Green Arrow led the way as the pair edged stealthily toward the warehouse. Crates, oil drums and stacks of wooden pallets made it impossible to be sure he wasn't out there somewhere, watching them. It was possible he wasn't there at all, but this was the location Batman had judged most likely. He wasn't often wrong.
Watching every shadow, they crept inside. Beams of moonlight impaled the burned-out shell. A fire set a few nights before had left innumerous holes gaping in the roof and walls. The floor was covered in soot, with black dust motes dancing in the air. The smell of smoke lingered.
Somewhere above, the previous night's rain had pooled. It leaked slowly down the roof, finding a gap through which to enter. One at a time, the droplets fell, echoing as they hit the ground. Drip, drip, drip…
"Drip."
The echo reverberated around the empty husk. It was a raspy sound, faint and creepy in the heavy silence. Just the drip of water, and the mimicry of a madman. A madman who wanted them both dead.
"Drip."
"Split up," Green Arrow suggested. "Or stay together?"
Turning, he saw that he was talking to himself. He drew the bow, and peered into the darkness. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. If he hadn't known any better, he would have said he was alone. But two men stalked the shadows.
It was hard to believe.
"Drip."
Slowly, Arrow moved out into the centre of the warehouse, trying to draw out their foe. He could almost feel the killer's eyes on his back. No matter how many times he turned, he still felt like there was someone right behind him.
"Drip."
Arrow turned too late, as Onomatopoeia darted out from the darkness, knife in hand, and slashed across the archer's ribs. Arrow winced and dropped to his knee, pivoting to finish a 360. He released the arrow as the killer ducked behind a container.
"Whish!"
The arrow thudded uselessly into the concrete wall.
"Thump!" the killer echoed mockingly.
Arrow inspected his side; just a graze. It could have been worse, if the assassin had wanted it to be. He was toying with them. Toying with me, more like, Arrow thought, where's Batman gone? Warily, he moved towards the container where Onomatopoeia had fled.
"Come out and play, Ono," Arrow called. "I've got an arrow that goes 'Boom!' with your name on it."
As he edged closer, a glimmer from above caught his eye. Taking aim, Arrow fixed his eye on the metal blade falling through the air. Too late he realized it was a distraction. Ono appeared out of nowhere before him, and delivered a kick to the chest that sent him staggering back into the pool of moonlight. The knife fell flawlessy back into Ono's waiting hand.
He adjusted his aim, but with the sudden light in his eyes he could barely make out the Batman swooping down from the rafters to engage their enemy. Ono, however, saw him coming. With expert timing, the Bat's own momentum was used against him, sending him, too, into the centre of the room, between the bowman's arrow and its intended target.
Over the Bat's shoulder, Ono threw a dart. It sailed through the air, skimming passed the Batman's cowl and travelling straight at Arrow's right hand. The hand keeping his arrow strung. Even as Gotham's vigilante gracefully tumbled, the arrow was loosed.
In the nick of time, Batman pushed the arrowhead aside. It cut through his palm but clattered on the ground. If Ono mimicked any sound at all, Arrow missed it. He was preoccupied by what he'd almost done. What Onomatopoeia had almost made him do.
"I'm sorry," Arrow began.
"Forget it."
"What now?" Arrow asked the Dark Knight's back.
The puncture wound in his hand stung and blood dribbled down his knuckles. Ono had retreated once more into the safety of the shadows, a trick Arrow was getting tired of. The sooner they brought him down, the better.
"Ever played Marco Polo?"
Arrow stared at him blankly. It hardly seemed the time for games, and Batman hardly seemed the kind to play them. Arrow imagined him as a stoic man, a businessman perhaps. A man who rarely smiled and never trusted.
"Marco," Batman prompted.
"Polo."
"Ono."
"Mato," Arrow answered with the beginnings of a smile.
"Poeia," they said together.
He drew one of his trick arrows from the quiver and crouched down to work. Luckily, like Batman, he always came prepared. He didn't have a utility belt, but he did have a few essential tools. More than enough for this job.
"Drip."
For a few minutes, the archer toiled, adjusting the specs of his custom projectile. Batman kept watch, two batarangs at the ready. Out in the emptiness, Ono waited, considering his next move. Two against one called for strategy.
"Drip."
With the modifications complete, he stood and grinned. Batman just stared at him. When he spoke, it could just as easily have been an order, as a question.
"You know what you need to do?"
"Sure. Act as bait, shoot the arrow."
"And try not to kill me."
Arrow grimaced.
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who keeps getting slashed."
"Have you considered why that might be?"
With that, the Dark Knight fired his line and disappeared back into the shadows.
"Yeah," Arrow grumbled to himself. "Because you're Batman."
Nocking the new, adjusted arrow, the bowman stepped boldly into the silver spear of light. Ono would be more careful now. He'd watched them conspire. There'd be no more playing. The next attack would be lethal.
The wait seemed to go on forever. All the while, the dripping continued, sporadically copied by their assailant. Ono was circling, probably to avoid the Batman.
Arrow didn't blame him.
"Drip."
The batarang flashed through the air, black as night and sharp as an arrowhead. Following its flight, Arrow found its target a moment before the batarang. It struck Ono in the hand, leaving a gash just above the wrist. The knife sprang from his hand and embedded itself soundlessly in one of the blackened sacks of soil piled up at the end of the warehouse.
"Clang!" Ono said, dropping from the rafter, back into obscurity.
"Now!"
Arrow hadn't needed to wait for the order. The arrow was already loose. It whizzed across and skewered a crate close to the point Ono would have dropped. Apparently, it wasn't close enough for imitation. The compulsive mimic made no attempt to reiterate the sound of the arrowhead breaking wood.
But it didn't matter.
A moment later, sound flowed from the arrow. Quiet at first, it steadily, but quickly, grew louder. Soon it was loud enough for Ono to hear. There was no way he had got far enough away, and no chance that he could resist the urge. The sleigh bells rang out clearly.
"Ring-a-ding-ding. Ring-a-ding-ding. Ring-a-ding-ding."
Again the Batman swept from the rafters, his cape spread out majestically. He floated down from the ceiling and alighted perfectly to deliver a devastating right hook that caught the killer square in the jaw. Ono dropped like a stone.
Arrow joined him, an arrow ready just in case.
"Nice toy," Batman remarked.
Arrow couldn't tell if it was meant to be sarcastic or a genuine compliment but, as it had been the Batman's plan, he assumed the latter.
"I designed it to emit a sound that imitates an approaching siren. It's useful for a sticky situation. I thought I'd adapt for the season."
"You wasted time. He could have killed us while you were making jolly."
"You know, as a guy who spent 5 years in a living Hell, I don't get to say this very often," Arrow said, checking his bow for damage. "But you really need to lighten up."
Once again, he was talking to himself.