier, she had not paid attention to a single word. Her focus had been entirely on Lance.
"Right. Shouldn't have asked you." Lance shrugged, accepting his own mistake.
He took his cane from the entryway, slipped on his suit jacket, and gestured for her to follow.
"Let's go."
Waylana immediately followed. She glanced outside. It was still raining. She grabbed a black umbrella from the rack, and the moment Lance stepped out, she angled it over him with practiced precision.
"Sir, where are we going?" she asked.
"To find evidence," Lance replied. "That experimental serum Batman mentioned gave me an idea. If we handle this properly, we can hand our good friend the Commissioner another achievement and clear out a few obstacles at the same time."
Waylana nodded, only half understanding. Her mind could not hold that much. As long as she followed orders, it was enough.
Lance saw right through her thoughts and let out a sigh.
"Jones, you need to learn to grow. You can't treat me as your external brain. If I'm ever not around, that will become a fatal weakness."
"Sir... where are you going?" Waylana asked nervously, completely missing his point.
Lance sighed again.
That was the problem with raising a pet. At first, all you expected was that it would eat well, sleep well, and provide a bit of comfort. But over time, the bond deepened, and you could not help but start worrying like a parent.
For example, right now, he could not help thinking, what if this child got tricked the moment she stepped outside.
In truth, this was just Lance projecting his own "pet filter" onto Jones. No matter how reckless or lawless Gotham's citizens were, they would not casually provoke a creature that was such a perfect blend of human and beast.
"Sir, where are you going?" Waylana asked again.
See? Too clingy.
"I'm not going anywhere," Lance replied. "I'm saying that if I ever do leave, you need to learn to think for yourself."
"I can think, sir. Please don't leave me."
"Of course I won't leave you."
The East End of Gotham was the territory of the Maroni Family. Though it was nominally gang-controlled, it was in reality a chaotic mix of all kinds of people.
Bars, dance halls, and strip clubs under the Maroni Family's control filled the area. Addicts, gamblers, and pimps came and went in a constant flow.
Lance did not stand out here.
Waylana, on the other hand, was meant to be bait. The more noticeable, the better.
On the way here, Lance had Waylana "politely" invite a low-level thug from the roadside to provide information about the recent cases of children with biological mutations in the East End.
After witnessing her unusual appearance and her ability to bend a steel pipe with her bare hands, the man poured everything out without hesitation.
"Those kids with incidents recently... yeah, the ones with scales and changing eyes. They were all taken by the Maroni Family. Said it was treatment, but once they went in, none of them ever came out."
Lance gave him fifty dollars as compensation, then knocked him out to finish the matter.
Anyone with basic sense could tell this was connected to the Maroni Family.
So Lance came.
Now they stood at the entrance of the Bloody Mary bar. According to Number 1, Maroni was currently on the second floor, speaking with his subordinates.
...
Inside a private room upstairs, Maroni lit a cigar and spoke.
"I heard from my old friend, Police Director Victor, that the lunatic professor Jonathan Crane will go to trial in three days. After that, this piece of the pie won't belong to us alone. How is the serum research progressing?"
A subordinate lowered his head.
"Sorry, boss. The chemists we have can't replicate the Fear Toxin."
Maroni took a sip of red wine and laughed.
"So you're telling me I spend a fortune every year supporting those people, and they can't even recreate a simple toxin? Useless."
"There's more," the subordinate added. "The Red Raven gang is also interested in the Fear Toxin. They seem to have made contact within the police and are trying to bail that doctor out."
"The red-haired brat?" Maroni snorted coldly. "He can keep dreaming."
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