"Come on, pal. Hand it over. All of it."

The two-bit thug stood, his shoulders hunched as he held the switchblade mere inches away from the suited man standing before him, sweat drenching his brow and his white dress shirt. To his side, a woman was shuddering behind him, hoping he would make a wise move—and not a stupid one.

"I-I only have a little bit of money, I swear," the man murmured, reaching for his wallet.

The thug held out his empty left hand. "Just the wallet. You pull a gun out, you're as good as dead. Your lady friend here, too."

The woman bit her lip as her eyes flicked from man to man, holding tight to her purse. She knew it would be her turn to give up her valuables next.

Her companion shakily withdrew his wallet, passing it to the thief. The scruffy man snatched it away, lightly tipping it open to get a look inside. Layers of green bills caused him to smirk and chuckle. "Man, a little to you could make another fella rich." He sniggered again before nodding to the woman. "All right, sweetheart, your turn. Hand over the purse."

The woman breathed heavily, sweat and tears mixing to cause her makeup to run. She glanced to the man, who gestured to the thief. His eyes seemed to say, Go on, hand it over! No, in fact they screamed it.

Her brow knit in fury that he wouldn't even stand up to the punk. But, on a second thought, could she really blame him? He wasn't armed, so it'd just be a death wish to go up against a guy that's not just bigger than him, but also packing a knife. So she let her anger go, and the purse, passing it to the armed thief.

He snatched it from her, rummaging through the contents. He grabbed her own wallet out and tossed the purse to the dirty ground of the back alley, stuffing both wallets into his jacket pocket. "You two are a real joy for someone like myself. Always willing to offer a helping hand to a guy in need." He offered a mock salute before turning tail. "Appreciate it."

He took off down the alley, without as much as a second glance at the pair he had just robbed.

The thief kept on running until he came to a stop, his sprint slowing to a jog. He let a chuckle escape his lips as he fished around in his back pocket, bringing out his own wallet, before withdrawing the two he had stolen.

"Another night, another job pulled. I'm getting pretty good at this," the very immodest thief complimented himself. He exchanged the bills from the two confiscated wallets into his own, so intent on his larceny that he failed to notice the tall, lanky figure approaching behind him.

As the man whistled a tune to himself, he dumped both empty wallets into a nearby trash bin and stuffed his own back into its proper place before a cool, southern-accented voice cut the still air. "No sudden moves, partner. You reach for anything, you'll have a slug square through your back."

The thief started to whirl before he heard the cli-clack of a gun cocking. "You're pushing me, mister. If you finish your little twirl-about, you're gonna be dropping to this smelly turf faster than you ever have before. Don't reckon you'll be in much of a hurry to get back up."

Now, it was the robber's turn to sweat. He had never be on the other end of a stick-up, and he had never even been on the thief's end of a robbery involving a gun. He didn't much like guns; bullets traced back too well, and were a lot noisier than simple knife. Not that he'd ever killed anyone, but if the situation ever arose—

"Reach those hands up high." The thief obliged, his hands straight up, stiff as a stick. "Don't move till I tell you to."

Footsteps plodded along the asphalt of the back alleyway as the mysterious figure stepped forward. "Your knife. Where is it?"

How's this guy know I've gotta knife? "Right pants pocket. Blade's not out." A thin hand patted his pocket, and out came the knife. Never heard of a knife thief before.

"Turn around. Slowly."

The thief did so, and ventured enough to lower his hands. No objections came, so he let his arms drop to his sides as he got a look at his robber. The man had dark hair—might've been black, it was too dark to tell. His skin looked frightfully pale, and he was tall and very thin. Looked starved. His skin was stretched tight over his skull, and his gray eyes rested in sunken sockets. It looked like the man hadn't eaten or slept in weeks—maybe even months, or more.

If the appearance of the man was at all unnerving, his outfit was unusual. He wore dark blue jeans and a brown buckskin jacket, and a dark Stetson hat adorned his head, covering his short-cut hair. At his belt was a holster—looked like something out of a Western. And the gun that belonged there was in the man's hand, pointed directly at the thief's gut.

"What are you?" the thief asked. He hoped he wasn't too offensive.

Apparently he wasn't, as the man answered a question altogether not what the thief had asked. "Name's Darby. That's all you need to know."

The man pocketed the knife, then gestured with his Smith & Wesson revolver. "Hand over that wallet," he demanded in that thick, southern drawl.

Now we come to the robbery, the thief thought as he withdrew his wallet and passed it over. Darby took it, and thumbed through the bills. "I'm sure they'll be able to sort their cash out. Split the rest." Before the thief could question Darby, the tall man shifted over to the trashcan, digging out the two wallets the thief had disposed of there.

"How did you—?" the thief started, but Darby cut him off.

"I saw you ripping of that couple in the alleyway. Bad way to cap off a pricy date."

"What are you, some kinda stalker?"

"No. You might say I'm a lawman of sorts."

"Shoulda known. Cops." He said the last word with a venomous tone.

"Not anymore. Haven't been a cop since I left Atlantic City. Organized law enforcement's a bit too gentle for my tastes."

The way Darby spoke in such a cool way while discussing such things—it made even the thief's stomach crawl. "Too gentle? What, you think all crooks oughta be killed or something?"

"Not crooks, pal. Killers. The kind of people who murder others just for the thrill, to get their kicks. The kind who deserve to die, for stealing the life of others."

"Then you got the wrong kind of guy, man. I just steal—I don't kill. Never have."

A sarcastic grin cut across Darby's face, revealing bright teeth. They didn't seem to fit in with the whole starved, unhealthy look, but it was a start at least. "Aw, aren't you the model citizen. Look, I said murderers don't deserve to live—I didn't say everyone else was clean. You still robbed those two, and they deserve to get their money back."

The thief threw out his arms. "What are you gonna do to me then, huh? Box me up until I'm blue in the face? Call the cops? I'm sure they don't appreciate some vigilante cleaning up Gotham doing their job. You know that the Bat's off the radar, don't ya? GCPD pigs probably blew out his brains 'cuz he was cutting in on their territory. Y'know, if you ask me, I think—"

The thief's ramblings were cut off by a left hook cracking across his jaw, sending him stumbling over onto his side, catching himself with his left hand. Bad move—it skinned the flesh off of his palm, and blood started to leak out onto the cement.

"If I was looking for conversation, I wouldn't have picked you, pal." Darby holstered his gun and pocketed the wallets, gripping the thief by his collar with both hands. He hoisted the man up onto his feet. Well, more like off of them—they were dangling below, trying to find solid ground. "Gotham's a city as rotten as they come, and that's why I'm here. I've seen some pretty rough stuff in my time, and I've made it my mission to put an end to senseless killings, and Gotham seems to be as good a place as any to come to in that matter. Better than most, actually."

Darby swung the man around, slamming his back up against the brick wall. "Your first suggestion, beat you up till your blue, isn't half-bad, but I've got better things to do than tan your hide." He mustered up all the strength in his arms and threw the pathetic mugger onto the ground, and he skidded across the asphalt with a grunt of pain.

The tall, lanky, self-proclaimed lawman huffed a breath as he pointed at the thief. "Take a word of advice: get a respectable job and earn an honest living." Darby reached into his pocket and withdrew the man's knife and wallet. He tossed the knife into the garbage bin, and after he withdrew all the cash and whatever cards belonged to the robbed couple from the thief's wallet, he tossed it in too. As he stuffed the cash into his pocket, he tipped his hat with an air of southern charm before he turned and stomped off down the alley.

Once he had disappeared from view, the thief got to his feet and went to the trash bin. He withdrew his wallet and looked inside, expecting it to be picked dry. He was a bit surprised, though, to see a twenty dollar bill sitting inside. He glanced up, his bruised and bloodied face twisted in confusion at the man's actions. Surely he hadn't missed the twenty—was it some show of good will? The thief stuffed the wallet into his pocket and eyed his knife, then reached for it.

Halfway there, he paused and stared at his frozen hand and the glinting knife before he made his decision. Withdrawing his hand from the can, the man turned, stuffed his empty hands into his pockets, and made his way down the dark and lonely alley.

He gave his name as Darby, but that was just his surname. His full name was Clyde August Darby, but he mostly went by either just Cly around those he considered friends, or Darby to those who either weren't friends or were merely business acquaintances.

Cly moved at a brisk pace. Not too fast to appear out of the ordinary, but not so slow as to attract any unwanted attention from a mugger. Sure, he had handled the two-bit punk who robbed the couple with ease, but that was because he caught him off-edge and kind of scared him. Truth be told, Cly wasn't too thrilled about fighting hand-to-hand. He'd rather fight from a distance, taking shots with either his Smith & Wesson or his Glock.

He might've come off a bit harsh to the thief, but it was his personality—on business. And his business was just what he said: hunting down killers and bringing them to justice, before their Maker.

It all began when Cly was nine years old. He grew up in Atlantic City, living a pleasant life with his older brothers Joseph and Darren, his younger sister Amelia, and his parents. His father was a traveling salesman, and whenever he was around, he was a loving, cheerful dad. His mom was a witty woman, and his childhood was an idyllic life that resembled the picture-perfect life of peace everyone desired.

Until, of course, he was nine.

Clyde, Joseph, Darren, and Amelia were all playing hide and seek—one of their favorite pastimes. Clyde was it, and he was searching for his siblings when he pulled back the brush and found a startling, nightmarish scene: a woman's corpse, already smelling and rotting away. The worst thing wasn't the mottled skin of the dead woman, or even the torn threat clotted with blood. It was the eyes—those cold, emotionless orbs, staring deep into Clyde's soul. He could almost read the pleas for rescue from whatever horror had killed her.

From that moment on, Cly was a changed boy. He had grown up in an innocent world, where the worst of crimes was relegated only to fictional TV shows. No such dark crimes were common knowledge to him, and it ruined his life, putting it bluntly. Such a grotesque revelation caused dark thoughts to churn in Cly's mind. Not that they were seeking something wrong: he wanted retribution for the lives of innocents who were murdered while on the precipice of life. But it wasn't right for one to fantasize of hunting down any human being and slaughtering them, even if they were a killer.

The first such fantasy came when woman's killer himself was apprehended. The woman, Lilah Martin, was a twenty-something year old who was abducted and murdered by a serial killer operating in the area. He stowed her corpse in the lakeside park where Cly generally played with his siblings, and that led to Cly's discovery of her. He began to dream of himself older, packing a gun and finding the killer before he could take another victim's life. Killing him with as much heartless, cold emotion as he had killed Lilah and the others.

He knew it was wrong initially, and what hurt him worse was his change in attitude. He yelled at his mother, his sister, and his brothers, angry at the world for its emptiness and decay. It bothered him, because he knew they weren't responsible. All the same, he still did it.

When he was old enough, Cly enrolled in the police academy and became a cop. He was a crack shot, having practiced with pistols and rifles throughout his teenage years. He was ready to finally have a shot—literally—at a killer.

But the time never came. Either pure coincidence or some divine intervention disbarred Cly from ever encountering a killer. Most would've been glad to have such a fate, but not one who had a desire to put down so many barbaric killers. Disgusted at the police force's desire to go about enforcing the law in a manner they deemed justified, Cly hung up his badge and packed up his guns—both his standard-issue Glock and his personal Smith & Wesson revolver—and hitchhiked across America.

He dreamt of finding his own personal Wild West, where he could hitch up his six-shooter and adorn his hat, finding and stopping as many killers as he could. He went out of his way to go to towns facing such an epidemic, but he never could fulfill his vocation. As he entered his thirties, Cly was a broken, bitter man—he had not fulfilled his life's wish, to kill a single dirty, rotten murderer.

Cly eventually stole a tan sedan from a rental service and booked it across America, his hopes drawing to a close. He made a resolution to find and kill his first murderer before he turned thirty-five. If not, then he'd end it all.

When he turned thirty-four, Cly was torn to shreds. He felt worthless and useless; he still hadn't completed his mission. In a lonely motel room, Cly drew his revolver and nearly blew his brains out . . . until he caught wind of a news broadcast about a man dressed as a bat in a city called Gotham, capturing bad guys the police weren't able to nab. Beating them to a pulp and bringing justice to such a lawless city.

Cly's vanity, a trait he had possessed since his turn in personality, flared up. "The Batman can capture all the crooks he wants, but I'll one-up him. I've got a mission, and I'm gonna do what the Bat's afraid to. I'm gonna find a murderer and end 'em."

So it was decided, and here he was. Cly, at thirty-four years old, was new to Gotham, and he was already liking it. Already in his few weeks there he had done better than he had in most other towns or cities he had frequented in his checkered past. All the killers on the loose would bring Cly to his mission's close—they just had to.

Cly continued walking down the alleys. He had seen the young woman comforting her date after they had been robbed, right before he took off after the perpetrator. He knew they were in this area, so he'd find them and do the right thing. After all, southern charm had its requirements.

Cly walked, his boots plodding on the cement until he heard soft voices. "Look, Jack, it's okay—I've told you that time after time."

"I know, Clarissa, but I just can't feel as if I should've done more to stop him. If I'd have just went for his knife, then I might've—"

"You might've wound up dead is what you might've had, partner." Cly laid his southern accent on extra thick. Not that it was all for show, but he just made it more evident where his roots were. Made a good impression the first time around. As mentioned, he does possess a modest amount of vanity.

"If you went for that slicer's blade, he might've killed you." The thought made Cly consider his mission would've been completed tonight, but he pushed it aside. His main goal was to protect the lives of innocents; it just got muddled a bit by the whole vocation he was pursuing. "Your girlfriend's right; you did what was right."

"How do you know?" the man asked, his sweat subsiding as he made a show of might. The woman rolled her eyes.

"I saw it going down, from the end of the alley."

"You saw it?! Why didn't you help, or call the cops?" He eyed Cly's gun. "You've obviously got the means to stop him."

"Just keep your shirt on, pal, and let a fella finish talking." Cly reached into his pocket, and withdrew the two wallets. "Your stolen goods, plus a little extra." He tossed the man his wallet and carefully placed the woman's in her outstretched hand. With a dip of his hat's brim, a wink, and the southern kindness, he added, "Ma'am."

The woman gave a sheepish grin and a modest "thank you" as she returned her wallet to her purse. The man caught sight of this and looked from her to Cly before he flicked open his wallet. "There's no money in here," he demanded, and Cly raised a hand.

"Calm down, man." He withdrew the wad of cash from his pocket, as well as the cards. "It's a little too late for me to do the work here. You two can sort it out I trust." As he placed the money and cards in the man's hand, and looked him in the eye. "Next time you're taking this little lady on a date, I suggest not taking the back alleys. And if you ever are crossed by a punk with a knife, don't face him—okay?"

Slightly annoyed, the man nodded. "Okay." He finally smiled and offered his hand, and Cly took it. "Thanks. I really mean it."

Cly returned the smile. "Don't mention it." Looking to the woman, he nodded back and tugged on his hat again. "G'night, miss."

He turned and walked away, a day's work done. A criminal stopped and a good deed done. But no killer. Not yet, anyway. Cly sighed, glancing down the street before he turned to the left. He moved along and looked over his shoulder. When he turned back, there was a man standing before him, about eight feet away. The man was big—not just tall, but he had quite a belly too.

Cly eyed the man warily. He hadn't been there a moment before, Cly was sure of that. What's going on here?

Slowly, Cly stepped forward cautiously. The big man reached to his mouth and puffed on a cigar, the smoke twisting and curling over his head, filling the dark street with a foglike smoke. He cleared his throat before speaking in a deep, husky voice. "Clyde Darby?"

Cly stopped cold. His hand wavered over his Smith & Wesson, uncertain of what lie before him. Who was this guy? "Yeah. I'm Clyde Darby." All hints of the southern friendliness he had shown the robbed couple was out the friend. It was all stone-cold business now.

The man sucked in a breath of fresh air as he flicked his cigar butt on the asphalt, grinding it out with the heel of his shoe. He crossed his arms across his broad chest, resting them on his likewise broad gut. "I thought so. The name's Harvey Bullock, detective of the GCPD. Commissioner Gordon sent me to find you."

Cly took a careful look at the big man, trying to place him. He had been to the GCPD precinct a couple of times, where he had met Gordon. He was a good man, one of the last shining spots in Gotham's police force. But, like most cops, Cly felt that he was too lenient and gentle with certain criminals. He had secretly wished he was in Gordon's shoes, but there was no chance of that happening. He did slightly recognize Bullock, having spotted him at a desk in the department. The man didn't go out much for impressive looks, that much was for sure—his face sported a week's beard growth on his face, and his hair was unkempt beneath his gray hat. His tie wasn't on straight, and his shirt collar was loosened. It looked like he just threw his clothes on once he woke up.

He might have.

"What's Gordon after me for?" Cly asked. He hadn't done anything jail-worthy—unless somehow the stolen rental car had somehow been traced back to him.

Bullock quickly tampered Cly's fears. "Gordon did some digging in your past. Knows that you quit being a cop because you felt the law was too weak when handling killers." A grin split his uneven lips. "He felt you'd be a good fit for this little club he's putting together."

Cly smirked. "Look, I appreciate the commissioner's interest in inviting me to his little club, but I'm not necessarily the club type."

"Not a traditional club, pal. Some type of 'movement,' he called it. Government-funded. It's made to handle the crime families of Gotham."

Now that was what Cly liked to hear. "Crime families—like Falcone?" Bullock nodded a confirmation. Cly's interest was piqued. "Did he have some meeting planned? I might be interested."

Bullock's grin didn't fade. "We thought you might be. Yeah, all the big-wigs have a meeting set up at GCPD HQ tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Just come in the front doors and tell the desk officer that you came for the government operation."

Cly nodded as Bullock reached in his pocket and forked out a toothpick, which he used to prod around his teeth with. "Well, that's about it. The commissioner just wanted you to know about the invite." With that goodbye, Bullock turned tail and strode into the night, stopping near a dark car parked on the roadway. Bullock climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door as the car peeled off.

Cly watched the car leave before turning and continuing down the street. Could it be that he might finally fulfill his vendetta, after twenty-five years? He might finally find and kill his first murderer? Surely he'd come up against some Falcone thug who had killed before and would put him down.

The grin at the prospect of finally fulfilling his wish never left Cly's face the whole time he made his way down the street to the alley where his tan sedan rested. As Cly ducked inside and laid down for his night's rest, he had, for the first time in a good while, hope that he might finally succeed at his life's goal.

Dan Watts stumbled along down the side road near the Gotham Docks. The alcohol had already caused him enough trouble, and now he couldn't even walk straight. His wife had booted him from the house, claimed he was making life difficult for her and their kids—but could he really blame her? He felt that he was even making his own life difficult.

After walking for what seemed like the whole day, Dan dropped onto his backside on the bench overlooking Gotham's piers, where ships were moored for the night. Sounds of men unloading shipments of goods, their yells and laughter filling the air, disrupted the peaceful backdrop of the water sloshing in the great body before him.

Grunting, Dan pulled the bottle from his pocket and examined the label. He reached for the cork to pull it free before he decided against it. He'd already had enough, and where had it gotten him? He was drinking in hopes of delivering himself from the poor state of mind he was in after he was fired, but look where he had elevated himself to.

No, no, no. Not anymore. I've done drank myself in a deep hole—deeper than I ever wanted. Dan looked at the swishing waters and decided his objective. He tipped the bottle back and flung it far into the churning waters and listened to the splunk it made as it clapped against the waves. He'd sleep off what he'd drank that night and go to his brother's place, wash up to be presentable. Then he'd go back home and swear off drinking to his wife, make it up to her and the kids.

Yeah. That's what he'd to. Swear off the booze, turn his life around. Go out and find a job. He wanted to become something his kids could be proud of. A dad working for his family so they could have the things he only could dream of when he was in their place.

The very thought caused Dan to smile and swell up inside, his good thoughts echoing inside. Dan slowly curled up on the bench and tucked his jacket around him to be snug and warm. "Tomorrow. I'll do it all tomorrow."

Then a rattling noise down the street caused Dan to open one eye, then the other. He heard something leathery padding down the road, and in curiosity he sat up, glancing down the street. There was some fluttering noise, but in the street . . . nothing.

Dan scratched his tousled graying hair, puzzled. He then thought of the fluttering noise. It sounded like . . . wings of some kind. Slowly, wondering if he could've possibly heard what he thought he did, Dan lifted his gaze up into the sky. Then he saw it.

Perched on the lamppost above him, gazing down with two thin, yellow, slits of eyes. They were feral in appearance, tufts of air sprouting from each like eyebrows. The skin was leathery, and two large ears burst from each side of the thing's head. From the mouth ejected long, sharp fangs.

And from the things arms grew two large, fleshy wings. Two horrid, ghastly wings, jutting from the thing's awful, fur-covered torso. The strangest thing that caused the creature to even remotely resemble a human was the pair of torn jeans rising from its ankles up to its waist, but that was it. The feet and hands were both pairs of clawed appendages, gripping tightly to the lamppost beneath the massive thing.

Dan felt vomit rising to his throat. What he saw was so horrifying it had to be the liquor. It just had to. Slowly, shaking, he bent his head down, hoping he could push such nightmarish thoughts from his mind. As he closed his eyes, he heard the fluttering noise again, and then silence.

Willing himself to look back, Dan glanced up, and saw the massive creature was gone. It was no longer on the lamppost. Dan gave a sigh of relief and uttered a silent prayer. "All I need right now is to have a nightmare of some giant monster. That's all I need."

Dan couldn't help but laugh at himself as he laid back down, and then his eyes were filled again. Standing on the other side of the bench was the hulking thing, its yellow eyes staring deep within him again. Dan tried to get up, run or do something, but before he could do so, the creature hissed and screeched loudly, plunging forward, jaws snapping back and fangs glistening in the moonlight as Dan screamed and then—

Silence. Dead silence, aside from the awful gnashing of teeth, and then a flutter of wings.

A/N: Here's Chapter 3! You all are now introduced to our third party member, Clyde Darby. What do you think? You also got to meet a certain bat creature who might not be as much of a hoax as Gotham thinks. . . Leave your thoughts on the new chapter in the reviews! I hope you all enjoyed it, and I'll see you all next time.