Rain.
He liked the rain.
If you knew how to use it, rain was a powerful ally. It could also be the enemy's biggest foe. Tonight the rain was a downpour. Slicing through the dark night, rudely disturbed by the occasional flickering streetlight. Its very essence masked the city of Gotham. Such poor visibility would, with any luck, mask his own movements from his prey. It had the added benefit of making his enemies ineffective - never learning to embrace the conditions it brought. If you knew how to use the rain, you could turn it twice to your advantage.
It had been a two-hour stake out and he had chosen to do this one alone. He found long periods of inactivity better used if his mind was focused solely on his goal - without having to plan for the less predictable actions of a partner. Sometimes it was necessary to come out in force.
Not tonight.
He could do this - no, he wanted to do this - on his own. If has to be entirely honest with himself, he simply didn't want the company tonight. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, so best to concentrate on the matters at hand. He watched the street from his vantage point atop a nearby building.
Not now.
His eyes narrowed.
Call it instinct or call it finely tuned senses, either way the detective simply knew.
"This isn't a good time Clark."
A second later, the fluttering cape caught his peripheral vision. "I'm not here to interfere," a voice replied calmly.
He could feel the sense of irritation beginning to course through his body and he tried to suppress it - successfully. Concentrate on the unfolding scenario below. He had to be ready; to move that second before anyone else would, to be one-step ahead. The cape was still there. The American Way remained floating behind him.
"I don't need help," he said, his eyes remaining locked on his target. "Keep out of sight."
"As I said Bruce, I'm not here to interfere."
"Not intentionally, no. But you tend to stick out - or hadn't you noticed?"
The visitor did not reply. Bruce remained fixed. He was not going to let him mess this up. This was his town. His rules. Down on the street below, a door opened.
Four streets away, a young girl cried loud sobbing tears of fear. Her husband was yelling at her. Screaming. How could she justify the idea that Planet Of The Apes was a good remake?
A car crash had resulted in three injuries just two blocks north. He could hear the shocked cries of pedestrians who had little interest in offering help.
He could feel the screams of a middle-aged lady whose bag had been snatched just next to the downtown museum. All these incidents connected by rain.
To Clark's irritation, this took priority. Bruce remained almost static on the ledge. Aside from a slight bellowing of his cape, there was no movement. Could be another of the cities dreadful looking gargoyles. He listened again.
Four streets away, he could hear the high-pitched voice of the new Robin having just stopped a husband raising his fist to his fearful wife in some film dispute.
Just two blocks north, he could hear Nightwing calling for medical help as he pulled the third and final person out from an overturned car.
Near the museum, he heard someone thanking a 'Batwoman' for retrieving her bag from that 'nasty man'. Doing well, my friend.
Quite an organisation you've got. Won't be long before your efficiency rivals that of Wayne Enterprises. He turned his attention back to Batman.
He was gone.
His cape spread wide, his airborne attack made effective use of the nearest streetlight. The dealer screamed. The shadow of the winged hunter, caught between the rain and the glow of the flickering street illumination, pierced his senses. The uncertain image lasted just less than a second, and ended with a reinforced boot swiftly connecting with the man's chin - enough pressure to knock him staggering into the rubbish that lined the city street.
The boots touched the wet pavement lightly and immediately pressed off into a somersault before they could create any lasting sound. Mid arc, his hand moved to his belt and swung outwards - just as his cape rolled away and over his head. The gesture so coordinated, so well timed it was if it had been placed to music. The object cut through the rain and greeted the second man, the man's hand opened in an unhealthy mix of shock and pain and his gun clattered to the ground. It splashed noisily. He looked up, but by then the attacker had made three new movements, the final one was a blow to the neck that severed the man's link with consciousness.
Clark watched his colleague. He had seen him at work hundreds of times and yet it still amazed him how different their styles were. They both wore capes, but while his offered a symbol, a symbol as powerful as any flag, Bruce's was a tool as vital as his own hands. Masking him from attackers, disorientating his shape, making his actual movements harder to define and therefore more difficult to attack.
In comparison again, both their bodies were healthy and powerful and yet, where his superhuman physique was a naturally for part of him, Bruce's was earned. A body pushed further than he had seen in any man. Constantly taken to its limits, making up for any frailties that nature imbued with every tactic and plan the man could muster. The man fought the boundaries of nature, taking his lot one step further than what creation normally allowed.
Then Clark saw what he had been waiting for.
The third man was the most important - the operator and the lynchpin to the whole system. He had to be a little more careful with him. He wouldn't be as easily disorientated as the other two. Nevertheless, the dealer would still be no match for his training.
Almost like a ballerina, he let the ball of his foot touch the pavement before pirouetting round and away from the targets line of sight. The man would be subconsciously looking for a sound at the least and at best a definable target to shoot at. He planned to give him neither. The gentle spin displaced as little water as possible; the turning motion threw the cape out wide, lifting it up against the rain. The water it dispersed created more visual uncertainty and the target misplaced his shot. Coming down low, he brought his whole body to leg height and swept his foot across the sidewalk. His calf connected with the man's ankle. Bruce winced in slight discomfort, and moved for his final batarang. Shifting his weight forward instinctively, he brought himself into a roll as the man's leg collapsed - his gun misfiring just above where the caped attacker had been.
Better safe than sorry. In one fluid motion, he pulled out the cuffs, and secured the fallen man.
He watched as Gordon's men heaved the three into the police van. That should give the commissioner enough evidence to collapse the entire drug ring. Satisfied with the result, he backed slowly away into the alley, letting the shadows consume him. He stopped centimetres from the blue-garbed hero.
"You done yet?" he asked without looking.
"I've seen what I came here to see."
"Then leave my city Clark. You don't belong here." He could hear the mighty man shift his position a little, clearly uncomfortable. All that power and he still couldn't hide his inner feelings.
"You don't fit the role of the silent type. Say what you have to say."
Clark was never a man who enjoyed confrontations. Sometimes it was necessary. He actively disliked Bruce's attitude - especially his protectiveness over his territory. Being treated as a minor irritant aggravated him further more.
"Your 'family' seem to have Gotham all under control." Clark said dryly. "You must be proud." He instantly regretted his words. That was cruel, Clark reflected. He didn't see Bruce physically flinch, but he knew 'family' was a word Bruce was had good reason to be uncomfortable with. He kicked himself. That was childish.
"My people know their place." Bruce replied. "Do you?"
The rain continued its unabated attack "You made a mistake out there."
A pause.
"Did I?"
"Just a minor one." He glanced down at Bruce's leg. "Nasty bruise you have forming on your calf. A small error - didn't make any difference in the long run, but it was an error nevertheless."
"I'll do better in future." The caped figure turned round to face Clark - the first time he had done so that night. "Get to the point then get out of my city," he growled flatly.
"You know I don't like your methods Bruce."
"You don't need to be a detective to notice that. This is old ground. We've been here before."
"You mistimed your leg sweep, you didn't just miss the nerve with your foot, you hit his leg with the broadside of your calve. Anyone else I'd say that was sloppy. With you - well you don't make mistakes."
Bruce grimaced under his cowl. He knew what he was implying. Mistakes are incidents that can be avoided. This was natural.
"How old are you now, Bruce? Think back. Do you think you'd have ever considered having a family of vigilantes five years ago?" Bruce cocked his head in mock interest. Then turned back to the street. The police were leaving. Jim Gordon was standing on the sidewalk, scouting for him, expecting him to appear. Not tonight. Rule one - remain unpredictable.
He waved a hand back, vaguely in The Man Of Steel's direction. "Go home Clark. Go home to Lois. I'm sure you have your own business which acquires such keen and unrequited attention."
"They're your legacy. Your legacy to Gotham is the family you never had."
"Gotham needs to be able to look after it's own when no one else can - or will." Bruce replied coldly.
Clark placed a hand on the Dark Knight's shoulder. "Bruce, we can't stay here forever."
"You seem to making a good job of it at the moment."
Clark ignored him. "Age is a factor Bruce. You know it. I know it. Not immediately, but you can't escape it's hand. Tonight was not a problem, and I'm sure you'll cope for a long time yet, but-"
"Know thy limits? When I start to become a liability, you'll be there to take me down, is that it Clark? A friendly warning?" Clark paused, unsure how to word his next sentence.
"I'm not sure you will be able to stop." He shook his head. "I really don't." And with that, he was gone. Nothing more than displaced rubbish drifting in the alleyway.
The rain crackled with disinterest. Gotham's protector stood in silence. His radio vibrated. He paused a moment before answering.
"What is it Oracle?" He enquired.
"I think we have a visitor. Several reports confirm Superman has been sighted in your district. I thought you should know." There was a pause and what sounded like a sip from a hot drink. "Although knowing you, I'd bet money you're already aware of this."
He smiled - a rare occasion these days. They were all good kids. He had no doubt they would do him proud. Batman would continue in the steps of a younger generation.
"He's gone now." Another pause. His leg ached. "Thanks for the warning."
Clark was wrong, he knew his time was limited - he was only human after all. There would come a point where he could no longer rely on his physical fitness, when he would become a liability. However, as Clark had observed, he had his legacy in place. Dick, Barbara, Cassandra and Tim were shaping up to as finer a team as they were individuals. Along with several others who were establishing themselves as Gotham's protectors, they offered new hope to the city of despair.
No matter what the world threw at his city, there would always be a future. Gotham would stand on it's own - Supermen be damned. He looked upwards past the rain, smoke and light pollution into the night sky. With a wry half smile, the great detective dissolved deep into the city's dark, wet, clinging shadows.
"Made any plans for your future Clark?" the dark whispered.
He liked the rain.
If you knew how to use it, rain was a powerful ally. It could also be the enemy's biggest foe. Tonight the rain was a downpour. Slicing through the dark night, rudely disturbed by the occasional flickering streetlight. Its very essence masked the city of Gotham. Such poor visibility would, with any luck, mask his own movements from his prey. It had the added benefit of making his enemies ineffective - never learning to embrace the conditions it brought. If you knew how to use the rain, you could turn it twice to your advantage.
It had been a two-hour stake out and he had chosen to do this one alone. He found long periods of inactivity better used if his mind was focused solely on his goal - without having to plan for the less predictable actions of a partner. Sometimes it was necessary to come out in force.
Not tonight.
He could do this - no, he wanted to do this - on his own. If has to be entirely honest with himself, he simply didn't want the company tonight. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, so best to concentrate on the matters at hand. He watched the street from his vantage point atop a nearby building.
Not now.
His eyes narrowed.
Call it instinct or call it finely tuned senses, either way the detective simply knew.
"This isn't a good time Clark."
A second later, the fluttering cape caught his peripheral vision. "I'm not here to interfere," a voice replied calmly.
He could feel the sense of irritation beginning to course through his body and he tried to suppress it - successfully. Concentrate on the unfolding scenario below. He had to be ready; to move that second before anyone else would, to be one-step ahead. The cape was still there. The American Way remained floating behind him.
"I don't need help," he said, his eyes remaining locked on his target. "Keep out of sight."
"As I said Bruce, I'm not here to interfere."
"Not intentionally, no. But you tend to stick out - or hadn't you noticed?"
The visitor did not reply. Bruce remained fixed. He was not going to let him mess this up. This was his town. His rules. Down on the street below, a door opened.
Four streets away, a young girl cried loud sobbing tears of fear. Her husband was yelling at her. Screaming. How could she justify the idea that Planet Of The Apes was a good remake?
A car crash had resulted in three injuries just two blocks north. He could hear the shocked cries of pedestrians who had little interest in offering help.
He could feel the screams of a middle-aged lady whose bag had been snatched just next to the downtown museum. All these incidents connected by rain.
To Clark's irritation, this took priority. Bruce remained almost static on the ledge. Aside from a slight bellowing of his cape, there was no movement. Could be another of the cities dreadful looking gargoyles. He listened again.
Four streets away, he could hear the high-pitched voice of the new Robin having just stopped a husband raising his fist to his fearful wife in some film dispute.
Just two blocks north, he could hear Nightwing calling for medical help as he pulled the third and final person out from an overturned car.
Near the museum, he heard someone thanking a 'Batwoman' for retrieving her bag from that 'nasty man'. Doing well, my friend.
Quite an organisation you've got. Won't be long before your efficiency rivals that of Wayne Enterprises. He turned his attention back to Batman.
He was gone.
His cape spread wide, his airborne attack made effective use of the nearest streetlight. The dealer screamed. The shadow of the winged hunter, caught between the rain and the glow of the flickering street illumination, pierced his senses. The uncertain image lasted just less than a second, and ended with a reinforced boot swiftly connecting with the man's chin - enough pressure to knock him staggering into the rubbish that lined the city street.
The boots touched the wet pavement lightly and immediately pressed off into a somersault before they could create any lasting sound. Mid arc, his hand moved to his belt and swung outwards - just as his cape rolled away and over his head. The gesture so coordinated, so well timed it was if it had been placed to music. The object cut through the rain and greeted the second man, the man's hand opened in an unhealthy mix of shock and pain and his gun clattered to the ground. It splashed noisily. He looked up, but by then the attacker had made three new movements, the final one was a blow to the neck that severed the man's link with consciousness.
Clark watched his colleague. He had seen him at work hundreds of times and yet it still amazed him how different their styles were. They both wore capes, but while his offered a symbol, a symbol as powerful as any flag, Bruce's was a tool as vital as his own hands. Masking him from attackers, disorientating his shape, making his actual movements harder to define and therefore more difficult to attack.
In comparison again, both their bodies were healthy and powerful and yet, where his superhuman physique was a naturally for part of him, Bruce's was earned. A body pushed further than he had seen in any man. Constantly taken to its limits, making up for any frailties that nature imbued with every tactic and plan the man could muster. The man fought the boundaries of nature, taking his lot one step further than what creation normally allowed.
Then Clark saw what he had been waiting for.
The third man was the most important - the operator and the lynchpin to the whole system. He had to be a little more careful with him. He wouldn't be as easily disorientated as the other two. Nevertheless, the dealer would still be no match for his training.
Almost like a ballerina, he let the ball of his foot touch the pavement before pirouetting round and away from the targets line of sight. The man would be subconsciously looking for a sound at the least and at best a definable target to shoot at. He planned to give him neither. The gentle spin displaced as little water as possible; the turning motion threw the cape out wide, lifting it up against the rain. The water it dispersed created more visual uncertainty and the target misplaced his shot. Coming down low, he brought his whole body to leg height and swept his foot across the sidewalk. His calf connected with the man's ankle. Bruce winced in slight discomfort, and moved for his final batarang. Shifting his weight forward instinctively, he brought himself into a roll as the man's leg collapsed - his gun misfiring just above where the caped attacker had been.
Better safe than sorry. In one fluid motion, he pulled out the cuffs, and secured the fallen man.
He watched as Gordon's men heaved the three into the police van. That should give the commissioner enough evidence to collapse the entire drug ring. Satisfied with the result, he backed slowly away into the alley, letting the shadows consume him. He stopped centimetres from the blue-garbed hero.
"You done yet?" he asked without looking.
"I've seen what I came here to see."
"Then leave my city Clark. You don't belong here." He could hear the mighty man shift his position a little, clearly uncomfortable. All that power and he still couldn't hide his inner feelings.
"You don't fit the role of the silent type. Say what you have to say."
Clark was never a man who enjoyed confrontations. Sometimes it was necessary. He actively disliked Bruce's attitude - especially his protectiveness over his territory. Being treated as a minor irritant aggravated him further more.
"Your 'family' seem to have Gotham all under control." Clark said dryly. "You must be proud." He instantly regretted his words. That was cruel, Clark reflected. He didn't see Bruce physically flinch, but he knew 'family' was a word Bruce was had good reason to be uncomfortable with. He kicked himself. That was childish.
"My people know their place." Bruce replied. "Do you?"
The rain continued its unabated attack "You made a mistake out there."
A pause.
"Did I?"
"Just a minor one." He glanced down at Bruce's leg. "Nasty bruise you have forming on your calf. A small error - didn't make any difference in the long run, but it was an error nevertheless."
"I'll do better in future." The caped figure turned round to face Clark - the first time he had done so that night. "Get to the point then get out of my city," he growled flatly.
"You know I don't like your methods Bruce."
"You don't need to be a detective to notice that. This is old ground. We've been here before."
"You mistimed your leg sweep, you didn't just miss the nerve with your foot, you hit his leg with the broadside of your calve. Anyone else I'd say that was sloppy. With you - well you don't make mistakes."
Bruce grimaced under his cowl. He knew what he was implying. Mistakes are incidents that can be avoided. This was natural.
"How old are you now, Bruce? Think back. Do you think you'd have ever considered having a family of vigilantes five years ago?" Bruce cocked his head in mock interest. Then turned back to the street. The police were leaving. Jim Gordon was standing on the sidewalk, scouting for him, expecting him to appear. Not tonight. Rule one - remain unpredictable.
He waved a hand back, vaguely in The Man Of Steel's direction. "Go home Clark. Go home to Lois. I'm sure you have your own business which acquires such keen and unrequited attention."
"They're your legacy. Your legacy to Gotham is the family you never had."
"Gotham needs to be able to look after it's own when no one else can - or will." Bruce replied coldly.
Clark placed a hand on the Dark Knight's shoulder. "Bruce, we can't stay here forever."
"You seem to making a good job of it at the moment."
Clark ignored him. "Age is a factor Bruce. You know it. I know it. Not immediately, but you can't escape it's hand. Tonight was not a problem, and I'm sure you'll cope for a long time yet, but-"
"Know thy limits? When I start to become a liability, you'll be there to take me down, is that it Clark? A friendly warning?" Clark paused, unsure how to word his next sentence.
"I'm not sure you will be able to stop." He shook his head. "I really don't." And with that, he was gone. Nothing more than displaced rubbish drifting in the alleyway.
The rain crackled with disinterest. Gotham's protector stood in silence. His radio vibrated. He paused a moment before answering.
"What is it Oracle?" He enquired.
"I think we have a visitor. Several reports confirm Superman has been sighted in your district. I thought you should know." There was a pause and what sounded like a sip from a hot drink. "Although knowing you, I'd bet money you're already aware of this."
He smiled - a rare occasion these days. They were all good kids. He had no doubt they would do him proud. Batman would continue in the steps of a younger generation.
"He's gone now." Another pause. His leg ached. "Thanks for the warning."
Clark was wrong, he knew his time was limited - he was only human after all. There would come a point where he could no longer rely on his physical fitness, when he would become a liability. However, as Clark had observed, he had his legacy in place. Dick, Barbara, Cassandra and Tim were shaping up to as finer a team as they were individuals. Along with several others who were establishing themselves as Gotham's protectors, they offered new hope to the city of despair.
No matter what the world threw at his city, there would always be a future. Gotham would stand on it's own - Supermen be damned. He looked upwards past the rain, smoke and light pollution into the night sky. With a wry half smile, the great detective dissolved deep into the city's dark, wet, clinging shadows.
"Made any plans for your future Clark?" the dark whispered.