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Caped Crusader
Halloween Night

Four thugs hit the ground in unison. Amateurs. On the way to Miller Harbor, he had intercepted seven guys about to rape a red-haired woman in a lab coat. The men had chased her half a block from a green Sedan with blown-out tires and bashed-in windows. Her mace and self-defense classes had only stopped two of them. When Batman appeared, one tried to run off. Batman said "tried" because his new invention made all the difference.

During the afternoon, Bruce Wayne had perfected this new invention. As a thrown weapon, it blended the best parts of a shuriken, a boomerang and a bola. As a grappling hook, it fit excellently with the grapnel gun's compact design. In short, Bruce Wayne had invented an all-purpose crime-fighting tool, the batarang.

Halloween night arrived too soon. Bruce Wayne wanted more time. More time to prepare. More time to practice tonight's act. More time to do any number of things that a vigilante had to do before marching off to battle. As Alfred attended to the trick-or-treaters, Batman would dismantle an illegal arms deal.

Many cities like Gotham didn't have trick-or-treaters. It took an unspoken trust to let child go door to door, accepting food from complete strangers. Bruce Wayne wanted to foster that trust. To this day, the fact that he never went trick-or-treating weighed heavily on his mind.

Bruce Wayne had toyed with the idea of rigging the Batmobile with a remote control. Autodidact or not, it would Bruce take months to figure that out. Gel tires, bulletproof windows and a dashboard computer console went a long way to turning a high-end sports car into the Batmobile.

For now, it would suffice. For now, everything would suffice. He needed to give himself the time to grow. If he rushed through the learning process, he would only get himself killed. He needed patience even in the face of the manic and murderous hordes of the Gotham underworld.

Sadly enough, the mafia-controlled infrastructure of Gotham meant he could not go to the police. Even James Gordon, the only openly honest cop on the force, knuckled under the power structure years ago. Enlisting his help would require finesse.

As he waited, Batman perched on the corner of a rooftop with inhuman patience. Hours passed and nothing happened. Every sound echoed in his audio processors. Every ounce of light got absorbed by his night-vision lenses. Right on schedule, the ship from Kasnia pulled into Miller Harbor.

Batman began to worry about a reference in the bugged conversations. The mobsters had mentioned a name. The Demon. Something about that name sounded familiar. Where had he heard that name before?

A bat colony from the Batcave visited terror onto the fearless mafia; Batman took them out one at a time. The sonar beacon had arrived at his doorstep an hour before he left. Lucius Fox, though still weary of Batman, trusted Bruce's instincts. He thought the Batman might have use for it.

As the bats struck down the mobsters and sent their muscle scrambling, Batman watched in terror as a blood-stained scarecrow stood motionless among the cloud of leathery wings. "Trick-or-treat, Batman."

Acting on pure stupidity, Bruce tried to take him out with one blow. The scarecrow dodged the batarang. Batman rushed in to deliver a palm heel strike to his solar plexus. The scarecrow countered by spraying his face with a noxious gas. "Rā's al Ghūl sends his regards, Batman."

The bats metamorphosed into winged demons, scratching and clawing as Bruce dove for cover. Small arms fire from the gangsters impacted against his Nyctoprene body armor. Bruce, now a bag of broken bones, descended into the sewers, his mind no longer his own. Everything down here looked darker and meaner. Rā's al Ghūl had once again set up a scarecrow and he had walked right into it like an amateur.

As he wallowed in his own self-pity, a creature with fangs approached Batman. The hallucinogen's symptoms ceased. The bone breaks caused by the bullets vanished as if they never existed. Used to seeing familiar faces, he did not even flinch when he saw Waylon Jones in this sewer in this city. Coincidences defined his life. As Waylon screamed about his trespassing, Batman waved his hand in surrender.

"I don't want to fight you, Waylon."

The man with the skin disorder seemed shocked. "How do you know my name? My real name? Everyone calls me Killer Croc . . . whether I like or not." Waylon Jones looked angry. He must've lived like this for years. He had not thought of himself as a human being for a long time. Bruce never thought of him as anything else.

Without mincing words, he pulled off his mask. "Bruce?" He looked supremely confused. "When did this happen?" Of all those who might understand him, Waylon Jones might. He always listened to Bruce Smith.

Bruce began. "Bad people treated good people like you because they don't understand. Now, a really bad person wants to hurt the good people of Gotham. I know the man. Millions of good people will die."

Waylon growled. "Don't patronize me, Bruce. I get the concept. I have only one question. Why should I trust you?" The question struck Bruce like a knife in his side. Trust issues had plagued his life from the start. He didn't trust people. How could such a man convince such an untrusting person to change his mind?

An answer popped into Bruce's head. "Because you owe me one." Waylon smiled a toothy smile. He didn't think Bruce had remembered those days. Deep in the muck of the sewers, the Killer Croc had taken over.

Batman could always go home and resume his life as Bruce Wayne. Waylon Jones had transformed into his own urban legend. He didn't fit the bill as well as he wanted others to believe. Bruce could relate to that.

Now, Killer Croc had fled, leaving only an old friend and an old promise. Bruce smiled. Waylon asked Bruce what he could do for him. Bruce pulled the mask over his face. He could feel another attack coming on as Waylon Jones turned once again into a twelve-feet-tall man-beast. "Get me to a hospital. I don't have much time left." Batman lost consciousness as Waylon Jones, the Gator Boy, hoisted him onto his back.