The Gotham air was cold and moist the following evening as Matches Malone shuddered against the wind. He allowed himself to gnaw nervously on tip of the toothpick bobbing at the corner of his mouth, a nervous tic not afforded to either the Batman or socialite Bruce Wayne. Matches was much less restrained… much more violent and primal. He was the kind of guy Bruce might have allowed himself to become after his parents death if Alfred had not been there maintaining his affairs, both mental and physical. When he got angry, he broke things. When he got hungry, he stole what he needed to fill himself.
He stood with a slightly crouched stance, arrogant and dangerous, almost begging someone to raise an objection to his obvious immorality. Somewhere underneath all of his posturing lie the cold, calculating intellect which defined the man's character, but it was hidden such that even Bruce would have to dig to settle his mind back into place. He squatted down in the dark alley he had chosen near where Superboy had found the men who had witnessed Robin's disappearance. The walls adjacent to the alleyway were filthy and old enough that the mortar which cemented the bricks together was little more than a wet powder. Matches avoided touching either the walls or the ground, opting instead of rest his horribly tired legs sitting on his calves. He'd caused a disturbance in a nearby bar hours before, hoping to reiterate Matches' poor reputation and walking slowly to allow anyone watching to follow.
Mr. Malone was a perfect candidate for joining the recent disappearances. He was a loner type who didn't have a job or a family who would notice his absence. He was without relatives and as of last night sleeping in the local homeless shelter. Anyone observing the area would be able to quickly deem him as a suitable target. He used his teeth to wiggle the toothpick up and down in his mouth. He wasn't sure what exactly he was waiting for, but he was hoping it would happen soon. It was one thing to be waiting on a rooftop in his armored suit, and quite another to hang around in a cold wet alleyway completely unarmed. He was vulnerable and neither Matches nor Bruce were overly fond of that.
After waiting around for an hour in this particular location he could hear the sound of multiple undisguised footprints not far from the mouth of the alleyway. His ears perked up and he carefully counted the number of people while maintaining his casual composure. He slouched forward slightly, allowing his shoulders to slant downward and his large frame to hunch, appearing smaller and more vulnerable than he was. The three men started down the alleyway, ignoring his existence until they got close enough to surround him and force a dirty rag over his mouth and nose. Bruce allowed his body to go limp before them, rolling his eyes back slightly and fluttering his eyelids in a convincing display. He acted as nothing more than dead weight as the largest of the three men hoisted the brunt of his weight and a smaller man lifted his legs. They were either not intending to take him very far or they had another means of transport waiting nearby. He didn't have to guess for long as the men eased him into the back of a large van which was hidden around the corner. Bruce listened carefully to the sounds of the suspension of the vehicle, and without ever having to open his eyes he ascertained that the vehicle was higher end. The engine purred to life after the men had piled in and they began their journey.
From what Bruce could gather, there weren't any other people in the back of the van. He counted each turn and stop, carefully repeating the last two steps in his memory so that he could cement the order perfectly in his memory. Five seconds at a moderate pace. Temporary stop at a stop sign. Right turn. Stop sign, right turn. He could hear traffic moving around him. He connected that with the turns they had already taken and figured that they must be on the interstate. He continued like this for the next thirty minutes until the van finally came to a complete stop. The men shared a muffled joke in the front seat before heading back to unload their cargo. He could feel himself being taken through a doorway and into an elevator. They traveled down a couple of floors before the doors opened again, the smell of antiseptics and blood making his body tense almost unperceivably for a second before he gained control and relaxed again. It was a medical facility…
His handlers traded him off to another man who was wearing latex gloves. He eased the large frame onto a cart before handing the men some kind of piece of paper. Once Bruce heard the elevator door close behind his captors he cracked one of his eyes to access the situation. There was a long hallway leading away from the elevator with small rooms lining either side. Each room had a small window reinforced with internal wires, and inside each room he could see someone strapped to an operating table, with what he presumed was an IV drip meant to keep them subdued and unconscious. He would have to escape before he was strapped down or given his own IV which tightened his timetables considerably. Once the man closed them inside their own room, Bruce sprang into action. A sharp punch to the solar plexus silenced the man, leaving him gasping for air by the time Bruce flattened his jugular, quickly rendering him unconscious. He swiftly stripped the man of his lab coat and strapped him down onto the operation table which had been waiting for Bruce. Someone would probably bring the IV by shortly so he would have to be long gone by the time that happened. He slipped the coat around his shoulders, straightening the ID badge on its lapel before heading out into the hall.