I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City.
This story is for entertainment purposes, so please read and be entertained.
In the darkness of coming back to consciousness, Batman heard the sound of women crying. He also felt an aching along his back, the backs of his arms and legs, and the back of his head. The smell of damp blacktop and cheap perfume hung over him.
So, he was lying on a damp road, surrounded by women. He'd likely fallen there. That was not enough information.
Batman didn't move. He couldn't appear alive yet. Before he drew attention to himself, he needed to piece together what had happened. How had he gotten here?
. . .
During the last month, members of Gotham City crime organizations had become a greater presence in the Red Light District. Mob gunman had begun spending entire nights outside its bars, clubs, apartments, etc. They stood on its street corners and in its alleys.
Their hands were always near or in pockets. Their eyes scanned the tops of buildings. They never attempted to gain the attention of the locals. Overhearing bets on who'd get the job done confirmed his conclusion. He was their target.
The response of residents of the Red Light District had been interesting. They always approached such men, even offered services for free. The men would disappear with these women. They usually didn't reappear before Batman left as the sky turned gray.
More overheard conversations revealed the men's guns were gone or empty when they left. If The Dark Knight had faith in his fellow human beings, he would've believed the prostitutes were protecting him. As things were, he allowed it was a possibility. Batman began to remember what had occurred this night.
One gunman had tired of waiting. The member of the South Side Cartel was infamous for his aim. When he threatened others, Batman disarmed the killer from the darkness before approaching him.
The mobster had worn a cold, wide grin the first few nights he'd loitered in The Red Light District. The most distracting natives had attached themselves to him every night. At first the gunman had enjoyed it. Then his grin had become a scowl. He had noticed the pattern of his guns and bullets disappearing after these encounters. That night he'd exploded.
He'd smiled at her when she'd approached. He'd continued smiling, and leaning against the brick wall as she'd leaned into him. When she had raised her mouth to whisper in his ear, he had wrapped his left arm around her waist, and drawn her closer. Then he had tightened his hold.
He'd squeezed out her breath. She'd gasped. Then she laughingly asked him to "ease up." He didn't answer. Instead he'd begun to march into the street, dragging her with him.
She'd started asking him what he was doing. He hadn't answered, hadn't even looked at her. He just strode on. His gaze was fixed on a particular spot in the street.
She'd clawed at his arm, trying to pull it loose. He'd only squeezed harder. She'd begun screaming. Everyone in earshot had turned to stare. Her captor became the only one not looking at her.
Maintaining his silence, the mobster had dragged her out to a spot visible from Batman's favorite vantage point in the area. Then the gunman drew out a revolver. The killer had pressed the end of its cold muzzle to his distraction's pretty temple. Then he'd shouted so loud his hostage winced. The Dark Knight had been able to understand every word.
"GET OUT HERE BAT! OR I SWEAR I'LL BLOW HER HEAD OFF!
A batarang would have jostled the hand, causing it to squeeze the trigger. A sneak attack would have done the same. A smoke pellet would cause the mobster to retaliate against his hostage. Any startled movement could pull the trigger. A life not his own would have been snuffed out. It had not been guaranteed she would live if he did as the gunman asked. It was clear she would not if he did nothing. The South Side Cartel carried out their threats. That was their business strategy.
As The Dark Knight had considered these things, the gunman had started counting. He hadn't even said what number he was counting to. Batman shot his grappling gun at a building across the street the killer and his hostage stood on. Then he had swung down.
Alfred and Lucius will blame themselves. Leslie is going to tell them "I told you so," because she won't be able to say it to me. They need to get out before my mask is removed.
The mobster had reached "nine" when the glow of a streetlamp illuminated his target. Batman remembered the light blinding him, the sound of a gunshot, and a corresponding pain radiating through his chest. He didn't remember letting go of his grappling gun. He didn't remember falling or landing. He must have blacked out from the shock of the bullet hit.
The first shot shouldn't have been fatal. The gun had been a few yards away, and he'd been wearing his body armor. But the mobster should have taken the opportunity to make sure.
Batman took a slow, deep breath. He winced. He was definitely alive. The bullet in the armor had left a bruise in his chest.
The gunman might have shot him there again at closer quarters after the initial shot, but maybe not. Either way, the flesh didn't feel pierced. His back, along with the backs of his arms legs, and head felt bruised, but not broken. That was to be expected after dropping onto tarmac from five to six feet above it, even with the suit. Actually, the armor had performed remarkably well. He needed to congratulate Lucius if he saw him again.
He felt no head wound at all. No bullet was lodged in his brain. Even his mask was still in place. All these facts were unexpected reliefs. Unless his attacker had realized he wasn't dead, and wanted it that way.
Another business strategy of the South Side Cartel was making examples, usually utilizing pain and humiliation. The bodies of their less important enemies were commonly found naked, bruised, broken, and bullet riddled. They showed less mercy to their more important enemies. Perhaps his shooter and others were waiting for him to awake before starting.
He listened harder. There were the sounds of a Gotham night near the bay area, car and boat horns mostly. They were barely discernible over the crying he'd awoken to. That was all audibly discernible. He opened his eyes. Their coverings in his mask would keep this unnoticed.
The former hostage was kneeling over him. Her cheeks were flushed to a painfully deep crimson, and not just from her unnecessarily thick blush. Two black rivers were running through the channels of her face. Her eyelashes were soaked. She could have been sobbing uncontrollably as long as he'd been out. Was she crying because she thought him already dead, or because he was as good as dead?
She seemed unharmed. There had to be a dark bruise along her bare waist he couldn't see from this angle. That would heal if she lived long enough.
She was alive at least. He couldn't have been sure she would be. Giving in to the gunman's demands had guaranteed nothing. It still didn't. Where was their attacker?
Then he realized she couldn't possibly be the cause of all the noise he was hearing. He was surrounded by many distinct sobs, from nearly hysterically high-pitched, to deep, but still feminine gutturals. Various types of sniffs were joining the symphony as well. Seeing the forms to go with the other voices couldn't be accomplished without turning his head. He wasn't ready to do that, yet.
For a few moments he tried to see out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing was visible but his mask. Fixing that was a priority if he got back to the cave.
The realization he had to trust someone crashed over him. Irritation burned in his gut. He stopped himself from tightening his jaw, or clenching his hands into fists.
He allowed himself to rely on his trusted circle when he must. He hated it. It meant they were connected to him, and his less than legal activities. If The Batman was unmasked, their connections to him would almost certainly be. It bothered him, but it couldn't be helped.
Alfred knew almost all of it. He'd been there with him, or had been checking in on him, throughout almost all of it. Lucius' mind was an important resource. It also made him nearly impossible to fool. Leslie had figured it out. He should have known she would. At least she wouldn't be shocked if Alfred ever had to call her in for a medical emergency.
At this moment, what irked Batman the most was how much he needed them right now. His goal was to become less, not more dependent upon them. The second thing that irked him right then was none of them were present.
That satisfied more than irked him really. Their geographical distance gave them a chance to escape whatever happened to him. Ensuring he escaped his enemies' plans now, though, required gaining assistance from someone.
His only option was nearby. She was crying over what she may be assuming was his corpse. That was somewhat reassuring. Still, he found himself wishing she was the first woman he'd rescued here.
She could have taken advantage of his kindness that night. She'd insinuated so to him. But she hadn't. That was reliable evidence you could trust someone. This woman would have to do though.
She was a girl really. Her age was most certainly under eighteen years. That bothered him in more than one way.
He moved his hand, just a degree, and touched her right knee. As he'd feared, she started at the touch. Her sobs stopped. Her eyes flew open and riveted on his face. The crying sounds around them lessened. Her reaction had not gone unnoticed.
He froze. For about thirty seconds nothing happened. Then he spoke without moving any part of him unnecessary to utter the words.
"Are any of the gunmen within seeing or shooting distance?"
The girl crouched over him didn't speak. She hadn't moved since he touched her. Her eyes remained as wide as quarters. They didn't blink.
Another voice answered, though, in a whisper. He appreciated that. It came from above his head and a little to his right. The words hissed out and nearly ran together.
"Not now! But he'll be back with the entire operation soon!"
If the feminine voice was telling the truth, the situation was better than he'd dared hoped. She might not be. He needed to move fast to take advantage of the potential opportunity. It seemed the most logical thing to do.
He raised himself up on his elbows, sat up, and drew his legs beneath him. It hurt, but not unbearably. He didn't even wince. A weakness shouldn't be exposed to any but the most trusted. All others could be shown only the unchanging mask.
The women crowded around him drew back, like a ripple in a wine glass. As he rose to his feet, he took in his surroundings. He was surprised at the sheer number of the onlookers. There were at least fifty of them. They seemed to range in age from younger than sixteen to pushing sixty. Every woman who lived in the neighborhood seemed to be gathered there. If he had allowed himself to dwell on that, he might have been flattered, but most likely not. Batman didn't gain pleasure from popularity.
At the moment, what mattered most to him was that there were indeed no other men, let alone gunmen, in sight. No one had taken another shot at him. He saw and heard no one drawing or aiming a weapon. He began to locate the best escape route. Before he did, one woman spoke.
"How?"
He paused. He thought about telling them the truth, for three seconds. No, that wasn't necessary. If even one, intentionally or unintentionally, repeated it in the hearing of an enemy, or in the hearing of someone who would, it would do his mission damage. Once an enemy knew what wouldn't kill you, they put their efforts into more effective measures. He kept his answer brief and unclear, but not misleading.
"Trade secret."
He shot his line onto the roof of his watch spot. Before he could make it draw him up, the woman spoke again. He turned to her. It was the woman he'd first rescued here.
"Will you be all right?"
Her face was a mask, much like his own. The voice was masked to, expressionless and direct. He glanced at her. Then he swept his gaze over the other tear stained faces.
"Don't waste any more tears on me tonight."
He pushed the retracting button on his grappling hook. Then, like a real bat, he flew off into the shadows. The crowd of women followed his ascent until the darkness hid him.
. . .
He went to a different vantage point. There the darkness could make him invisible to eyes beneath or around it. The structure couldn't be scaled without climbing gear. It was not as near all the hot spots of trouble in the area as the place he'd been before, but it was near enough to the place he'd been. He could see it clearly through his binoculars.
He watched through them as a group of men approached the place he'd been laid out five minutes and forty seconds ago. The area was otherwise empty now. The women had dispersed, and rushed to their apartments. Likely they'd locked their doors behind them.
If any of the men tried to break in, to shake them down for information, he would have to interfere. He would not show himself again that night if they didn't. As the woman had said earlier, it looked like the entire South Side Cartel had come. Until his absence became clear, his shooter had strode out before the rest of the crowd. The gunman stopped cold when he saw the bare place he'd left his victim's body.
The man to the shooter's right turned on him. The Dark Knight recognized him from the scar along his right cheek. He was the second highest ranking member of the South Side Cartel. The cheek beneath the scar turned purple as the man continued to scream at the shooter. Batman could not quite make out his words as they came over the night air. Then the Scar-Cheeked leader gestured for the men to spread out.
They were going to search for him, likely among the women. There were no police in the area. The possibility of them interfering if they had been was almost nonexistent. What was likely was that locks on the doors of the Red Light District would be inferior.
Distance mattered more than accuracy. That was good. The distance was over two-hundred feet. He aimed over their heads, and let a batarang fly. Before the designated searchers had more than taken a few steps out of the crowd, they heard a familiar, whirring sound. They glanced up in time to see the street lights flash off a missile flying over their heads.
The entire crowd ducked. They needn't have. The missile flew five feet above the heads of the tallest among them. It hit a brick wall and stuck.
The Scar-Cheeked man clenched his jaw as he stared at the bat-shaped piece of black metal. Light flashed over its razor edges. The mob boss turned.
There was a barely discernible outline against the smog-filled sky atop a building over two hundred feet away. It was a familiar, hated shape. The moment he saw it, the figure turned and disappeared. There was no use searching for the vigilante then.
He punched the incompetent in the jaw and gut before demoting him. The man was too good, usually, to get rid of permanently. This would make him more careful next time. No more staking out this place though. It was a waste of man and gun power. If they didn't get so much protection money from it, he'd have burned it to the ground!
. . .
That night a rumor spread The Bat was immortal. It was not believed by the majority of Gotham's citizens for long, but it didn't quite die out for nearly two decades.
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