Killing Batman: The Silver Mask Chapter 3.

Chapter 3: The Butcher’s Apprenticeship.

(Ash's P.O.V)

(Ireland – Six Months Later)

(Acheron Sionis, Age 12)

The cold here isn’t like Gotham’s. It doesn’t stab. It settles in your bones like guilt.

I stand in the old garage behind my uncle’s farmhouse, oil-stained tools on every wall. He calls it a workshop. It’s a weapons cache. And he doesn’t treat me like family—he treats me like an investment.

Cormac Byrne. Former Provo. Mid-level commander turned farmer. Thick accent, heavier fists. Mom’s older brother. They had another brother, Cormac's twin but he's dead.

“You sure you’re ready for this, boy?” he asks, loading a worn AK. “This ain’t Gotham. Here, you get blood on your boots, you never wash it off.”

I don’t flinch.

“Good,” he grunts. “Then we’ll begin.”

He becomes my second teacher after father.

(Three Years Later)

-Unmarked Road, West County Down – 2:13 AM-

We don’t wear uniforms. We wear work clothes and gloves. And masks, of course.

The British patrol doesn’t expect us. I planned the ambush myself—planted the IED, timed their route, hacked their comms. I wait in a ditch, holding a detonator with steady fingers.

They come.

Five soldiers in an armored jeep. I whisper into the radio. “Eyes.”

My spotters confirm.

“Now.”

The explosion flips the jeep like a toy. Two crawl out. I shoot both in the legs. One begs in a Glaswegian accent. I walk up and crush his larynx with my boot.

Cormac watches from the hedgerow, arms crossed, nodding once.

When it’s done, I leave behind a black envelope with a silver symbol.

I don’t take credit. Not yet. But word spreads.

The Young Butcher of the IRA.

(Two Years Later)

-IRA Safehouse, Belfast-

My father died a few weeks ago. Some Falcone and Penguin goons got to him in Blackgate. I don't grieve. But I do add a few more names to my kill list.

I stand across from Seamus Connolly, a senior commandant. He's smoking and watching me like I’m not a teenager. My fingers move with speed and precision, disassembling and reassembling the guns stacked within the crate- weapon testing the new shipment.

“You’re too good at this,” he comments. “Scares some of the boys.”

I nod. “Good.”

He leans in. “You don’t care about fighting for Ireland, do you?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

I pause and stare him down. “Because I need an army. And you needed a devil.”

He laughs, exhaling smoke.

-Location: Cork, Ireland–

(Three Months Before Return to Gotham)

We meet in a pub. Quiet, off the motorway. The kind with one barkeep, six drunk regulars, and a jukebox that hasn’t worked since the nineties.

I sit at the table farthest from the door, pint untouched in front of me. I don’t drink before operations. I rarely drink after. This might be my last one.

Across from me is Tadgh, thirty-two, old Provo stock with bad teeth and worse instincts. He doesn’t like taking orders from someone half his age.

I don’t care what he likes.

“We hit the safehouse at midnight,” I say calmly. “One team breaches the back, one disables the CCTV, and I’ll take the front.”

Tadgh snorts. “You taking the front door? What are you, a bloody cowboy?”

“No,” I reply. “I’m the bait.”

He leans back, smirking. “You’re gonna get shot, lad.”

“Maybe,” I say, meeting his eyes. “But you’re going to follow the plan. Or I’ll shoot you myself.”

The smirk dies. He nods, slowly.

They don’t realize yet that I’m not asking.

-11:58 PM – Safehouse-

-Target: Arms Broker working with MI5 posing as a black-market contact-

Three floors. Reinforced doors. Two bodyguards confirmed. Unknown civilian occupants. Intel says he’s stockpiling British arms under the table while skimming off IRA shipments.

That’s not just betrayal. That’s supply chain sabotage.

And I don’t allow interference with my funding lines.

I approach wearing a workman’s jacket. Toolbox in hand. Beanie low over my face. I knock. Confident. Relaxed.

The door opens to a narrow-eyed man in track pants and a pistol on his hip.

I drop the toolbox.

He looks down—

—and I shoot him in the face with a suppressed pistol.

I step over the body before it hits the ground and press the breach signal into my mic. Gunfire erupts in the back.

A second guard rounds the hallway with a shotgun. I slide behind the corner as the blast shreds plaster. When he reloads, I pop out and fire twice. Chest, head.

Tadgh comes through the rear moments later, panting. Blood on his collar.

“The broker?” he asks.

“In the basement.”

-12:08 AM – Basement Interrogation Room-

The arms broker is tied to a metal chair, eyes wild with panic. I walk in alone. Tadgh tries to follow.

I block the door.

“Wait outside.”

He hesitates.

I don’t.

He leaves.

The man’s name is Cullen Shaw. He’s ex-military. Ran private contracts in Syria. Now he’s working both sides.

“I have money,” he starts. “We can deal—”

I shoot him in the kneecap. He screams. I drag the other chair over and sit across from him.

“Names. Who else is working with you?”

“You don’t understand—”

“I don’t care.”

Ten minutes later, he’s unconscious. Three confirmed collaborators. One local handler in Dublin. Two names out of Belfast. I send the info up the chain.

Then I stand, check my watch, and shoot Cullen in the chest.

Three times.

No final words. No last-minute offers. He was a problem. Problems get removed.

-12:45 AM – Riverbank Outside Cork-

We dump the bodies and equipment in a waiting van. The others are celebrating. High-fives. Jokes. Cigarettes. Someone puts on music.

Tadgh walks over, trying to bond.

“You handled that clean, lad. Bit cold, though.”

“I’m not here to make friends,” I reply.

He shrugs. “We all get blood on our hands.”

“No,” I say. “You get blood because you’re messy. I get blood because it’s necessary.”

Tadgh looks away, finally understanding.

-Safehouse, 3:00 AM-

Cormac reads the debrief. He doesn’t speak for a full minute.

Finally: “Clean. Efficient. Ruthless. Just like I taught you.”

“I know.”

He looks up. “This was supposed to test your command. Your loyalty. But you weren’t working for us tonight.”

“No,” I agree.“I was working for me.”

(1 Month Before Return to Gotham)

Cormac calls me into the barn. His hands are trembling. I’ve never seen him afraid.

“There’s word out of London. Pennyworth is back in Gotham.”

I freeze. Alfred Pennyworth. A person of interest.

“He was SAS. Ran black ops. Killed my CO in ’89...then my brother, your late uncle Mikael in '92. Your father hated him. Always said Alfred was the Wayne family’s dagger. Quiet, clean. A real operator.”

He slides a picture of an older man dressed like a butler. Clean shaven and a gentle face...yet the eyes are that of a murderer.

I don't need to be told that he's my next target. The red X over his face is enough.

I file the picture away as my uncle continues.

“Your time here’s done, Ash,” Cormac says. “The Command wants you stateside. Fundraising, logistics. They’re setting you up with a clean ID, school, apartment. And your mother’s old surname. Byrne. You have your orders.”

“Good." I reply. “Gotham was never off my map. Just out of reach.”

He gives me a cautious look. “Just remember, you’re going back as a normal kid. Play the part. Stay hidden.”

I pick up my mask from the crate. Wipe the silver surface.

“I’m done hiding.”

The Irish Republican Army (IRA) is the name used by several different paramilitary organizations in Ireland that have sought to achieve Irish republicanism, which involves the establishment of a united, independent Ireland.