Harvey Bullock knew he was in for a long night when he was sitting at his desk, surfing through dozens of reports that had been dumped in his inbox while he'd been checking out a homicide in a parking garage in midtown. Detective Ethan Tate, newly promoted and still getting adjusted to his new role, stopped by his desk.
"Hey, there's something outside I think you need to see."
Bullock followed Tate downstairs through a throng of officers to the front steps of the GCPD. There, bound to a lamppost, was Floyd Lawton, his good eye blazing with fury. His optical eye was missing. Pinned to his chest was a note written on stationery Bullock knew had come from the sprockets desk:
The Night birdie is at Third at the corner of Industrial.
The abomination is on University at the corner of Tenth and Main.
Which one will Miss Kean choose to save?
Mictlantecuhtli says she can only rescue one.
It wasn't like the veteran detective had to work at guessing who the Night birdie or the abomination was. Fury sparked, ignited and had his blood pumping. Mess with the sprite? Mess with the GCPD. He turned to the group gathered around him.
"Call Gordon!" he barked. "Tell him to get over to Third and Industrial Way. Tate," he snapped at the man standing beside him. "You, Hutchins and Renaldo are with me. And someone," he snapped as he started making his way towards the parking garage, "get this animal into a cage!"
"Yes, sir," echoed around him as officers leaped into action.
...
Somebody let it slip. One of the officers, a well-meaning passerby, a lawyer on their way to meet with a detained client or somebody who overheard what was going on and decided to phone it into the news rather than the police. Either way, the local news station were reporting that one of their criminals was holding Nightwing and Superboy hostage somewhere in the city and that the Fenix was being told she could only save one of them.
Alfred was washing dishes in the kitchen with the Gotham City Radio news on in the background when he heard the news. The glass in his hand toppled back into the soapy water, forgotten as shock and fear crashed over the butler in waves. His knees threatened to buckle and his hands started shaking. An anguished cry echoed from upstairs and he realized that Miss Raya had just heard the news. Pride, as well as his dozens of years in service, stiffened his spine. He had a job to still do, children that were still his to watch over and protect.
You save those boys, Master Bruce, he told his absent employer as he quickly exited the room. You save them and you bring them home.
...
The area surrounding the old GCPD building was all but deserted, most of the businesses having been shut down a long time ago. Even the former police headquarters was used for nothing more than storage now. James Gordon had no trouble whatsoever in navigating his unmarked car down the narrow cobblestone streets.
He wasn't alone in this midtown race, either. He was in the lead of a half-dozen patrol cars, one riot vehicle, five unmarked cars and the bomb squad van. Sirens were screaming like banshees and the swirling lights cast long, demonic shadows as they swept past darkened apartment complexes and businesses.
"Think we're gonna get there in time, Commissioner?" Detective Robert Stephenson grunted from the passenger seat. "We don't have any idea about how long the bombs have been set for. Or what types of bombs they might even be."
"We'll get there," Gordon stated firmly. "Hold on!"
He screamed around a corner, hitting the on-ramp of the highway before stomping down on the gas pedal. He saw cars on fire up ahead, blocking both sides of traffic. Terrified citizens were racing for what little cover could be had as six masked men in black suits opened fire with the machine guns they held in their gloved hands.
Gordon's jaw clenched and he was half tempted to speed up and push his way through their little blockade. Reality set in, though, and he forced himself to slam on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt as bullets pinged off the bumper and front grille, slammed into the tires, blasted off the side mirrors and splintered the front glass.
"Dammit!" Stephenson snapped as he ducked down in his seat. "Who the hell do these goons belong too?"
"My guess?" Gordon growled as he pushed open the driver's door. "Matthew Berkeley."
"Your niece's father?" Stephenson asked as he leaned out the window, returning fire. One of the goons screamed as a bullet pierced his upper thigh. "Take that, you gun-toting moron," he muttered. Then he glanced over at his boss. "Why would Berkeley have his goons blocking us from getting to the Industrial District?"
"To keep us from saving Nightwing and Superboy."
Stephenson fired off another two shots. "Why's he care about whether or not we rescue two superheroes?"
"He doesn't. This is a trap."
"For who?"
"Batgirl, Robin, and Batman."
"Jim, Stephenson," they heard Bullock barking as he pulled up. "Come on! Me and Tate'll cover youse!"
Both men quickly got behind the other vehicle for protection. They reloaded their guns ready for whatever it was that the thugs had in store for them. Anarchy and violence were the city's calling card. Nothing that any of Gotham's rogues did at this point was much of a shock to the four detectives.
They were soon joined by ten fully rigged riot officers, a dozen uniforms, and a few off-duty cops who'd heard about what was going on and came to help. All of them wore the same grim, set expressions. It was just another night in Gotham. Just another night and one more round of chaos.
"I want everyone to stay close," Gordon snapped out in a cool, crisp voice. "Mason, take a handful of men and try to get on the other side of these goons. Zimmer, you and Lynch go right. I want the rest of you on me. Now," he said. "I don't have to tell you that nobody needs to be a hero. You know that. What I will tell you is that we need to stop these men before they can hurt anybody. However."
He was a General leading his troops into battle now. Every word energized them; inspired them to do whatever it took to bring these men down. "We need to stop these men because they are trying to prevent us from rescuing two good men who've been kidnapped by a very dangerous woman. Getting to those men is essential. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," they all said as one.
...
Conner stayed at Raya's apartment much longer than he actually intended. It had been fun hanging out with Dick, though. They didn't see as much of each other now that he moved to Blüdhaven On his way out of the apartment a few hours later, a woman whom he recognized as living on one of the bottom floors asked him if he'd mind helping carry a heavy box down to the curb for pickup. He happily carted the box down to the street for her and...
Nothing.
Then he felt as if he was floating on a cloud. He tried to open his eyes but found he couldn't make them obey his command. He heard someone calling him an "abomination." Hate and disgust rippled in every word the woman had said. Conner tried to attenuate to that thickly accented voice, tried to place where he had that voice before, and the face to which it belonged.
"You should never have been created. What was Mictlantecuhtli thinking in allowing something like you to be created?"
Conner struggled against the heavy drowsiness trying to suck him in. He suspected he had been dosed with kryptonite. It was the only explanation for his lack of strength and overall lethargy. He levered open his eyelids enough to make out a blurry shape coming towards him. He heard the whisper of a knife leaving a sheath, felt something jab him in the chest...
And again nothing.
When he came to a short while later, his head was throbbing and he was sick to his stomach and... where the hell was he? He managed to crack open his eyelids enough to see he was in some sort of room. Further inspection revealed he was lying on the floor.
He heard the clink of chains and realized he couldn't lift his arms, nor do more than wriggle his big toe. Because he was bound? Yes. He was lying on the cold, hard ground of an abandoned warehouse, in the dark, weakened from exposure to kryptonite, bleeding from the knife that his kidnapper had stuck in his chest and chained to something that was going beep, beep, beep.
"Hello?" he heard Dick say in a voice that sounded thin and reedy. "Is somebody there?"
"Hey, man!" He tried to yell, but his voice was little more than a hoarse murmur. "Can you hear me?
A/N: Hello, all! Hope things are well with you!