The Batman Theme
Fitz
I hit the stairs at a dead sprint the second my last class lets out, mentally tabbing through everything that needs to line up so I can do what I’ve planned.
By the time I reach the quad, I’ve already pre-mapped the kill box (the staff housing units), checked the security cam feed, and updated the group chat so the home crew knows I’ll be working late for plausible deniability.
I see Dolly’s group project email still sitting unanswered on my phone, and for a half-second, my heart hurts because she did everything right. The Heathers will one hundred percent twist it into another fuck-you parade by Friday, and she’ll have a bad day.
I’ve got a thing or two to teach those overgrown Chihuahuas about psychological warfare before this semester ends, though.
The main drag is clogged with a herd of post-session canids, so I shortcut over by the lake and head for the paths to the staff housing beyond the admin building.
My shoes squeak as I hit the pavement, so I make a note to replace the soles, then remind myself I’ll be swapping them out for Dolly’s black ballet flats before the actual op.
The point is not just to break into Rockland’s shithole and ruin more of her semester, but to do it in a way that leaves her unable to pin down who is fucking with her and why.
Style points matter, especially when I’ve done such a good job so far.
The goal is to either keep her occupied so she can’t bother my Baby Girl or have her lose her shit in such an irredeemable way that Midori has to put her on leave.
Once I get to my location, I take the gym bag I prepared earlier off my chest and duck behind the buildings into the liminal space where they back up against the mountains.
I strip off my hoodie and pull on the dark compression shirt.
It’s not about blending in; it’s about minimizing forensic evidence.
I picked the tightest black joggers I own, donning them in a flash and then putting my feet into Dolly’s old ballet flats.
Luckily her big bunny thumpers are about the same size as my feet because the tread pattern is unidentifiable and they make zero sound even on linoleum.
I do a little shuffle as I adjust everything, leaving the clothes bag stowed by a basement access door.
I pick up my backpack next. It’s loaded with micro-cams, a spool of hair-thin cable for hard-wire connections, a mini multi-tool with enough blades and picks to make a Boy Scout wet himself, my lock-pick set, and the Bluetooth tap module I built last year.
I check and recheck each item, snapping everything back into pouches in the order I’ll need them.
My phone goes in an armband and is running my custom app: it displays a live schematic of the staff housing, overlays the access point MAC addresses, and will log every device I pop or plant in the next hour.
It’s time to wreck it, baby.
Taking a breath, I force my hands to still.
The rush of adrenaline pumps up my usual ADHD, but breathing deeply like my bunny taught me gets everything to center.
I spent an hour earlier pushing fake calendar entries into the staff management system, so the maintenance crews and that narco wolf property manager told all residents to be gone during this time for a water main repair.
The security rotation is set to the other side of the quad, and if they run the schedule I spoofed, I’ll have ninety minutes to do my work and ghost before anyone gets wise.
I zip the bag, plucking the canister of prey-scent compound the Captain’s crew gave me last week out of the outermost pocket.
I don’t love that it makes me smell like a walking salad bar, but the idea is to leave a perfectly confusing trace signature for the preds I’m invading the spaces of.
If they figure out someone’s been in their rooms, they’ll probably suspect every prey animal on campus.
Since it’s made of an amalgam of scents, no one can be directly held responsible for it.
Of course, if anything looks dicey, the crew can get our family quickly as a backup.
The air is crisp as I head for the main street of the staff housing area.
Every step, I count out the beats in my head, imagining the muscle memory required for each move I will make.
Dolly says I look like a serial killer when I get like this, but honestly, she says it with so much pride I know she means ‘sexy beast of a boyfriend’ instead.
Rockland’s townhouse is at the end of the row.
It’s three stories with a front stoop decked out with dead-looking succulents and a ‘Love is Love’ doormat that is so ugly it makes my teeth hurt.
I slip around the back, step up to the kitchen window, and check for sensors.
There’s a standard Erikson glass break module glued to the frame, but it’s an old version, so I can kill it with a sixty-second handshake.
I pop the casing, attach my tap, and watch my phone as it brute-forces the access key.
The second it rolls over, I hear the pop as the relay disengages.
I pull the window, ease it open, and climb in.
Zero drama, zero evidence, and only the faint hint of Opium perfume to suggest anyone’s lives here at all.
Yuck.
Inside, I let my eyes adjust. The place is sadder than it was last year, like someone with a death wish moved in and decorated using a Google search done with some shit-ass AI.
I stifle a laugh and move to the front hallway, already thinking about where to plant my little presents.
The thought fills me with so much joy that I close the window behind me with a sigh of happiness as I get ready for the fun.
This will be so very, very satisfying, and I cannot wait for part two.
Once I’m done gloating, I move to the small dining area.
The smell of burnt coffee, her heavy-ass scent, and beneath all of it, the low-grade tang of someone who has not opened a window the entire time she’s lived here.
It’s a particular kind of gross when paired with the smell of carrion, but it’s also deeply funny, since Rockland is the type to write motivational tweets about clean spaces for clear minds or whatever.
As I peek at the table, I note enough ‘Girl Boss’ mugs on it to make me fight my gag reflex.
This woman is the antithesis of cool, and I should definitely preserve the images for future amusement.
I take a few pics with my phone quickly, and then head for the smart-home hub mounted high on the wall next to the light switch.
The sticker still says ‘Installed by Erikson SmartHome’ which is also kind of silly given how many versions old this shit is.
I plug my tap module into the service port at the bottom and then scan the room as the handshake runs.
My phone vibrates four seconds later, so I check the app to see what it gives me.
I’m in luck; it's a full tree of things to screw with.
This damn thing powers the lights, climate, stove, shower, TV, Wi-Fi, and even links to her home laptop.
Oh, Rockland, you amazing dumbass; I can make this entire place do the mambo if I want.
Finishing the hack with a gleeful fist pump, I head for the next room to see what I can get into.
Her living room is tidy in a superficial way.
The couch is a muted gray, the coffee table is stacked with magazines, and the desk in the corner is lit by a full-spectrum LED lamp that makes the surface look like it’s at a crime scene.
I move to the desk first, fish the first micro-cam from my kit, and get to work.
It’s a pinhole model, sticky-backed, matte black.
I pop the smoke detector cover above it off, nestle the cam in behind the mesh, and click it shut.
My phone pings with the notification immediately.
Cam 1—Desk Area: Live
I smirk and update the diagram, adding a dot over the tiny floor plan.
My second stop is the TV stand. It’s a monster seventy-inch flat screen perched on a pressed-board console full of streaming boxes and a tangle of cables.
I trace the cable housing with my finger, find the plastic seam, and slide another cam into the slot.
From the right angle, it covers the entire room, including the hallway and the front door.
I consider fiddling with the TV, too, but I bet I’ll be able to use the SmartHome console for it, and I don’t need to be greedy.
The third cam goes on the bookshelf, and I give myself extra points for placement. I wedge it into the metal bracket at the very top, angled to catch the couch and the front door. If she ever goes full Bond villain and hosts an evil meeting, I’ll have it in 4K.
Cam 3—BookShelf Area: Live
I do a little ballet shuffle across the hardwood—an homage to my mate—and imagine for a moment that Dolly is watching from the hallway, quietly rooting for me to stick the landing. I do, and because I’m a professional, I don’t celebrate out loud.
Before I go upstairs, I head back to the kitchen.
It’s full of fake marble and appliances in chrome.
The stove is a smart model with a Wi-Fi enabled igniter.
I pull up the device menu on my phone and link in through the Bluetooth tapper.
In thirty seconds, I’ve set up a remote script that will trigger a ‘gas leak detected’ alarm anytime I want.
If Rockland seems to be hiding shit, I can clear her house for an hour with one button press rather than the intricate method I used today.
Gliding back to the stairs, I go up quickly and look in the first door.
It’s the bathroom, so I link into the shower temp controller, set a subroutine to cycle between scalding and freezing on random days, and then pop a cam behind the decorative towel rack that will only see the mirror and medicine cabinet.
I’d prefer not to land on something that will make me want to poke my eyes out of my skull, so I adjust a couple more times just to make sure.
I nearly laugh out loud, but I spin on my heel, pirouette, and head for the bedroom.
Cam $—Bathroom Area: Live
The master bedroom is even sadder than the living room.
Her bedding is coordinated, but the effect is ruined by the massive pile of stinky laundry on the accent chair and the wealth of prescription bottles on the nightstand.
I take a moment to snap pictures of those, but only because I feel a weird, tiny flicker of pity for how little this woman must enjoy her own company.
Then I remember she called my mate a ‘worthless slut’ and my millisecond of empathy is gone.
Rockland is going to wish I’d killed her when I get done with my reign of terror.
My first upstairs cam goes in the ceiling fan housing.
It’s an old trick, but if you do it right, the airflow hides the infrared signature, making it all but invisible to basic sweepers.
I place another behind the frame of the mirror above the dresser, pointed at the door rather than the bed.
It will make me queasy, but knowing if she has this kind of company might be a good pressure point someday.
I’m very careful with the nightstand as I open its top drawer.
I probably shouldn’t do this, but curiosity is genetic for my kind, and I instantly regret my choice.
There are three giant vibrators, an unopened bottle of numbing gel, and a paperback copy of one of her own books with the corners all bent up.
I wince, but because I am a pro, I stick the mic to the inside back panel, just in case she ever monologues with this open.
I close the drawer with two fingers and wipe my hands on my pants.
I’m gonna need a hazmat shower before I touch anything.
The bookshelf in here is the last zone to sweep.
It’s wall-to-wall Rockland novels—every shelf is stacked with copies of her own books with varied covers and shit.
She’s got them displayed face-out and in the middle of one shelf; her author picture glares out at me like a fucking scarecrow.
It’s taken with her in a power suit, a smarmy smile with her bird's nest hair, and her arms crossed over her chest. This is like a shrine to herself, except for the bottom row, which is loaded with serious-sounding academic texts and classic literature. Psychology, sociology, shifter behavioral theory…. The spines are crisp; I doubt she’s read half of them and the classics look even less opened.
I scan that shelf closer for anything suspicious.
It seems like a good spot since she obviously doesn’t even use this shit.
Near the end of the row, I spot a book that doesn’t match the rest. It’s cloth-wrapped and looks heavier than the others.
When I pick it up, it smells old. I unwrap the corner and catch the faint outline of a symbol burned into the cover, sharp-edged and geometric.
This is either a prop for scaring interns or a genuine artifact—either way, it’s coming with me.
After I tuck the book under my arm, I take one last tour through the entire unit.
I’m pretty sure I left no sign of the cams or the tampering.
Performing a quick backup of all placements to my encrypted cloud, I duck out the front door, relocking both the deadbolt and the chain from the outside.
As a bonus flourish, I realign the dead succulent so it points slightly toward the next unit.
Let them chase the wrong leads if they’re going to look for the intruders.
On the stoop, I pop the cap on the prey-scent canister and give myself a generous spritz. I resist the urge to taste the air, check my phone for the time, and smile. I have forty minutes left in the window before anyone gets suspicious, and two more stops on the itinerary.
All in a night’s work.