DCU: Split

A workroom sat deep beneath the hotel, far removed from the polished surfaces and curated image above. Down here, the air carried a different weight—faintly metallic, edged with oil and heat. The space had been repurposed completely, stripped of whatever it had been before and rebuilt around function. Tools lined the walls in careful order. Worktables were covered in layered projects, none of them abandoned, all of them waiting for the next step.

Nolan sat at one of those tables, a strip of wire running through his hands.

He worked it with quiet precision, twisting and shaping it into something deliberate. The metal bent under controlled pressure, forming a structured frame that curved along the length of his palm before branching outward. Each extension split into narrower lengths, spaced to follow the natural alignment of fingers, leaving gaps where joints would need to move freely. He paused occasionally to adjust the tension, ensuring flexibility where it mattered and rigidity where it didn't.

Once the framework held its shape, he reached for small contact pads and fixed them into place—one seated firmly along the inner palm, another positioned opposite it. He checked the alignment twice, then pressed them down with a final adjustment, making sure they sat flush against the structure.

Satisfied, he turned the piece slightly in the light, studying it from different angles before giving a small, approving nod.

The table beside him was cluttered in a different way.

A firearm lay disassembled across scattered papers, each component cleaned and set apart with intention. The slide, barrel, and internal mechanisms rested atop blueprints and rough sketches, some of them technical, others more conceptual. Lines overlapped where ideas had been revised mid-thought. Measurements had been adjusted, crossed out, rewritten.

Next to that sat an air-powered device with a widened barrel, its design less conventional but no less deliberate. It hadn't been taken apart, but it bore the marks of modification—small changes that suggested it wasn't finished yet.

Nolan placed the wire construct down carefully, aligning it with the rest of his work before pushing his chair back and turning toward the second table behind him.

Cloth and leather had already been laid out there in measured sections, cut but not yet assembled. He pulled one piece closer, running his fingers along the edge to check its consistency before feeding it into the sewing machine.

The motor came to life with a low hum, steady and controlled.

As the needle began its precise rhythm, Nolan worked the material through with practiced ease, guiding it without hesitation. His movements were smooth, efficient, shaped by repetition rather than thought.

Under his breath, he hummed quietly to himself, the tune soft against the mechanical cadence of the machine.

Down here, removed from everything else, there was no rush.

Just the work.

The steady rhythm of the sewing machine filled the room, blending with the quiet hum of the equipment around him. It was controlled. Predictable. The kind of focus that let everything else fall away.

Then his phone cut through the peaceful silence, its sharp alarm jarring against the calm he had settled into.

Nolan's hands stilled immediately. The machine continued for half a second longer before he pulled the material free, the needle stopping mid-cycle. He clicked his tongue softly in irritation, the sound brief but genuine.

"Lost track of time," he muttered under his breath.

He pushed his chair back and rolled to the other side of the table, reaching for the phone without urgency, but without delay either. The alarm continued its insistent tone until he silenced it with a tap.

The room felt quieter after that.

Nolan exhaled slowly, then stood, rolling his shoulders once as if shedding the stillness he had been wrapped in. His eyes flicked briefly across the workroom—projects paused mid-creation, tools laid out with precision—before he turned away from it all.

There would be time to return.

There always was.

He reached for his suit jacket, slipping it on with practiced ease before adjusting it across his shoulders. The fabric settled neatly into place. His hands moved to his tie next, straightening it with small, precise movements until it sat exactly where it should.

He slid the phone into his pocket, the earlier irritation already gone, replaced with a more focused clarity. For a brief second, his hand hovered near the edge of the table before shifting instead to the side, where a cane rested within easy reach.

His fingers closed around it. Some would consider it a prop, but it was more of a tool. Even though a part of Nolan thought he looked silly with it. Kieran liked it though.

He moved to the door and opened it without hesitation. By the time he stepped through—Quentin left the room.

***

Quentin stepped into the room without hesitation, the door closing softly behind him as his presence filled the space.

Batman was already there. He stood off to the side, exactly where he would have chosen to be—away from the center, with a clear line of sight to both the captives and the entrance. Robin lingered nearby, watchful, while the three bound Court members sat where they had been placed, their earlier composure worn thin by time and silence.

Quentin clicked his tongue lightly as he took a few steps in, his gaze moving between them. "You started without me."

"You were late," Batman replied, his tone as rigid as ever.

"By four minutes," Quentin said, brushing it off as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. His attention shifted fully to the captives now, eyes narrowing slightly as he took them in. "Anyways… what are you writing?"

One of the men hesitated, then glanced down at the paper in his hands as if unsure whether to continue. Quentin followed the motion, then smiled faintly.

"The Court members we know by name," one of them answered then laughed bitterly, "Batman the hero, keeping captives. How ironic."

There was a flicker of tension in the room at that. It was kind of off putting Batman being here,

"You aren't captive," Quentin corrected quickly, his tone changing just enough to smooth the edge. "We're keeping you safe. That's the distinction." He gestured lightly toward them. "Because whether you've accepted it yet or not, the Court has already written you off. And trust me—they're not known for forgiving mistakes like this."

The men exchanged brief looks, something caught between anger and fear. One of them opened his mouth slightly, like he wanted to say something, something sharp enough to push back—but he stopped himself. The reality of their situation pressed down harder than whatever pride he had left.

Quentin watched that moment carefully, noting the restraint, the hesitation.

"Good," he said quietly. "You're starting to understand."

He turned slightly, glancing toward Batman as if including him in the conversation now.

"You know," Quentin continued, his tone more conversational, "that list they're making is unreliable."

Batman's eyes shifted to him, but he didn't interrupt.

"They'll protect their own," Quentin went on. "Keep allies off it. Shift blame onto rivals. Anyone they already wanted gone suddenly becomes a 'suspect.'" He let out a quiet breath, almost amused. "It's not a list of traitors. It's a list of opportunities."

Batman gave a small nod. "I'm aware."

Quentin's smile returned, faint but knowing, as his gaze drifted back to the men in front of them.

"Which means," he said, "your value isn't in what you know."

He stepped a little closer, "Its what you think Batman doesn't know. It would be quite embarrassing if you didn't put a name of one of your friends and Batman already knows they are in the court. Oh I would even imagine Batman would get mad, maybe Robin will throw a tantrum hit you with his large stick."

Robin glared at Quentin who put his hands up in surrender.

"Anyways finish up with your list, we have a lot to get through tonight."

***

The building was quiet from the outside, its wide metal doors pulled shut, lights dimmed to avoid attention. Inside, it opened into a broad garage space, concrete floors stained from years of use, the air thick with oil and dust. Vehicles had been cleared out, replaced by folding tables and stacked crates. Everything was arranged with purpose.

Men moved through the space with practiced efficiency, unzipping duffle bags, laying out weapons, clothing, and gear in neat, deliberate lines. No one wasted time. No one asked unnecessary questions.

"Alright, group one—this table," one of the supervisors called out.

Six men peeled off immediately, moving to the designated spot where a seventh already stood waiting. Their leader.

"Group two, over here," another voice directed, sharper, more impatient.

A second set of men shifted across the room, forming up around another table as bags were dragged into place and opened.

"Group three, with me," the last one said, dropping his duffle onto the table with a heavy thud.

Each group settled into formation, seven per table, the leaders already beginning to unpack their equipment.

At the first table, their leader moved with calm precision, pulling out folded clothing in distinct colors, patches, and accessories. He spoke as he worked, his accent noticeable but controlled.

"Alright," he said, laying items out one by one, "we are the Khadym mob."

The men in front of him didn't react, but their attention sharpened.

"Our target is the Rileys," he continued. "You don't wipe them out. Not completely." He looked up briefly, making sure they understood. "Leave some alive. They need to hear you. See you. Understand who hit them."

He reached back into the bag and produced a smaller pouch, tossing it onto the table. "Temporary tattoos. Use them. You're not just hitting them—you're sending a message."

At the second table, the leader worked faster, pulling out gear with less ceremony but equal intent.

"You're the Neon Dragons," he said, sliding weapons across the surface toward his men. "Your target is the Jade Leopards. Keep it loud enough to be noticed, but controlled. We're not here to get pinned down."

He paused just long enough to meet a few of their eyes.

"Make it look real."

At the third table, the leader unzipped his bag and began laying out a different set of equipment, heavier in some places, more specific in others.

"Penitente Cartel," he said, his tone flat, businesslike. "Escabedo Cartel is your target."

He set a bundle down in front of them, then looked up.

"Same rules. Identification matters. Survivors matter. Confusion matters, I want everyone to be talking about it by the morning."

Around the room, the pattern repeated—gear distributed, roles assigned, identities handed out like uniforms