Friday, August 7, 2009 – 10:25pm – Ace Chemicals; Gotham City, New Jersey

"You're not going back out there."

The abandoned chemical plant was a much different story than the country club he had just escaped from. The valuable estate had been crawling with police, construction workers, and even a couple of lawyers' assistants at this time of night. Doing any kind of investigating there was laughable.

But there were a handful of other locations practically left untouched, such as here. These locations weren't owned by wealthy businessmen who couldn't afford to let their business sit in ruins long enough for a thorough police investigation.

"Sir! You are injured, with a gunshot injury, mind you! You are in no state to go running around this city outside of a trip to the hospital—"

The police tape was still up, surrounding the crumbled grounds like the weak barrier it was. The dark foundation loomed in front of him, support beams jutting out of the wreckage at odd angles. The air still smelled like sulfur. Dipping underneath the tape, he carefully treaded deeper into the ruins, the pieces of concrete crackling under his boots.

"Get out, Alfred. Lecturing me isn't going to save Gotham."

He just wanted to take a look around for himself. With how much wreckage there was—the chemicals in the plant only adding to the explosion—he doubted he would find anything tangible. If anything, he could at least figure out where the blast started.

"You getting yourself killed isn't going to help Gotham, either!"

Remembering the conversation that happened barely an hour before, he took his surroundings in.

"Alfred, get out before I fire you."

How in the hell did Gordon survive this? How in the hell did he let this happen?

The building had once been huge. Its floor plan still stretched over five city blocks, but its former height of five floors was now condensed to one.

He followed the path rescuers had made to reach the commissioner, the trail of dozens of footprints still untouched. And when he reached the end of the trail, in front of him lay the steel door that shielded him, tossed off to the side like it was unimportant. A small cavern in the rubble was at the base of the large support beam, and upon closer inspection, some of Gordon's blood was still on the rocks of broken cement.

Standing back up, Batman turned, his back to the pillar. Scanning the scene in front of him, his gaze stopped on the clear, large pathway that left rubble piled up to the sides and pillars leaning away from it. As he wandered down the wide path, his thoughts were confirmed by the blackened eastern sides of the pillars.

The further he got in the rubble, the less recognizable the building became. Metal pipes and lockers quickly became just twisted scraps of metal sticking out from the crumbs. Bricks and cinderblocks were mere rocks.

The flat, open area he finally reached as void of rubble. Instead, the ground was black and his boots stirred up dust as he walked. No footprints. The police hadn't investigated the scene yet.

As he had figured, the empty area left no trace of whatever device the bomb had been in. Kneeling, his cape falling around him, he touched his gloved fingers to the dirt at his feet before peering at the pads of his fingers. If he was going to find anything, it would be in this dust.

Reaching for his belt, he detached the empty metal vial. But as soon as he had it securely in his hand, ready to collect a sample, a bullet loudly ricocheted off the ground in front of him. Instantly, his head snapped towards where the bullet was fired from and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of a shadow through the rubble.

Taking off, he darted through the dark like a wraith, his cape snapping behind him as he kept an eye on his footing. Gunshots sounded and bullets landed on either side of him, missing him—or warning him. When a click sounded instead of the noisy echo of a gunshot, the shadow suddenly moved, darting with its own speed through the ruins. As the Bat gained, he noticed that the figure also had something trailing behind it, whipping through the air.

Another click alerted Batman that the shooter had reloaded and he slid off to the side behind a support when the barrel of the gun whipped around to open fire. Around the other side of the pillar, two batarangs flew from his fingers, whistling through the air. And as his shadowed eyes followed their trail, he watched the shooter skip by them, laughing.

It wasn't the Joker.

Batman took off again, flying. He was no longer concerned with the gun. If the shooter wanted to shot him, he wouldn't be missing like he was. The shots were too precise. They alternated sides with every shot, and they always hit something nearby. Now he was just concerned about catching up with him.

The shooter realized this quickly, and both the laughing and gunfire stopped. Instead of running straight, allowing him a clear path to shoot so he didn't have to watch his feet, he was trying to move more through the rubble, ducking underneath fallen floors and beams.

Batman followed without hesitation, ducking underneath the same obstacles. But when he came up past a slanted beam, the gun went off again, and it didn't miss.

The bullet slammed into his good shoulder, knocking him sideways. He tripped and stumbled into a pile of broken concrete. Pain radiated through his right shoulder, running down his arm. Trying to ignore it, he pushed himself up with a grunt. When he was standing again, leaning heavily to the side as he tried not to move his arm, he glanced around. The shooter was gone.

"In all things the mean is praiseworthy, and the extremes neither praiseworthy nor right, but worthy of blame." His voice was suddenly behind him, and as soon as the first syllable was uttered, an arm was suddenly around his throat, yanking him back as the gun pressed into his shoulder.

Batman grimaced, seeing red. His shoulder screamed in protest and his arm went numb. But despite that, the armor was keeping him from being choked. Twisting, he sliced a batarang backwards with his good hand, ready to catch flesh, but the shooter released his grip and stepped backwards, allowing the two men to face each other.

In the dark, he was hard to see clearly, but the obvious distinctions were clear. The trenchcoat, the bandaged, hidden face, the bulletproof vest, the holster harboring one handgun while the other was still aimed at him.

"Who are you?" Batman growled.

"An extreme, Batman. Just like you." And the gun went off again.

The Bat stumbled backward, shocked. He couldn't feel where the bullet had hit, just that his entire midsection had seemingly exploded. Leaning over as he stumbled, he crashed to the ground for the second time, landing on his bad arm and crumpling even more.

It hurt. It all hurt. His body, his mind, his soul.

Shakily, he touched his abdomen, feeling for where it hurt the most. After bringing the glove to his face, the glistening on the black informed him that the armor hadn't done much good.

He should've heard him behind him. He should've known he was there. Stupid and foolish mistakes.

Now that he was adjusting to the sharp bites of fire, he blinked back the haze as much as he could to peer through the dark, half expecting to be staring at the barrel of the gun again. But instead he found himself alone, as much as he could tell anyways. He couldn't investigate any further anyways, he didn't have time.

"Alfred?" he tried, hoping that the faithful butler was still eavesdropping on him after their bitter conversation. Was he ever going to get a big, fat 'I told you so.' That was assuming, of course, that he hadn't walked out on him. "Alfred."

"Yes, Master Wayne?" Indifference. He wasn't on the feeds. Just simple eavesdropping today. He didn't know what had happened.

"Alfred, I'm sorry," Bruce managed in a breath.

"Master Wayne?" Now came the worry. He never did apologize easily. "Wh-?"

"Help," the Bat wheezed, now struggling to get back into a sitting position. Flashbacks of bats and scarecrows and rain flooded his mind, PTSD triggering from the similar circumstances.

"Where are you?"

"Ace Chemicals."

"On my way, sir."

Thinking better of trying to get up, he let himself lay back on the uncomfortable pile of rubble he had stumbled onto. Keeping his hand that still had feeling in it pressed firmly against his abdomen, he took a deep breath and waited.