SHADOW OF THE BAT: Best Served Cold
The Dark Knight gets sucked into a whirlwind of mayhem when Gotham City's most notorious drug lord, Poison Ivy, seeks to reclaim the streets after a tenure in prison. But, as Batman uncovers the clues necessary to crack open Ivy's plan, he finds that she's not working alone. Poison Ivy has found a most unexpected ally to aid her in an ambitious bid to rid the city of the Caped Crusader for good. Batman, however, is no easy prey and is just as capable of mayhem.
Best Served Cold is a short story that pits a seasoned, veteran Batman against two of his well-known rogues re-envisioned in a gritty and violent first encounter. Strap on your capes and pull on your cowls, it's going to be a cold one.
By Killa Kenny
Disclaimer:
I do not own Batman. DC Comics and Bob Kane do. I'm just a huge fan that grew up in the shadow of the bat that wants to expand the mythos.
/GOTHAM GAZETTE/
REPUTED DRUG LORD, POISON IVY, RELEASED FROM PRISON!
KNIGHTLY―Reputed drug queen pin and leader of the Bowery's Bloodroot Gang, Pamela Isley, more readily known by her alias Poison Ivy, was released from Black Gate prison today on the grounds of insufficient evidence to a grandiose welcoming party of media officials and reporters.
Isley was indicted on charges of narcotics trafficking, conspiracy, and murder-for-hire. The prosecution was unable to make the narcotics and murder charges stick due to lack of evidence but managed to hook Isley for conspiracy and sentenced her to fifteen years in Black Gate prison. Keeping an otherwise low-profile in prison, Isley served eighteen months of her fifteen year tenure before her sentence was overturned.
Isley's lawyer, Tim Roth, claimed, "Miss Isley had been innocent the whole time. The judiciary was poised to make an example of her by forcing her to take the fall for crimes she didn't commit; crimes that an inadequate judicial system was unable to solve and needed a scapegoat. Justice has finally been served."
Presiding Judge Olivia M. Thatch and the officials in the District Attorney's office refused to comment.
1:07 AM
I was perched on a roof some two-hundred yards to west of the Southeast Gotham Docklands, crouching in the shadow of larger building. The Southeast Gotham Docklands were nestled deep in the Eastside near the city's urban sprawl of Haysville, a rotting industrial section of downtown shaded in neglect and crime. Haysville was exceptionally dark this time of night considering that all but two street lamps were in disrepair. Street lamps weren't all that were broken Haysville, though. The people were broken, their spirit was broken, the police were broken and that was to name a few. In the wake of ruination, the Gotham criminal element found solidarity. That solidarity broke the spirit of Gotham even more. I sought to break that solidarity by breaking the criminals—one-by-one if I had to. They knew it too. Most criminals made every effort to stay beneath my notice. Realistically, I couldn't be everywhere at once—although I tried. But once in a while criminals' ego compelled him to act in such a way as to raise my suspicion. I was at that Docklands following a suspicious lead.
Up until now, I had been watching irregular movement on one of the piers through my range-finders for the past hour. Unfortunately, my vantage point didn't afford a great vantage. The buildings and the stacked CONEX Boxes littering the docks obscured my view of the piers at large and I wanted desperately to move in closer for a better look. However, while closing the distance would have solved the vantage-problem, it also presented a far worse issue. If the suspects turned-out to be legit operators—not the dockworkers but rather a law enforcement or...God-forbid...a Federal Taskforce—my night could have ended poorly. Although I found the affiliated party suspect, they did manage to enter the port unnoticed and without force. I considered the possibility of them being legit. I didn't, however, commit to that naive train-of-thought considering that acting unnoticed and without force were common criminal traits in Gotham. Criminals felt that the less overt they were, the less their chances were of running afoul of the Batman.
The joke was on them.
Criminals made a huge mistake going digital. They communicated the majority of their dealings in cyberspace these days―the bad ones anyway. The good ones―and I do use the word good loosely―still handled their dealings the old fashion way. As such, their activities were harder to track. This was not the case at the Dockland, these amateurs communicated via the internet. And, through persistent data-mining, I got a sniff that an obscure drug shipment was coming in tonight at one of the piers. I assumed the movement I was watching was connected.
Back to the idea of the activity being legit: Suspicious movement wasn't just reserved for criminals, federal agents loved being suspicious. For all I knew, the people moving about the pier could have been the Feds coming to fill the law enforcement vacuum left by Gotham City Police Department. If that was the case, I didn't want to haphazardly crash their operation. Feds didn't like me much; no more than they liked the local criminals. In fact, last I checked, the Feds had a fire-on-sight policy regarding the Batman. Better that I had steered clear until I was sure.
Whoever they were—Fed, criminal, or otherwise—had a mid-sized delivery truck and was moving something from a freighter on pier seventeen to a refrigeration warehouse near the west gate. 'What they were moving?' and 'Who theywere?' were the questions.
I needed confirmation. My UAV was only five minutes out and could provide me that in no time. In the meantime, I kept up my surveillance.
"Batman," Oracle's voice chimed on the Bluetooth inside my cowl, "the UAV's on-station."
"Understood. I need a full visual of the eastside of the building. Open the feed so I can see it on my tablet."
By now the truck had been backed into a loading dock and the night-vision, grainy as it was due the lack of moonlight, showed no movement outside. That was promising. Now, I could get close and not have to worry about being seen by a look-out.
"Switch to Forward Looking Infrared," I commanded. The display went from shades of green to shades of grey in an instant revealing eddies of hot and cold. The engine of the truck was running and there was someone in the driver's seat—they weren't planning to stay long. I could also count several bodies moving in the space behind the truck. It was impossible to tell how many and I still hadn't identified anyone. Oracle was nevertheless one step ahead of me.
"I've got facial recognition on the guy in the driver's seat. His name is Hugh Seaborne, 28. Small time criminal record. Mostly misdemeanors. He's got an active warrant."
Definitely not legit.
"Sight-matching is complete. I've found the blue-prints to the building. I'm uploading them to you now. They look to be fairly up-to-date. Give them hell, Batman."
After I reviewed the blueprints, I stowed the tablet and rose slowly; my cape thrashing violently in the cold wind. I took in the darkness, centering myself. Once I was mentally prepared, I took a deep breath and leapt from the roof into the dead-space above the vacant street. I allowed gravity to pull me down six stories before I activated the memory-cloth in my cape. With a whoosh, it inflated like the sail of a hang-glider and I used my momentum to glide the distance to the warehouse. I set down in a series choreographed movements that maximized aerodynamic braking to preventing myself from falling and I hurried over to a skylight.
Through it, I counted six people carrying large metal boxes in teams of two. They were using only the overhead lights to illuminate their path through the labyrinthine warehouse. Probably trying not to appear too conspicuous by lighting it up after hours. They had to be out-of-town goons, the natives knew better than to work in the dark.
The lead group labored their way through the maze of CONEX Boxes with probably one hundred feet between them and the second. The third group was still offloading a box from the back of the truck.
I had to remind myself not to act on impulse. Just thinking of taking the fight to these losers started me salivating.
Quick game plan first: Since Seaborne was the driver and was isolated from the rest of the group, I'd use him as my informant. Therefore, I needed to take his buddies down first and without alarming him. That meant I needed to go in the far rooftop door and track northeast using the catwalks, rafters, and CONEX Boxes. As soon as group one turned a corner and was out of the line-of-sight of the group two, I would quickly dispatch the first. Then—and I'd have to be quick about it—I would get back up to overheads and attack the third group. After that, I'd move against the second. That would afford me the silence I'd need to keep from spooking Seaborne and, more importantly, keep me out of the line of gunfire.
I was through the door and across the overheads in no-time, waiting above a chokepoint for group-one to turn the bend heading towards one of the industrial freezers. The warehouse was easily forty degrees and the air stung my face. My armor's insulation was just enough to keep my body warm enough so as not to lose dexterity. I slowed my breathing trying to squelch the feeling of anticipation. Group one came around the corner and I readied my ambush. They stopped short of my position and with a loud clamor dropped the box, fatigued no doubt. They fussed over it and each other for a brief moment and then resumed, heaving the large container up and pressing on.
As they passed directly underneath, I deposed of my handholds and slid off the rafter, plunging toward them as fast as gravity could manage. At the last second, I opened my cape to slow my descent and I landed on the rear-most goon feet first. He squealed and crumpled under my weight. There was a wet crack; he broke something. Too bad.
The container tumbled to the ground dragging the other goon with it. I bounded over the box and was on him before he could react. I laid into his face with my armored fist, slamming his head into the concrete of the floor. He went unconscious without a fight.
The goon that I used to cushion my fall was making a gurgling sound. I peered over my shoulder to check on him. I had apparently injured him significantly but he'd live. Normally, I was courteous enough to check on them but I didn't really have time to admire my handy work right now―I was still racing the clock.
I sprinted down the nearest pathway between towering stacks of CONEX Boxes in the general direction that I estimated group three to be by now. I shot up the side of the giant containers and over the top, vaulting across the adjacent chasms until I had group three in sight. Without slowing, I leapt upon them and dispatched both goons in the same manner that I did the first two. The ruckus of the falling metal box grabbed the attention of group two and they turned to check on their comrades. I quickly pulled a bat-shaped shuriken from my utility-belt and slung it at the light overhead. The loud pop and the shower of sparks drew their notice whilst I settled into the shadow that had suddenly blanketed me. I crouched to obscure my silhouette against the backlighting of a distant overhead lamp. The cape was good for that.
"Yo," one called to the unconscious goons lying on either side of me, "you two awrite?"
They set their box down and approached cautiously to inspect, looking at each repeatedly for assurance. I held my position; I could see them but they couldn't see me. I waited until they got within suitable range for me strike. By the time they'd realize that I was there, it would be too late. They apparently didn't know who Batman was or at least didn't believe in me. It was time for me to live up to my urban legend. The citizens of Gotham feared the criminals. And, the criminals feared me.
They kept coming. When they were within two body lengths and they were finally able to discern my silhouette, I stood to my full height. Their faces drained of color and their muscles ceased with fear. Definitely, out-of-town thugs. Native thugs would have run for the hills the moment the light shattered. They knew better than to poke around in the darkness; the darkness in Gotham tended to poke back.
Like an old west gunslinger reaching for his gun, I drew my grapnel launcher from the back of my utility-belt and fired into the meat of the furthest goon's shoulder. The hook bit deep and he howled in pain. I yanked the line taut―not too much force, I didn't want tear his shoulder open. He fell forward into his partner, causing him to stumble. That gave me the few seconds I needed to close the distance.
As I rushed up to the nearest of the two, I grabbed ahold his head with both hands and drove my knee into his jaw. It crumpled under the force and I slung him to the side as I moved in on the other who whimpered at the pain of the grapnel imbedded in his shoulder. I'm sure the sight of the blood didn't help. He would live, though. Besides, he wasn't going to feel pain where I was sending him. He didn't even see me coming; he was way too preoccupied playing surgeon. I planted the hell of boot on his cheekbone and he went unconscious immediately.
Now, I had to figure out what they were doing here. Time to go have a conversation with Seaborne.
"Oracle," I keyed the Bluetooth, "confirm that Seaborne is still in the truck."
"He is Batman. It looks like he's using his cell phone."
"Jam the signal. I'm going to have a talk with him."
I squeezed between the edge of the loading dock and the truck and sidled along the bed until I reached the driver door and peered in. Seaborne leaned against the window with his back to me, waving his cell frustratingly about the cab. I was going to make quick work of this―providing he didn't do anything stupid.
I forced my arms through the glass, showering Seaborne with thousands of shards. He leapt out of his skin and clawed at the ceiling. I got two handfuls of his coat and dragged him from the driver's seat through the window. He kicked, screamed, and bucked.
I didn't give him any time to gather himself. As soon as his legs hit the ground, I hoisted him and slammed his back against the side of the vehicle, pressing my gauntlet into his neck. Seaborne's eyes focused and for a brief moment I thought he was going to faint when he made out my cowl and my grimace. My size alone was enough to intimidate him; I was easily three-hundred pounds in my armor and the cowl saw me stand to a rough six-and-three quarters feet compared to Seaborne's meager stature.
"Holy sh―" he began to spit out but I jarred his head with my forearm. He held on, surprisingly; didn't strike me as the hardy type.
"You're real!" His voice was throaty and labored.
Out-of-town goon, no doubt.
He pleaded for his life. I hated when they did that. I keyed the armor's voice synthesizer. My voice came out in a deep, raspy growl, "I'm going to ask you some questions. And, you're going to answer them―correctly. If you don't...you're going to look very different come next week. Nod if you understand."
He continued pleading.
I jarred his head with my forearm again and spoke a little louder, "I said: Nod if you understand."
He did.
"What's in those containers?"
"I―I don't know. We weren't told what's in 'em."
"You're lying."
"No! No, I swear I don't know! I'm just the driver!"
I guess I'd have to look for myself. I had intended to anyway.
"Where did they come from?"
"Africa, I think. At least that's where the boat came from."
Africa? That was unusual for the Gotham criminal element. With the exception of a few, they weren't known for being cosmopolitan and well-traveled. I noted that for later.
"Why are you here?"
"We were told to store this last shipment in the freezers."
This last shipment? That meant this wasn't the only one. Where were the others?
I was already behind the power curve in this investigation. I hated finding out that I was already behind the power curve in any capacity.
"Who told you?"
Hesitation pooled in his eyes. He realized that I was making a snitch of him. And, snitches didn't survive in the Gotham underworld. I supposed he should have made better career choices. Besides, there was nothing any two-bit crime boss, worth his weight, could do that was worse than what I planned to do if Seaborne didn't spill it.
I pressed the scallops of my gauntlet into his jugular. He got the message.
"T-Don," he exhaled with resignation.
T-Don. As in Teeshaun 'T-Don' Donnelly. A Bloodroot Set Leader, one of Poison Ivy's lieutenants.
She had been out of jail for all of ten hours and she already had her cronies on the job. She didn't waist any time.
I released my grip on Seaborne. He rubbed his jaw and neck gingerly.
I looked in the direction of the warehouse. There were crates, freezers, and a truck to search; I had my work cut-out for me and sunrise wasn't far off. Sunrise and I didn't get along well.
"B—Batman, I―I told you everything."
I didn't look at him.
"If you let me go, I swear—"
"Anything you say can and will be used against you." I palmed his face and smashed it into the side of the truck. The back-end shuddered from the force and Seaborne's brow left a bloody smear as he went limp and slid to the ground. He'd need stitches.
"Oracle, move the UAV out of the airspace and call an ambulance in fifteen minutes. I'm going to see what's in these crates."