/GOTHAM GAZETTE/

GANG VIOLENCE BURNS UNCHECKED IN THE BOWERY

KNIGHTLY―Within weeks of Pamela Isley's―aka Poison Ivy―release, sections of the Bowery became a warzone as camps loyal to Isley and those opposed began openly fighting over territory.

Supporters of Isley's Bloodroot Gang rampaged through the streets clashing with rival Bowery gangs Los Muertos, the Parkside Heights Gangsters, and the Five Point Street Disciples with the purpose of swaying illicit market forces in the Bloodroots' favor and to acquire the right to distribute the new drug Hemlock—or just Lock for short.

The Gotham City Police Department's Gang Task Force Unit and SWAT Teams augmented the police forces in that precinct to bring order to the Bowery but after sustaining two causalities, withdrew their units seeking only to contain the violence.

In the wake of the chaos, thirty-two persons—gang-members, bystanders, and police—were found dead and sixty-eight injured. No arrests have been made.

11:53 PM

No more subtlety.

Poison Ivey wasn't going to escape me again like she did at the Mexican restaurant and I wasn't going to waste another moment trying to intercept her at an opportune time. I was going to lay siege to her entire operation. I was going to teardown every hideout, hangout, and safe-house she maintained and until I found her, backed her into corner, and made her beg for mercy.

I calculated that the first place I needed to storm was her mid-town, redbrick condominium. It was situated in the historic district of Reatton, west of Gainsly and north of The Narrows, offering her the most comfort and defensibility—the most likely place for me to find her with a gang war erupting on the streets.

She had spent contemptible amounts of drug-money restoring and upgrading her section of the building. Most notably, building an extension onto the balcony and then enclosing it to form a greenhouse—her own home away from home. I surmised that the greenhouse doubled as an orchard in which she grew many of the illegal substances she distributed. I'd confirm that soon enough.

Something of a new-age naturalist, Poison Ivy installed wood furnishings throughout the flat and had much of the brick in her den replaced with long-windows to introduce more natural lighting.

I was on a face-first collision course with those windows.

As usual, my calculations were correct. Poison Ivy was sitting on her couch in the den with T-Don at her side and with six more goons to keep her company. She was probably paranoid that was coming for her. Ivy plus T-Don plus six goons equaled eight Bloodroots—the paramedics were going to busy tonight.

In my current state-of-mind, numbers meant nothing; eight people made the odds more even. The more Bloodroots I took out in one spot meant less Bloodroots on the streets. Less Bloodroots on the streets meant more time I could devote to other endeavors. With any luck, more of her gang would show up before I crashed the party.

I was doped on adrenaline. My fingers and toes tingled as I glided towards Ivy's condo. The numbness made me feel unstoppable; a dangerous disposition to have. Criminals could be lethal even if I believed they were spineless.

I still had about twenty seconds to fully achieve the mental state that I needed to execute this attack successfully.

As I torpedoed toward Ivy's living room, I emptied my thoughts letting the sound of the air rushing over my cowl center me, when I suddenly had a moment of clarity: I actually leapt from a tower a quarter mile away and was gliding to Poison Ivy's condo—full of murderous criminals—without ever devising a plan of action.

What the hell was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking—not completely, anyway.

By the time I realized that I was going into a fight with a group of Bloodroots without at least taking into account the possibilities, it was too late to even organize a substantial plan. My face was fast-approaching the window pane and taking time out to plan would break the focus I needed to make a successful landing.

Conclusion: I didn't have the time develop a plan, so I didn't have time to worry about it either. Besides, any plan I could have concocted would have been tossed-out the moment the Bloodroots started slinging lead. I chose then to focus on what was important at the moment.

There was a goon—who I labeled number-one —standing at the window at which I was plunging, taking in the Reatton skyline. He stared up at me with a hand on each hip. He could see me but his mind hadn't resolved what I was. A cloud? Smoke? A shadow? Is it moving? No. Couldn't be. Wait...NO!

Seconds before impact, number-one suddenly realized he and all his buddies were going to be leaving on stretchers; his hands came up in front his face, his eyes slammed shut, and his face twisted in terror. I adjusted the angle of my cape, the friction causing me to decelerate. Once I was sure that I had the window made, I lowered my head, collapsed the cape, and...

In an epic crescendo of exploding glass, I plowed through the pane head-first, spearing number one and taking him clear off his feet. His body buckled and wrapped around me like a glove and then flopped down hard when we crashed to the floor; glass rained in a circle about us as we landed.

He cushioned my landing. The force of the impact, however, left him barely conscious.

Like roaches when the lights came on, everyone else in the room scattered to the far corners of the parlor, bulldozing whatever stood in their way: furniture, each other―whatever. Poison Ivy made a break for the greenhouse whilst T-Don escaped through the front door. I knew that they wouldn't stand and fight.

Wait...

Was Ivy wearing a bathing suit?

I would have swore she was.

The adrenaline must have been making me see things.

Number one and I slid across the hardwood floor and up against the back of the couch. Perfect. I wouldn't have to scramble for cover when...

The shooting started.

Criminals were so predictable.

The Bloodroots discharged their weapons in a frenzy. Unable to aim through the panic, they pointed their weapons in my general direction and pulled their triggers relentlessly. Bullets whizzed by, striking everything around me. Lamps exploded, the lights flickered out of existence darkening the room with each bullet. Windows crumbled, inviting cold air to whip through the parlor. An end-table even collapsed, its legs were blown clean off. Already blocked by the couch, I draped myself over number-one to shield him from any stray fire.

I took a hit in the thigh. The round passed through the couch before hitting me, fortunately expending much of its kinetic energy. My armor absorbed what was left over. Regardless, my leg screamed in pain. It would be bruised for days to come but at least the injury wasn't grievous.

Gunfire continued to rain. I didn't risk coming out of cover to distract them. There were no more than twelve-to-seventeen bullets in each handgun. Since they all opened fire at the same time, they'd all need to reload at the same time. I planned on getting payback for the pain in my thigh.

The shower of bullets ceased practically all at once, each magazine supplying its final round and the operating rod of each gun hungrily slamming open. In that brief latency of a collective ceasefire, I leapt to my feet, grasped the back of the sectional with both hands and began to charge numbers-two, -three, and -four like an angry freight train, using the sectional as battering ram. Its legs shrieked as they scraped across the floor.

The three goons' faces pruned. What to do next? Reload or get clear? They're nervous systems and brains were in an argument on the best action. I didn't give them time to sort it out. I drove the couch with everything I could muster and I crushed the three gunmen between the huge piece of furniture and the wall. The impact was thunderous. They howled in pain, dropping their weapons. Two clawed the couch trying to free themselves and the other tried to push away from the wall. I reached down, grabbing a hold of the base, and heaved the couch over, flipping the sectional onto them for good measure. It came down mercilessly, pinning them.

I looked over my shoulder at number-five and -six on the far side of the bullet-riddled room—just in time, too. Number-five had managed to insert a new magazine and was raising his weapon to resume; number-six wasn't far behind.

There was nowhere to go; only one option.

In one motion, like a matador taunting a bull, I raised my cape out in front of me with my forward arm and I bladed my body—turned myself perpendicular to the gunmen—to make a smaller target. I stepped on the base of the cape with my forward foot pulling it taut so that it would present a much larger target for them. Hopefully, they'd aim at the cape instead of at me and it would absorb the lethal strokes of the bullets.

The cape was a lightweight Kevlar, bi-carbon mesh, and nylon tri-weave with a silk in-lay. The tri-weave made the fabric amazingly durable and fire resistant due to its profound tensile strength. But it was the silk that made it exceptionally resistant to ballistics. Silk was historically notorious for disallowing the penetration of bullets and arrows. While the cape paled in comparison to solid cover, it was better than the alternative.

Number-five and -six frantically slammed round after round into the cape like I had hoped. But, I'd have been a fool to think they wouldn't eventually land a lucky shot if I continued to stand there. I readied the grapnel gun and drew a flash-bang from my utility-belt. I lobbed the grenade over my arm and across the room. The canister landed short but rolled the rest of the distance to their feet. I closed my eyes and braced myself.

KA-BOOM! There was thunder and lightning. The entire room shuddered. Number-five and -six doubled over cradling their ears with their hands and squeezing their eyes shut. I had to be quick; they wouldn't be stunned for long.

I dropped the cape and fired the grapnel at number-five's leg. The hook seized his pants leg and I activated the motor, reeling in the slack. The goon was yanked off of his feet when the line tensed and fell onto his side with a thud. I ramped-up the RPMs and dragged him face-down across the floor. He flailed and screamed. I could hear his nails digging into the floor. I was over top of him as he came close and pounded him into unconsciousness with two blows to the back of the head.

Number-six managed two wild shots that came nowhere near hitting me; his vision was still impaired from the flash-bang. I sprinted to his position at the far wall; motion parallax made getting a bead on me impossible for him. When I was within kicking distance, I punted his head through the sheet-rock with toe of my boot. He slumped over leaving a hole in the wall the size of his skull.

The parlor fell silent, so I drew my tablet from my utility-belt and increased the gain on the cowl's aural receivers to its normal level—I had turned the gain down in anticipation of the firefight—when I heard more movement behind me. There was no way number-five was still conscious! Not with the power I put behind those two punches.

I whipped around. Number-five was still lying face down in a pool of blood. Number-four, however, was the source of the sound; he was still trying to stay in the fight. I guess having a couch dropped on him wasn't enough to convince him to stay down.

With glass and debris crunching beneath my boots, I stalked back across the room towards number-four, snatching-up the last intact lamp by its chord; it swung back-and-forth at knee-level. As I approached, he demanded that I stay away from him or he'd shoot me. He even called me a demon. The gun trembled in his hand; I hated having guns pointed at me. I swung the lamp above my head and brought it crashing down over his—lights out.

Still conscious, number-two and -three squirmed beneath the massive sectional. I jumped on top of the mangled piece of furniture, the sudden addition of weight causing them both to cry out. I neared the edge and lifted my cape out of the way so I could see their faces when I looked down. Their heads were pinned between the wall and the couch. A look of horror washed over number-two's face when he saw me standing above them and number-three burst into tears. They were definitely out of the fight; just had to make sure. I didn't want them taking any cheap shots while I beat down their boss.

Speaking of Ivy…

I flung the double doors to the greenhouse open and marched in. It was as if I had been instantly transported into the Laotian jungles—there were hundreds of species of trees and plants filling the gigantic room from wall-to-wall. The canopy was so thick, in fact, that I was unable to see the twenty-foot steeple ceilings. The temperature must have climbed thirty degrees and the humidity had to have tripled. While my armor could reasonably compensate for inconvenient temperatures, it couldn't affect humidity.

I had to admit, if I had been introduced to her greenhouse under more official circumstances, I would have been impressed. For now, I needed to figure out where Poison Ivy was hiding in the wooded sprawl. Oddly enough, I could hear music coming from deep inside the greenhouse.

I smelled a trap.

Using the scallops of my gauntlets—the three three-inch blades that jutted out of my bracers—as machetes, I hacked my way through the foliage. Doing so lacked my usual subtlety but it wasn't as if Poison Ivy didn't know I was coming. Subsequently, I was brought to an abrupt halt when I smacked into what felt like a wall after about thirty paces. I couldn't have reached the far wall; the greenhouse's external dimensions demanded that the inside be larger. Puzzled, I chopped more branches down and brushed the ferns and leaves aside to reveal a transparent partition—with hundreds of breather holes at regular intervals—bisecting the enormous room. On the other side of the partition was more foliage...and Poison Ivy.

She sat on a green law-chair in a small, grass-covered glade wearing a green one-piece bathing suit and green high heels, drinking from a martini glass and listening to music from a green iPod.

Ivy's legs were flawless, glistening like porcelain in the passive lighting of the chamber. Her nails were colored green as were her lips and her ruby-red hair pinned up with a plant-themed clip. Ivy didn't look like a ruthless queenpin. Every other drug lord looked the part. But not Ivy.

"It's not polite to keep a girl waiting," she said looking up from her glass and stirring it with the little umbrella.

I hadn't been hallucinating. She really was wearing a bathing suit. What was she thinking? Was she trying to make some sort of ridiculous statement or did she think that I was going to relent because she was dressed like a Victoria Secret floozy? Truth be told, she was taking this Poison Ivy identity-thing too far.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "I left you a present in the parlor."

She chuckled.

"Surrender," I growled.

She batted her long eyelashes, "For what?"

I stormed up to partition and roared through a hole, "Seven people are dead by your hand, countless thousands are going to their graves because of the narcotics you're flooding the streets with, and Freiss is attached to your leash!"

"I don't surrender. Nor am I interested in your accusations, Batman. You're just repeating what you heard on the news. If they paint me as a monster, you'll believe 'em."

"I know about your entire operation—from start to finish."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped spilling some of her drink. "And, neither do you."

I hated it when criminals feigned innocence.

I stabbed the air with my finger. "I know that you manufactured Lock from a plant that you imported from Africa. The very same type that I found at the docklands in a state of cryopreservation. I also know that their survivability wouldn't allow typical transport, so you needed to find a cryonist capable of rendering the plants in stasis, as well as successfully thawing them once they arrived. And, you found the only cryonist that had ever managed it: Victor Freiss—a psychopath who was deported for his offenses against an innocent woman."

Her brow furrowed. I struck a chord.

My limbs disappeared beneath my cape. "You offered to smuggle him back into Gotham," the anger began to drain from my voice but I sounded no less accusing, "and to provide him with the muscle he needed to further his own designs in exchange for his expertise so that you could mass-produce your narcotic. Moreover, you had Reuben Jacinto and two of his cronies murdered with a toxin that you synthesized from your new narcotic—lethal when absorbed through the skin. The fourth corpse at the scene was your assassin. He administered the toxin with spray bottle except that he didn't survive because he accidentally dosed himself when the bottle leaked. You're also responsible for the killing of three others…one being your goon Hugh Seaborne from the Docklands. And, you're indirectly responsible for the kidnapping of the Sanman family.

"You're a murderer and an accessory to international crimes against citizens of Gotham City. You're going to surrender and tell me where Freiss is—"

She pursed her lips. "Or?"

"Or I'm going to break both of your legs. You do it my way and you'll walk in six months. You do it your way and you'll never walk again."

Again she chuckled, trying to appear unaffected. "Right," she placed the drink on the side table upon which sat her iPod and picked up the universal remote that accompanied it. The remote was a bit out of place. I hadn't seen any TV's or electronics that it controlled. I made a mental note. "If you want me, you're gonna have to come get me."

She was baiting me. I wasn't biting. The parlor door was the only way out of the greenhouse. That meant the only way she was leaving was through me. Fat chance of that happening. I'd just wait her out. She'd get dehydrated eventually. I had rations in my utility-belt.

She returned her drink to her lips, "Well...what're you waiting on."

"I don't have anywhere to be."

"So you're just gonna stand there?"

I didn't answer.

"You've gotta be kidding me. Are you really just gonna stand there and stare at me?"

I still didn't answer.

"Ugh. Waiting ain't gonna work in your favor, Batman."

I was eager to hear the reason...

"I got an entire army of street-soldiers—on their way right now—with nothing to lose and nothing better to do than put your ass on ice." Ivy made a cocking-gun motion with her hand.

I wasn't the least bit intimidated. "I already put down seven of your street-soldiers."

Her voice became venomous. "Then just stand there. I wanna see you try to take on fifty of my thugs…and fail miserably."

She was probably bluffing. But if she wasn't bluffing, this could get messy. Engaging twenty gun-toting criminals with the element of surprise was my forte. But fifty was pushing it, especially if I couldn't see them through this foliage. I had to assume that they had assault weapons and could riddle the greenhouse with automatic weapons fire from the door. I decided I'd take my chances with Ivy's trap.

I started looking around for a way through the partition.

Ivy pointed to my left. "The door is over there."

I followed her hand. She was indicating something further down but all I could see was more foliage. I wondered what surprise she had waiting for me. There was only one to find out.

I began to hack my way through the growth along the partition, skimming through a string of possible traps in my head. After ten paces, I reached a transparent door leading through the partition. I didn't see anything but more foliage on the other side. In fact, I couldn't see Ivy from where I was standing. And, once I was through, she would spring the trap. I had to be quick.

I began pushing the door open; it was heavy. The resistance of its auto-closing spring was epic. Once the door was open wide enough to fit, I squeezed through and bludgeoned a path to the glade. The lawn chair was empty when I arrived.

I turned a circle. Her half-finished drink with smeared green lipstick sat on the side table with the iPod. The remote was gone, though. I didn't see any distinct footprints nor a path cut through the surrounding foliage.

When I had spun a half-moon shape, I saw Poison Ivy, staring at me smugly from the other side of the partition—the parlor side. She and I had switched places.

There were two doors, the one which she directed me towards and another reciprocal door that I couldn't see. My veins ran hot and my fingers began to tingle. I clenched my fists in effort to relieve the sensation.

She waved the remote in front of her face, taunting me, and then pressed a button. I hunched over anticipating something explosive. Instead there was a sudden snap-click of a locking mechanism. She bolted both of the doors; the trap was set.

"Well Batman," she was speaking through a breather hole, "I gotta tell you that I'm flattered to have finally popped up on your radar. I had managed to stay beneath your notice all this time but now I'm on the Batman's personal hit-list. It takes a special kinda person to be worthy of your attention and I'm proud to see that I have achieved just that. Can't say that I'm pleased, though. Fact of the matter is: I think you're a joke. You're one giant sham, an overdressed con-artist. You think you're so righteous that you can judge all of Gotham. The people fear you like some demon. But this close...I see that you're just a kook in a costume. You're no better than the rest of us—"

"I'm nothing like the rest of you," I cut-in. "You're all virus, sucking the life out of the city."

"And what does that make you exactly?"

"The cure."

"Who're you to judge me? I'm no different than any other Tom, Dick, and Harry trying to make it in this forsaken city." She checked the integrity of her lipstick with her free hand. "I lied. There is a difference between me and everyone else in this city: I'm the person who had what it took to claw my way to the top in this rat-race; I'm the person who had what took to go from rags-to-riches; and I'm the person who had what it took to erase the Batman. I'm gonna be a legend in the streets. You...you're gonna be a memory that fades."

"Cowards don't become legends. And, you're going out of here on a stretcher." I paused for effect. "Coward."

There was a moment of silence between us as she sized me up. Then she found her closing statement. "Rot in hell, freak." She hit another button on the remote and, following a brief buzzing sound, the watering nozzles began spraying mist into my side of the partition. I waited for an explosion. There was none. A bit anti-climactic.

The mist began to collect on my cowl and armor as I watched her disappear into her personal jungle.

Her remote controlled her watering nozzles...odd.

The mist was being sprayed...

Sprayed.

Rueben Jacinto was sprayed.

Not mist.

My gut tensed.

A toxin—the weaponized form of the drug Lock!

I immediately covered my face with my cape and rigged an explosive charge to the partition and hit the detonator. But, it had no effect, leaving only and indistinct burn. I didn't waste time thinking about it. There was always more than one exit. I just needed go out the same manner I came in—through a window.

I sprinted through the brush; face slung beneath my cape to prevent the toxin from dripping into my eyes or exposed skin, and went bodily into the panoramic view-pane of the greenhouse but bounced off harmlessly.

Dammit! I really was trapped. I wasn't going to be able to protect myself from the toxin forever. And, I could see safety just on the other side! Think, Batman! Think!

"Batman," Oracle's voice crackled to life inside my cowl, "I've got Ivy on the move in an SUV and you're not in pursuit. Is everything alright?"

"Oracle, is the UAV overhead?"

"It is." She could sense my urgency—and uncommon sentiment from me.

I keyed the beacon on my tablet. "Open fire on my position!"

"What?"

"My position! Open fire!"

She hesitated.

"Oracle!"

"Fifteen seconds out."

Fifteen seconds felt like forever. I started a breathing mantra that helped slow the metabolism. The world went suddenly silent as I focused inward. If my skin had absorbed any of the toxins, the mantra would help to slow the effects.

Out of the grim silence, however, came the thunderous drum roll from the UAV's Gatling cannon as it unleashed its payload in gouts of flame. I dropped to the ground beneath my cape to remain clear of the UAVs laser like stream of bullets that flung bits of ballistic glass and metal frame about the greenhouse, leaving a gaping wound in its support structure. I was on my feet when the UAV finished, and ran to the hole at top speed leaping into the safety of the night.

I gave a two-count, letting freefall purge my armor of some of the toxin, then opened my cape and glided over the street.

"Oracle, which way did Ivy go?"

"Come left, Batman."

I did.

"Then make a right down the next street."

"Take control of the batmobile and have it intercept me." I was trying to come up with a plan.

"Understood."

I banked wide around the building on the corner of the intersection. I needed to remain centered on the street if I could help it. This portion of Gotham was congested and by remaining centered, I could descend without having to compete with power lines and street lamps. The least of my concerns, really. I found myself descending at a higher-than-normal rate and my steering was abnormally inadequate.

I divided my attention between navigating the airspace above the busy double-lane avenue and inspecting my cape for irregularities.

You had to be kidding me! Friggin bullet holes! There were bullet holes in my cape and they were causing the air to vent out too fast. My glide-to-descent ratio was probably halved—probably worse. I shouldn't have been angry about it. The cape was resistant to ballistics, not impervious. Nevertheless, I was still angry about it.

I gritted my teeth. "Oracle, be quick about it. My cape is compromised."

"These aren't the roads around Wayne Manor. I'm moving the batmobile as fast as I can in this traffic. Hard left at the next intersection."

"Hard left. Got it." I banked at a knife-edge around the next turn. I could see the batmobile whipping through traffic in the distance.

"Ivy's only two blocks ahead of you, Batman."

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to keep myself stable as I attempted to slow my descent to a survivable landing speed. I had to forget about Poison Ivy for the moment and concentrate on landing. If I broke my back in the process, she'd get away for sure. One thing at a time.

"I'm bringing it right under you," Oracle said.

The batmobile materialized beneath me and a briefest moment of elation washed over me. Then I remembered that I wasn't out of hot water yet; after all, the landing was mandatory but survival was optional. I aimed for the rearmost portion of the roof, praying that the added airspeed would afford me enough momentum to fall forward onto the canopy rather than over the sides or the back to my death. I evaded an array of stoplights as I descended and then made my final bid for the batmobile.

The landing was going to hurt with as much speed as I was carrying. Despite the armor's spinal reinforcement, I suspected I was going to need a chiropractor when this was over.

"Hurry, Batman." The calm of Oracle's voice belied the urgency of her demand. "Stoplight coming up."

Three feet to go. Two feet. One…

I collapsed the cape as my feet made contact with the roof causing me to fall forward to my aim-point. The impact was intense even with my armor. Intense was an understatement in all actual honesty, the pain caused me to go momentarily deaf. I was completely desensitized to the world. The air was pushed from my lungs and my teeth slammed together when I landed and I had to will myself to remain conscious. I grasped ferociously at whatever my hands could manage to keep from sliding off.

I made it.

I lay sprawled across the canopy for a brief second. The coldness of the metal against the exposed portion of my face was oddly comforting. It didn't relieve the all the pain, though. In spite of it all, I crawled hand-over-hand to the cockpit and slid into the seat, situating myself at the controls and took a deep breathe. I could taste blood. I think I even bit my tongue. I couldn't tell though, my mouth was numb from the adrenaline.

My vision cleared and I became instantly aware of my surroundings. I was about ten seconds from the red-light and the cars sitting at it. "I got it," I said as I opened throttle to full; the engine roared.

"I had it," Oracle replied, the remote control indication extinguishing.

I had to act quickly so that I didn't plow through the traffic. The batmobile was built like a tank and would make short work of the unsuspecting vehicles sitting at the light. Fortunately, the batmobile wasn't built only like a tank. It had control-surfaces like a plane which afforded the exclusive ability to make spectacular jumps. And I was going to have to jump the cars at the intersection if I was to keep from killing anyone.

I deployed all the control-surfaces to give the batmobile as much lift as it could muster and then I jammed the booster open. The car shoved me deep into the seat as the booster came to life accelerating the car well beyond the engine's capability and lifted off of the ground like a plane on takeoff. I immediately shut the booster down, not wanting to overheat the engine, as I leaped over the cars and settled back onto the street on the far side of the intersection.

The whole drama was quite the spectacle for the Gothamites on the street at the time without a doubt. Every columnist from here to Bristol was going to have something to say about this.

Back to Poison Ivy.

"Oracle, I need a top-down feed of Ivy's position relative to mine," I said closing the throttle halfway and whipping aggressively around other cars.

"No problem, Batman. Do me a favor, though: Turn off your beacon. The alarm is driving me nuts."

The image appeared on my heads-up-display as I reached for my tablet and exited the beacon application. I was gaining on Ivy with only four blocks to go.

The adrenaline-high was beginning to wear off. I was becoming aware of the pain: The pain in my thigh, the pain under my arm, the pain in mouth. It wasn't incapacitating by any means. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Many years ago, I had learned pain-control from a group of yogis. They taught me to tune pain out or use it to my advantage—to channel it into something constructive. I rerouted all the pain to give me a single-minded goal: Be unstoppable; be relentless. Singular goals put me in the zone. That zone that gave me the precision I needed to do reckless things and come out on top when the odds were stacked against me―like yanking a four-ton car through traffic at breakneck speeds.

I jockeyed the power and weaved a pattern in and out of the lanes through the sea of tail-lights until I finally could see Ivy's SUV. Two more swerves and some power, I slid in directly behind the truck.

Poison Ivy and her entourage didn't notice the batmobile pulling up behind them. If they had, the driver would have started driving erratically. That didn't happen. I could see Ivy and her goons celebrating their second consecutive escape from me. They probably felt untouchable. The jails couldn't hold her and police couldn't stop her. Not even the famed and feared Batman could. Since this whole charade had been the first official meeting between me and Poison Ivy, I felt compelled to teach her a critical lesson: Criminals don't get away from the Batman for long.

I fired two tow-cables at the truck, scoring direct hits with both harpoons; one in the rear hatch and the other into the frame. The driver, startled by the impact, swerved violently and ping-ponged off the cars parked along the right side of the street. Two gunshots from inside the SUV caused the rear window to melt away, revealing a panicked Ivy brandishing a pistol. Her face didn't have that smug arrogance it displayed during our last two meetings, now there was a look of disbelief. She emptied her magazine through the demolished window of the zigzagging vehicle, hitting the batmobile only twice; the bullets bounced off harmlessly.

I reeled-in the slack of the cables, pulled the throttle to idle, and slammed on the brakes. The force caused the first cable to tear the hatch from the SUV, slinging the door over my canopy and bouncing off the street behind me. I pressed a button shearing that cable. The second cable held firmly and the weight of the batmobile brought the truck to a dramatic halt.

The driver and passenger doors swung open. As expected, the Bloodroots had no intent of going down without a fight. T-Don and the driver emerged with hateful grimaces and assault rifles and unleashed a torrent of ammunition into the batmobile. Round-after-round pounded the armor and casing-after-casing rained on the concrete. Ivy watched intently from the cabin. I did the same from the protection of the cockpit. They'd need heavier firepower to put so much as a dent in this beast.

Smoke wisped from the hot barrels of both weapons as the last shells hit the street. T-Don and his comrade puzzled over whether they had managed to actually gun-down the Bat. After they exchanged uncomfortable looks, they cautiously approached the batmobile to either side. As T-Don drew near, I could make out the distinct burn mark on his left cheek; that made me smile―on the inside.

Once the two goons were out of the path of the batmobile, I slammed the throttle to the firewall. The backup electric motor wailed in advance of the turbine, spinning the tires wildly. T-Don and the driver dove clear. As the wheels finally gripped the street, the turbine―finally getting up to speed and overriding the sprague-clutch―caused the batmobile to accelerate violently and careen into the SUV nearly capsizing it. I immediately pushed the transmission into reverse and pulled the batmobile out from under the mangled truck. As I did so, Ivy climbed from the wreckage and made a break for the front door of the nearest row-home.

Her resilience was both amazing and annoying.

"Oracle, get the batmobile away from here. Ivy's on foot."

"What about T-Don and the other goon?"

I opened the canopy and catapulted from the cockpit towards the building in pursuit of Ivy as fast as my legs would take me. "Nevermind them. They're out of ammunition. They're out of the fight. T-Don knows I'll come for him again. Let them run. Right now, Poison Ivy is my priority."

"Okay. I'll see if I can't influence the police to go after them, Batman. F-Y-I: the UAV's overhead and I don't see Ivy anywhere on the street or the alleys. Unless she's hiding, I think she's still in the building."

That was a safe bet, I could hear someone bounding up the stairs about four flights up. I assumed it was Ivy. She seemed keen on staying ahead of me. That was about to change, though. I was a master at closing distances.

I loaded a new cartridge into the grapnel gun and fired at the top of the stairs; it secured itself to an I-beam. Following a round-turn of my buckle with the cable, I secured the device to my belt and it yanked me from landing and sped me to the top floor.

I reached the top of the stairs just in time to see a blur of red hair go through the roof's maintenance hatch. I was off the rail and increasing to a full sprint for the opening hoping to get a handful of hair when she began firing at me; I disappeared back through the threshold. I took cover just inside the doorway thinking about how much hated guns. "Batman, Poison Ivy's on the roof."

"I'm aware." My tone oozed sarcasm.

"Well, unless she's suicidal or suddenly sprouts wings, you've got her cornered."

That was a plus. Poison Ivy had no goons for support, no innocents for shields, and nowhere to run. It was just me and her.

On the downside, however, I never counted how many total shots Ivy had fired so I was unsure of how many more rounds she had left―her gun was still a threat. I had already evaded enough gunfire this evening and I doubted that I had much more luck saved up to see me through another shootout. If nothing else, I could bank on the fact that my ability to survive gunfire had demoralized her and she was ready to talk. I needed to make sure.

I pulled a smoke grenade from my belt and tossed it through the door towards a chimney about ten feet to my left. The canister detonated and immediately filled a ten-by-ten area with white vapor. Ivy didn't lay into my diversion with her weapon. Perhaps, she really was in a talking mood.

Only one way to find out...

I draped my cape over my shoulders and readied a volley of shurikens. Standing to my full height, I eased through the doorway out onto the rooftop.

Poison Ivy was at the far corner, probably twenty yards away, with her gun trained on me. She was still in the green bathing suit but barefoot this time and wearing the fur coat she wore at the restaurant.

"Little cold for the beach," I growled making myself as imposing as possibly as I strode across the roof-top.

"Your parlor tricks don't fool me, Batman! I'll shoot you if you come any closer!" she screamed over the wind trying to sound threatening; smeared make-up and bathing suits notwithstanding.

"I'll make you eat that gun, Ivy."

She looked around frantically trying to find an escape route even though she knew this was the end of the line. She couldn't hide her fear this time. "Alright Bats, let's cut a deal."

I slowed my approach. "No, no deal. I don't do deals."

"Come on, Batman. I got something you want and you know it."

I stared a hole through her as I came to a halt about fifteen feet away.

"If you let me go, I tell you were Mr. Freiss' at. That's who you came for anyway."

"I have a better idea: You tell me where Freiss is and I won't toss you off this roof."

"Batman," Oracle's voice rattled inside my cowl, "the police are about two minutes away. You need to wrap it up and get scarce."

I could hear the sirens in the distance. There was only enough time for me to beat down Ivy or get the information on Freiss―not both. It was frustrating but Ivy couldn't get away from me forever as tonight's events displayed. So I had to accept that she was going to walk away from this―for now.

"You can't stop what I've started."

"You underestimate me."

"This is bigger than you...bigger than me. But you can stop Freiss. He's what you want anyway—who you came after. You can take me down if you want, though. Rest assured, if I go down...Freiss' location goes with me." She sounded suddenly indignant. "Think about the girl, Batman. Besides, the police are going to come up here and go after you too. Then what? You'll have Freiss at large―and I'll be out of the pen first thing in the morning. Got too many friends in high places."

For the second time in a just a couple of nights, Poison Ivy hid behind an innocent. She threw the thought of Madhavi at me as a shield. I hated cowards and criminals. Ivy was both. Despite that, taking her down right now wouldn't solve the Lock-problem. Plus, she'd be back on the street by sun-up. There was still a chance of saving Dr. Sanman's daughter from that madman Freiss.

"Poison Ivy becomes a rat when she's cornered. No honor among thieves?"

"I'm no thief! And, Freiss ain't a Bloodroot. I have no loyalty to that sick bastard. He's the sickest person I've ever met, next to you. As far as I'm concerned you and him can kill each other."

I had Poison Ivy in check but it wasn't checkmate. Sooner or later, I'd catch up to her. And the longer she prolonged it, the more bones I intended to break.

"Batman, get moving. GCPD is flooding the block."

I discreetly returned the shurikens to their holsters. "Where is he?"

A sudden look of relief washed over her face, realizing that she just talked her way out of a one-sided fight. "He...," she hesitated, probably wondering if she could score a hit with her gun if I decided to rush her anyway. "We put him up in 1377 MacFion, one of our safe-houses in The Narrows."

Figures.

Poison Ivy continued, "It's a tenement on the west side of the island. Keep your head down, the residents will shoot you on sight." Her voice became smug again. "I'm sure you already know that I got that kinda pull."

I kept the glare on. She wasn't getting any credit from me. "This isn't over Ivy."

"I know it's not," she said dropping her gun and raising her hands in advance of the police.

The police came through the access door screaming freeze—ironic.

I disappeared over the side of the building.