Someone had once written in an article, probably in the Gotham Chronicle, that once society reaches a point where it cannot - or will not - accept the constraints that authority has placed on its ability to refine or evolve itself, it will have no other option that to rise up against authority and question its methodology through any means necessary. This will, it continued, include protests, social uprisings and riots. Gotham had reached that point. Probably not through social evolution but more from the funding cuts, rising crime rates and the increase in private security firms to protect (and separate) the haves from the have nots. No wonder there were riots. Riots were nothing new in Gotham, though. They were part of its heritage - like the Brownstones or the towering Lady of Gotham, unable to shield her wide eyes from the embarrassment her city had become. And, bearing in mind this heritage, Arkham Asylum was usually a prime hotspot. So often was their occurrence that the GCPD had stood down all its usual riot control operations and just moved in to take statements and mop up in the aftermath. This allowed 'community policing' to flourish under Mayor Blissett's new initiative of collective responsibility and the more pressing issue of police funding. Arkham, to this point, had employed its own private security firm with, allegedly, first hand knowledge of riot control. They had the armour. They had the pacification devices. They had the manpower. However they lacked the general demeanour to manage the situation effectively as they didn't know Arkham. They didn't know Gotham. They didn't have the grounding in the frequency and intensity of the groundswell of emotion that up uprising in Arkham brought. Like a firecracker in a clenched fist, it could achieve maximum damage in the minimum of time. That's what the police radio had said. That's why she came.
Batwoman's red hair trailed behind her like the flickering tongues of the flames from a jet engine in the night air as she swung her motorcycle around the winding track and over the bridge that led to Arkham island. Her fingers, sheathed within the moulded carbon fibre of her gloves, twisted the accelerator grip and the bike's engine roared. The wind whipped at her face, lashing it with the sharp pin pricks of air. Her mask reduced the debris that the ride usually threw into her way, but she had to keep her mouth closed, save she swallowed a rogue twig or insect . She clenched her teeth and crouched lower in the saddle reducing her profile and becoming more aerodynamic. She moved smoothly through the gears, cranking up the bike's engine so it purred as it accelerated along the debris strewn road. Highways maintenance had gone by the wayside months ago, so it was impressive that potholes were few and far between and rocks and other foreign objects were minimal. She hunched down lower on the bike as she sped up the long driveway that led to the hospital's entrance. Approaching the imposing cast iron gates of the asylum, she braked hard, and, used the momentum of the forces throwing her forward to spread her cape wide and jump up into the air. The cape's red interior displayed like a tropical bird, instantly scything through the murky darkness surrounding the hospital and proclaiming her arrival. Then, riding a wire shot from her line launcher, she gained further height and vaulted the gates somersaulting into the grounds below. She landed and broke into a smart forward roll, coming up into a tight crouch. Her reflexes took hold as she uncoiled her knees and sprung backwards and out of the path of a truck, speeding away from the main building toward the gates. It skidded to a stop and slowly the gates opened to allow it to exit. Batwoman instinctively snapped a tracer beacon from her belt and threw it at the truck It arced through the air and landed with a soft, reassuring metallic click on its roof. No-one tried to run her over and get away with it. She'd get them later. As the tail lights of the truck sped out of Arkham, Batwoman turned and zip-lined up to the roof of the main building.
Being in cell block D at the present time, sergeant DiMatteo of the Tyger Security detail thought, was akin to being back in Basra. The inmates were probably not as organised as the insurgents he had fought against but they were just as persistent and innovative. It was surprising what could be used a a weapon in a cell where nothing was supposed to able to be used as a weapon. His men had been forced back by burning mattresses, makeshift battering rams and cocktails of human waste. He had about nine casualties and it was possible that he could take more. The director had been in contact to remind him of what he was being paid for. Currently this was over the markers rate. Currently he was costing that tax payer above and beyond what was being recorded officially. Currently he was being prevented from taking back a cell block my inmates armed with jars of urine. The block's only entrance had been barricaded by a burning desk which had been easily cleared earlier in the assault. However, now the inmates were swarming at the security team and bombarding them with the makeshift weapons, some set on fire, some swathed in substances that didn't bear thinking about. This sortee had forced the Tyger team back to the entrance to regroup and replan their strategy. Or, in other words, find a strategy or get sacked. DiMatteo steeled his team for another foray into the cell block. This was going to be a full on assault as there probably wasn't the time, inclination or (more that likely) budget for anything softer like negotiating or crisis management teams. There was little chance of any real casualties, anyway, he had reminded his team, as they were too well armoured and the inmates had ineffectual weaponry. Right? But, just at the back of mind was the thought that they could always get lucky.
"We'll go in pairs!" DiMatteo barked. "Shields to the front! Force the slugs back!"
His men aligned themselves into small groups, then they charged into the corridor again. A gang of six inmates rushed towards them. The corridor was narrow and there barely enough room to stand two abreast, so with their broad, armoured shoulders, the Tiger Security detail had to move relatively slowly. The men held their long shields out before them awaiting for the impact of the bodies. However, it never came. Instead the on rushing inmates were pulled suddenly backward and into the air by some unknown force. The cries of fright diminished as they crashed through the ceiling tiles and out of sight. The guards paused and surveyed the scene before them, unsure of what was happening. Thoughts of the stories they had been told about Arkham's supernatural past flooded their minds as mouth went dry and heart rates increased.
The next two inmates were undeterred by the disappearance of their colleagues and ploughed on towards the security team. Their marauding was cut short, however, as they seemed to be struck by a spinning object that originated above them. It ricocheted off a wall before knocking them both out and returning back to whence it came. Any questions about what was happening were soon answered as a streak of flame red hair, framed in black cannoned through the fragile ceiling tiles above landed on the floor in front of the guards. A flurry of kicks and punches later and the two remaining inmates were lying slumped against the walls of the narrow corridor, bruises already forming on their unconscious faces. Batwoman uncoiled from
a low stance and whipped her head around to catch the stunned gaze of the security guards. She nodded at them to follow her and disappeared into the multi tiered cell block at the end of the corridor.
"What are you waiting for?" yelled DiMatteo from the back of the group. "Get after her!"
They followed. Tentatively.
A majority of the Tyger team had never seen Batwoman in action. This was probably true of most of the population of Gotham. The Batman has left so many years ago, that some elements of the population began to wonder if he actually existed at all. Maybe, some commentators posed, he had an urban myth created by the police to deter the more superstitious criminal elements. Maybe he'd been forced into retired by the constant litigation being brought against him. Maybe he'd been killed by the very criminals he had pledged to put away. No one knew for definite. They were equally as sceptical about some new vigilante, usurping the cowl, and continuing the good fight. The same people were probably just as sceptical about any new vigilante not being another fabrication by the GCPD to make the crime bosses sleep uncomfortably in their beds. However, as the Tyger guards would now testify, watching Batwoman in action it was both awe inspiring and frightening. She effortlessly blocked punch after punch; dodged melee attack after melee attack and countered with such force and brutality that it was either a brave or stupid man that got up once they had been decked. Waves of inmates rushed at her and waves were forced back. She tripped them with low leg sweeps, taking out several inmates as a boot crashed into their ankles. She pulled them into the air and away from the fighting with zip-line that saw them swinging ineffectually in the wide space between floors. Her punches connected; her kicks pushed the inmates back; her batarangs disarmed and disorientated those who were armed and posed a greater threat. Soon, she had cleared the landings and the security team following up were able to hustle the inmates back into their cells.
As the last cell door shut, sounding like a deep, foreboding bell as it reverberated reassuringly against the bars, DiMatteo turned to Batwoman and offered his thanks.
"How did they get out this time?" She growled. DiMatteo shifted uneasily from one foot to another. For a man who was probably a foot taller than the woman standing before him, he was trying not to show any signs of weakness.
"It was rec time" He said, his voice cracking slightly. 'Usually, they're staggered, but with the cuts to staff we have to it all at the same time. Some inmates don't get on with others. Fights start, and so on. You get the picture?"
"Sure" Batwoman said. "It's only going to get worse."
"Tell me about it" said DiMatteo. "We can usually cope, but this caught us cold. This was mild, but it could have been worse. A whole lot worse. This isn't a secure floor, but if we have combined rec this on the block with the real crazies…." He trailed off.
Batwoman nodded. There was little she could do. As a vigilante she seems a lone voice in the battle against the tide of crime. As Kate Kane her funds were limited, and philanthropists in Gotham were few and far between. Maybe A few years she and her friends could have organised a fund raiser ball. Gotham's elite would have fought tooth and nail to get a ticket and to donate to whatever causes the Wayne Foundation felt worthy. This would have been done without a care; without concern of the consequence. If the name Wayne felt it was a cause worth supporting nobody wanted to be the one to oppose it. These days, however, most the elite declined to remain in Gotham and those that had were likely to barricade themselves in their home. Choosing to invest in overseas causes rather than those closer to home.
"Make sure it doesn't!" she snapped back, thought of making the situation better via external sources. "I don't have time to play nurse maid to a sloppy security team."
DiMatteo was taken aback. Sure, she'd just saved their skins and probably de-escalated a problem that could have run for hours (days even), but she couldn't talk to him like that. "Hey, now wait a minute.." He started to bark, but Batwoman had already walked away from him. There was a sound with the slow resonance and purpose of a low church bell coming from a cell a little down the corridor. Batwoman had heard it and had tentatively moved towards it. Then her movement became more urgent.
"DiMatteo!" she yelled. "We need to open this cell!"
DiMatteo ran up to her and stared into the cell beyond his face contorting in horror. Inside an inmate was gripping the bars of the cell and slowly and, what seemed methodically, crashing his forehead into the metal door that held him in. Blood was already running down his face and collecting in the deep wrinkles around his nose and mouth. He was large man: tall and heavy set. His hair wild with greying curls and a thick beard -probably cultivated over several years - hugged his face. His features seemed to be fixed into a grimace of pure terror. His eyes were wide and staring out beyond the cell, oblivious to anything beyond. Batwoman attempting to pry his fingers from the bars but his grip was far too strong. His knuckles were white as he robustly held firm and repeated the rhythmical bashing of his head. She reached into the cell placing her gauntlets hands on the inmate's shoulders in an attempt to force him to desist. His momentum, however, was against her. He flung his heavy frame forward, forcing the vigilante backwards and pummelling his head again in the bars.
"DIMATTEO!" yelled Batwoman at the shocked security chief as she tried in vain to again force the inmate's head back to prevent him from inflicting more damage. DiMatteo's world seemed to drop into slow motion as he regarded the scene. Batwoman's words washed over him without registering and it was only when she grabbed him and pulled his face to close to her mask did he snap out of his trancelike state. He fumbled for his radio and barked an order. A siren sounded somewhere and the door slid open. The inmate's hands fell from the bars and he slumped to the floor. His eyes wide. His large form forming an island in the pool of blood that was pouring from the severe gash in his forehead.
"I'll ring for an ambulance," said DiMatteo, his voice quavering more now.
"Tell them not to run any red lights"said Batwoman. "He's already gone."
DiMatteo rubbed his eyes and shock his head. "Do you know anything about him that would make him act this way?" asked Batwoman kneeling done to examine the body more closely. Her frame was outwardly stoic in the light of recent events, but beneath the armour and carbon fibre Batwoman could feel the adrenaline stirring. She had, over the years, steeled herself from being affected by images that media companies would tag as distressing. She had de-sensitised herself to the horrors played out on the streets of Gotham to the extent that nothing ever provoked a reaction that was enough to keep her from doing her job. She had learned how to compartmentalise and distance herself from the events like the ones being played out in front of her a long time ago. It didn't mean, however, that they were quickly erased. She exhaled heavily, calming the sudden shudders of emotion and returning to her usual business like stance. Why would someone do this to themselves? She asked inwardly.
"His name is Joseph Kepplar," said DiMatteo almost as if on autopilot. "He only moved here from max a few days ago. We've got very little on him other than his file."
"Right" said Batwoman, standing again and ensuring she composed herself. "You need to call this in,"
"I take it you won't be hanging around," DiMatteo said quizzically, he already knew the answer.
"The police and I don't get along," she said simply.
"You're a witness,' DiMatteo pointed out.
Batwoman smiled thinly. "Ask them to subpoena me if they need a statement."
And she fired a line into the ceiling and disappeared into the darkness above leaving DiMatteo to deal with the aftermath of the riot and Kepplar's death.
Her motorcycle was where she expected it to be: in the undergrowth next to the wall. Upon her leaping from it, the bike had skidded off the road and clattered into the bushes. She retrieved and, after checking it for damage that would have made it impossible to ride, she wheeled it to the road. Something in the undergrowth jostled for attention at the corner of her eye. She kicked down the stand of the bike and knelt beside the bushes where several items of clothing had been hidden. Retrieving them from the undergrowth she found them to be the dark blue scrubs that were usually worn by the orderlies at Arkham. She held out the garments in front of her to get a better view in the dim light. There was no sign of damage or blood. It could have been that the clothes had been discarded, she mused. Maybe an escaping inmate. Given the riot, it was plausible. She noticed a name badge still pinned the garment. Lassiter it read along with the Arkham logo and what she thought would be an ID number of some sort . She bundled the clothes into a sealed plastic bag to examine later. In the distance sirens were piercing the night air like an overture for her departure. She boarded the motorcycle, started the engine and sped off.