3. Seeing Red
Perched above them on the fire escape, the man with the red mask and motorcycle jacket rolled his shoulders and popped his gloved knuckles. "If you touch any of them again…" he growled, "I'll cut your dicks off and make you eat them."
Sergei scoffed. "This mook thinks he can make demands," he said to his fellow thugs. "Hey, dumbass!" he shouted at the masked man. "Look who's holding guns here. You move muscle and this girl's face is fucking doughnut!"
It was the masked man's turn to scoff. He added a shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
The next thing Dora knew, she was deaf and blind. All she could see was white and all she could hear was high-pitched ringing. Like flipping a switch, she had a skull-cracking migraine to add to her concussion, split lip, and bitten tongue.
A few seconds passed where all light and sound strobed, then Dora regained her senses. The masked-man must have used some type of flashbang and smoke grenade combo. Swirling smoke and shadows obscured the whole alley around her. She could only see Sergei because he was right next to her. Then she realized that Sergei had lost his grip on her… and his gun wasn't pointed in her face anymore.
"Ow! Fuck!" he cursed.
Dora blinked until she was able to make out Sergei grasping his hand in pain. His hand was bloody… and free of a gun. In its place was a knife.
No, wait… is that a… is that a fucking shuriken? She could hardly believe her eyes.
Sergei yelled something in Ukrainian. The smoke cleared just enough for Dora to see Rafi, Mikhail, and Yevy—as well as Holly and Rochelle—all still recovering from whatever flashbang the masked man had used. The men aimed their guns around the alley, looking for him.
"I don't see him, old man!" Rafi said, letting go of Holly. "Where did he go?"
"I'm right here, buddy."
"Fuck!" Rafi cried. Lightning flashed as he was sucked into a cloud of smoke.
Without her glasses, Dora could only make out silhouettes—one brutalizing another, while yet another crawled away. She heard the sickening thumps of fists on flesh, grunts of exertion and yelps of pain.
Some of the haze finally cleared to reveal Rafi—on the ground, broken and beaten bloody. He was unconscious and missing a few teeth out of his gasping, gaping, and wheezing mouth. Dora recoiled, appalled. Holly did too, shrieking as she ran away. However, she only managed to run into Mikhail's arms.
"Shut that bitch up!" Sergei ordered. Mikhail obeyed and pistol whipped Holly, who went down hard. Her head lulled to the side, unconscious. Blood trickled from a cut on her eyebrow.
Before she even knew what she was doing, Dora had lunged toward Mikhail, but only stopped because a crunching sound. She had stepped on her glasses. Weighing whether if it was better to have her sight back against the good it would do thrashing Mikhail over her knocked out friend, Dora begrudgingly shoved her glasses on and stayed where she was.
"I warned you, didn't I?" That was the masked man speaking.
Although one lens of Dora's glasses was badly scratched, she was able to see that the masked man more clearly now. He had already moved on to trading punches with Mikhail—or rather Mikhail swapping one punch for every three from him.
Dora took advantage of the distraction and went to Holly. She dragged Holly's limp body away from the brawling vigilante and Mikhail, and scanned the alley for Rochelle, but couldn't find her in the swirling smoke.
Sergei had finally pulled out the shuriken from his hand. "Hang in there, Misha!" he shouted. "When I find gun, I will kill red-face asshole!" He buried his hand under his arm to staunch the bleeding while he searched for his weapon.
The fight between Mikhail and the vigilante was absolutely brutal. Mikhail threw a punch at the masked man's face, one the vigilante didn't bother to dodge. Dora heard Mikhail's fist crack against the mask, which made her realize it was more like a helmet. The vigilante grabbed Mikhail's fist and pulled it aside, crushing the bones in his wrist and hand. He twisted Mikhail's arm behind his back and Dora heard Mikhail's bones snap as he screamed in agony. The vigilante then jammed his foot into Mikhail's knee. Another sickening crack reverberated in the air as the joint bent the wrong way.
Bawling like a child, Mikhail yelled in pain, "Stop! No! I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry! Please! Stop! Please!" Then a backhand to his temple knocked him out cold.
"Enough of this bullshit!" It was Sergei's voice.
Blam! Blam! P-chew! P-chew!
That was the sound of a gun being fired, Dora knew, but having lived on Park Row all her life, she also knew the tell-tale sound of a ricochet. Sergei had found his gun, but his shots had missed.
"Yevy! Get out piece and nail this guy!" Sergei spat at his only remaining ally. Blam! Blam!
"What about the girl?"
"I don't give shit about girl! Just shoot that motherfucker!"
"Dee, come on!" That was Rochelle's voice, Dora realized. Rochelle burst out of the smoke from Yevy's clutches and helped Dora pull Holly's body behind a dumpster.
"Rocky, are you okay?" Dora asked frantically, looking her over head to toe.
"Are you?" Rochelle gave her the same inspection.
Dora was bruised, bloody, and slightly concussed—but she still somehow felt lucky to be alive. Rochelle, however… and Holly….
"I'm fine, Dee," Rochelle said, reading Dora's concerned look. "Better than you two anyway. Yevy never got a chance to hurt me. Whoever this masked dude is, he saved me. He saved us."
But Dora knew she, Rochelle, and Holly weren't safe yet. Smoke still swirled throughout the alley and obscured almost everything. She still heard gunshots and ricochets all around the alley, so running away wasn't safe yet. She knew nothing about the man with the red helmet, but she was willing to bet he wasn't bullet-proof. This was Gotham, not Metropolis.
As if on cue, the vigilante spoke up. "Two down, two to go! Give up now and I'll let you live. Maybe. Probably. Nn-yeah, actually… I'm still thinking about it." He chuckled, menacingly. "So give me a reason to change my mind." The vigilante's voice had a metallic ting to it because of the helmet-like mask. But that wasn't what Dora noticed most. It was the vigilante's persisting tone of playful nonchalance, as if this whole situation was just a game to him. Was he actually enjoying this?
"Shut the fuck up!" Sergei shouted.
Daring to peer around the dumpster, Dora saw Sergei firing off shots at the vigilante, who ran around the alley, rolling and flipping like a gymnast to avoid the bullets. He reached the dead-end wall, but instead of stopping, he ran up the wall—as if gravity didn't affect him. Sergei and Yevy's bullets burrowed into the bricks where the vigilante's feet had just been.
"You must've been doing this a long time, Sergei," the vigilante taunted as he vaulted off the wall and onto the fire escape. "And you still can't aim worth a shit."
Sergei snarled, enraged. He reloaded his gun as fast as his mangled hand was able and fired at the vigilante again as he climbed up the fire escape. Rounds ricocheted off the bricks and metal railing, and none seemed to land a hit on him. He moved so fluidly, Dora noticed, amazed. Like a fish through water, a snake through grass, a bird through branches—a bat through darkness.
Rochelle saw that herself. "... the fuck, that dude's quick!"
"Yeah…" Dora watched his movements closely. She recalled the vigilante saying he wasn't part of Batman's crew, but he certainly moved like he was.
Yevy reloaded and joined Sergei in another barrage of gunfire, though his aim wasn't any better. The vigilante finally reached the top of the fire escape, ran along the ledge of the building, dove off, and somersaulted through the air.
He descended on Sergei and Yevy from two storeys above, the back of his jacket flapping—Dora couldn't help but think like the wings of a bird.
"Aaaah-oof!"
He landed on top of Yevy with a sickening crunch, who emitted an emasculated yelp. The vigilante bounced to his feet, unaffected by the fall. He kicked Yevy across the face, ensuring he was knocked out. Yevy's blood glistened on his boot. He turned to Sergei. "Now it's just you and me, old man."
Sergei brought his gun around to shoot the masked man, but—Smack! Pow! Whomp! One, two, three blows. Sergei was disarmed and brought to his knees.
"Say uncle," the vigilante said, towering above him.
Sergei managed to smile, even with a fat lip, a broken nose, and loosened teeth.
"You think you got me, boy? You think you beat me, huh? Well, let me tell you something. I work for Black Mask. He got the GCPD and DA in his pocket. Sure, they will arrest and book me, but guess what, asshole? I will be back out before you take your next shit."
The vigilante scoffed. "Wow, old man, I guess you're right. If I let the cops take you in, you'll just fuck the system and hit the streets again. Same goes for your low-life friends, right?"
He took a knee and leaned toward Sergei, his red helmet so close to Sergei's face, his ragged breath fogged the glossy surface. "There's no permanent way to stop you, is there?"
"I been doing this for twenty years, kid. I will die before the law stops me."
"You know what? That's a great idea. I guess I'll have to kill you."
Sergei laughed so hard he began to choke. He quickly caught his breath and spat blood on the ground.
"Empty threats. That is problem with you Bats," he wheezed, "you beat shit out of us but you can't commit. Can't finish what you start. You and bat-buddies will never clean Gotham for good because you're all bunch of pussies, too afraid to get hands dirty. You won't fucking kill me."
The vigilante stood up, chuckling. "Did you forget already, geezer? I told you, I'm not part of Batman's crew."
"Then who do you work for?"
The masked man reached into his jacket and drew a gun, spinning it with a flourish. "Myself." He cocked it.
Pow!
Sergei fell to the ground, a bloody red hole where his eye had just been.
"Aeee!" Rochelle shrieked until her breath gave out, scrambling away from the dumpster they were hiding behind until she hit the wall. Frantic and cornered, she heaved, trying to catch her breath, then finally vomited.
Dora didn't move from where she knelt by the dumpster, lucidly aware that she wasn't having the same reaction as Rochelle. She stared at Sergei's blood, flesh, brain matter, and skull fragments splattered on the ground just a few yards away.
But she felt numb. She felt nothing.
"Dora!" Rochelle gasped, having caught her breath.
Dora looked up from Sergei's corpse. The vigilante stood over them. Lightning flashed behind his silhouette.
Her heart leapt into her throat. She could hear it pounding in her ears. This close she could smell him. The leather, the sweat mingled with rainwater, the gunsmoke. The blood. A shiver ran down her spine and she cradled a still unconscious Holly closer.
"Are you guys okay?" the vigilante asked.
"Dora, we have to go!" Rochelle shouted. "This man is dangerous!"
"Not to you," he said, holstering his gun and holding up his hands.
"You just killed a man!" Rochelle snapped.
"He deserved it," he growled back.
Hesitant, Rochelle approached Dora, without turning her eyes away from the masked man. "Come on! Do you have your phone? We have to call the police!"
The vigilante shrugged. "Go ahead. I won't stop you."
Dora studied the man for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. "Yeah, okay, Rochelle," she finally said, taking a step away from the vigilante but not without a last lingering look. "I'll call the cops, but not with you and Holly around. Getting into it with the police could cost your visa and really piss off Holly's pimp. He works for Black Mask."
"B-but... Dora..." Rochelle stammered.
"I'm sure she'll be fine, but take Holly to the clinic and get her checked out, just in case."
Rochelle's face was lined with concern.
"Just go, I'll sort this out," Dora insisted. After finally getting a look of affirmation from Rochelle, Dora hoisted Holly's limp body onto her back.
"If I don't hear from you in half an hour, I'm calling the cops myself," Rochelle said to Dora, but she was looking at the vigilante as she said it. "Phone call, not text."
"Fine," Dora said, and she watched Rochelle shamble out of the alley with Holly on her back.
As soon as Rochelle and Holly were out of sight, the vigilante asked. "Are you alright?"
Dora glowered. "I said I'm fine."
The vigilante reached out and placed his gloved hand on her chin. For some odd reason, instead of flinching, Dora made no move to stop him. He turned her head from side to side as she clenched her jaw tightly. Dora took the opportunity to inspect him as well. There were no face-like features on his masked-helmet—only two glowing white slits for his eyes, with a furrowed brow molded above them. Dora could only assume he was assessing the injuries on her face.
With his thumb, he wiped some blood from her lip, making her wince. His glove was rough on her skin. "How's your head?"
Dora touched the back of her head, where it had hit the ground. There was a painful bump, but her hand came back with no blood. "Concussion, but I'll live."
"Yeah. You're tougher than you look. You know how to take a beating."
Irked, Dora spat blood onto the ground. The red swirled and dissolved into the puddle. "No woman should know how to take a beating."
"Good point," the vigilante said, with a nod of respect. "Why did you stay? Could've ran off with your friends."
"You killed someone on my property," Dora said. "I need to see this through."
"Not many people have the stomach for this." The man gestured at Sergei's limp, leaking corpse. "It's interesting that you do."
Dora's mind instantly rewound to all the times she had seen things bloodier and more gruesome than this. "I was here for the quake crisis, No Man's Land. And I worked at the Park Row Clinic during the gang war. It got pretty ugly. Uglier than this."
"Must've, if this doesn't bother you." The vigilante stood.
"Wait..." Dora's throat was suddenly very dry. She swallowed, and amazingly her heart seemed to settle back into its rightful place in her chest. "What's your name?" Then she realized what she was asking. "What should I call you?"
"Red Hood."
"Red Hood?" Dora repeated. Strange name, but it suited him. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had heard it before.
"Yep," he said, tapping his faceless red mask... helmet... thing. "So where's Monty?"
Dora froze at the mention of her father's name. "You know him?"
"I know who he is."
She swallowed a lump in her throat. "He's... dead."
Though it was minuscule, Dora noticed Red Hood falter—something changed about the way he held his shoulders.
"Who's in charge of the Alibi, then?" He jabbed his thumb over at the backdoor of the bar.
"Me. His daughter."
"You? Really?"
"Yeah, me." Dora was almost offended by his reaction. Looking at her, it probably wasn't obvious at first glance but was it really so hard to believe her father was white?
"Didn't you just say you were a nurse or something?"
"I was in nursing school while I worked at the clinic, but dropped out to run the Alibi when my dad was murdered." Her eyes flickered to Sergei's dead body. "Long story."
"Make it short, then. Who killed him?"
"Black Mask. These guys helped him." She gestured at the unconscious men splayed around the alley.
"Didn't know Black Mask made house calls."
"It was just after the gang war ended. He had just taken over the Odessa Mob, and he wanted to see their... rackets for himself. He made an example of my father for the rest of the businesses on the block. Pay protection or die."
Red Hood actually seemed caught off guard. He hesitated a moment, fingering the chin of his mask. "What was Black Mask's cut?"
"A third, but Sergei and his boys rounded up to an even half to fill their own pockets. Why does it matter?"
"It matters because from now on you pay protection to me."
Did she hear that right? "What?"
"I said you owe me protection money now," Red Hood said, deadpan. "Fifteen percent, by next week."
Dora's jaw hung open. Was he serious? What kind of vigilante was he? Batman and his crew never asked for compensation for saving people's lives... they just did it. Why, no one knew, but nonetheless they were the guardians of Gotham—with varying degrees of success.
Red Hood seemed to have read her mind. "Oh, you thought I was some sort of hero or something? Sorry, I don't work pro bono. Don't worry, the money's going to a good place."
This vigilante wasn't part of Batman's crew, she remembered him saying. He worked for himself. He had just saved her and her friend's lives from a bunch of thugs... and hadn't hesitated to kill one of them. No... execute was a better word. But he was only asking for fifteen percent off her books, so he wasn't as bad as Black Mask, or even Kosov before him...
And he had in fact protected her. Actually protected her and her friends from men intent on hurting them. So was that even a racket? The money going to a good place was an obvious lie, but did it matter?
Dora knew she didn't really have a choice. After Black Mask learned about what happened to Sergei and his boys, she would need this guy watching her back. Cops seemed to be the least of this Red Hood guy's worries, and she didn't have a Bat-signal handy to sic Batman and his crew on him.
"Okay," Dora finally said, trying to project confidence.
"Good," said Red Hood.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Faster than she could blink, he had drawn his gun and shot Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi each in the head. They were unconscious before, but there was no doubt they were dead now.
"What are you doing! They were already down and out!" Dora cried, recoiling but finding her back to a wall.
"What? You're going to start feeling sorry for them now? After they tried to rape you and your friends? Come on, I'm just making sure they don't bother you, or anyone else, ever again."
"You didn't have to do that!"
"I most certainly did," Red Hood said. "I have to send a message, make an example of these guys. Do me a favor and look away, will you?" He holstered the gun inside his jacket and drew his knife—a long Ka-Bar with a serrated edge. Dora recognized it because it was standard issue for the Marines; her father had owned a few.
"What for—Oh my god! No!"
But Dora didn't look away. She watched Red Hood stab his knife into Sergei's neck and slice away the flesh. The knife must've been razer sharp, because in seconds, he had cut through the esophagus, trachea, and arteries, and reached the spine. He wedged the serrated edge between the vertebrae and twisted—SNAP! The head separated from the body completely.
Dora sat there, slack jawed, as Red Hood rifled through some trash bins, the blood draining out of Sergei's severed head until he found a plastic bag and stuffed it inside. "Now's probably a good time to call the cops," he said.
"You want me to what?" Dora asked, still incredulous at what she was seeing.
"I said call the cops. Tell them what happened here."
"You want me to tell them you killed all these guys?"
"Yeah, that shouldn't be too hard, right? You seem like an honest girl," Red Hood said, climbing onto a fire escape ladder, toting the bag holding Sergei's severed head. "And tell anyone who'll listen that Park Row and this whole neighborhood belong to me now. And if anyone tries to get in my way, they'll end up like this asshole and his buddies here." He stopped climbing for a moment to look back at her. "See you around... Dora."
Dora pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose to get a better look at him, but in the second it took her eyes to refocus, Red Hood was already gone.
Notes
Version 41.1
Song Reference: "The Red" by Chevelle