**Age 18**
Life in Crane's Wings developed rhythms and patterns as the organization matured from chaotic startup into something resembling a functional criminal enterprise.
Suguro spent most of his time in the main laboratory. The space was climate-controlled, well-lit, and organized with the same meticulous precision Victor had instilled in him. Shelves lined the walls holding hundreds of carefully labeled compounds, refrigeration units maintained temperature-sensitive materials, and fume hoods processed the toxic gases he created and worked with daily.
William worked in the adjacent surgical facility, separated from Suguro's lab by reinforced walls and a heavy security door that muffled but didn't completely eliminate sound. The surgeon usually operated on "volunteers", criminals who'd betrayed other organizations and were sold to Crane's Wings for experimentation, homeless people whose disappearance wouldn't be investigated, or test subjects acquired through outright kidnapping when specific characteristics were needed.
The screaming from that section of the facility was constant enough that Suguro barely noticed it anymore. It had become background noise, like the hum of ventilation systems or the distant sounds of Gotham's traffic. Occasionally, when a subject's cries became particularly desperate or prolonged, he'd realize for a moment, a brief flicker of awareness that somewhere nearby, a human being was experiencing unimaginable agony, then return to his work. Then remembered what he had learned all those years ago it is either you are the one giving pain or receiving it, the only true law in Gotham…
Once, early on, Jaina had asked him, "Doesn't it bother you? Hearing that?"
"No," he'd answered honestly. "Should it?"
She'd studied him for a long moment, those pale eyes seeing perhaps more than he'd intended to reveal. "(Sigh) No, I suppose it shouldn't."
The other members had their own spaces and schedules throughout the facility. Jaina coordinated operations from a command center on the second floor, a former office space she'd converted into a surveillance hub. Multiple monitors displayed feeds from security cameras across their territory, communications equipment connected her to her scattered duplicates, and detailed maps of Gotham covered the walls with pins marking locations of interest.
She could work long nights and days easily, the hive-mind connection meaning she never really rested, even when her primary form slept, dozens of duplicates continued working across the city. Suguro had asked once if the constant mental activity was exhausting. "You get used to it," she'd said. "Being just one person feels lonely now. Like missing limbs."
Manbat and Killer Moth maintained aerial surveillance from high points throughout the surrounding district, resting during the day and conducting operations at night such as eliminating rivals, dropping toxin from the sky, or kidnapping people unfortunate enough to stray close to the base. They'd developed an efficient partnership.
They also trained together regularly, practicing coordinated aerial maneuvers, toxin deployment runs, and combat scenarios against imaginary hero opposition.
Cameron had established a small workshop in one of the facility's upper rooms where he maintained his equipment and produced silk for various faction uses. He'd arrive at Suguro's lab sometimes with samples, explaining tensile strength improvements or fire-resistance modifications with the enthusiasm of someone presenting homework to a favorite teacher. Suguro would examine the samples, provide feedback, and usually find some application for the material.
Meetings happened weekly, with all current members gathering in the main facility's conference room, really just a cleared warehouse space with a large table scavenged from a bankrupt office building and mismatched chairs. The space was deliberately sparse, with no decorations or comfort features. This was for business, not socializing.
"report," Suguro would begin, his voice flat and businesslike even when not wearing the mask. He sat at the head of the table, a notebook open in front of him where he documented everything discussed. The others arranged themselves around the table in roughly hierarchical order William closest to him with jaina, then the others.
Jaina would go first, her primary form reporting while dozens of her duplicates stood around the room's perimeter like an unsettling army of identical albino women. "Intelligence indicates Batman is investigating our chemical suppliers. I've had duplicates shadowing his known associates, nothing conclusive yet, but he's getting closer to identifying our inside source at Ace chemicals west plant. I'd recommend we diversify our suppliers or eliminate the current to remove the trail."
"Agreed. Diversification is safer than elimination, killing suppliers just confirms their importance and focuses investigation." Suguro made a note.
"Manbat, aerial reconnaissance results?"
Langstrom unfurled his wings, stretching them unconsciously, a habit when he was thinking or uncomfortable. The leathery membrane caught the overhead lights, casting strange shadows across the table. "Hero patrol patterns are shifting. They're avoiding our territory more consistently, seems you've built this place's In the right place and well the riddlers new scheme has them distracted" when Crane heard that name he cringed he was always annoyed by that self destructive idiot riddler "but there's increased activity around the upper North docks. Looks like Falcone's mob operations expanding led by that older man Thorne I thinks hus name? Anyway it might conflict with Bane's shipping routes."
"Interesting. Are they aware of the potential conflict, or is this accidental overlap?"
"Hard to say. Could be the Falcones testing whether Bane will defend the area or negotiate, could be genuine expansion without considering the implications. I've observed increased security presence on both sides, more guards, heavier weapons."
"Monitor and report any direct confrontations. If they go to war, it creates opportunities for us." Suguro made another note. "William, experimental results?"
William leaned forward, his surgeon's hands folded on the table in a parody of professional consultation. His eyes had that distant quality they always got when discussing his work, not quite present, his mind already visualizing the next incision, the next modification. "The latest batch of modified subjects shows promise. Enhanced strength and pain tolerance, reduced higher cognitive function making them more compliant. Survival rate is still low, about forty percent, but those who survive are remarkably effective as mindless slave enforcers. More importantly, I'm refining techniques that could be applied to voluntary subjects. My research will let me upgrade all of us eventually." He grinned, showing too many teeth, a manic edge to his expression.
Jaina shifted slightly, her duplicates mirroring the movement in perfect synchronization. She looked faintly perturbed, still not fully used to William's casual discussions of butchering human beings, despite months of exposure.
"What's causing the deaths?" Suguro asked, ignoring William's grandiose claims about "upgrades." The surgeon had a tendency toward exaggeration when excited about results.
"Rejection of the modifications primarily. The body fights the changes at a cellular level, immune responses, infection, systemic shock. It's delicate work. Too much and they die. Too little and they die. I'm experimenting with some new Quirk-derived compounds from abroad that might improve compatibility, but it's still highly variable."
"Continue the research. We need reliable augmentation procedures if we're going to expand our capabilities beyond our natural Quirks." Suguro paused, letting weight settle into his next words. "Not to mention the amount of resources I've delegated to you on this. Resources that could be allocated elsewhere if results don't improve."
The threat was subtle but clear. William's smile faded slightly, his gaze sharpening as he recognized the warning. "Understood. I'll prioritize refinement over experimentation. Results within two months."
"Good." Suguro moved on, the moment already forgotten. Threats delivered, message received, no need to belabor the point.
From the outside, these meetings were a professional, detached gathering of psychotics and criminals discussing how to worsen the world with the same casual efficiency a corporate board might discuss quarterly profits.
But there were moments, brief ones, where something approximating companionship emerged despite Suguro's careful emotional distance.
Late nights in the laboratory, Suguro working on toxin synthesis while Jaina coordinated her duplicates' activities from across the room. The space would be quiet except for the soft bubbling of chemical reactions, the clicking of her keyboard, the occasional scratch of his pen in notebooks. Comfortable silence broken occasionally by practical questions.
"What's that one?" she'd ask, gesturing to a beaker containing pale yellow liquid.
"Strain Theta variant. Attempting to create a version of my quirk that triggers mass paranoia where all see the same fear rather than just personalized paranoia."
She'd listen intently, occasionally asking questions that revealed she'd actually absorbed previous explanations and was building on that knowledge. It reminded him of his mentorship with Victor, that rare satisfaction of being understood by someone who appreciated the work itself rather than just its applications.
"It's the only thing I've ever been good at," he'd answered, more honestly than he'd intended. Exhaustion loosened his careful control sometimes.
Or Grundy's daily visits, which had evolved from simple maintenance into something Suguro couldn't quite describe. The giant would bring him things he'd found during his wanderings through the facility's surrounding territory—interesting rocks, dead flowers, once a very confused pigeon that had somehow survived Grundy's gentle but clumsy handling.
"Friend! Grundy found treasure!" The giant would lumber into the laboratory with whatever prize he'd discovered, presenting it with such earnest pride that dismissing the gesture seemed needlessly cruel.
"Thank you, Grundy. This is… a very nice rock."
"Grundy found for friend! Is shiny!" The giant would beam, his massive face transformed by genuine joy at having pleased someone he cared about.
"It is shiny. I'll keep it on my desk."
And he did, a small collection of Grundy's gifts accumulating in his workspace. A smooth river stone. A piece of broken glass that caught light interestingly. A rusted gear from some centuries old machinery. Objects with no practical value, kept for no logical reason.
Or Langstrom, who sometimes perched near Suguro during night operations when they were both together in testing of fear toxin on the masses. The two would be on top of a building with Crane looking over the balcony at his work below while langstrom would hang from the edge folding his wings around himself while. They'd exist in comfortable silence.
Langstrom understood not needing to fill silence with meaningless conversation, not needing emotional validation or reassurance, just appreciating having someone nearby who accepted what you were. He never tried to make Suguro talk about feelings or bond through forced camaraderie. He simply existed in the same space, occasionally making a comment about his observations, then lapsing back into quiet.
It reminded Suguro of his time with Victor, that same comfortable coexistence where presence was enough, where understanding didn't require constant verbal affirmation. Langstrom had been rejected by society for his appearance, had tried to fit into normal life and been broken by the constant failure. He understood isolation, understood being fundamentally different in ways that made genuine connection nearly impossible.
"Do you ever miss it?" Langstrom had asked once, late into a night when they'd both been awake for over twenty-four hours. "Being around people who don't know what you are? Pretending to be normal?"
Suguro had considered the question seriously. "No. Pretending is exhausting. This is easier."
"Yeah." Langstrom had shifted his wings, the leather membrane rustling softly. "This is easier."
They'd said nothing else that night, but something had shifted, an acknowledgment of shared experience, of mutual understanding that neither of them could articulate but both recognized. It wasn't friendship. Suguro didn't do friendship right? But it was something.
No these weren't friendships, Suguro reminded himself during the rare moments of self-reflection. Friendships required emotional investment he wasn't capable of, vulnerability he'd systematically eliminated, reciprocal caring that went beyond mutual benefit. These were professional relationships.
Jaina was a valued colleague who happened to be intelligent enough to make conversation interesting. Grundy was a loyal asset. Langstrom was a useful operative who happened to share similar experiences with isolation. Cameron was a dedicated follower whose enthusiasm happened to be motivating rather than annoying. William was an effective specialist whose lack of empathy happened to mirror his own.
during the long nights in his laboratory when the facility was mostly quiet and he was alone with his thoughts and his research. It was easier to believe than the alternative, that somewhere in the process of building Crane's Wings, he'd accidentally created something that resembled the family he'd never had. That these damaged people who'd found purpose in his organization might have found something else too. That he might have found it with them.
He pushed the thought away, returning to his work. Chemical compounds didn't require emotional analysis.
The liquified toxin in the beaker before him was almost ready for testing. He'd document the results, refine the formula, move forward with his research. That was what mattered. The rest, the moments of connection, the flickers of something that might be called caring, those were just noise in the data. Irrelevant to his actual goals.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
And if he didn't quite believe it anymore, well. That was something he could examine later. Or never. Preferably never