As he had done more times than he could count, the black-caped man burst through the window, ten stories up from the garbage-covered alley below. He moved with speed that seemed inhuman, despite his bulky gear, throwing a shuriken up into the only light fixture, a bare, fifty-watt bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, pushing the woman, thirty-five going on sixty with her bruised eyes and cowering stance, down to safety as he moved towards the man who had brought Batman's wrath down upon himself.
It was a scene that he had played a thousand times, on stages ranging from million-dollar penthouses to rathole apartments that made this place seem like a palace. It never once failed to turn his stomach.
The man was big, with muscle-corded arms and solid beer gut, his thinning hair lank and greying, his eyes blazing with drunken anger. At his feet, broken and bleeding, lay the object of that anger.
She was maybe five years old, pale and thin, wearing a threadbare nightgown that couldn't be much better than useless on a cold Gotham night, but cold was not her greatest problem. Her face was a solid mass of bruises and cuts, her eyes dull with pain. Blood dripped from her mouth, where a good dozen teeth were either knocked out or loosened, and blood gushed from her broken nose. Her thin, shivering body was covered with old scars and new welts, marks of belt, fist, electrical cord. Her left arm was bent in a way that no whole arm bends.
Batman hit the girl's father once, to make him back away from her. He hit him a second time because he wanted to. Cartilage cracked beneath kevlar-gauntleted knuckles, and Batman relished the feeling.
Once, twice, and again, the cowled man struck out with his fists, blackening eyes, loosening teeth, and bloodying further the already broken nose. A short, sharp kick to the left thigh dropped the man to the floor, where he writhed with the pain. Batman planted a booted foot squarely against the fallen man's ribcage, and the vigilante smiled grimly as he heard bone cracking.
He seized double-handfuls of black T-shirt, hauled the man up to his feet, and higher, slamming him against the wall, cracking plaster with the impact. He held the man there, and savored his fear and pain.
"Please, oh please, oh God pleaseoh please God no my sweet Jesus don't hurt me any-" The man's gibbering pleas were cut short with one brutal backhanded strike from the Batman's reenforced glove.
"Listen, scum." The Bat's voice was darkness and gravel, steel and fire. "You want mercy?" The broken man wimpered, nodded, and moaned as the pain of the motion hit him.
"You don't deserve mercy." He stared, eyes blurring with tears, at the dark visage with it's burning white eyes and fearsome horns, and sobbed.
"What you deserve, filth, is to suffer like those two have been suffering." Batman hit him again, a hard short jab to the gut that reemphasized the broken ribs.
"And I don't think you hurt enough yet." Batman released his hold, and the man sank to the bare linoleum floor like a sack of jelly. Batman grabbed his right arm.
"Your daughter has a broken arm." Kevlar-sheathed muscles twisted, and the radial and metacarpal bones snapped like dry twigs. The man screamed.
"Your daughter's been whipped." Batman drew a coil of jumpline, three feet of lightweight high-tensio fiber rope, and lashed the sunken man's back with all his strength. The fabric of his shirt tore, and red, burning welts raised on his skin.
"Your wife has feared for her life." Batman seized his prey, and left through the shattered window.
On the tenement roof, he made fast one end of his line around an air vent. The other end was fixed to the man's ankle. He hung suspended over the street like a pinata, sobbing and moaning incoherently. Batman smiled. He waited until the slowly spinning rope brought the man's face into view, then pulled a batwing-shaped utility knife, and stroked it gently across the rope. The inverted man's eyes widened, and a wetness spread along the surface of his pants.
Batman smiled wider, and with one sharp motion he slashed through the rope, and watched as the man dropped for eight of the twenty stories between roof and street before launching a grappling claw at him.
Reeled in like a fish, his leg torn by the sharp tips of the grapple that had saved his life, the man lay, broken and terrified on the tarpaper roof. Batman stood over him.
"If you so much as spit on a sidewalk, from now until your dying day, I will know it." Cold white eyes burning in a demon's face, and huge spiked wings fluttering around him, he stared in horror at the Batman. "And I will come back if you push me. Come back, and finish this. Know me, and remember." The man fainted dead away.
"Jesus H. Christ on an aluminium crutch." Breathed Officer Wilkerson, staring up at the slab of meat that hung like a pinata from the lamp post. "This poor bastard must have really pissed the Bat off."
"Reckon he did," Wilkerson's partner, Greggis, agreed. He was looking, not at the battered man, but at his wife and daughter, who were being helped into an ambulance by a paramedic with tears in his eyes. "Usually, the Bat's pissed, there's a reason for it."
Officer Wilkerson had to agree.
He was cut down, eventually, and got his day in court as soon as the hospital discharged him. His wife had decided to press charges this time. He never raised his hand to anyone again, even after the cast came off, even during his ten years in prison for assault and battery. He remembered Batman's warning, and believed it.
It was a scene that he had played a thousand times, on stages ranging from million-dollar penthouses to rathole apartments that made this place seem like a palace. It never once failed to turn his stomach.
The man was big, with muscle-corded arms and solid beer gut, his thinning hair lank and greying, his eyes blazing with drunken anger. At his feet, broken and bleeding, lay the object of that anger.
She was maybe five years old, pale and thin, wearing a threadbare nightgown that couldn't be much better than useless on a cold Gotham night, but cold was not her greatest problem. Her face was a solid mass of bruises and cuts, her eyes dull with pain. Blood dripped from her mouth, where a good dozen teeth were either knocked out or loosened, and blood gushed from her broken nose. Her thin, shivering body was covered with old scars and new welts, marks of belt, fist, electrical cord. Her left arm was bent in a way that no whole arm bends.
Batman hit the girl's father once, to make him back away from her. He hit him a second time because he wanted to. Cartilage cracked beneath kevlar-gauntleted knuckles, and Batman relished the feeling.
Once, twice, and again, the cowled man struck out with his fists, blackening eyes, loosening teeth, and bloodying further the already broken nose. A short, sharp kick to the left thigh dropped the man to the floor, where he writhed with the pain. Batman planted a booted foot squarely against the fallen man's ribcage, and the vigilante smiled grimly as he heard bone cracking.
He seized double-handfuls of black T-shirt, hauled the man up to his feet, and higher, slamming him against the wall, cracking plaster with the impact. He held the man there, and savored his fear and pain.
"Please, oh please, oh God pleaseoh please God no my sweet Jesus don't hurt me any-" The man's gibbering pleas were cut short with one brutal backhanded strike from the Batman's reenforced glove.
"Listen, scum." The Bat's voice was darkness and gravel, steel and fire. "You want mercy?" The broken man wimpered, nodded, and moaned as the pain of the motion hit him.
"You don't deserve mercy." He stared, eyes blurring with tears, at the dark visage with it's burning white eyes and fearsome horns, and sobbed.
"What you deserve, filth, is to suffer like those two have been suffering." Batman hit him again, a hard short jab to the gut that reemphasized the broken ribs.
"And I don't think you hurt enough yet." Batman released his hold, and the man sank to the bare linoleum floor like a sack of jelly. Batman grabbed his right arm.
"Your daughter has a broken arm." Kevlar-sheathed muscles twisted, and the radial and metacarpal bones snapped like dry twigs. The man screamed.
"Your daughter's been whipped." Batman drew a coil of jumpline, three feet of lightweight high-tensio fiber rope, and lashed the sunken man's back with all his strength. The fabric of his shirt tore, and red, burning welts raised on his skin.
"Your wife has feared for her life." Batman seized his prey, and left through the shattered window.
On the tenement roof, he made fast one end of his line around an air vent. The other end was fixed to the man's ankle. He hung suspended over the street like a pinata, sobbing and moaning incoherently. Batman smiled. He waited until the slowly spinning rope brought the man's face into view, then pulled a batwing-shaped utility knife, and stroked it gently across the rope. The inverted man's eyes widened, and a wetness spread along the surface of his pants.
Batman smiled wider, and with one sharp motion he slashed through the rope, and watched as the man dropped for eight of the twenty stories between roof and street before launching a grappling claw at him.
Reeled in like a fish, his leg torn by the sharp tips of the grapple that had saved his life, the man lay, broken and terrified on the tarpaper roof. Batman stood over him.
"If you so much as spit on a sidewalk, from now until your dying day, I will know it." Cold white eyes burning in a demon's face, and huge spiked wings fluttering around him, he stared in horror at the Batman. "And I will come back if you push me. Come back, and finish this. Know me, and remember." The man fainted dead away.
"Jesus H. Christ on an aluminium crutch." Breathed Officer Wilkerson, staring up at the slab of meat that hung like a pinata from the lamp post. "This poor bastard must have really pissed the Bat off."
"Reckon he did," Wilkerson's partner, Greggis, agreed. He was looking, not at the battered man, but at his wife and daughter, who were being helped into an ambulance by a paramedic with tears in his eyes. "Usually, the Bat's pissed, there's a reason for it."
Officer Wilkerson had to agree.
He was cut down, eventually, and got his day in court as soon as the hospital discharged him. His wife had decided to press charges this time. He never raised his hand to anyone again, even after the cast came off, even during his ten years in prison for assault and battery. He remembered Batman's warning, and believed it.
