Instead, all that comes to mind when his hand rests itself on top of an aged gargoyle's head is: god, this place is clean.
Truth be told, it's probably a little bit of an exaggeration–smog embraces New York in a bear hug that can never be broken–but when Bruce comes from Gotham to here, he sees such a substantial change in garbage that he almost thinks the place is pure.
New York is an enigma to Bruce; it has the same blue-blood roots that put Gotham on the map but–unlike Gotham–it hasn't spiraled down into chaos.
Yeah, Prohibition was nightmare, and the rickety seventies weren't friendly, either, but it isn't nearly as...destructive...as the Bat's hometown.
And a small part of Bruce can't help but wonder why.
Maybe it's location.
Maybe it's ethnic composition.
Maybe it's just...history.
Forget it, the Bat finally growls at him. It won't change Gotham for you.
Sad but true.
And he has other things he should probably be focusing on–namely, the Sight.
The Bat turns to the side, glancing over towards Broadway and Canal and the hurried traffic that flows beneath it, and frowns.
He's been to New York on many occasions but they were all as Bruce Wayne, and though he knows that he could memorize the city in an hour given a definitive map, knowing where he is isn't a problem.
It's knowing where the crime is.
Harsh reality?
The Bat is a newcomer.
And he's not used to it.
It's almost embarrassing to admit that to himself–to confess that he doesn't actually know where the scumbags of the city are hiding. He's been in his comfort zone for so long, in a city where he just knows where the enemy lurks that it's frightening to have to be in an area where he doesn't have a clue about his prey.
Well, correct that: he understands what he's looking for, but it's not Gotham.
And that makes everything much, much harder.
Another quick scan down at the streets below. Bruce notes (with some disappointment) that he can't really spot anyone who fits his scumbag criteria. There are the winos, yes, and a few of the druggies, but they're not exactly...right.
He studied the side-effects of the Sight on one or two lab mice that he managed to slip out of Wayne Industries. Alfred had objected, but at the look Bruce gave him (and the comment: "would you rather me try it first?") quieted down.
It was important he knew what he was dealing with. Both of them understood that.
The first injection made many things frightfully clear: aggressive behaviors that previously were nonexistent became dangerously prominent. Seconds within dosing the first mouse, Bruce had to let go of it in order to avoid being bitten
It became obvious only later (after the first mouse died, writhing, in its cage)that muscle
mass also increased substantially. He performed an autopsy almost immediately after Mouse No.
1 expired, and learned rather quickly why it had died in such agony; the muscle tissue had grown so disproportionally out of shape that it crushed the bones that tried to hold it, essentially disintegrating the animal from the inside out.
. Though he had thought that what he was giving the mice–and what was being moved around Gotham like a village bike–was originally Venom, later tests proved him wrong.
It was something different.
Something worse.
Barbara tried to help him for the first few days, but eventually gave up, leaving Bruce on his own as he continuously tried to nail the chemical composition and peg ways to block receptors from reacting to the drug. He used every chemistry book he had, burrowed through his old ones left from college and even scanned through Wayne Industry's prototype substances for a match.
But there was nothing, or, in the words of Barbara: "There's squat, B."
That was worrying. If Wayne Industries didn't have it, if old and new chemistry books knew nothing of it and if Bruce's own mighty chemical database didn't recognize it, then it was something very bad.
Men fear what they don't understand. Though Bruce knows damn well what the drug does to people and how it interacts with the receptors and hormones and the body, he doesn't know of its composition.
And that makes him nervous.
Very, very nervous.
No composition, no cure.
No cure equals problems. Essentially Bruce has a poison on his hands and no real way of fighting back. If he happens to be injected...
No. He doesn't want to consider that. Not now.
A honk from below pulls him out of his reverie, turning attention back to the street below. The Bat shifts on his perch, moving for a different angle, and tries to rethink where he could find his prey.
It's back to square one for him–Barbara has temporarily given up her status as the Oracle for a trip to Metropolis, and he no longer can rely as strongly on her technological prowess as before. He's only got instinct, some knowledge of the side-effects of the Sight, a couple of gadgets and a very big brain to help him out.
It'll have to do.
First thing's first: the Bat needs to familiarize himself with New York–specifically, New York's vermin.
It's simple enough; jump enough rooftops and scum will be found that look vaguely reminiscent of Gotham.
Bruce slowly gets to his feet, rolling his neck and relaxing at the familiar crack of vertebrae. He moves away from the gargoyle and carefully balances on one of the ledges before looking out and reaching for the grapple-gun.
Aim, shoot, jump.
At least some aspects of New York are familiar to what he knows.
The way the girl moves is what tips him off first.
Two hours he's been prowling the rooftops of New York, careful to avoid being seen and always on the lookout for New York's vigilantes (he doesn't like people trespassing on his turf–he has a feeling New Yorkers probably feel the same).
But finally, after many an hour of watching and waiting and he–at long last–sees something that the Bat tells him is very important.
It's a girl, or, more specifically, how she moves–arm wrapped around a big moose maybe twice her size–that makes alarm bells ring.
He goes through what she could and could not be, what the outfit says about her life and what it refuses to let the Bat in on.
Nice stilettos. Certainly not cheap. The outfit, too, reeks of something higher class. But her posture and attitude tell Bruce that's she probably more of the paid women of society than of the wealthy.
Prostitute.
Hmm. Bruce Wayne would be amused.
The Bat only gets worried.
Her stance is slightly...off. Not the walk of a drunk or a coke addict–inebriated, unfocused and unstable.
No, this girl walks like a predator, careful, calculating and ready for attack. She may look up at her enormous escort and smile sweetly, may lean into him with the low-cut blouse and act dumb, but the walk has already given her away.
He's seen this before, and he already knows what it is.
The Sight.
It was bad enough when the drug dug its claws into the poor and destitute but now that there are those on higher planes with it...
Not good. Very, very bad.
They're turning a corner now. Bruce quickly jumps an alley and tries to get higher, to a better place where he can watch this and not have to move. He needs to know where they're going, but he can't scare them as the Bat.
...not yet, anyway.
Another turn, this time to a darker place. Bruce isn't exactly surprised at how quickly a well-lit street can manage to wind off into a dangerous, dim one, but the quickness that this happens with still manages to throw him off a little bit.
He's not in Gotham; he needs to keep remembering that.
(Of course, that didn't stop him in Metropolis, Central City, and even Chicago, but New York is somehow different–maybe because he actually likes it.)
The guy the girl's clinging to hasn't seemed to notice the change in scenery–either that or he doesn't care. He stands straighter, takes a more dominant stance, but otherwise there's nothing signaling that he's feeling threatened by his location.
They're talking, now. He can read lips when he's standing still, but he's moving and can't exactly focus enough to make things out. Night vision and infrared can only go so far before motions become indistinguishable.
So he has to get closer. Close enough for the range in his ears to pick up what they're saying.
Bruce glances across the street, noting the fire escape, and adjusts the grapple gun for position.
There's a dull thud as the anchor makes contact with the rusty metal and attaches, but amid the night sounds of city with more than 8 million inhabitants Bruce knows that it's probably going to be unnoticed. Things go bump in the night all the time. His grapple gun should be no different.
Bruce flexes his legs, diving off the ledge. For that blink-of-an-eye second where his stomach drops and he gets the sensation that he's flyinghe turns his attention away from the woman and her escort and instead braces himself for the fire escape. The feet move up, and Bruce relaxes enough for the landing.
But something goes wrong.
He feels the tension between the rope and his arms abruptly go slack when he's almost through with the arc. The clean sweep that he had towards the fire escape suddenly gets messy, and he's dropping, falling.
Bruce hits metal awkwardly with a bang. Legs slam sideways into rusty steel, and pain reverberates up into his body. Flailing wildly, Bruce lets go of the grapple and lunges upward, trying to grab onto the fire escape.
He latches on, but not before he hears the clatter of the grapple gun hit the cement six stories below.
The Bat tells him to keep moving.
Ignore it.
One hand, two. Bruce pulls himself up and over the top of the railing, falling into a crouch on the stairs and stealing a quick glance down at the sidewalk.
The gun still lies there, unbroken but not exactly in easy reach.
And the rope that was supposed to hold Bruce?
He looks up, craning his neck.
The anchor's still there, lodged into the side of the fire escape.
But the rope that is supposed to be attached is loose, swinging lamely from the anchor like a misshapen, forgotten tail.
It's been cut.
Rational Bat already realizes that this was very intentional foul-play at its worst, meant to kill, maim or distract him.
He rises from the crouch, moving out slightly to look down the street.
The girl and her man are gone.
Bruce leans back out of sight, stooping down and looking towards his gun lying on the ground.
He's getting lazy. That edge that Gotham forces him to keep up isn't the same here, and he's running blind.
Not fun. Very frustrating.
Bruce shakes himself off, standing slowly and looking out again at the dimly lit, nearly deserted street.
They distracted him, but that doesn't mean they're going to get rid of him easily–when there's a will, there's a way, and Bruce is sure as hell determined. It's the only reason he's been around this long.
So find them.
He didn't leave a tracker on the girl, instead insisting on tailing (maybe to save his ass, perhaps to make sure that if vigilantes got their hands on his prey, they wouldn't notice that someone had already called dibs), but that doesn't mean that Bruce isn't prepared.
A tap at the side of the cowl.
The electronics inside beep.
Thermal sensors engaged.
And then the world dissolves into a plethora of blues, greens, reds and yellows.
Yes, old-fashioned detective skills have their moments, but technology is an incredible thing. It's saved Bruce's life more than a few times, and though 'old-school' methods certainly work, the electronic-drenched era in which he lives now doesn't have time for what functioned well twenty years ago.
A quick scan already tells Bruce that there are more people lurking in the projects near his position than he originally thought. There's the couple three floors up in the next building, sitting on what Bruce assumes to be a couch, watching t.v. The five kids in the room next to them, and the young mother and her baby the floor above them.
All nice things, the Bat tells him impatiently, but not what we're looking for.
True.
Refocus, reconnect.
The woman (with heels) was about 5'8". Her escort probably weighed 260 pounds, and stood at about 6'4.
Big boy. Small girl.
Bruce turns his head, slowly scanning down the street and trying to focus on the corner to the right. He's about to turn his attention elsewhere when something catches. At first it's almost indistinguishable–hidden behind brick, heaters and idling cars--but when Bruce narrows his eyes to focus, he suddenly sees them, with the woman trying to shepherd the man into the grungy, beat-up lobby of some long-abandoned hotel.
A small part of him wants to be pleased, but the Bat is wary. He found them too quickly, and he still has to consider that no more than two minutes ago he had his rope–his lifeline–cut.
Someone wants him dead, and this could be a trap.
Another gamble.
He's going to take the risk and go for them. He's close now, and in no time at all the sun will be up. He has to get this done soon if he wants to be that much closer to the source.
Bruce carefully looks around the street and up towards where his rope had been hanging before perching himself up on the railing.
He could take the stairs, but that would make too much noise (besides what he's already made) and possibly wake the people in the building next to him.
And no, he's not going to jump six stories. Bruce is many things, but he's not Superman.
Then it's official.
Fall a floor, grab a railing. If it's done properly, the pain felt in the shoulders and arms is minimal
If it's done incorrectly...
Broken and dislocated bones. Not something he wants to deal with.
So get it done properly so we can get going. There isn't any time.
No, there isn't.
Bruce readjusts the thermals, takes a look over at the dilapidated building where his targets pace restlessly, and glances over at the apartment next to him.
Clear. For the time being.
Get going.
The first two are the rockiest–Bruce isn't afraid of heights but his legs are still reeling from their head-on collision with hard steel.
The next two are easier, and even though age quietly pulls at his joints, informing him that you're not twenty-four anymore, Bruce, the metal and his hands meet uneventfully.
It's at the second story that Bruce looks over again, sees his prey moving and abandons the rails, simply dropping and rolling as he hits the ground.
The grapple's picked up. Bruce–feeling vulnerable and exposed–drops back into an alley and examines the gun.
Good condition. It simply needs a new line.
...which he has in his belt.
Sure you want to use it? The Bat asks him. Make yourself an easy target again?
He looks down at the grapple, shoots a look at the building above him, and then–slowly, reluctantly–tucks the gun back into its respective slot.
He hates it when the Bat is right.
You can thank me later, the Bat informs him. Now go.
Bruce turns on his heel and starts to head deeper into the alley. The cape brushes over trash and flaps in a faint wind that whistles through the corridors as he runs, but after a left, and then another right, he realizes that he doesn't need to go any further.
He's found them.
Camped out beyond the metal door the Bat stands in front of, they sit in a nearby room with what can only be assumed to be drugs.
They're clueless to his presence, and this gives him two options.
The Bat can storm in, trap them where they stand and scare the shit out of them...but there's always that frightening possibility of a trap inside. And he doesn't know the layout of this building.
Or he can wait out here, hanging above in the fire escape. Eventually they'll come out this door (it's their closest exit), drugged to a place that Bruce has no interest in ever going to and completely unprepared for a drop-in from the out-of-city Bat. He's in a space that he's somewhat familiar with, and there are no tight spaces for him to have to fight out of.
Outside it is, then.
Noise pulls him out of his reverie, and quickly, not even thinking, Bruce snaps his head over to the door and jerks the gun out of his belt, aiming for the fire escape above the door.
He can risk detection by them or risk his life getting pulled to a second story.
He'd rather risk his life; they're getting up far quicker than he expected and if there's anything Bruce doesn't want to screw over it's the fact that no one knows he's in New York as the Bat.
The door clicks, thuds, and shifts as the man behind it tries to understand that it is, in fact, push (not pull) that will get him out of the ex-hotel before abruptly the metal swings out with a bang, taking out a chunk of the brick along the way.
Normal people do not possess that strength, the Bat says quietly. Bruce scowls as he realizes what this means to him.
Bruce could take the escort as a normal human being, but the stakes have changed. His somewhat built six-foot moose is now under the influence of a adrenaline inducing, muscle-growing, reflex-quickening drug, something that essentially makes him a meta for two hours.
"–aren't you strong?"
"Like Superman, baby."
The Bat shakes Bruce back, forcing him to look down as the woman weaves through the threshold and staggers out into the alley, laughing at the damage done to the wall and the door. She pauses for a moment, losing that ditzy stance for one second as she glances upwards, eyes scanning where Bruce might've been if he hadn't pressed his back towards the wall, before turning towards the door.
"It's great, isn't it?"
Bruce tenses, silently reaching for his belt again as he hears the man's voice from within the building.
"Yes." the man says.
And then he steps out from the building into the alley.
Maybe he hears Bruce, maybe he doesn't, but the moose slowly cranes his head up and looks above him at the fire escape for a long hard moment.
The Bat doesn't give him any longer. Two darts, combining to pack enough of a punch to tranquilize an elephant for a day, suddenly shoot from above and score directly into the man's neck.
There's a strained gurgle, unfortunately loud enough to echo across the alley, and then a thud.
The girl hears the gurgle (the Bat knows this) but in the darkness of the alley isn't alarmed until she hears that thump.
She spins around.
And finds herself face-to-face with the Bat.
Bruce is used to only a few things when it comes to scaring the shit out of criminals.
Usually there's fear and recognition, the mouth open in a silent echo of his name the Bat and a swear word, and a step backwards away from him.
Occasionally, there's no swear word, a mouthing of his name and a half-hearted (who are they kidding, trying to take down the Bat?) uppercut.
But very rarely is there laughter.
Very, very, rarely.
Except maybe now.
The woman, high on a drug that the Bat wishes never came to Gotham and then New York, starts to laugh at him. She doesn't get wide-eyed in fear (surprise yes, fear no), doesn't mouth his name or break out running.
She laughs at him.
"What the fuck–" and the Bat notices her hand move towards her pocket (distracting him, well, that's not something he sees from druggies ever y day...)"–are you?"
He grabs the hand before it reaches the pocket and pinches down hard on the radial nerve, essentially paralyzing the wrist and stopping whatever action she had halfway through her head. The laughter suddenly dies in the girl's throat, and suddenly a fear that Bruce is more familiar with enters her eyes.
The body's tensing to the fight or flight mode, but at this point the girl is strong enough that such an idea would be bad.
Bruce can't give her time to reconsider her options. Not now, in a city he's not used to with variables that shouldn't exist.
He slams her hard up against the wall and transforms into the Bat, monstrous horns and impenetrable skin and low, seething rage.
"Who" (again: particular emphasis on the word because it is invaluable to him at this point) "are you running to?"
Lingo is very important. Gotham druggies know what he's asking.
Hopefully, New York hoodlums will, too.
No verbal answer, but the girl writhes and tries to bring a foot up to kick him.
It hurts, but not enough to loosen the Bat's grip. A hand goes up and Bruce pushes down hard on the ulna.
The girl's struggle lessens as pain overrides the idea to attack him–and for Bruce the trick is not strength but distraction.
"Who?" he asks again.
He's still pinching the nerve.
"–Blake!" she spits out suddenly.
"First name?" He relents just enough pressure on the nerve to let her know that talking will end this.
She shakes violently. "Has none. Called Blake."
"Where?"
Something is rapidly happening to the girl.
She's fading fast. Bruce tells the Bat that it's due more to what she's just consumed than anything he's done in the last fifteen (sixteen, now) seconds.
"Docks." she says after a moment.
"Which ones?"
The eyes are rolling back in the head, and spit's coming out of the mouth. Alarmed, the Bat releases the elbow complete and goes back a grip on the upper arm.
Bruce recognizes what's happening. He's dreading this but he knows that he has an overdose on his hands.
The Bat tells him that that's not a good enough reason to stop.
Not yet.
"Which docks?"
The words barely sound human when they come out, but he understands them enough.
"Bay Ridge." the girl gasps.
And then suddenly she goes still.
Silence fills the alley. Bruce blinks, unnerved by the quickness to which she collapsed, and lets go of his grip on the girl's arms.
He doesn't hear breathing.
And he doesn't feel a heartbeat.
Shit.
The Bat only voices what he doesn't want to hear.
She's dead.
He hears the cough of what he assumes to be a grapple and the sound of bodies following after it from his corner of observation (a part of him laughs–oh yeah, observation)and sits for a moment absolutely entranced.
A second later (after he's sure what he 'saw' is really gone and won't be coming back) he gets closer to the scene of action, and climbs down to the ground.
He notes the man slumped in front of the door, smells the chemicals on the darts in the guy's neck and whistles appreciatively.
He notes the dent in the brick wall, the metal door that probably doesn't have a lot of life left after it's little battle with the unconscious lump in front of it and bites his lip.
And then Matt Murdock smells death in the air (new death–a heartbeat that just stilled and a body that just stopped breathing) and freezes.
"Shit." he says.
A/N: Kiddies, can you say mindless-stupid-rant-that-didn't-know-where-it-was-going? Because that certainly described this chapter for me. It was too long, too verbose and I'm still not very sure where it's going.
At this time, I guess it'll have to do. And that's okay. There's always the next chapter that can be made into a fantastic masterpiece. :)
Oh, and here are a few things:
For P'tfami, here is that timeline you so politely requested a few chapters back and I rudely forgot to get for you:
I wasn't quite sure as to the time when I started, but now that I've actually bought myself some comics and read through some wiki articles enough to know them like the back of my hand it's kinda coming together. In short: this takes place before No Man's Land and after Hush. I wanna say that Tim Drake is Bird Boy and hasn't moved on to create the Teen Titans, Barbara hasn't given up her status as Oracle for good, and Dick still acts as as the protector of Bludhaven and periodically Gotham.
I hope that's an okay timeline. If not, feel free to ask questions.
Oh, and many thanks to Gollum's Fish and Shinobi Lioness (who reviewed earlier but was forgotten when I gave thanks--sorry about that) for their reviews. I'm really pleased that you guys like the story--it certainly helps me stagger through it. :)
Well, tell me what you think. Please.