Beth Carraway had always felt out of sync with the world.

She was a woman with a fabricated past and a secretive life. She was the wrong age, with the wrong name and the wrong job.

There was a lot wrong with Beth Carraway.

So it didn't surprise her at all when she found herself in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

"Everybody shut up and put your hands in the air!" The command from the masked gunman on the back row had the opposite effect. Panicked screams emerged from Beth's fellow passengers, prompting him to yell again. "I said 'SHUT UP!'" He punctuated the repeated order with a bullet fired into the roof of the No. 36 bus.

The bus that was supposed to be taking Beth home from work.

She sighed. This was why she avoided public transport. But her car was in the shop, meaning she was stuck on this bus.

In the wrong place.

At the wrong time.

The gunman made his way up the aisle towards the driver and Beth glared at him as he passed her seat. A second gunman took to his feet and stayed at the back of the bus, his pistol trained on the now quiet commuters.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." The mumbled words came from the teenager sitting next her. Beth put her gloved hand on the young girl's leg which bounced up and down with fear.

"It's going to be ok," Beth whispered. The girl looked up at her, eyes wide with terror.

Beth had never felt that emotion - terror. Even now, with two armed terrorists hijacking her transit bus, taking her and the other twenty people on board who-knows-where...all she could muster was annoyance.

It was as if she was missing that part of her brain that regulated self-survival.

It was yet another manifestation of her overall...wrongness.

Beth smiled at the girl, trying to reassure her. "You're going to be ok."

The girl bit her lip and shook her head, not reassured in the least.

"Here's what we're gonna do," the gunman at the front called out. He appeared to be the spokesman of the two-man gang. "We're all gonna stay calm while the driver takes us somewhere a bit more secluded-"

That elicited scared murmurs from the passengers, who were worried about the implications of 'seclusion'.

"HEY!' he yelled, getting their attention back. "None of you are gonna be harmed if you just do as you're told." The murmurs ceased. "I want you to take out your phones, open up your social media accounts, and I want you to post about what's happening."

The other passengers looked just as confused as Beth felt. Why did they want social media attention? Surely the purpose of a hijacking was to barter the hostages for something. That was usually accomplished by contacting the police and starting negotiations, not by posting online.

Was this some sort of sick publicity stunt?

"NOW!"

The puzzled looks disappeared as the passengers took out their phones and complied. Beth watched as the girl next to her typed out a post with shaking hands. For several minutes, the only sound was the soft tapping of fingers against screens and the metronome swipes of the bus's windscreen wipers as they did battle with the late evening downpour.

"Hey, you! Blondie!" the gunman called. Beth looked up and met his eyes. "Yeah, you. Get out your phone and start posting."

"I don't have any social media accounts," she replied, truthfully.

The teenager looked at her agape, shocked either at the calmness of her voice or her lack of social media engagement.

The gunman looked equally surprised and started walking towards her. "Bullshit."

Beth shrugged. "I'm old-school." She gestured at her fellow passengers, who were all engrossed on their phones. "Besides, I don't think you need me - your message is getting out."

He kept walking until he reached her row. The teenager shrank away from him, and Beth felt a moment of guilt that she'd put the poor girl in this position. But she was glad she had his attention. She wanted answers. She was too far away to get them her way, so words would have to do. "What is this about? What are you trying to accomplish?"

"You'll see what we're trying to 'accomplish' soon enough, bitch."

This close she could see the hard glint in his eyes, but his black balaclava obscured the rest of his face. He was dressed in an oversized army surplus jacket that was open over a ballistics vest. Several unmarked gas canisters were strapped to his belt.

"We're here." The gunman at the back finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but firm. He sounded more mature and in control than his partner and Beth instinctively pegged him as the greater threat.

The bus slowed and turned before coming to a stop. She looked out of the window, trying to figure out where 'here' was, but all she could see was her own reflection in the glass.

"Kill the engine," the spokesman barked out. The driver obeyed and the bus suddenly went quiet. Then the lights went out and they were plunged into darkness.

A few of the passengers gasped. An older woman near the front of the bus let out a short scream. Even Beth started to feel a hint of unease.

She stared out of the window next to her, now able to see her surroundings. They were at a junkyard, hemmed in on three sides by stacks of rusted, mangled cars. Her side of the bus faced the entrance they'd just driven through. A couple of generator-powered lights illuminated the immediate surroundings with a sickly, anaemic glow, but the world beyond was pitch black and barren.

It really was secluded.

Her unease grew.

What was going on?

She got her answer seconds later, when a deep grumbling reached her ears. The sound of the monster engine built into a threatening, visceral roar as the muscle car screeched through the gates and into the lot, coming to a stop just yards from the parked bus.

It was Batman's car.

As a self-proclaimed petrolhead, she'd recognise it anywhere.

The spokesman gave another command as he and his partner made their way to the exit. "Everyone start recording. I want live feeds of this. And if you step foot off this bus, you die."

This was all about Batman.

The bus was bait.

And they were witnesses. Here to film whatever was about to happen.

Her hand gripped the safety bar in front of her, clenching painfully around the metal rod. Fear - that alien sensation - finally took her over. But it wasn't fear for herself.

It was fear for him.

For the man she'd once met.

And that's how she thought of him - as a man. The public and the media focussed too much on the 'Bat', seeing him as nothing more than a symbol. A tool to strike dread into the hearts of Gotham's villains and inspire hope in its innocent citizens.

But she'd seen the man behind the mask.

Figuratively-speaking.

He had come to her workplace a year ago with a police Lieutenant. This was before the events in Gotham Square Garden, when Batman was little more than a nameless urban legend, whispered about in dark alleys by fearful thugs and gangsters.

"Where is Dr Franklin?" the lieutenant had asked as she'd greeted him at the entryway to the morgue. He was alone at that point, and she hadn't thought there was anything strange about his appearance. Police often dropped by for updates on cases.

"He had a family emergency," she replied. "He asked me to cover for him. But this is my case anyway, so it's only right that I'm here."

He looked sceptical at that, which rankled. She hated when people doubted her credentials, and wondered if it was her gender or her relatively youthful appearance which made him question her. The latter was somewhat excusable, but she couldn't stand misogynists.

"And you are?" He asked.

"Dr Carraway. I'm one of the pathologists on staff here."

He must have heard the indignation in her voice because he sighed. "I didn't mean any offence, Dr Carraway. This is a bit of a delicate situation. I have a...consultant...here with me and his presence needs to stay confidential. I've only dealt with Franklin in the past about this."

Intrigued about the mysterious consultant - the most interesting thing that had happened all week - she tried to mollify the skittish detective. "I'm a doctor. I know all about respecting confidentiality."

He nodded, more in resignation than anything else. "Come in," he called behind him.

As the figure walked through the door, she took an involuntary step backwards. He was just so...imposing. From the heavy motorcycle boots that added an inch to his already impressive height...to the thick armour covering his chest...to the long black cape and leather cowl...every inch of him was designed to intimidate.

It was an outfit made for the shadows. For dark alleyways. For the underworld of the city. He should have looked ridiculous under the bright fluorescent lights of the morgue...but he didn't.

Just the opposite.

He looked like a nightmare made real.

"Doctor?" The lieutenant called, his words breaking through her trance. "Lead the way, please."

She ducked her head, embarrassed for staring. "Sorry. Follow me."

She led them through to the autopsy room, where the body was waiting on one of the examination tables. She pulled back the white sheet and gave the policeman and the walking spectre room to view her patient.

"Is this the bruising that was mentioned in the report?" The lieutenant asked, pointing to a vague blue discolouration over the upper arm. "There weren't any photographs taken."

She bristled at what felt like a rebuke. "There weren't photographs taken because this was a non-suspicious death. The bruising was incidental. She died of pancreatitis secondary to gallstones. Natural causes."

"How certain is that?" The masked figure asked. It was the first time she'd heard his voice and she was surprised at how soft it was. It seemed incongruous coming from such a hulking figure...but then she registered his words and her surprise turned to annoyance.

She grabbed a scalpel from the tray of instruments behind her and offered it to him. "Why don't you open her back up and check for yourself?"

He didn't reply, just stared at her with his blue eyes. They were the only hint of colour to him - between the black of his suit and the pale skin of his jaw - and they were made all the more piercing by the greasepaint surrounding them.

She felt the lieutenant take the knife from her hand and set it back on the tray. "That won't be necessary, doctor. We're just covering all the bases."

His words broke the spell again and she tore her gaze away from the masked man's eyes. Why couldn't she stop staring at him? Was she so starved of attention that a mysterious stranger with a chiselled jaw was enough to render her a brainless idiot? That jaw hinted at an attractive face...but he could have three noses hidden under that mask for all she knew.

Determined to recover some semblance of professionalism, she turned to the policeman. "Can you tell me what this is about? Why are you interested in the bruising?"

"We're trying to confirm a hunch," he replied. "There's been a spate of seemingly unrelated deaths over the past couple of years which have all had the same pattern of bruising. So we're checking up on all deaths where bruising has been noted over the left arm-"

"To see if you can find more victims." She finished the sentence for him, seeing where this was leading. "Your hunch is that there's a serial killer out there."

"It's possible," the soft voice said.

She avoided looking at him - not wanting to be sucked into his orbit again - and gestured to the body in front of them. "Does this bruising fit the pattern?"

"No," came the gruff whisper again. "It doesn't fit."

She exhaled in relief, glad that she hadn't missed something. "If you let me know the pattern of bruising you're looking for, I can keep an eye out."

The lieutenant studied her for a beat before nodding. "We'd appreciate that. I'll email you some photographs. But this is strictly need-to-know. We don't want to create a panic when we're just at the theory stage."

"I understand," she said, replacing the white sheet over the body. They started to walk back to the main office, but the figure in black stopped in front of the other occupied table in the room, his gaze locked on the sheet-covered body.

The much smaller sheet-covered body.

"Is that...?"

She stepped up beside him. "Yes," she whispered, matching his hushed tone. "A nine year old boy. Caught in the crossfire of a drive by shooting."

Standing this close to him she was able to see the subtle flicker of pain and anguish in his eyes as he stared at the still figure on the table. She heard the faint squeaking of leather as he clenched his gloved fists in anger.

And in that moment...he became a man to her.

She could see his humanity - his compassion and empathy - shining through from the depths of his dark, menacing facade.

And it made her curious. What had happened to lead him to this point? What had happened to make him don that mask and take to the streets?

Who was he?

She could find the answer easily.

Remove her latex glove, invent some reason to touch his skin...and all his secrets would be laid bare.

It was her gift and her curse.

The reason why there was so much wrong with her.

But she wouldn't. He was entitled to his secrets as much as she was entitled to hers. So she kept her gloves on and stood by his side while he processed the senseless death in front of them.

"How can you...?" He whispered, but he shook his head before finishing the thought.

But she knew the question he wanted to ask. He wasn't the first.

"How can I do what I do?"

He nodded.

"I can detach myself during autopsies. To a point," she explained. "And most of the time, I can console myself with the thought that I'm providing answers to grieving families. I can give them a reason why their loved one died. But for cases like this," she rested her hand on the small sheet-covered foot, "When the cause of death is already known and its more of a legal necessity...I know I can at least provide the dead with dignity and compassion before they're put to rest." She turned to face him, surprised at how intently he was staring at her. "And I can give information to people like you, so you can get justice on my behalf."

"Justice," he echoed quietly. His gaze turned back to the body in front of them. "Is justice enough?"

She never got a chance to respond to that moral dilemma, as they were interrupted by the lieutenant. "We need to go."

The man in the mask nodded to her, held her gaze for a moment...then walked away into the night.

That was the one and only time she'd encountered Batman.

The lieutenant - Lieutenant Gordon, as she'd later found out - had sent the photographs as promised, but she never came across that odd bruising pattern. And she never heard anything in the news about a serial killer. Either their hunch was wrong, or the murderer went to ground.

Since that night, she'd kept track of Batman in the news, as the urban legends had morphed into news reports of a masked vigilante terrorising the streets.

And she'd watched the footage of him on the roof of Gotham Square Garden, as the city marvelled at his heroism.

She didn't marvel. It only confirmed what she'd discovered from that one glimpse of his troubled eyes: He was a good man, trying to do good for Gotham.

And now he'd been lured to this deserted junkyard by two armed maniacs.

She joined the rest of the passengers who were on their feet in the aisle, their phones trained on the gunmen standing in the rain between the bus and the idling car.

"Get out and face us!" The spokesman yelled. "If you don't, we'll start shooting hostages!"

The threat worked. The door opened, and Batman emerged into the rain. The black of his suit seemed to absorb the meagre light around the car, bathing him in shadows while the gunman were lit up by the car's headlamps.

They raised their guns and trained their sights on the dark figure.

It all happened quickly after that.

The younger gunman opened fire, eliciting gasps from the bus passengers. She could only hold her breath and watch as the bullets flew wide, ricocheting off the car. His aim must have been affected by the rain.

He adjusted his sights and now the bullets bounced off the heavy armour of Batman's suit. When would these guys learn that bullets didn't work on him?

It was Batman's turn to move now. He raised his arm and a grappling hook launched from his gauntlet. The heavy metal hook embedded into the thigh of the younger gunman; Batman yanked on the cord connecting them and the gunman was dragged across the gravel, away from the gun that had flown from his hand.

Ignoring the cries of pain from the fallen villain, Batman ran at the older gunman. More bullets went flying, but to no avail. Batman reached the gunman and grabbed the hand holding the pistol. He pushed it wide with his left hand and hammered a vicious right hook into the gunman's face. A volley of punches followed, which took the gunman to his knees. A final bludgeoning kick sent him to the ground.

"Stop right there, or I blow up the bus." Batman wheeled around to the grappled gunman, who had managed to wrestle himself upright. He balanced on his good leg and held up a small black device.

It was a detonator.

The man standing next to Beth cursed. The teenager started crying, and several of the other passengers started praying.

But Beth didn't buy it.

There was something so...amateurish...about this whole set up. Sure, they'd managed to lure Batman into their trap, but she didn't think they had the capability to rig the bus to explode.

She watched, biting her lip, as Batman stopped in his tracks, his eyes trained on the detonator. If he also suspected it was a bluff, he wasn't giving that away.

"That's right, you son of a bitch," the man panted. "Do as you're fucking told."

The older man behind Batman silently got to his feet. He nodded to his partner, and Beth went cold. What were they planning?

In a sudden move, the younger gunman threw the detonator passed Batman. The vigilante spun around on instinct, looking for the device...and came face to face with the other man.

Who was holding one of the gas canisters Beth had spied earlier.

He depressed the trigger and a plume of red gas erupted in Batman's face. Beth gasped as he staggered under the onslaught of the vapour. He collapsed to the ground, his legs twisted beneath him and his cape spread on the ground like a dark burial shroud.

The younger gunman whooped. "WE GOT YOU, ASSHOLE!" He spun to face the cameras recording the scene, like a celebrity facing a wall of paparazzi. "This is for you, Riddler! We got him! We took down the Bat!"

Beth rushed to the window closest to Batman and willed him to move. To get up. To do something! But he just stared up at the rain, his eyes blinking slowly. The rest of him was still.

So, so still.

What the hell was in that gas?

As if hearing her thoughts, the gunman answered her in his next boast. "We hit him with a paralysing agent. Now he's at our mercy! Now he's ours to unmask and punish. NO. MORE. LIES!"

While the younger man was performing for the live feed, the older man dropped the canister and approached the fallen vigilante. He dropped to his knees, straddling Batman's lower body, and flicked open a switchblade.

Beth's stomach dropped.

No!

"NO!"

She needed to do something!

She ran to the door of the bus, yelling to the driver, "Let me out!"

"No! Are you crazy, lady?"

"Open the door! Now!" She banged on the glass, but it stayed shut. "We need to help him! Please!"

Gun shots rang out, and she stopped dead.

She was too late.

"Gotham City PD. Hands in the air. Now!" The shouted command almost took her to her knees with relief. Shouts of joy echoed through the bus and the driver finally hit the lever to open the door. Beth staggered outside and took in the sight.

The two gunman were on their knees, hands in the air and heads bowed. Lieutenant Gordon stood over them, his gun out and fixed on them. He was alone, but she could hear sirens in the distance as help made its way closer. He was calling to Batman, who was still on the ground lying motionless.

Only about a minute had passed since he was exposed to the gas...but a minute was a long time when a paralysing drug was circulating in your body. His respiratory muscles and diaphragm would be just as inert as his limbs, preventing him from breathing.

Which meant he was suffocating to death in front of them.

She ran to him, and skidded to her knees beside his prone figure. There was a nick in his leather mask where the gunman had tried to cut it off, but the rest of his exposed face was unmarked. His pale blue eyes were still staring up at the sky, and she could read the fear in them. His lips were parted and she could see his jaw twitch with the tiniest of movements, as if he was trying with all of his strength to suck in a breath.

She leaned over him, her hands on either side of his head as she stared down into this eyes. "You're going to be ok, I promise. I know that you're struggling, but I'm here. And I'm going to breathe for you until help arrives."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing that the moment her lips touched his, her gift would reveal all his secrets to her.

But she had no choice.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, before tipping his head back and starting mouth-to-mouth.

She jerked as the images bombarded her. She tried to ignore them as she breathed for him, but they were so vivid and overwhelming.

She saw him as a curly-haired toddler wrapped in his mother's arms as she read him a story.

She saw him as a gap-toothed boy, playing with his father's stethoscope.

She saw him on his knees beside his parents' slain bodies.

She saw him grieving at their funeral.

She saw him at boarding school, sullen and alone.

She saw him learning to fight.

She saw him retreating from the world, neglecting his family's business.

She saw him creating his suit. Building his car. Stocking his lair.

She saw him on the streets, attacking criminals.

She saw him with Gordon, investigating cases.

She saw him confronting the Riddler behind a pane of glass.

She saw him fall into the flood water and be reborn a hero.

She saw him with a woman, saying goodbye in a cemetery.

She saw him in a suit in a boardroom.

She saw everything.

She didn't know how long she knelt on the cold wet ground, breathing for him and seeing his life flashing before his eyes. It was likely only minutes, but she felt like she'd lived a lifetime through his memories.

"Miss, we can take over now." The voice came from her left and it jolted her back to the present. She sat back to allow the paramedic access. He fitted a mask over Batman's mouth and started squeezing the attached bag, forcing more air into him.

She was suddenly aware of her surroundings again. The flashing blue and red lights of the emergency vehicles illuminated the scene: the gunmen were in handcuffs and being escorted to one of the patrol cars; her fellow hostages were being led off the bus, and a handful of reporters were being held behind a police barrier as they shouted their questions.

She felt strangely detached from it all. As if she was still trapped in someone else's life and couldn't recognise her own.

She hated when that happened.

She shook her head and got to her feet, swaying slightly. The exertion from the resuscitation, the stress of the evening and the lack of food combined to make her feel lightheaded. Someone caught her arm. "Are you ok?"

She gave the police officer beside her a small smile whilst shrugging off his hand. The last thing she needed was to have any more thoughts that weren't her own swirling around her brain. "I'm fine, thanks."

A commotion on the ground drew their attention. Batman was apparently breathing for himself now and trying to get up.

"Hey man, what are you doing?" Lieutenant Gordon pushed through the crowd of paramedics and grabbed Batman's arm, trying to stop him from clambering to his feet.

He failed.

The paramedics took a step back as the masked figure rose to his full height. He breathed deeply a few times, his head tipped back and eyes closed, as if relishing the movement. Then he shook his head and started walking to his car.

"Wait. You need to go to the hospital and get checked out," Gordon said, jogging to catch up with the taller man's long strides.

Batman reached his car and gripped the open doorway. "I'm fine."

It was the first time she'd heard that soft, gruff voice all evening and the sound made her exhale in relief. He was okay. He was was on his feet, alert and talking.

He was okay.

Which meant she could leave.

She needed time to process what had happened tonight.

To process the secret she'd discovered.

Gotham City's vigilante...was also Gotham City's favourite son.

Billionaire orphan and semi-recluse, Bruce Wayne...was Batman.