Batman and associated characters and concepts are the property of DC Comics. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Chapter Ten: I've Just Seen a Face

Of the air and soaring. The wind rushed past his face. He adjusted his grip, let the line go slack. His boots landed on the roof with a muffled thud. Thanks to the heavy snow, the noise didn't carry very far. He kept his eyes on the prize. There. Up ahead. The red cloak was moving. The game was afoot.

Running, now. To the edge. Rigorous training had made this whole process automatic. The grapnel came up of its own accord. His aim was steady and true. Red Riding Hood may be a cunning foe, but he was only so so at swinglining. Tim had years of experience, and would soon overtake him. It was time to end this hunt. Very close now. The adrenaline was pumping. Almost there...

Red Riding Hood did not know he was being followed. He moved quickly, methodically, to the edge of the building, overlooking a large parking lot and a warehouse. A glance around told Tim they were over in Five Points, currently disputed territory. Who was he targeting? The XYZ and the Mullah had both set their sites on the area, putting a lot of pressure on the Five Families. At the time of their last encounter, the Hood had been going after the Mullah's people in East End. Was he here to finish the job?

Something was happening below. Tim was almost there. Almost. He reached the same rooftop now. He was almost there...

The Masked Red Death raised his hand and threw something from the roof. There were some muffled pops and a few loud bangs. Smoke began to waft up from below. And then he was gone, a flutter of blood red over the side. Tim was too late.

He leapt over the side of the building without a moment's hesitation. No time to crunch the numbers. He had a chance to stop the Hood this time, to prevent any more deaths. He was going to take it.

It looked like the Hood had hit a fencing crew coming out of the warehouse. There was a lot of smoke. The Hood must have dropped gas grenades before launching his attack. There were shouts and the report of firearms. The burst of flash-bangs. A glance around told him little. Nondescript men in cheap suits. That ruled out the Burnley Town Massive and the Maroni family, who rarely wore suits. They were using 9mm pistols, it looked like. Well, that didn't help identify them, either. Shuriken were flying almost as regularly as eight grams. Idiots. The gunmen were frightened and confused, and more likely to shoot each other. They never learned. It was practically the cornerstone of his by-the-numbers routine.

He had already donned his gas filter, and the enhanced lenses in his mask allowed him improved vision even in the chaos of smoke and snow. There. The flutter of red. Interesting — the Red Death had acquired a new wakizashi. Time to stop him before he put it to use.

Tim was halfway in the process of throwing a Bird-a-rang when he heard a very distinct roar over the din.

The steady rhythm of automatic fire. Deafening. The rounds tore into the cars, into the street, into the walls, into the goombas. The Red Death leapt for cover, and so did the Boy Wonder. The barrage continued. And suddenly —

The guns fell silent. As abruptly as it had begun, the onslaught ended. Smoke filled the air. The men who had been hit were groaning, blood flowing easily from the wounds. It had happened all too quickly for Tim to even begin to guess at what had hit them. He took advantage of the pause to tap his throat-mic and sent an automatic alert to the local police precinct. One of the nice things about his communications suite was it allowed him to send specific messages with the throat-mic equivalent of hot keys. The police would receive a specific tip noting automatic fire in the vicinity, and wouldn't be coming in blind. He retrieved a reflective device from his utility belt and used it to peer around from where he'd taken cover.

The silence was perforated by the delicate sound of a 1918 silver dollar flipping into the air.

Oh, sweet Jesus, Tim thought, his eyes going wide beneath the mask. There, at the other end of the street, flanked by four other gunmen, stood the man in black and white, a still-smoking military model Browning Automatic Rifle resting on his shoulder. Smiling and frowning at the same time.

Two-Face.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he said, flipping the silver dollar again. Virgin/whore, happy/sad. Good/evil. Mercy/justice.

One of the goombas tried to draw a bead on him, and received a thirty-aught-six between the eyes for his trouble. "My, my, my. What have we here? I come down to inspect my territory, and what do I find?" His rough, gravelly voice cut through the cold air like a knife. He was walking now, drawing closer. There was a sound of thunder as he saw to another one of the goombas who looked like he might still be in fighting order. "My territory," he growled, kicking one of the men directly in his open wound. "My territory!"

The silver dollar cut into the air again. "You lousy ——s think you can just come down here and take what's mine?" He turned and fired a burst in Tim's direction, where Tim had been readying to make a move. "You stay where you are, boy!"

Wonderful. The man knew he was here.

Two-Face had turned back to the man he was kicking. "I've got a message for Aquista," he growled, his eyes alive with hatred. "I want you to tell him for me. This is my territory. He thinks he can take it from me, he's welcome to try. He thinks he can play in the big leagues, he's got another think coming. Tell him to stay the f— out of my territory. I won't ask nicely again."

He turned. "And you," he said, as he let a few rounds go in Tim's direction, as if to punctuate just who precisely he was talking to. "You'vegot a lot of nerve coming here, kid. I've got half a mind to— "

Flash. Bang. The hiss of a pair of shuriken. Two of the gunmen went down, their throats torn wide open. A flutter of red. The Red Death was going straight for Two-Face.

It was too late to stop him.

The BAR smashed into the wakizashi with the force of a speeding car, knocking it easily out of the smaller man's grip and coming back around just as hard. It caught the Hood across the jaw and sent him tumbling back. The man in black and white threw the rifle aside and planted a heavy kick directly into Red Riding Hood's ribs, then grabbed him by the throat. Tim had felt those hands often enough to know they felt like a steel vice and were certainly a lot less friendly.

"I thought I told you to stay where you are!" Two-Face whirled and his ebony .45 roared, driving Tim back under cover. An instant later the same weapon cracked across the Hood's face. Nobody in Gotham pistol-whipped quite like the man in black and white. It was like being hit in the face with a bowling ball.

Another burst of .30-06 kept Tim pinned down, too busy not being ventilated to do much of anything to stop the brutal beating in progress. Two-Face still had two gunmen left.

The smaller man was thrown against a nearby car like a ragdoll. The windows cracked on the first impact. The third broke them altogether. The Hood was coughing heavily and tried to push himself back up from the ground. Another kick to the side was his reward from Two-Face. "Kids," he growled. "How many times do you stupid kids need to be told?" Impact. "How many times do I need to tell you?" Impact. "When will you learn to leave the adults to their business?" Impact.

Strange, Tim thought. Sounds like he's crossed paths with the Hood before.

Sirens. The police were finally responding. The sound provided that split moment of distraction Tim needed. The gunmen went down hard, a pair of Bird-a-rangs finding their mark. He moved fast, not giving Two-Face the chance to bring his .45 to bear. The tune of ten grams flying past his head told him it wasn't for lack of trying. The ebony peacemaker's ivory-handled partner joined the symphony. Tim let loose a Batarang and missed. Two-Face tended to have that effect on people.

The man in black and white roared in anger.

The Batarang was jammed into his side, just below the armpit, sliding past the ribcage. When he'd turned to deal with Tim, Red Riding Hood had managed to get to his feet, and retrieved Tim's misspent Bat-ordnance. He certainly seemed to have learned his lesson, because he was beating a hasty retreat into a nearby alley, while the police Quick Response Team was within visual range now. Two-Face paused for a moment, bleeding pretty badly from his newly-acquired wound. Hesitation was written across both halves of his face, and he jammed the black .45 under his other armit so he could retrieve his decision-maker.

Virgin/whore? Mercy/justice?

Mercy.

As abruptly as he had arrived, the man in black and white left. The police would be too busy dealing with the carnage at the site to track him down, and Tim certainly wasn't going to — the man obviously had transportation, since his main base of operations wasn't even in Five Points. The vagaries of fortune had left Tim free to pursue his original quarry. He quickly headed down the alley, taking care not to be seen by the arriving QRT.

The Hood was moving much more slowly now. There was no surprise there; he'd taken a pretty savage beating from Two-Face, a man who had long since completed post-graduate work in the dealing of violence. He was headed in the direction of the harbor; the question now was whether he'd even get there. He'd only been so so at swinglining under optimal conditions, and post-Two-Face was never optimal conditions.

Tim could feel the adrenaline wearing off now, and fatigue began to set in. He hadn't slept much last night, and then he'd already tangled with Mr. Freeze before chasing the Hood across town. His quarry may have taken a beating, but Tim was plain running out of juice. Wasn't that just great? He finally had Red Riding Hood in a position to be cornered, and he was too tired to be sure he could do it.

They stumbled steadily closer to the harbor. The docks were just ahead. Had to stop him. Tim's legs felt like cement. He was running on empty. The snow was so heavy. It kept falling. Why was his side so sore?

The Hood was just ahead. He'd reached the docks. There was no reason he should have made it this far. How could he still be ahead? He'd had the tar beaten out of him, and he wasn't as good at roofcrawling as Tim. His side hurt. The snow was heavy. His head was spinning. The Hood was stumbling on ahead, up to the edge of the wharf.

"Wait," Tim shouted hoarsely. To his surprise, the Hood turned back and looked at him. His mask was torn; the fabric had probably caught on Two-Face's .45. Tim tried to close the distance between them. The Hood turned again and stumbled over the side of the wharf. There was a muffled splash. The snow kept falling. Tim was too late.

He stood there for a moment and kept looking at where — seconds before — the Masked Red Death had stood partially unmasked. The snow was so heavy. It was making his cape heavier, and his side already hurt. Why did his side hurt? Tim looked at his cape and was surprised to find a hole in it.

Tim had been shot.