Tragedy

Wayne Manor, Gotham City

7:53 p.m November 13

The usual guests of Wayne Manor masked themselves in their usual forced smiles. 'Leeches', were all they meant to Bruce. Spoiled brats clinging selfishly onto the things that sustained their pride; money and recognition. The high class crooks of Gotham were no better than any petty thieves. Only difference between the two was that the rich usually found ways of stealing money in legal ways.

"The apple has fallen far from the tree," remarked Bob Kersh blatently at Bruce when he had managed to publicly insult and humiliate all his admired guests a few years ago. And here he was today much like all the others had been over the past years, pretending as if that paticular incident had never happened. Alcohol suffered the blame, and money brought them back. Fortune has always had a way of finding its way back into acceptance.

All the guests had arrived except the one that really mattered. Damien Crest. He must have had a late start.

The Manor kitchen consisted of twelve hired caterers all busy preparing buffet courses, and Alfred was out among the guests serving various wines and appetizers.

Bruce Wayne offered several bits of small talk every here and there, trying not to compel himself too deep in one particular conversation. His eyes shifted to the entrance doors several times in high hopes of being the first to greet Damien Crest to his father's abode. Ten minutes had passed, and only then did he show in a light grey tuxedo, accompanied by a young woman around twenty years of age clad in a sky blue dress and wielding a purse on her arm.

"Oh thank you sir. God I never thought I'd ever live to meet Bruce Wayne," Dina praised her boss. "Have you seen his face in the papers? God he's so handsome!"

Damien forced a grand smile to all the guests who had by now noticed him, and whispered into Dina briefly. "Pipe down just a bit will you? You're starting to sound like a school girl, people can hear you."

"I'm sorry, just a little excited is all."

"Besides, you're married."

Dina blushed. "Well I'm not going to do that," placing an embarrased emphasis on "that".

Bruce Wayne caught her eyes from the large crowd and made his way towards them. She couldn't look away from the millionare playboy host. It was like high school again, trying to impress someone and making yourself known. In that mere second, she had already prepared a list of introductions in her head, but had a debate on which one to use.

"Dina," snapped Damien. She turned focus.

"What is it sir?" she asked, almost as if annoyed.

"Don't talk about me too much alright, I'm not so sure I want all the attention right about now."

"Huh," she mused. "But this whole thing here is for you. That's why we are here in the first place. I hope you can just keep your calm for this particular night sir. Everybody's going to want to talk to you. Are you even alright sir?"

And for no apparent reason at all, Damien crackled out a mad snicker. "Dina," he said. "I'm drunk." That's what happens when you're Damien Crest sulking in a hotel that only has alcohol as antidepressants.

The host had mouthed words by now, most probably wondered what the two had been whispering to each other about. Dina was tempted to utter some words of advice to Damien who would no doubt cause embarrassment, but nothing came up in time.

"Welcome, I'm Bruce Wayne as you might have already heard. It's nice to finally meet you in person," he offered a hand to Crest. They shook, Damien returned the introduction, and Bruce turned to Dina.

"And you might be?"

"Dina," she replied hastily and offered a hand to Bruce who had accepted and bowed his head down to place a kiss. 'A wedding ring,' noted Bruce, his pants would have to stay on for just a little while longer.

He turned back to Damien who was busy at the time eyeing the corners of his father's manor.

"So, how have you found the visit to be so far? See anything interesting?"

Alfred passed by with a tray of wine and made his introductions with the Salas CEO. After greeting, Damien wished him well and snatched a glass. "Well. It's been as expected..." But he stopped himself there. Now was no time for another one of his protests against Gotham City. He promised Dina, and intended on living up to that promise. "It isn't bad so far. Things have shaped up a lot since I left."

Now was a time tempting to Bruce to bring up the death of his parents; their parents. Damien Crest would have seemed a mirror image to Bruce Wayne because of that one shattering tragedy brought upon them. Both witnessed the death of their parents in the bleak alleys of Gotham City. And they lived alone as orphans in a world that became hard to accept. Unfortunately, that was where the simmilarities ended.

"Any sights that you might recomend?" blurted Dina, simply for conversation's sake.

"Oh, there are so many things to see. I should take you guys out sometime."

Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City

9:15 p.m

"They'll come for me you know," said the sniper before Gordon had him locked up in a vomit infested cell. His name was Inglund Haley, a war veteran turned mercenary. Besides background information, there was nothing on file about any known acomplices, friends or allies, nothing to shed light on who "they" were. Gordon passed the regular work quarters as he made way to his office. Save for three detectives seated on their work desks and four blue coats around the halls, the entire department was empty. All the others would either be at home, working late night patrols, or simply out partying. 'Bruce', said Jim silently. "Damn," aloud. Only now did he remember the party invite. He stretched out his wrist and observed the mounted watch. "Aw what the hell," the sniper case was still under investigation, he didn't feel it right to just up and walk away now, so he took a long hard stretch and worked his usual long hours.

However, the electricity cut out without warning, everything was pitch black. He couldn't see any trace of text written on the paper within his hold. 'A blackout. Again.' He took glasses off and placed them on his work desk. Hands tried to rub away all the stress in his face, but it was wothless. This would be a good time for a short nap. He turned his head to the right and faced the window. He would have shut his eyes, but the view struck him like a bolt of lightning. There was a streetlight just below, the bulb's rays reflected on his stained glass. It was still on. 'Blackout my ass.'

He reached for a Beretta and portable torchlight under his desk and ran out to warn every police officer in the building.

"A raid!" he screamed. "We got a raid! Get your guns up, get down to the holding cells!" He startled the three detectives, woke them up. They each picked a sidearm and followed him down.

"Holy shit!" one of them exclaimed as Jim flashed a spotlight down to one of their fellow blue coats drenched in blood.

"Calm down people keep steady." A cop killer, silent, deadly. Nobody heard anything. The body indicated large cut marks, this guy was sliced.

"They'll come for me you know," it rang like a churchbell to Jim Gordon.

Suddenly, all four policemen ducked down with Jim in front. Sight came before sound. Gunshot lit up like a flare, and screamed not long after. The men were in a straight hallway that lead to the cells, and that's where the enemy decided to get them. In a straight line, open, without cover.

One of them got down too late. A bullet lodged into his skull before he could even see it. Gordon raised his weapon, but hesitated in firing. The shooter was behind a corner wall, that's where he or she would have gone to cover. Gordon raised his flashlight in that general direction to keep the shooter in place.

"Hold your fire. Shoot only upon sight," he whispered to whatever backup he had left. They had their eyes locked to the same corner, and said nothing.

But sounds of footsteps seemed to be coming from another direction. 'There's more than one. Shit.' The detectives surveyed the path of the footsteps, dazed in confusion. First it came from behind them, then in front, around their sides, and finally, on top.

"The vents!" exhaled Gordon and in the blink of an eye, shifted his torchlight to the ceiling above them, disregarding the shooter who still leaned behind the corner wall. The ceiling walls ripped apart like cardboard paper, a sharp and reflective blade came into view. Each man spent their bullets with no sense of caution, yet none of them seemed to hit. The blade continued tearing randomly, until some dark figure emerged from within. He was armed with a japanese katana, bullets would have easily taken him down, if only they were fast enough. The flashlight caught his face but nothing else. An asian male with long black hair stretching out to his shoulders. He shred his way past the two remaining police officers. Gordon was next. The police commisioner locked his gun on the target, but the ninja was so close. Another cacophonous gunfire blared, but Gordon hadn't even pulled the trigger. The shooter got him on the chest before the ninja came in. He fell on the ground motionless.

Wayne Manor, Gotham City

10:21 p.m

All the guests had already left. Bruce decided to help Alfred clean whatever mess was left. There were temporary maids who helped out as well, and did a significant job at that. Soon the manor was back to the way it origionally was, clean as a whistle. Although the function had started out as well as was planned, it didn't seem to fill its main intent. At most Bruce had spent five minutes talking to the popular Damien Crest, but about trivial matters. And all the guests had worn him out as well, in the end he spent most of the evening speaking to Crest's personal secretary who had told quite a lot about her employer.

Bruce's night was over. He would make a few calls to Damien in the morning.

At the moment however, Batman's night began. Out of his window and into the clear dark sky he saw his calling sign, his name.

Elverson Road, Gotham City

10:23 p.m

Another cold Gotham night. Crest was feeling drowsy from all the alcohol and chit chat, and his head was merciless. He would have fallen asleep, but after having been awake throughout an entire fifty minute drive in Gotham city traffic that's slower than mollases on a January morning, it became fairly obvious that someone wasn't going to be hitting the sack anytime soon.

They were still out on the road, and matters had not yet improved. In fact, just then things had gotten a lot worse. Crest and his assistant were on board an expensive pitch black limousine cruising through the less than fortunate side of town. It was all the driver's fault.

It seemed at the time like a good idea. All the other roads were crowded with frustrated citizens blowing horns at each other. Elverson Road, once they came close to the welcome sign, things could only get worse.

The driver took a turn down the passing and slowed down. He didn't even know what hit him. Four street thugs, all of them adults with the exception of one child only 12 years old, stood right in front of the limousine's point of view, demanding with handguns to stop the vehicle. The driver complied with a panic-stricken face, he coldn't even dare thinking of what would happen next. He didn't have to. A fifth man came by the side window armed with a .357. He didn't even know what hit him.

"Aaaaggh!" Dina coudn't stop screaming. Four complete strangers had forced the passenger doors open and pulled Damien and his assistant out of the car by their shoulders. Overlooking the events was the youngest of the crew, moving not an inch. He watched observantly with a gun on his hand, pointing the barrell on the ground.

"Oy lookie what we have here!" one of them declared to his mates as he set eyes on Dina. He had white skin and dreadlocked hair. "Ain't this a pretty little bitch?"

The female hostage cried. She wasn't raised to expect any of it. Things were not meant to be this way. "No, please," she begged to her captor. "Please, don't do this," she began screaming out across the neighborhood. It's not that nobody could hear, only that they didn't care. Another wolf howling in the night, everyone tried to ignore it for their own lives. The man in dreadlocks punched her between the eyes, leaving a clear purple mark on her face. She cried even louder this time, but the man was'nt going to try to shut her up anymore. In fact, she was going to scream loud, according to all the things he had in plan.

Two of the thugs began searching Damien Crest for a wallet as one of them threw a fist on his jaw. This was the Gotham City that Damien Crest had always remembered. Immediately, he clashed down on the ground face first. His blood was boiling at a fast rate, steaming through his ears.

"This fool doesn't have any cash on him," said one of them to another.

Damien's back was turned to their point of view. None of them realized the gun in his pant pocket. None of them did, except the 12 year old child when it came into view.

"The guy's got a gun!" he informed his elders. However, the three goons parked close to Damien weren't near fast enough to react, a price they paid with death.

Without hesitation, unlike as a child, Damien blew holes on all three goons rendering them dead before they could even hit the ground. It was all done swiftly, undoubted, and certain. As if he had been waiting his entire life to do that again. Now all that was left was the dreadlock and the 12 year old child.

However, the man took a defensive stance. He raised a gun at Dina's head, and all she could do now was scream at the simple thought of dying.

"You want me to kill this bitch, huh!" said the dreadlock staring deep into Damien's eyes. What he got was 25 years of rage staring right back at him with no sense of cause or remorse. "Son!" the man screamed. The 12 year old answered. "Kid, I want you to go run back home," he ordered, still facing the eyes of Damien Crest standing up straight aiming a gold coated Colt, itching to claim yet another life.

The child hesitated. "But dad..."

"Go!" he turned his head to the child for a split second, and that was all the motivation Damien needed to pull his trigger.

The bullet tore a hole through the man's skull, killing him almost in an instant. However, reflex caused the man's trigger finger to pull back, and the woman in the bullet's trajectory paid an undeserved price.

"No!" Damien raced towards Dina and caught her on his arms. She recieved a nine millimeter pill on the neck, an endless supply of her blood spewed through the leak. Damien put three fingers to block the bleeding, but it didn't make things any better.

"No, no no no," this couldn't be happening to her. It can't be. His last and only friend, this couldn't be happening. She did not deserve any of this.

But she died without saying any last words. Damien couldn't stop the tears. He hugged her close, absorbing all the warmth from her body until it was gone. All that remained was of her was a lifeless body.

She died, because of all of this. This street, this place, this city, this world. Everyone in it.

Damien cursed aloud and reluctantly let her go. He caught sight of the 12 year old criminal who simply stood in tears, watching his father deceased. "You killed him!" the child pouted. "You killed my father!"

There was still an ounce of filth, still breathing. Damien rose to his feet, cocked the gun still in his grasp, and aimed it at his enemy. As the child saw this, his eyes widened, and raised his legs to flee. But he was caught on the leg by an excruciating sting. He mouthed a horrendous scream and fell on the ground. His legs had gone numb, so he pushed his body sweeping across the floor away from the madman.

Damien followed the child taking only a few slow steps. Upon reaching proximity, he took aim. Gunfire once again roared past the soundwaves of Gotham City.

Gotham City Police Department, Gotham City

10:29 p.m

Gordon wasn't at the rooftop. It looked completely abandonned. Something was wrong. The spotlight was switched on blaring into the night sky, but there was nobody there to make the greeting. Batman saw this seconds before he landed. It wasn't like Jim Gordon, something was definitely wrong.

Beep!

Batman heard a slight noise coming close from his location.

Beep!

Batman took a few cautious steps forwards, minding his environment for anything that could constitute as a trap. Suddenly his eyes came across a few blue and red wires hidden almost flawlessly on the Gotham City Police Department rooftop. 'A bomb'.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

The caped crusader raced away towards the ledge, hoping he could make past it just in time. Everything seemed to go fine for a while. The bomb didn't seem like it would ever go off, Batman was already dangerously close to living another night. Just one step forward!

Beeeep!

Orange flames blew the entire rooftop into shards and debris. Soon after, the entire station caught on flames, and not one soul was alive to stop it. It seemed inevitable, a tragedy that has the potential to claim the lives of so many in one stroke. And that was the Batman's very purpose. To make laws a reality, create impassable boundaries, show the criminals that they do not rule the world, but most importantly, ensure the safety of Gotham's citizens. Tonight, he failed.

Batman's cape caught on fire as he barely leaped away with his life. Instead of flying, his body landed a loud thump on a building wall just adjacent to the department. He gripped on a rappeling gun and tied its hook onto a tiny yet sturdy metal bar bolted on the wall itself. He wasn't out of harm's way just yet. Out from a distant building window looked out a tiny dark apparition. His eyes looked through a zooming lens into the eyes of Batman. They saw each other as they did the last time they met, only now the tables had been turned. The sniper scoping through his rifle, aiming for a perfect shot. Batman's cape still glowing on fire, and a long fall awaiting down the brisk streets. There couldn't have been any other way for it to end.

No, there are always alternatives. Batman shielded his face with his wrist for protection. And he took a chance. He made an attempt for flight with an injured wing, praying only that he could for one last time make it out alive.

His wings lit on flame were still somewhat functionable, but balance was slowly wearing out. Batman would have to keep himself up until he was away from the sniper's point of view.

However, the sniper was not about to let his target go. He fired several rifle shots from out the window down to his enemy. Unfortunately, none were precise enough to hit, none, except one.

A bullet tore through the Batman's cape, causing a rapid descent onto the ground. There was nothing else he could do now but shield his face and hope for the best.

Inglund Haley looked to the streets that his target had slammed into head first. He didn't make one move. The legend they called Batman had to be dead now, finally. He grabbed a walkie talkie and spoke softly into the channel, "Bat's down." That's when the crew would pick him up. And a few minutes later, they did. A van pulled over in the back, Haley made his entrance to the side door and was greeted by his fellow colleagues who were now on the way to cashing a $100,000 check each as promised. It would be money well deserved, to all of them.

On the drivers seat was Pretty Allie, the only female in the four man team. She played her role as an explosives expert. She was a brunette with a young face, pretty, yet dangerous. Her father was a terrorist for hire for several revolutionary groups in third world countries during the 70's. She caught all there was to know about planning attacks and how much explosives could wipe out how much.

Polishing his pistol on the front passengers was the buff thirty year old Buckham, an excellent tactician and squad leader. He had great charisma as well, because that's what it took to convince three proffesional mercenaries to try their luck against the feard legend of the night for $100,000 each. At first the gang was skeptical of the idea, and wanted to avoid Gotham as much as possible. Batman's scare flooded past Gotham, his name made headlines all around the world. Only an army brave enough would risk everything to fight a legend. That's where Buckham's mercenaries came in.

And last but not least was the vigorous Dru, combat expert. Sheathed behind him was his signature weapon; the ancient japanese katana. He was in his early twenties, a black haired Korean who had recieved all his training from the now extinct organization known as the league of shadows. Dru had turned to be one of the most promising students in the league, but after five years he decided to leave the clan in search for his own purposes. Dru was never known to be one who worked as a team, which made his current proffesion as a mercenary squad member ironic. He was just a super soldier after all, and nothing more. It required a leader to find battles, and without a leader he would be nothing more than another psycho killer in a city that already has it's hands full.

The mercenaries gave each themselves a pat on the back and drove on to their next destination. However, if they had kept their eyes peeled and undistracted by the thought of victory and another paycheck, they would have noticed a bat hiding under the van.

Savvies' Toy Department, Gotham City

11:21 p.m

The ride caused Batman a great deal of stress. His cape had suffered several burns and torn holes, it would no longer prove functional. He would have to check with Luscious Fox in the morning for an extra pair.

Suddenly, the van had arrived to a screeching halt. Four pairs of footsteps got off and walked several feet away from view. Batman waited for five more minutes, and made his arrival.

Dru was the first one to enter past the toy department entrance. It was closed by now, which was why the contact provided a key. He switched the lights on and walked around aimlessly in the bright empty store, wondering where their contact could be.

"Anybody home?" called Inglund. And before long came into view a short fat man carrying an umbrella clad in a black tuxedo, top hat and a monocle on his left eye. His skin was pale and nose extraordianrily long.

"Rheh, rheh, rheh," he laughed, or at least appeared to. "And how did your little endeavor turn out?"

Buckham placed himself in front of his four man squad with a blunt tone on his face. "We did the job. Now, the money." In his life outiside work, Buckham was usually a friendly mannered individual who had his various ways of talking to people and making friends easily. Outside the job, he enjoyed all the things most men his age enjoyed. A cold beer, monday night football on a cozy couch, and talking with friends. However, on the job, he tuned himself into something else. A cold reptile with no guilt or remorse for killing, straight to the point, no chit chats or small talk with clients.

The short man smiled. "Aaah, and I believe you," he said sincerely. "I must applaud you," he hung his umbrella on his arm in order for him to free his hands and give a more welcoming congradulation. He clapped his hands together slowly, still managing a smile on his face, truly these men were worth every penny. However, the fantastic four stood idly by, waiting to presume buisness. From the looks on their faces, it didn't seem that they understood exactly what they had just done. Batman was dead. That was a dream that most criminals would never have even thought possible. The dark knight legend, slaughtered by a pair of the best mercenaries money can buy. A dream that sounded too good to be true. "But where are my manners?" he composed himself after realizing that his associates did not share the same degree of excitement that was currently flaring like brimstone in his head. A dream come true. There was nothing now that could wipe out that smile across his cheeks. The menace was gone, and he was free to compete in the gun markets and any other organized activity he saw fit. Truly this was a criminal's freedom. However, all it took for things to go from high up heaven straight to hell was the dance of a bat.

The lights went out and darkness followed. A sign of his entry. Some dreams that seem too good to come true usually are.

"Shit, what's with the lights?" Inglund thought aloud.

Only four people at the moment knew exactly what that meant. Those people included Buckham, his contact, the highly observant Dru, and the animal that was supposed to be dead.

Four of the mercenaries had their stance close to each other. The only thing Batman needed to do now was leap straight down and stretch his fists.

Each of them felt a prescense drop in right behind them, but three of the four experienced a single nerve racking blow rendering them temporarily unconscious. Dru had been the more cautious one and backed away from Batman's fist. Immediately, he drew out his katana always holstered on his side, and prepared to make a few strikes of his own.

Now was no time for theatricality. Batman was feeling weak, and the goon swinging a blade towards him seemed able to navigate without any error in the dark. He mustered enough strength to dodge his blade, but eventually a new plan would have to come into mind, and fast.

Dru gripped the handle of his swords tightly, pulled it towards his chest, and with all his might sent a straight stab that was to penetrate through the masked man's hull. Batman upon realization, turned away from the edge by rotating his body sharply to the left. Dru, dissapointed at his failure, pulled back his reel to throw a much more aggressive and merciless swing, but little had he realized that the Batman's fist was already heading towards his cranium. He didn't move away from it because of his loss of concentration, and that alone was a mistake that he would never forgive himself for.

The blade wielding ninja fell down unconscious much like the rest of his crew. Batman collected himself up. Finally, the man who signed a contract for his death was standing right in front of him, too scared to move an inch. The Penguin.

"You. Youuu. Raak but you're supposed to be dead!"

Batman leaped at the short man pulling all his weight, causing him to falter to the ground hard and in pain. Penguin made an attempt to grab his umbrella to fend off his enemy, but a crushing blow to the chest made him think twice about it. Then he was grabbed by the collar, and the warm breath of Batman sprayed into his face.

"In this world, never forget one thing." Penguin knew perfectly well where the Batman was, but there wasn't near enough light shed to see the cold death his eyes. "I am the authority."

Suddenly, a loud burst erputed from the dark, and Penguin bled to death in an instant. At first Batman thought that he must have shot himself. It was the only thing that seemed to make any sense at a blind thought even if it seemed farfetched. But when he heard the hyena's familiar laugh in the background from straight behind, he knew it wasn't true.

"Ha ha ha ha! Looks like it'll be a while till a penguin makes the next laugh."

Batman dropped the now dead criminal held tight in his arms to face his joker. But now was not the Joker's night. He was gone in an instant. As if the only thing there was his voice. And he took note of another even more haunting fact. The mercenaries that were presumed unconscious, had suddenly vanished.