“The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a warrior takes everything as a challenge while an ordinary man takes everything either as a blessing or a curse”-Carlos Casteneda
“Poverty may be the mother of crime, but lack of good sense is the father”-Jean de la Bruyere
Three more days had passed. Word was spreading in the criminal circles of Batman’s activities.
The early response was hard to define, but from what Alfred’s listening posts and monitoring of police bands could discern, they seemed to view Batman as a rival; a new gang lord, trying to control them.
Batman lashed out with a brutal kick into a punching bag.
“I don’t BELIEVE this!”
Punch.
Kick.
Headbutt.
“You just headbutted the punching bag,” Alfred noted with more than some concern.
“They--” punch “see--” kick “me” kick “as” punch “one of them!” headbutt.
“You said it before, you will teach them fear. Does it really matter if they see you as a boss rather than an enforcer of justice?”
Batman was half crouched, knees bent, fists at the ready. He hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. “Yes, it does matter. They have to understand what I mean. What I am.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. It occurred to him to make a wry remark; but in truth he understood all to well what Bruce meant. And he understood that what Bruce needed right now was support, not sarcasm. Growing up with Bruce as he had, he felt the quest almost as keenly as Bruce did.
“It may be suitable, for the time being, for them to view you in such a way.” Alfred said carefully. “It is hard for many criminals to understand any mindset other than their own. As time goes on, they will come to understand the truth. Until then, any kind of fearful respect is better than none at all.”
“Especially the contempt I experienced at first,” Batman nodded thoughtfully.
“You have always known patience in your quest. Now is not to time to waver in that regard. They will learn, in time.”
“Meantime,” Batman cracked his knuckles, “There is work to do....”
****
Captain Jim Gordon had found Batman’s information useful, but he was of two minds on whether to report him or not. Yes, he certainly wanted to use Batman’s knowledge; but he also wanted him under control. Having him in custody and being able to pump him for information struck him as an ideal arrangement.
But as he sat down at his desk, he realized the logistical difficulties of that. Batman would be put into the prison system, which was as corrupt as they came, like everything else in this city. Oh, to be sure, he would be in GCPD custody for a while first, but even that was no protection. The top brass would undoubtedly pay some officer--or group of officers--to finish him in his cell.
Gordon was mulling some sort of secret prison, then shook himself. What was he considering, kidnapping? Would he be any better than the scum that ruled this city if he did that? Gordon was no idealist; the ends sometimes did justify the means, if you wanted to get any results. But at the same time, the morality of such an act did concern him. Plus, it would be a logistical nightmare.
But he had to have some sort of hold over the vigilante...
His musings were interrupted by the shadow of Bullock looming over him.
Gordon looked up, waiting.
Bullock was expressionless, a sure sign of unhappiness with him.
“Well?” Gordon finally asked.
“We’ve been ordered to go after the Bat,” Bullock said simply.
Which simplified matters for Gordon. He knew he couldn’t take Batman in now, he’d never survive. He’d have to find some other way of getting leverage on the vigilante. Yet how could he disobey orders to capture or kill Batman if the opportunity arose? “We’ll do what we can,” he said aloud.
****
“....and the police have been instructed to hunt this vigilante down as well,” Boss Thorne said into the phone. “Yes, I’m told the specialist we’re looking for has already arrived. I’m expecting him momentarily”
“Sir?” his secretary said nervously over the intercom.
“Yes?” he said patiently.
“Your...guest....he’s....he’s arrived..”
“Excellent. Send him in.”
He came in, looming over six feet. His musculature was formidable. There was an animal musk in the air; pheromones perhaps, or the system of supersteroid injection tubes wired into his body.
He looked somewhat to Boss Thorne like a professional wrestler. But then, many costumes, metahuman or otherwise, looked that way. He knew the man’s reputation well enough not to underestimate him. There was a brain to match that brawn, and well he knew it.
“Bane. You come highly recommended.”
“I understand you have a vigilante problem,” Bane answered without preamable. His Caribbean accent was thick, yet the words were still clearly understandable, with precise diction. People hearing it for the first time were often surprised. Thorne wasn’t.
“Take off the mask for our discussion. I would rather behave in a civilized manner.”
Bane laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Civilization is a lie. We are all animals in the same jungle. Just smarter. In any case, I can’t remove the mask.”
“Why ever not?”
“It has to do with the Venom injection system.”
“.....That must be very unpleasant.” Thorne shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Bane shrugged. “I have grown used to many unpleasant things in my life.”
“Yes. I’ve read your file. Growing up in the Santa Prisca prison system, being injected with the Venom super-serum, becoming a criminal strategist of the first order.....but that is what makes you so perfect for us. Won’t you sit down?”
Bane sat down without comment. “My rates are quite steep.”
“Yes, I know. Just getting you here was a bit taxing. But the Consortium is prepared to pay to deal with our problem.”
“Good.”
“The problem is his unpredictability. We never know where he will strike.”
“He is certainly well funded as well,” Bane pointed out. “His training alone must have cost a small fortune.”
“But how does that help us find him?” Thorne leaned forward in his chair. He struggled to conceal his irritation. It wouldn’t do to upset such a specialist, but all the same he wanted results, and he wanted them fast. The entire Consortium was bearing down on him; as leader he had to deal with this particular problem, and he had been feeling the pressure even before Bane brought his monstrous presence into the room. He was Boss, yes, but there had been others before him, and he could replaced if this problem went on for too long.
It was impossible to tell, but the tone of Bane’s voice made it sound as though he was smiling under the mask. “Finding him will be the easy part. There is no need to go chasing after him; he will come to us, with the right lure.”
“That sort of thing has been tried before with other costumed ‘heroes’ in other cities; what would make it any difference this time?”
“Firstly, that the trap will weaken him.”
“And second?”
“Second.....I will be there.”
****
Batman swung out into the night once more.
He wanted to leave more information with Gordon, but the simple fact was it was too risky so soon. He did not specifically know, yet, that the GCPD had been ordered to take him out, but it was something he was expecting sooner or later.
So he looped up and around a radio communications tower, a favorite trick of his lately. It was time to take the Consortium head on.
They had a number of safe houses across the city, of course. But it was not enough to take out their goons. He had to hit them in the only place they understood, the wallet.
He had already hit a drug lab; now it was time to hit one of the warehouses where they stockpiled the stuff.
These places had always been heavily guarded, and his activities had caused the Consortium to double the regular guards and add a pair of snipers on the roof. Which only meant it went from easy to something that would take him a few minutes.
To their credit, the snipers were looking up and around at the skyline, peering around for him through their night scopes. He saw this from a distance, with his own night binoculars. So he came from below.
He came walking into the dirty, dingy parking lot of the warehouse, skulking between the cars. There were several old wrecks down there in addition to the ones the thugs used.
He approached the corner of the building where a sniper was perched. He was still looking up and out. Checking the ground level guards, Batman took a batarang from his belt, aimed carefully, and hurled it upwards.
One of the many things he had practiced during his years of training was throwing these. His aim was true, but the sniper was moving. So instead of knocking him out and back onto the roof, the batarang hit his hand. He yelped, and dropped his sniper rifle.
It did not go off, nor did it break; a well made weapon. But it did clatter noisily on the pavement. There were shouts and guards came running.
“He’s out there!” the wounded sniper shouted from the rooftop. “That vigilante freak is out there!”
Now the other sniper was panning over the pavement, looking for him. Guards had their guns out and were looking for him. While Batman was frustrated with his own near miss, he was still focused. This moment had been prepared for.
From his utility belt he pulled three different capsules. Throwing the first resulted in a smoke screen, disrupting any attempt by the remaining sniper to target him. The second and third were concussion-inducing explosives. The twin bangs took out some of the guards; there were three left.
He leaped through the fog, using more punches than kicks. The three remaining guards had been least effected by the concussion bangs. Two of them had held on to their weapons, and the last could still fight. They were no match for him, of course, but he was taking no chances.
The remaining sniper couldn’t see properly through the slowly dissipating smoke screen, but he knew that Batman was down there. He gave no thought to the thugs on his side; taking out Batman was the priority. Aiming as best he could, he fired down into the smoky confusion.
The bullet actually came quite close; ricocheting off the ground less than six inches from Batman’s left foot. He ducked back, then slammed two of the thugs’ heads together. Whirling out with a kick he took down the third.
Another sniper bullet whispered past his right shoulder. Reaching down to his utility belt once more, he took a compact, cutting-edge taser gun from it, raised it, and fired.
He was a little concerned about the sniper falling off the roof, but instead he jerked and spasmed, and tumbled backwards onto the rooftop.
The original sniper, the one with the batarang stuck in his hand, was no real threat now. Batman considered tasing him as well, then decided against it.
He had given thought to setting the building on fire and the money inside, then discounted it as too risky to lives, however guilty they might be. An “anonymous” tip to Gordon also presented a risk that he might be tracked by the overzealous cop.
So he settled for burning one of the abandoned hulks in the parking lot, then calling the fire department.
****
He had once again taken flight over the city when a call from Alfred came through.
“There is a gang conflict on the outskirts of the city, south side,” Alfred reported. “It’s all over the police scanners.”
“A gang war? Now? That’s odd.” Batman frowned.
“It appears to be several rival biker gangs involved in a meeting gone wrong.”
Batman’s frown deepened. “Something’s not right about this.”
“You’re checking it out?” Alfred asked.
“Of course. But let’s see what we can find out from a distance first.”
****
He could really have used the car for this. He cursed the fact that it wasn’t nearly ready, as it took him more than a half hour to swing over to the run down location on the outskirts of town.
Sure enough, there were three separate gangs brawling. He recognized one as the local Demonz gang, the other two were biker gangs he recognized as well. What the other two were doing here now puzzled him, as did the turf fight.
And why, for that matter, were they brawling in such large numbers by a construction site? A much smaller bar brawl would make sense, or perhaps a much more contained rumble in a parking lot.
And why three gangs at once? Unplanned brawls or formal rumble challenges alike were usually one side against another, almost never a three way brawl. Not this sort of fight, anyway. Shootouts were another matter.
It might be some kind of trap for him. But if so, why were they putting so much enthusiasm into fighting each other?
Well, if it was a trap for him he was more than capable of fighting his way through it.
He waited a few minutes more, perched on the half-constructed building, resting from his “flight”. He watched the fight go on, recovering his own strength....
...and then he judged the time was right.
He launched himself into the fray.
****
The trap, whatever it was, was designed to be realistic. The gangs did not turn to face him en masse. Instead, they continued to fight amongst them selves, only those nearest turning to face him as he took down his first by landing on him.
One drew a knife, brass knuckles on his other hand; across from him another swung a chain. Behind them a scarred and bleeding man drew guns from holsters on each hip.
Batman lashed out with his left leg, taking down the first. But that one struck his leg with the brass knuckles before he went down. Surely a bone bruise. He grit his teeth against the pain, and ducked as the chain from the other whipped through the space where his head had been.
The guns went off with stereo barks of power. Batman didn’t quite duck in time. The bullets ripped over the shoulders of his costume; the ballistic armor only helping a little. He’d have scars in the morning.....if he survived.
He kicked the chain wielder in the gut, then grabbed him and threw him into the gunman before he could fire again. Both of them started to get up, and he slammed their heads together.
He stood tall, preparing to intimidate the others, when a wooden board smacked into his back. He whirled, and faced the two-by-for wielder. The man’s eyes were dilated, obviously hopped up on something. He swung again and again, unnaturally fast. Batman blocked with his arm gauntlets, then kicked out, knocking him down. Immediately the man started to get up. Batman kicked him in the head. Still he tried to get up, so Batman slammed fists into both sides of his head. But whatever drug he was on--probably PCP--kept him going. On shaky legs he rose, nose bleeding, eyes blazing.
So Batman targeted the nervous system with careful selective strikes that he had learned in his training; one strike....two....three. Finally the man stayed down, body slumping into unconsciousness despite the virulent chemicals in his system.
Batman turned. He counted as a blessing the fact that the gang members were still focusing on each other. But as it was his shoulders ached and his left leg pulsed with pain. And there were still over a dozen of them standing.
He wielded his taser again, and fired. A bald man with a dagger shivered and dropped. His opponent, a bloody cleaver raised high, shouted, “The Bat!”
The remaining mob stilled their conflict and looked around. The grace period was over. They rushed him en masse.
With one hand, he hurriedly flicked a concussion pill at them. The shockwave knocked two thugs down and staggered a third. Then they were on him; the taser gun was knocked from his other hand. He lashed out with punches and kicks, defending himself as best he was able, but primarily concerned with taking as many of them out as quickly as possible.
His left fist broke a nose, and the man went down, rolling around in agony. Not that Batman could see him that well, he barely blocked a kick aimed at his throat, and several punches landed on his midsection.
A knife came whistling in from his left; he grabbed the man's wrist and broke it in one fluid movement, then grasped his arm with both hands and slammed him into his fellows. He was relieved to have breathing room again. He wasn’t exactly afraid but certainly there had been a sense of claustrophobic urgency. He spat a little blood out of his mouth. He rather thought a tooth was loose. He didn’t remember a blow connecting with his jaw or mouth, and that was bad. Worse than the injury itself, perhaps, at least in the short term.
Next was the man with the cleaver. He slashed with it, and Batman ducked, almost losing the ears off his cowl. He launched forward and headbutted the man in his solar plexus. He was amused, in a distant sort of way, that his headbutt to the punching bag earlier had not been an entire waste of time after all.
His smile disappeared as a boot connected with the side of his head. He went down and rolled, and came up to face a man smiling through broken and missing teeth, gun drawn. To his left was a man with a baseball bat with a similar grin.
The first man fired as Batman ducked and rolled, the bullet sizzling through the place where he had been. He lashed out with a kick at the end of his roll, but the man too had dodged, stepping to the side and firing again. But he was not that good of a shot; his own movement and panic had spoiled his aim. His bullet missed Batman’s torso and thunked into his cape instead.
The baseball bat wielder had used this opportunity to close, however, and swing his bat overhand. Batman blocked it with his left arm. Fortunately the bat was wood and not aluminum, and broke. Batman hit him with a sweeping sidekick as the other man fired again; the bullet drew a line of fire across the left side of Batman’s ribcage before also expending its energy in the ballistic armor of his cape.
Grimacing in pain, Batman threw a batarang at the gun wielder which connected with his skull. The man’s last shot went wild, up into the half-constructed building.
The baseball bat wielder was trying to get up from where Batman’s kick had put him, and not succeeding. Truly seething with rage now, Batman stalked over to him and yanked him up by his shirt. “What was the meaning of this fight? Why here? Why three gangs at once? What was the nature of the dispute?!?”
For a long moment the man didn’t answer, dazed and half conscious.
Batman shook him again. “ANSWER ME!!” he roared.
“Thuhhhh.....the Consortium paid us all to fight it out h-here.” The man spat up blood. “They tuh....they told us to just go at it, w-we all got p-paid in advance and they p-promised to pay our hhhhh....hospital bills, t-too.”
“Why?”
A massive fist came sailing towards his head. He detected it with only a fraction of a second to go before it struck. He dodged as best he could, but it still caught a glancing blow. He staggered away, wondering how on Earth whoever it was had snuck up on him.
“Because I knew you would come,” Bane answered his question. “The Consortium will no longer tolerate your interference....”
