"Emergency"
by Alan Strauss
He woke with the precision of well-oiled machinery.
First, without moving or even opening his eyes, he examined his body. Recent bruising beneath the left ribcage: still tender, healing. Puncture wound on the left deltoid: scarring, mostly healed. Stretched tendon along lower right leg: healed but still susceptible to re-injury.
His mental check was just as thorough. Where am I? Mansion, second floor bedroom. What day is it? Tuesday, July 15. He cracked his eyes and peered at the clock.
3:00 PM. Damn it, he berated himself. He had overslept by an hour. Four hours lost all totaled. Did he really need that much recovery time? How old was he?
Not even forty yet. Get up. Get to work.
Get on schedule.
He wasted a few precious seconds in the shower, before throwing on his bathrobe and heading for the study. Alfred met him on the way there.
"Up already, sir? Shall I make lunch or re-warm the dinner you skipped last night?"
"Neither," he said, brushing past him, "No time. Already an hour off schedule."
He disappeared down the hall. A moment later he was in the cave.
First things first, he reminded himself. Two hours to update and study his computer files. He would have to cut that into one today. No complaints; it was his own fault.
He started with the e-mails. Oracle had sent him a number of new and lengthy files, including an updated criminal registry for the Gotham area. Thirty-two new dossiers inside. Oracle would have already added each one to her databanks, leaving them no more than a keystroke away from him at all times.
Which, of course, didn't matter. All of the dossiers would still have to be memorized. Names, place of birth, known associates, etc. It was not that he didn't trust her. One could not, however, afford to become overly reliant on anyone or thing.
Scratch that. Rely on your own memory. Rely on your own skills. Rely on yourself.
Besides Oracle's updates, there were also messages from his other associates. Tim, Dick, the rest. He dissected them quickly, mentally tearing out what was useful, discarding the rest. Mixed among them was this:
"Been meaning to talk to you. Get in touch, okay? - CK."
He filed it away in his mental rolodex and instantly moved on. Now he began to sort through other peoples' mail, courtesy of the various e-mail taps he'd established. Combining them with the local and world news updates he needed to examine, there were literally hours worth of reading piled up in front of him.
He had thirty minutes.
Which would have to do. That would still leave two hours for his daily workout regimen.
And then on to the next item.
****
At precisely 6:00 PM, he left the cave. There was a slight ache in his left leg--stress from the training. He always trained rigorously, pushing himself to the limit. The practice must be harder than the reality.
Because you could not afford to be a challenged in a life or death situation. You must react smoothly, routinely, aware what you're doing is much easier then what you're used to.
He checked the scanners. A few B&Es, domestic disturbances, a drive-by on Carmine. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing demanding his attention.
So he stuck to his schedule. From 6:00 to 8:00 PM, he would make his twice-weeklies.
****
His first stop was a hotel in downtown Gotham. Formerly upscale, now less so, although still catering to a well-to-do clientele. Out-of-town lawyers, salesmen, and the like. Room 413. Occupant Luis Vincentio, also owner.
Every weekend a high-stakes poker game with a buy-in of no less ten thousand dollars was played inside from dusk to dawn. On the third Tuesday of every month, a special game was played courtesy of a special guest. Nobody present enjoyed it, yet anyone invited invariably showed up.
This special guest -- who was also gifted a hefty portion of the rake by a smiling Luis -- was apparently a terrific poker player. At least, he never seemed to have a losing night.
Dealer burned and turned a three of spades on the river.
Everyone hesitated and looked to the special guest. He seemed disinterested; his handler was busy trying to balance a freshly lit cigar stub on his jagged teeth.
Finally, a fat man in a plastic green visor carefully laid his land on the table. "S-s-tr-"
"Pair of t'rees, ya lousy mugs," Scarface bawled at once. His man Wesker laid a three and a five on the table.
"Wait a second, boss," a huge slab of muscle sitting to his left said. "That guy's got a straight."
Scarface slowly turned his wooden face towards the man in question. Wesker licked his pale lips. "S'at so?"
The man began to sweat profusely. He hurried to toss his cards in the muck with shaky hands. "N-n-no, no such luck, Mr. Scarface. Must have misread them."
"See, ya dumb galoot!" Scarface said, whacking the big man upside the head .45 revolver attached to his useless hand. It clearly landed hard enough to pain him but the big man didn't let more than a wince show. "Ain't no goddamn straight out! This ugly sumbitch can't even beat a pair of t'rees, right?"
"R-r-right!"
"Ooops, sorry boss…"
Scarface laughed brutally and threw his cards at the dealer via Wesker. "Deal 'em, you stupid broad!"
Wesker was still in the awkward process of scooping the pot, while trying to keep Scarface upright, when a familiar voice interrupted.
"Allow me to help."
There was a crash as the table overturned, spilling chips, cigar ashes, and whiskey tumblers on the floor. "Kill that sumbitch!" Scarface screamed as Wesker fell head over heels.
The big man tried to lumber to his feet but the Batman moved quicker. The palm of his hand shot out once and the man's nose flattened. A spurt of blood covered his face as he sank to the floor.
Luis Vincentio was the next one to be stupid. He tried to break for the bedroom, where a shotgun was kept loaded and ready under the mattress. He made three steps before a cobalt ashtray collided with his head. He slumped onto the couch, holding his bleeding scalp.
"Gatman!" Scarface squealed as Wesker tried to disentangle himself from the table. "The hell you want with me? I ain't done nothing!"
"I know."
"Then why the fuck you always hounding me!"
Batman leaned down to pluck the cigar from Scarface's mouth. He killed it on the little gangster's pinstripe hat, burning a neat black hole in it.
"I'm just here to remind you. Every minute of every hour of every day, I know where you are. And I know what you're doing."
Behind his smeared glasses, Wesker looked at him with hateful, piggy eyes. Scarface bounced up and down on his hand in near epileptic rage.
"Get the fuck away from me! You hear me? Leave me the fuck alone!"
****
His next stop was the Iceberg Lounge. Cobblepot was smarter.
He did not beef up security. There was no need to subdue any thugs in the halls, or break the arm of some idiot spotting on the roof. Where Scarface wasted money on useless manpower, Penguin knew better.
He even left the window unlocked.
Oswald Cobblepot was sitting in his office, reading over an inventory list, when a hand reached down to snatch it from his fat fingers. "Scare the piss out of me," he mumbled as Batman quietly scanned the paper and laid it back on his desk.
"How's business?"
"Fuck you."
"Was that a new security system you had installed at your apartment? Expecting visitors?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cobblepot growled under his breath. "You're watching me, you're watching me! I get it, okay?"
Batman smiled. "Next week then?"
Penguin waved his hand dismissively. He didn't even bother to check whether Batman closed the window behind him.
Despite his best front though, he also didn't sleep a wink that night.
****
He felt neither good nor bad. Just routine work. What was important is that he was on track.
After leaving Nigma's condo, he sent a call into Oracle.
"Anything?"
"Nothing really. One from the JLA frequency."
"Read it."
"Batman. Need to talk. Preferably today. Call me ASAP. Superman."
"That's all?"
"Yeah, was it important?"
"Was it coded emergency?"
"Ahhhh," she said, tic-tacing on the keyboard. "Nope."
"Then, no. Toss it."
"Done. Anything else?"
"Nope. Working on schedule tonight."
Her voice rolled her eyes for her. "Riiiight. What are Tuesdays again?"
"Informants."
"Mmmm, sounds like fun."
It wasn't fun. It was work. Everything on time, in time. Necessity.
"Batman out."
****
"Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, are you crazy?"
Batman seemed to consider that as he studied his upside down questioner. They were standing on the Wentworth Overpass -- or rather he was. His questioner was hanging from it, his head just low enough that he could peer into oncoming traffic.
An inopportune semi would have ended their conversation abruptly.
After a moment, Batman pulled him up and stared into his face. "Yes. I am. I'm also angry, Billy. I think you're lying to me. I think, for example, you've heard all about Frankie Newman's new fencing operation. I think you have new supplier you haven't told me about."
"Nah, no, I ain't on nothing."
"I can smell the cocaine. You must enjoy lying to me. An interesting lifestyle choice."
Billy dropped straight down. The rope seemed to give a bit. He was now two inches lower then before. The cars below, zipping by at seventy-plus miles an hour, tussled his hair in passing. They couldn't stop if they wanted to.
A few minutes Batman reeled him in. "Last chance. I have other people to see tonight."
"Oh, come on," he moaned, blinking back tears from his eyes. "The Batman don't kill nobody, right?"
"You're right. I won't drop you into oncoming traffic."
"Y-y-yeah?"
Batman nodded. "But I will drop you. And it will hurt. Perhaps you'll hear some interesting stories while in the Emergency room…"
As it happened, Billy had quite a lot to say. Once he thought about it.
****
Mickey "Double-Ought" Gibbons had a very nice house. Five bedrooms, his own gym and movie screening room, and a private smoking den with a custom made pool table and cues. Many of his friends--who also had nice houses--would make excuses just to come and visit it.
To have barbeques. To hobnob. And even to conduct business.
Sometimes he even received unlikely, uninvited guests. The most unlikely arrived at 10:00 PM and was sitting in a lawn chair by the pool when his buddies dropped him off from the strip club.
It was fortunate his wife had convinced him to buy that privacy fence.
"What the fuck are you doing!"
"Working. You?"
"Holy shit! If anyone sees you I'm fucking dead!"
Batman shifted his position slightly but didn't get up.
"It's been so long since you contacted me, I thought maybe you forgot the number I gave you. I considered leaving it with your wife."
Mickey reached around behind his back for the .38 he kept stuffed in his waistband. "You bastard…"
Batman frowned. "Do you really think I'd threaten your wife, Mickey? I guess we really don't understand each other. For example, I would think you'd have to know that if your hand has anything in it when it reappears, I'll have to break it. Several times."
Double-Ought bit his lip. His fingers drifted away from the handle. "Just tell me what you want, will you?"
Batman rose out of the chair. He stood at least a foot taller then Mickey and, as he drew closer, the man realized he much preferred him sitting down.
"Where. When. How. Who. The basics, Mickey."
"Look, okay, you're mad about that little hit and run they did last Sunday, right? Me? Had no clue, honest. See they don't tell me everything. I ain't in on every move. I'm just a little muscle they push around."
"I guess you aren't very useful then."
"I mean, you know, they tell me stuff sometimes. And I always tell you right away…"
"Maybe," Batman mused, "you could get more done if they knew about our little arrangement."
Mickey blanched. "Oh, Jesus, c'mon, what's that suppose to mean? They'd kill me!"
"Probably. But your brothers wouldn't like that. Your father wouldn't like that. And they're important people. Apparently more important then you."
"So? So what?"
"So a little internal struggle among lowlifes can be good for business. My business. Not yours. And who knows? Two-Face might even appreciate your position." He grabbed hold of the front of Mickey's shirt and pulled him closer. "Of course, I much prefer things my original way. How about you?"
"N-now that I think about it, there might be a few things I forgot to mention to ya…"
"Then don't let me interrupt."
****
It was approaching 1:00 AM by the time he was done. With that item. He was about to move on to the next when Oracle called.
"Just in via JLA frequency: Batman. Emergency. Respond. Superman."
Damn it. He didn't have time for this. He would be off track again. But he couldn't ignore it either.
"Okay. Send this back: On top of Robinson Towers. Three minutes."
"Gotcha. Alfred called too. Said you haven't eaten yet today."
"You're bothering me with this, why?"
"Not good to save the world on an empty stomach. Seriously, just looking out for you. You're not invincible."
"Just worry about sending my message. Batman out."
****
He arrived in two. Clark was right on time as always.
No red and blue blur. None of that. Empty space one second; Superman the next. That's how that worked.
"Well?"
Without a word, Superman passed him an envelope. The Dark Knight tore it open then glanced back up with narrowed eyes. "What are these?"
"Tickets to the Metropolis Generals. Front row. Last game of the season."
"I don't get it," Batman said, "this is your emergency?"
Clark nodded. "Pretty much. You see Lois is going to be out of town all week. The game's tomorrow. So you know," he finished with a boyish grin, "I really needed to find out whether or not you were coming before then."
Batman barely suppressed a growl as he offered the envelope back. "This is a joke. You're wasting my time. I have a schedule to keep."
"It's not a joke." Clark ignored the envelope being shoved at him and his expression grew more serious. "And if you want me to be honest, Lois isn't going to be out of town. I just want you to come. You need to come." He could see his friend was losing patience. "It's your choice. But tell me this -- was there an emergency in Gotham tonight?"
"No. Why?"
"So nothing happened tonight, yet you still look ragged. You know what I do when there isn't an emergency in Metropolis? Or somewhere else? I take a break. Spend time with friends, family."
"You have that luxury. I don't."
"It's not a luxury. It's a necessity. And it's missing from your schedule. I can't believe a man as exacting as you would leave out something so vital."
Batman stared at him for a moment, then down at the envelope. He slowly pulled it back. "Hrm. So what sort of season did they have this year?"
"Oh, absolutely terrible. Four o'clock then?"
"I'll…"
"Be there. Great." He clapped him on the shoulder. "They'll be happy to hear it."
"Who's that?"
Clark smiled. "You know."
No red and blue blur. Just there one second; empty space the next.
Batman looked down at the tickets. Silly. Still…
4:00. A game lasted how long? He would have to rearrange his schedule. That meant double-duty tonight of course and then…
ad infinitum
"I will have an eternity to rest." - Andres Segovia, obituary
(Author's Note: This short was written several years ago but never was posted anywhere until now, as I was unhappy with the way it turned out. Since I was never quite unhappy enough to delete it though, I decided to finally just go ahead and place it here.)