Half Pint
Festive
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolian
Yankee
 *Artists' Impression, the Bat-Man of Gotham _________________________________________________________ | NOBLE HERO OR CRAZED VIGILANTE? Have you seen the Bat-Man of Gotham? Victoria Vale Across Gotham City, reports of sightings and encounters with the mysterious chiropteran assailant supposedly stalking the streets at night continue to flood the desks of GCPD officers, as well as journalists, bloggers, podcasters, and influencers, keeping everyone's eyes on one bewildering mystery: who is this cryptic creature roaming our city? While often un-corroborated and rarely delivered by more than just a single witness, all stories do share a common thread: the prevention of a more serious crime, through the dispensal of profound violence. So far, Gotham's citizens seem to see this 'bat-man' as a dark protector against the seedy underbelly of Gotham City; but if he is indeed simply a man who's had enough - as many reports say he is - is he overstepping as a lone vigilante, disregarding the due process of the law in favor of street-administered 'justice'? Reporters who spoke to staff at both Gotham General and Saint Peter's hospitals confirmed that there has indeed been a rising increase in admissions for fractures, concussions, crush injuries, and similar wounds consistent with blunt-force trauma - but hospital staff are unable to disclose patient history or identity, and GCPD have failed to see an equivalent rise in assault cases. Are these victims of the vigilante too afraid of him to speak out, or is this new trend in hospital admissions simply unrelated, and this 'bat-man' is another invention of Gotham's superstitious citizens, like the ever-popular tale of Grundy-of-the-Marsh, a similar cryptid fairytale from Gotham City's rich history? |
"I was coming home from work late one evening last week - when we had all that dreadful rain - and trying to avoid a flooded street I tried to cross a block over through an alley. Dumb, I know. Obviously there was some thug just waiting for me. It felt like the opening scene in a horror movie, you know? When the lone girl bumps into the monster and gets killed. God, had the wet shirt and stringy hair and everything..."
"Anyway, I guess it was kind of like that, except the thug wasn't the monster. He just appeared so quickly, like he'd just stepped out of the shadows - like he'd just...materialized, you know? And he side-swiped the guy and all I could hear over the rain was just, him beating on this guy, just these dull wet thuds, you know? And then he stood up and he honest-to-god looked like a demon. Those horns, the big wings, claws, all-black, and that brand across his chest...but then he moved and he looked at me and it all changed. He was just a guy, you know? A guy who'd had enough. You could see it in his eyes. He was so scary, but when he looked at me I knew he wouldn't hurt me. He hurt that thug a bit more, sure, I wasn't exactly about to stop him. And then he just...he told me to go home. To save my money. And he just walked off, dragging that thug behind him. And I felt like he was watching me the whole way home. And the funny thing was, I did save my money, because my landlord told me to keep the rent. And I knew that was because of him. He protected me, you know?"
| The Gazette does know; Ms. Page's story mirrors that of many others across the city - a mugging, or a rape, or a robbery, or even a murder, interrupted seemingly out of nowhere by this mysterious costumed assailant. It's little wonder many citizens of Gotham are hailing this stranger as a hero, valiantly defending the vulnerable across the city that the GCPD often forget about. However, not everyone shares the same view of this man as a protector - EARL SKINNER, Ms. Page's aforementioned landlord, came forwards exclusively to the Gazette to share his side of the story: "Guy's a f--king maniac. I was just sitting in my car, trying to wait out the rain, and he completely wrecks the thing - caves the roof in, puts a crowbar through my windshield - and then when I'm getting out to see what the f--k is going on, he pulls me out and starts wailing on me. I have no idea what I did to this guy, but he's left me practically crippled. And then he threatens me that he'll come back to finish the job if I don't pause rent indefinitely for my tenants. Fine, I get it, times are hard - but how am I supposed to maintain eight apartments to a decent standard without any income? I'm just an honest landlord, I don't have an endless font of money. Free housing is a lovely ideal but it's not realistic - if this guy's willing to assault and kill people for some lefty nonsense, none of us are safe. It's just another step towards war by the woke agenda." While the Gazette can't comment on any political leanings or agenda that may or may not be behind this man's actions - he has left no manifesto and refused to contact any publishing organization in Gotham - Mr. Skinner's story certainly does call for concern around the methods employed by this vigilante. For now, Gotham's police force may be content to allow this rogue agent to mete out violent justice in their stead, certainly as it seems those falling foul of the 'bat-man' are reluctant to report their encounter; perhaps, to the GCPD, this is an opportunity to cut down on their paperwork? |  *Mr. Skinner, pictured with his injuries _________________________________________________________ |
Earth-93913003, Gotham City
Jimmy startled as a rolled up newspaper slapped the top of his desk, breaking him out of his focus on the computer monitor in front of him. He quickly alt-tabbed, hiding the research into this mysterious 'Bat-Man' he'd been doing from whoever was now rounding the desk to interrupt what had until now been a relatively peaceful morning.
"You seen this shit, Jimmy?"
Jimmy looked at the copy of the Gotham Gazette that was unfurling on the desk in front of him. An artist's sketch of Gotham City's latest legend stared back at him from the front page, with a couple sensational headlines next to it.
"Looks like a slow news day to me." Jimmy replied, turning his attention back to the computer and some background paperwork he'd had up just in case. Harvey scoffed.
"If some headcase in bike leathers thinks he can do our job better than us he's welcome to try, but I won't have the papers call us lazy."
"You are lazy, Harvey." Said Gordon, to which Bullock just rolled his eyes.
"And you're an asshole, Jimmy. Only one of us is worth writing about to the Gazette, though."
Jimmy had to concede a chuckle at this one. Despite their differences, there were far worse partner assignments in the GCPD, and in a way Jimmy felt fortunate that the worst he got was a burnt-out, over-the-hill lard-ass with a cap and jacket severely in need of a wash.
"Still," Harvey continued, scratching his beard as Jimmy watched the flakes of the morning's pastry drift slowly to the floor, "it has been a bit quieter around here. Can't say I miss the paperwork."
Jimmy raised an eyebrow as Harvey pulled up a chair and sat down, propping his boots up on the edge of Gordon's desk. "You know what Jimmy - I'll say it. We let him have his fun for now. And then when he washes up in the Gotham River, we'll fish him out. And I'll wager doing that paperwork that he won't last the rest of the month."
Harvey held out his hand, waiting patiently for Jimmy's assent. Jimmy rolled his eyes, but ultimately leaned forward, sealing the bet with a firm shake.
"Excellent. Now get your jacket - we've got patrol beat. Maybe you'll get lucky-", Harvey said, standing and gesturing toward the PC that Jimmy had been working at- "and catch a real-life sighting to add to your research."
Jimmy startled, having underestimated his partner again, while Harvey just chuckled and left to fetch the car keys.
- - -
An erratic, vibrant piano piece echoed through the penthouse apartment at the top of Gotham City's most premier high-rise. Layered over the top was the white-noise of a shower running full-blast, and from the corner of the apartment that housed the bathroom a steady tide of mist rolled through the open-plan doorway.
The clear morning sky - finally clear after the torrential rain of the past few days - streamed bright and crisp sunlight through the skylights and wall-panel windows into the main chamber, splashing across white marble walls and dappled zebra-wood flooring. On the far side of the penthouse from the bathroom was the kitchen, a grand row of counter and cabinets that right-angled against the wall around a subtle but imperial island.
Stood against the counter was a suited attendant - one of the penthouse's hired staff - who cracked an egg into a frying pan at the stove, and silently cursed as the sizzle immediately indicated the pan was too hot. He lowered the flames and hoped his employer wouldn't notice. Sat at the island, a bald man in small dark glasses and a long, stately coat raised a single eyebrow momentarily, before returning his attention to the model in front of him; it was a scale miniature of one of the housing blocks in the Narrows before it had been torn down as restoration works began. The bald man was working carefully with a pair of tweezers and a Kolinsky Sable brush to get the replica corpses of the murder-suicide they'd had to clear out prior to demolition just right.
The water from the shower shut off, and the attendant nearly jumped at the sudden absence of noise. Footsteps - light, yet purposeful - traced a pattern from the bathroom to the nearby bedroom, then paused, then back out again and across the penthouse where they finally came to rest as the owner took a seat at the island.
"Oh, do put that ghastly thing away, Victor. It's too stunning a morning for your morbidity."
Victor Zsasz, Chief Operating Officer of Hightowers LLC, and William Sommer's right-hand man, brought a large rectangular case from the floor up to the island's surface, and carefully stowed away his model within, sealing the clasps and placing the case back on the ground. The attendant turned, a plate in each hand, and set William and Victor's breakfasts before them, before quickly returning with two delicate, designer, price-tag-over-function mugs, and a french press to match, carefully pouring the still-steaming coffee into their vessels. William watched him with skepticism, and then frowned impatiently as he set the french press back down.
"Well? I've just had a shower. The bathroom needs wiping down. I shouldn't have to tell you every time."
William had in fact never asked for the bathroom to be wiped down, but the attendant simply nodded nervously and walked away. Victor was already silently starting on his breakfast, his expression as stone-faced and inscrutable as ever. William inspected his eggs.
"Burnt. Shocking. Victor, do make sure to fire that imbecile once he's done for the day. I want someone actually capable of handling food tomorrow morning. Get one of Chez Vous' boys. Hell, get the owner."
Victor nodded, solemnly chewing the rest of his breakfast. William sipped his coffee and made a show of grimacing slightly in distaste, despite it being a perfectly-made espresso with the finest beans William's considerable fortune could acquire. With Victor offering little in the way of conversation, and William liking it that way, he reached for the day's Gazette. He perused the front page and its evocative artwork, before opening the broadsheet in full and vanishing behind it.
"This bat-character is stirring up the city lately, isn't he?" William remarked casually, and at this, Victor actually began to pay attention. "I assume we're keeping an eye on him?"
"Yes, sir. Reports are...sporadic at best. We really don't have much more information at this time than the major outlets. But they all point towards one thing so far."
"Which is?" William prompted, not coming out from behind the paper.
"One man, no funding. Street-level crime only. Seemingly no greater ambition than common thuggery vigilantism."
"So far." William corrected, and Victor cleared his throat.
"Yes, sir. So far. We are monitoring his behaviour."
William reached around his paper for his coffee. "Good. Let him play for now. Good to give the people some hope every now and again. Keeps them hungry."
"Yes, sir. And...if he moves against us?"
William used a single finger to fold down the corner of the Gazette, a dark gaze boring holes in the back of Victor's skull that he felt even through his obscuring glasses.
"We have him killed, Victor. Really, it's not that complicated. Can't have the muck getting any funny ideas."
- - -
The rain of the past few days had done little to clear out the humidity in the sweating alleyways of Gotham City. Steam belched from building vents as the sun set past the skyline, and 'Sunny' Sonny Shepard couldn't be happier for the clammy conditions. The rain was terrible for business - he didn't do house-calls, and no one wanted to wade through the streets in the middle of a monsoon to find his den - and the uncomfortable mugginess made people itchy, antsy; what better way to alleviate that agitation than with some quality product?
Well, maybe 'quality' was a little generous, although Sunny Sonny, chipper as his name would imply, was always quick to remind you that 'quality product' didn't specify what quality. 'Low' was still, semantically speaking, of a quality. And if you argued the point any further than that, well, there were always other dealers, if you could find any that hadn't blacklisted you by the time of your hospital release from a perforated abdomen.
As the sun finally disappeared Sunny Sonny made his way back to the den, tucking in to a greasy and well-stuffed gyro as he went; a vice of his, even if the authenticity was dubious despite the stall-owner’s claims. Still, it was a close enough approximation to be nostalgic of his mother’s, without being better, which Sunny Sonny thought was important - if you had a better version of something your mother used to make you, that’d be the version you’d want from then on, and one more thread of home would be severed. Gotham was too far already. The gyro was as good as it had to be, but no better.
The den approached quickly, or Sunny Sonny approached the den quickly, one of the two - he was too lost in reminiscent daydreaming to pay attention to his journey, the steps along simply muscle memory, running on auto-pilot. He finished the gyro, licking the last of the tzatziki from his fingers (autopilot), balling up the wrapper to toss in the dumpster down the side of the den (autopilot), fishing his keys and slipping them in the lock (autopilot), not noticing the lock had been jimmied and span loosely rather than getting stiff at that six-eighths rotation (autopilot), stepping through the door and his foot coming down squarely onto the trigger-plate of a bear trap set exactly where Sunny Sonny always put his auto-piloted foot after coming into the den.
Sunny Sonny tumbled to the floor hard, screaming and swearing, writhing in pain and desperately grasping at the vicious metal teeth that dug their way into his calf muscle and shin bone. Blood seeped out and soaked his jeans, and the sticky-slick ooze made getting a purchase against the metal impossible - every slip of the hand just jostled the trap and sent new white-hot flares of pain up his leg. He swore, his face red and eyes stinging, desperately wheeling his head about for either aid or his attacker.
The Bat dropped from the ceiling where he’d wedged himself for the last hour, landing between Sunny Sonny and the open door, kicking it shut behind him as he advanced. Sunny Sonny, in his agonised fury, went for the pistol in his waistband; the Bat was faster, and a forceful, steel-toed kick to Sunny Sonny’s wrist shattered the carpal bones and sent the gun skittering out of reach. Sunny Sonny, ever the optimist, tried to throw a punch instead.
Sunny Sonny now found himself in the un-enviable position of being caught in a beartrap with a broken wrist on his dominant hand and the fist of the other caught in the Bat’s grip.
“Sunny Sonny Shepard. You deal dope, crack, amps, percs, drops, and however much more besides, for a fifty-block radius in this borough. You don’t have the means or the mental capacity for production. So what I want to know…” the Bat moved his grip on Sunny Sonny’s good hand to seize it by the wrist, and wrapped his other fist around the index finger; with the widening eyes of Sunny Sonny’s sudden comprehension, and a short, sharp yank, the finger snapped, and Sunny Sonny howled in pain again. “…is where you get your supply?”
The Bat moved his hand away from Sunny Sonny’s index finger, now crooked and sticking out at an odd angle, and wrapped his fist around the middle finger instead. Sunny Sonny and the Bat locked eyes, and despite the defiant gaze from the injured man, his face paled against the ferocity behind the Bat’s eyes, which said everything without needing a word:
You have eight fingers left. Don’t make me show you what happens when you run out of them.
