hey my DC/Shonen fanatic! It's taken a while to update this story, but I felt I needed to write a few chapters at once, to keep my at a good pace - and not just update a chapter once I'vr finished writing it, like I was doing up until now :P
Once again, I don't own either Batman or Death Note...but imagine if I did...that'd be sweet!
Five days had passed since Bruce Wayne was introduced to the might of 'Kira', yet he was still sceptical that the being even existed. Even so, the whisper of a vigilante transcending past even his own righteous psyche interested him, and indeed he began casually complying a vague profile and case for the murders. One example of this was when downloading schematics of the sewer and subway system surrounding the next set of clubs he was targeting. Despite the amount of funding he had placed into the surveillance of the city, Bruce sighed in defeat as the system needed at least another hour until it would be functional to him.
Retiring to the library in hopes of finding older maps of Gotham's layout (he never took these articles for granted, most of these passages would still be relevant enough) when he came across one of his father's medical journals. During his adolescence, Bruce would scour the library for journals such as this; immersing himself in his father's writings – he never fully understood what his father was talking about in them; but, for a few fleeting hours, he could feel like he was still there. Skimming through the pages, Bruce wasn't all that interested in the depths of detail his father was writing in, but upon reaching the spine of the journal, he found the repeated use of 'heat attacks'. Halting, he turned back to the nearest heading and began to read.
Indeed, when inspecting the text closely, Thomas Wayne had trailed off from his usually cold and complex description of his medical studies to a more ponderous monologue:
'…There was no mistaking it, but the Commissioner didn't want to hear of it – no one wanted to hear of it. I spent days studying over the autopsy results. The patient was an accomplished marathon runner. He was up to date with all health checks. No traces of narcotics on him, and he; like all these patients (or, in my opinion, victims) is father to a daughter heavily suspected to be a part of the sex trade. For a sixth time in a month, I've a corpse in my hospital that shouldn't be there! I mentioned the daughter issue to the police; was that enough? Would they even do anything? How could they? I'm suggesting someone or something caused these men to die of heart attacks. None were obese, abused their bodies in any way, and the only call of stress came from poverty and the grooming of their children. But I digress; I'm in no position to be interfering in the matters of law and justice here…'
One line was enough to spur Bruce. The journal dated back twenty years, only months before that night. Was this the same thing? He never ruled out the growth of telepathy through evolution, and it wouldn't be impossible for two people to develop a similar defence mechanism. After flicking hungrily through the rest of the journal, he became disappointed to find his father soon became immersed in a flu pandemic, and the deaths seemed to have subsided. Why had the killer stopped?
He laughed to himself, he was already sure that there even was a killer at all. He was no doctor, but freak heart attacks were, well, freakish – and any evidence for Carlos death being a murder were washed away with the man's deteriorating corpse, plagued with a vicious mix of drugs. As he closed the book, he felt a vibration in his chest. Stalling momentarily, a shock rushed through his body, freezing the blood. No, surely not. What were the odds of reading about it, and it happening?
This fear clouded Bruce for a mere second, when the chime of his cell phone accompanied the vibrations. Sighing and again chuckling (that was twice in a day, maybe he was ill!), Bruce answered.
"Yes Alfred?" He asked.
"Master Bruce, the schematics are complete, and you'll want to switch on Gotham Tonight." Alfred answered ominously.
Bruce did as instructed, to find the rear end of a report from the entrance to the 'Omen' club. The reporter was interviewing a man he never thought he'd see there.
"And you're not afraid that this broadcast will attract the criminal known as Kira? I mean, association with a suspect of drug trafficking can hardly be helpful for your image Mr. Cobblepot."
"Listen tuts, the death of my business partner has heavily saddened me, so it would be best to keep your sweet little mouth shut on that issue!"
Bruce growled, 'Penguin'.
"The press have got it into their thick heads that these losers are dropping across the globe because of some nut-job called Kira! But I tell ya, I've stood trial three times in the past year; no conviction! I'd be a bigger target to this so called killer, but why am I still here? Because it's shit!"
"Mr. Cobblepot, please, there are families watching this broad-"
"That's quite right, tuts. So I say to all you youngsters, tired of staying in and studying? Why not let your hair down and come along to-"
"Mr. Cobblepot, are you really inviting underage citizens to attend your club!"
Bruce phased out the rest of the interview, he knew the rest of Cobblepot's speeches. He'd heard them twice before. He went around boasting how he'd escaped Black Gate three times now. That didn't make him any less guilty. But he never expected that Carlos' death would make him surface as his business associate – or supplier.
"Master Bruce, I assume you'll be out late tonight?" Alfred asked over Bruce's shoulder.
"…Yes…"
Soichiro sighed with exhaustion. How many times did he have to crawl back into his home this time in the morning? There were milkmen delivering for crying out loud! Clumsily removing his shoes, he sat on one of the stairs to rub his feet. With all due respect to Ryuzaki, the man was a slave driver, and as much as he wouldn't want to admit it, his time on the force certainly did age him.
Creeping up the steps towards his bedroom, he made an oath that he'd get at least five hours today. Ryuzaki would still be reviewing his family's tapes – and he was pretty sure the man felt more objective when the subjects' father and husband weren't present. As he reached the top, however, his mind was distracted by noises and flickering light underneath his son's room.
Frowning, he proceeded to open Light's door to see what the noise was. Inside, Light wheeled around in his chair in shock, a pen poised over a small notebook, while his television flashed the lights of an American news channel, though the sound was fairly low.
"L-light, what are you doing up this early…" He yawned.
"Dad…er…have you been on duty all night?" Light asked, dropping the pen and walking towards his father, switching on the light of his bedroom.
"…yeah…" Was all the chief could say.
Light saw his father's eyes survey his desk, and felt an explanation was due.
"…I haven't been able to sleep well these last two days, either." Light sighed, sitting on his bed, his head bowed.
"Oh, why?" His father asked, full of concern.
"It's the finals, y'know. I guess even though I've been doing so well up to now, I wouldn't be human if they didn't get to me. I mean, what if I let everyone down?" Light raised a hand to his forehead, emulating stress. His father groaned and placed a hand on Light's shoulders.
"Son, you're the brightest person I've ever met…" Soichiro began his fatherly love speech, though Light chuckled mentally, even smarter than 'L' dad? He pondered obnoxiously.
"I decided if all I'm doing in bed is lying awake, I may as well do some light studying. TV is pretty poor this time of morning, but US news is hitting prime-time about now, plus it helps me with my English." Light explained, nodding to the desk; where, unbeknownst to Soichiro, a large and demonic figure sat, laughing manically at the spectacle before him.
"Look at you Light, the chief of the task force is mere feet away from the object you've been using to kill all these people, and you won't bat an eyelid." He grinned.
Both men turned to the television, in time to see the end of the report Light was watching.
"Well…er…thank you Mr. Cobblepot…" snorted the reporter, "Back to you Mac…" Light's father turned back to his son.
"Well, I'd say get some sleep, but that would be a little too patronising. If you're awake, just make sure you keep that TV down, alright?" With that he rose up and left.
Light sighed with relief.
"What are you gonna do about that Cobblepot guy, huh, Light?" Ryuk finally asked.
"I could just kill him now, it'd be impossible to get a face like that out of my mind anytime soon. But, my instincts tell me his death will have a lot more value in, let's say, the next few hours. If any of those American brats are stupid enough to go to that criminal's club, then they'll bear witness to his death."
Striding to the Death Note, Light produced another pen.
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, will die on the 19th January 2007, at 23:45 (Eastern Seaboard Time) upon committing suicide, by throwing himself from the roof of the Gotham Night Club 'Omen' front entrance.
Light sat back and smiled triumphantly. Turning to Ryuk, he noted his 'spectator' was curious as to know why he chose this method of death.
"I'll show that little freak what happens why you try and talk down Kira. He'll fall on the corrupt foundations he helped to build."
Bruce sat on the windowsill of the 'Omen', grimacing at the pounding headache he'd already picked up before he even got into a fight. Foolishly switching on the sound frequency of his bat-ears, he'd amplified the music beats playing in the club, causing a high ringing to linger.
He'd have to do this with his eyes. Looking down the alleyway he was hanging over, he saw the crowds of minors, eager to taste the grittier side of Gotham life. How foolish. He had to hand it to Penguin; as shameless as he was to attract minors, his speeches on TV worked – they always did. Well, after tonight, he'd pick up enough evidence to slam this overblown drug-dealer in Black Gate for a long, long time.
Busting open the window, Bruce wasn't afraid anyone would hear, what with that noise downstairs. Glancing at a clock in the stockroom he'd entered, 11.35pm, he'd be done here in ten minutes.
Drifting through the door opposite him, he entered the shadows of the balcony above the club. He noted seven guards, all armed with sub-machine guns, probably more. Grappling above two of them, he hung motionless, like that bat he was, waiting for them to turn their backs on one another.
The action was instantaneous. As one turned away, a hand seemed to emerge and crawl from some dark abyss, reached down and gripped the other man by the face. Startled, he attempted to fire, albeit aimlessly, but he was several feet in the air by this time, and another monstrous arm emerged from the darkness, sending a blow to the pressure point by his elbow. The gun dropped as the demon began to choke the man unconscious.
As the gun landed on the balcony, the song playing below was reaching its climax. Bruce smiled slightly; even with his skill, he had to appreciate luck when it happened.
Climbing down with unnatural speed, he slammed his leg into the back of the other guard's knee, stopped the man firing by crushing his wrist, twisting his other arm behind his back, then slammed his forehead against the handlebar. He slummed over, incapacitated. Bruce looked down at the clock by the crowded bar. 11.37pm. Five guards, and Cobblepot, forget ten, he'd be finished up here in six minutes.
Inside his office, Penguin's talk with several of his dealers was going down well. However, a 'talk' with Penguin usually consisted of several minutes of shouting and orders, and the occasional swing from his umbrella. This one, however, only had the former. As the men left, he slouched back into his chair. Absently glancing at one of the newspapers of the morning, stating that Carlos' death was Kira's doing.
"Ha! Some killer that guy is! Try the Bat! I've heard the police reports." He grumbled to himself.
It was this point when the door flew open with two of his dealers crashing into his desk. Leaping backwards with fright, Penguin looked at the threshold and saw the one thing he dreaded, but managed to keep his nerve.
"…speak of the devil…" He chuckled, noting that his umbrella was only inches away.
The Bat took this as his cue to enter.
"…and He shall appear." Bruce finished. Looking into the office, he noted the clock above Penguin's head. 11.40pm. One minute to beat down this guy.
"However, unlike your usual devil, I don't need an invitation to enter this place Cobblepot." He boomed, crossing the threshold into the office. Penguin backed up slightly.
Reaching over the desk, Bruce's long, broad arms moved Penguin's entire figure over to his demonic, bat-like face.
"I had you pinned down as a lot of things Cobblepot, but a dealer to children, that wasn't on my list." He growled, as Penguin looked at anything but the Bat's white, cold eyes.
"…What's it to you? Guys gotta make a living, we can't all be Bruce Wayne-"
"Shut up! Don't you dare try and justify yourself!" Bruce threw a punch to the Penguin's stomach. This was foolish. The force of the punch shifted Penguin's weight, making Bruce lose his grip. This was Penguin's cue. Sending a flailing kick to the side of the Bat's torso, he counted on him to block it, knocking the kick backwards.
This push was enough for him to get into reach of his umbrella. Within a moment, he gripped the handle, twisted it and the umbrella's end produced a blade. Slashing wildly at his foe, the Bat opted to leap backwards out of the office and back onto the balcony, combat would be easier against that blade in an open space.
Chasing the Bat out, Penguin's hand twisted the handle again.
"Ha ha, keep your distance Bat! See what I care! Because, I've got a surprise for you!" Stopping metres away from his opponent, the Penguin pointed the umbrella at him.
"Say hello to my little friend!" He screamed, when Bruce heard a gunshot.
Reacting fast enough, Bruce leapt over the handlebar and held onto a beam for dear life, feeling blood pour from his arm. A bullet wound?
That umbrella is a firearm? Manoeuvring himself out of Penguin's sight, Bruce began to climb the beam in pain.
After leaping back onto the balcony, Bruce instinctively launched a few Batarangs – the intention wasn't really to hit Penguin, it was to distract him, and it worked.
Firing at whatever moved in between the flashing lights emitting from the dance floor, Penguin growled in frustration. He'd revealed his new trump card, but since it hadn't killed the Bat, he was back to fighting the shadows themselves.
Bruce threw three more, this time to get a positive on Penguin's location. After a moment, he paused to notice that he hadn't fired another shot yet. Pulling out one more, Bruce crouched behind his cover and carefully held the blade out, in hopes of at least seeing some movement near the office from the blade's reflection. Why wasn't Penguin fighting back?
His answer was found when he saw him reach the top of a ladder leading to the rooftop. Of course! Just because he was looking for a fight here, didn't mean Cobblepot would stick around if he had an escape route.
Dashing to the ladder, it took Bruce only a fraction of the time it took Cobblepot to reach the roof. Outside, Bruce would have to take his foe down quicker now, and with less hiding spaces. Unlike the people on the dance floor, those queuing would definitely hear gunshots, and he didn't want the police here yet.
His worries were needless, however, when he saw Penguin standing on the ledge, looking down.
"…It wouldn't be the first time I've seen your umbrella fly you to safety, Penguin, but that thing is carrying only one blade, and a barrel that needs to be loaded with ammo. That thing won't hold you." Bruce stated.
"…I know…" Penguin sighed. This caught Bruce off balance. Penguin sounded resigned. Had he given up the chase?
Creeping slowly to the man, Bruce kept hold of his Batarang should this be a trap.
"…Your words cut deep, Bats…" The Penguin spoke, ominously.
"…" Upon travelling the world, Bruce had learnt a hell of a lot on human behaviour, but this was well out of Cobblepot's character. What words?
"…Look at them all, they've their whole lives ahead of them. And this city, and it's scum, just try to bleed that life out of them…" He placed a hand over his eyes…to cover his tears.
Bruce was at a total loss; surely Penguin wasn't seriously breaking down.
"…and I was a part of that scum! All for goddamn money! I'm a monster!" He cried.
Bruce risked holstering his weapon, if Penguin was falling apart, he didn't want to aggravate him. A desperate man is more dangerous than a greedy man. Turning, Penguin glared at the Bat.
"S-stay away. I'm gonna make it my job that this city is rid of at least one monster!"
Bruce took this as a threat to him, and was late to react when Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot leapt from the roof into the road beneath.
Above the bass inside, Bruce could hear ringing again - time; from screams. His instincts told him to look over the ledge and see the corpse, yet his better conscious warned him not to. Many would be looking up to see if he was thrown, and he didn't need any eye-witnesses pinning the Bat to the roof.
He fled. He was several blocks away when he first heard the police sirens. None of the guards were able to spot him before he took them out. Gordon was a lawful man, he'd suspect Batman, but he wasn't an obsessive man – if there wasn't any evidence that Batman was there, he couldn't be blamed.
Removing his glove and checking his watch, 11.48 pm.
What on Earth could have warped Cobblepot's mind like that, within five minutes?
Well? The plot thickens, eh? I dunno if anyone reading thinks it's a little too taboo to do away with someone as infamous as Peguin so early, but hell, I needed a guy from Batman's Hall of Fame to fall before he'd seriously look into Kira. Tune in next time, when the Bat begins to really put his heart into the Kira killings...by interviewing a certain someone...
