Chapter 383: Master of Imitation?
Ant-Man wasn't the least bit worried about giving Batman a month to replicate his Pym Particles.
Who did Batman think he was -- Reed Richards?
Even if Reed Richards himself showed up, the man who allegedly held the title of world's greatest intellect, Ant-Man still wouldn't believe anyone could reverse-engineer Pym Particles in that kind of timeframe.
"If you can't do it," Ant-Man said, fixing Batman with a cold smile, "you don't just give the two vials back. You take that mask off and let me see what your face actually looks like. And after that, I'll petition the International Security Council to have you arrested and spend the rest of your life in the ant farm."
Wasp reached over and put a hand on his arm.
"Hank. Don't."
Ant-Man snorted and turned his head away.
But a few seconds later he turned back.
"You said earlier there's a ninety percent chance I'm not HYDRA." He looked at Batman. "What about the other ten?"
Batman nodded once, then looked past him to Janet.
"Can I have paper and a pen?"
Ant-Man and Wasp exchanged a glance. Janet said nothing, walked out of the room, and returned shortly after with both. She handed them to Batman.
His hand moved fast. In a matter of seconds he'd sketched a figure on the paper -- tall, heavily built, carrying a circular shield -- then pressed one finger to the edge of the sheet and flicked it across the room toward Ant-Man.
"Do you know him?"
"Captain America?" The words were out of Ant-Man's mouth the instant he saw the sketch.
"No." Wasp leaned in beside him and shook her head. "Similar, but I don't think that's him. Though I'd have to agree it's close."
"Fair enough. That man's been dead for decades." Ant-Man studied the paper, then looked up at Batman. "You're sure you drew this right? Nothing added, nothing left out?"
Batman nodded. The sketch was based entirely on Silver Sable's description. He hadn't invented a single detail.
Ant-Man turned the drawing over in his hands, scrutinizing the black silhouette. His expression changed slowly as he thought.
"Everyone knows Captain America's shield has a star at the center. He even had one stitched onto his chest. And I can't imagine anyone not recognizing him on sight, even sixty years after his death." He set the paper down. "But this figure -- face covered, no star on the shield, completely cloaked in black..."
He trailed off, tapping his chin.
"I think I know who this is."
"Who?" Batman asked.
"Anthony 'Tony' Masters." Ant-Man said the name and nodded, more certain with every second he looked at the silhouette. "Goes by the codename Taskmaster."
He glanced at Wasp after he said it, something flickering across his face that he didn't voice.
Batman watched his expression carefully.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?"
Ant-Man spread both hands wide.
"You figured that out yourself. I didn't tell you anything."
"Appreciated," Batman said.
Ant-Man frowned. "You don't have any questions? About Taskmaster?"
"What's his ability?"
Ant-Man's expression cracked into something that looked genuinely satisfied, like a man who had finally landed a long-awaited point.
"Why don't you say his name again?"
Batman had already known the name. Same as he'd known Black Widow and Hawkeye long before he ever met them -- from the night he'd hacked S.H.I.E.L.D.'s internal systems, pulling names out of classified files. He knew the name existed. What he hadn't known was the face, the capability, or why that figure kept appearing in the accounts of every established hero in New York.
But before he left Pym Technologies, Ant-Man's parting words had given him what he needed.
Taskmaster.
He turned it over as he drove the Batmobile back toward Bat Island, the city blurring past on both sides. The word sat in his mind and he followed where it led.
Imitation. Mimicry. Photographic recall of physical movement.
He sent a short message to Venom Robin -- finish training with the Black Knight, then come to Bat Island -- and let the thought settle into the back of his mind where it would keep working on its own.
Bat Island now had most of the functions of a proper Batcave. Batman had already decided this was where he would build T'Challa's Vibranium suit. He pulled up the specific sonic frequencies he'd memorized -- the precise resonance bands capable of destabilizing Vibranium's atomic bonds -- and began adjusting the equipment one station at a time, moving through the preparation methodically.
By the time he was ready, Venom Robin had arrived.
The moment Robin stepped down into the underground level and saw the row of large-scale instruments already humming to life, his face fell.
"I don't want to look at any of this."
"I called you here to prepare for a joint operation," Batman said without turning around.
"Like the last two times? Where we go somewhere and I don't even get to throw a punch?"
Robin's voice was deeply aggrieved. The two visits to Hell's Kitchen had produced exactly one moment of action -- catching Luke Cage's wrist. That was it. And the past two weeks of sparring with Dane Whitman had been no better, Dane's power level so far below Robin's that the sessions barely qualified as exercise.
He had already made a firm internal decision: if Batman said Hell's Kitchen again, he was refusing before the man finished the sentence.
"No." Batman paused his work and turned to look at him. "This time we're going to Wakanda."
He watched Robin's face change.
"This time," Batman said, "it's your turn."
Robin's mouth split into a grin. His eyes went wide.
"Really?"
Batman nodded and pointed toward a station across the room. "Right now, I need you operating that equipment to help me finish the suit."
The promise of a real fight was enough. Robin abandoned every grievance he'd been nursing and jogged to the console, already reaching for the controls when Batman's encrypted communications channel opened. This particular frequency was reserved for one person -- Parker Industries CEO Alice.
"Boss." Her voice was professional, unhurried. "There's a letter for you."
Batman adjusted his voice -- younger, measured. "What does the envelope say?"
"Nothing. Just a symbol shaped like an eye."
Batman didn't ask anything further. He looked across at Robin.
"Go pick it up. Don't be seen."
Robin was already moving before the sentence ended. He liked errands -- no thinking required.
Fourteen minutes later he was back, envelope in hand.
The Bat Island Batcave's defensive systems were more thoroughly built out than the City Hall installation. Batman had no concerns about the contents giving away anything about the location.
He examined the outer details first. The postmark read August thirteenth. The day he had crossed into this world.
The return address was listed only as XZ -- a designation that had no business arriving on his doorstep.
Batman's brow tightened.
Across the room, Robin had already returned to the console and was studying the readouts.
"Old Bat, this suit isn't for you, is it?" He glanced over his shoulder. "And what are we going to Wakanda for?"
"To save it," Batman said.
He tore the envelope open as he spoke, shook out the single sheet inside, and read the one line written on it.
Don't go to Wakanda. -- The Ancient One.
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