Gotham Harbor

While the workers unloaded the crates from the ship, Frankie “Angel” Carbone puffed on his cigarette, staring up at the giant bat silhouette over the clouds. The workers were union, and the unions were owned by Salvatore “The Boss” Maroni. Carbone was here to oversee the shipment, make sure everything went smoothly.

“Hey Angel?”

Carbone looked away from the signal at one of the workers. The worker jerked his hand towards the crates. “Got the stuff unloaded.”

“Let’s see what we got,” said Carbone, following the worker towards the crates. They opened one of the cases, revealing plastic-wrapped stuffed animals. Carbone took one of them out, tearing open the plastic and then, with a switchblade, cutting into the back of the teddy bear. The stuffing had been replaced by plastic bags full of white powder. He stuck the knife into the packet, taking a sample of the powder and brought it to his nose, snorting it.

Carbone nodded his head as he rubbed his nose. He took the bear for himself and gestured for the workers to move the crates. “Load up the truck, let’s get outta here.”

Carbone excused himself as the men went to work. He’d take the bear as some extra payment for himself. But before he could make it to the office to enjoy his spoils, he heard something low and guttural.

“Angel…”

Carbone looked over his shoulder, thinking it was one of the workers. One who smoked heavily given the harshness of the voice. “Yeah?”

No one was there. Carbone shrugged and continued walking. Then he heard it again.

“Angel Carbone…”

Carbone turned again. “What? Whaddaya—”

Again, no one was there. “—want?”

“Did you think you could get away with it, Angel?”

Carbone reached beneath his leather jacket, drawing the gun from his shoulder holster. “Okay, this ain’t funny no more! Get out here now!”

“You made a big mistake, Angel.”

The voice seemed to echo from everywhere. Carbone couldn’t pinpoint it. He fired in several random directions, but heard only a low growl in response to his manic behavior.

“You brought drugs into this city.”

Carbone could feel the sweat on his brow. His heart pounded. He backed up, until he bumped into something. Something…big. He turned around to see what it was and heard that terrible voice once again.

“My city!”

The creature spread its scalloped wings as it towered over its victim. Carbone fired several shots, but they seemed to have no effect, and he turned and ran.

THE BATMAN	ALFRED PENNYWORTH	LT. GORDON	DETECTIVE BULLOCK

Lieutenant James Gordon stood on the rooftop of the Gotham Major Crimes Unit. By his side was a large searchlight with the silhouette of a bat on the front. He sipped his coffee and looked up at the clouds, casting the bat image over them.

“Whaddaya up to, Jimbo?”

The voice came from one of the few cops Gordon felt he could trust on the force—Detective Harvey Bullock. Loud, brash and subsisting on a diet of coffee, donuts and cigarettes, Bullock fit the stereotype of a hard-boiled cop.

“Could ask you the same thing, Harvey,” said Gordon.

Bullock held a pack of Marlboros in his hand and slapped them into his open palm repeatedly. “Loeb’s new no smoking policy indoors.” He took out one of the cigarettes and slid it between his lips. “Like t’ take those signs and show that fat fuck where he can stick ‘em.”

Gordon chuckled. Bullock watched the bat silhouette on the clouds above as he lit his cigarette. He shook his head. “Christ, Jimbo. Can’t believe ya shine that thing.”

 “If it scares one punk into staying off the streets tonight, I say it’s worth the effort,” said Gordon.

“Yeah, yeah. I say it’s just feedin’ that damn urban legend. Half-man, half-bat bullshit, gimme a break.” Bullock expelled a plume of smoke from his nostrils. “Just remember t’ keep it outta sight when Loeb comes down for his monthly visit. Might commit yer ass t’ Arkham if he knew you’re the one flashin’ the Bat Signal.”

“‘Bat Signal’?”

“Somethin’ one a’ the boys came up with at our poker game,” said Bullock. “We all had a good laugh. But y’ gotta be careful with this stuff, Jimbo. Some of the guys are startin’ t’ talk about you. Thinkin’ you might be buyin’ into this Batman bull.”

“It’s just a psychological tactic, Harvey.”

“Hope so.” Bullock flicked the cigarette off the rooftop. “We got so few good cops in this town, Jimmy. Can’t afford t’ lose you.”

The scream echoed all the way back to the docks. Everyone froze in their work. Once the scream died, a hush fell over the group. The dock workers and the enforcers looked back and forth between each other. No one wanted to make the first move. Chatter slowly started to rise among them.

“You think…?”

“Maybe he stubbed his toe or something.”

“No one screams like that when they stub their toe.”

“I saw the signal in the sky.”

“So what?”

“So I ain’t messin’ with the Bat.”

“There ain’t no Bat. That’s just a story to scare morons like you.”

“Not what my cousin said. Said he knew a guy who saw the Bat a year ago. Been in the nuthouse ever since.”

“Angel! You al—”

“Shut the hell up!”

“What?”

“You wanna let it know where we are?”

“Alla you, shaddup! Just find Angel, okay?”

The enforcers drew their guns, but the dock workers stayed in their spots. One of the enforcers looked at them. “What the hell are you waitin’ for?”

“Sorry man. Maroni ain’t payin’ us enough to go up against the Bat.”

“Oh for…” The gangster groaned, standing to face all of the gathered men. “Listen to me, all of you. For the last time, there ain’t. No. BaAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

He didn’t notice the look of fear on the men’s faces as he delivered his exasperated declaration. Before he could complete it, he was pulled from the spot, into the air, his screams echoing down.

“IT’S HERE!”

“SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT!”

The docks erupted with the sound of gunfire. The winged creature swooped through the night sky, seemingly invulnerable to the hail of bullets directed at it. The creature lowered itself behind one of the gunmen, snatching it up in its wings and leaving him dangling from a lamp. Another was stung by something sharp, causing him to drop his gun. Before he could pick it up, the creature pounced on him. Another gagged as something wrapped around his throat, pulling him into the darkness.

One by one, the men fell in a similar fashion, until one remained. His eyes were wide with terror, and he couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of his throbbing heart. He wanted to run, but he didn’t know where that…thing was. For all he knew, he could run right into its hiding spot. But if he stayed here, he would be done for sure.

He heard a noise and spun, raising his gun and firing. It clicked several times in response. He fumbled in his pockets for a spare clip but had none. And then he saw the creature perched atop one of the warehouses, just watching him with sinister, red eyes that pierced the darkness with their inhuman glow.

It pounced and spread its wings.

The loud ringing from the bedside table caused the elder Englishman to stir in his bed. The ringing continued and Alfred Pennyworth took the pillow from the spot next to him on the large bed and clamped it over his head. His attempt to drown out the ringing served futile and he sat upright. Turning on the lamp, he lifted the smartphone and rubbed his eyes as he silenced the alarm. The source of the ring was a message alert, a message that consisted of two words only: CAVE NOW.

“Master Wayne…” he grumbled to himself and put on his slippers before rising from the bed. Alfred took the robe off the peg on the back of his door and walked out into the large hallway.

He groggily made his way down the staircase and into the den, where he approached a large grandfather clock. He opened the glass cover and manually set the hands to 10:47. The sound of locks sliding open followed and the clock opened like a door, revealing a long, dark staircase. Alfred entered and the clock-door closed behind him, the hands on the face resetting themselves to a random time once the locks slid back into place.

When he reached the foot of the steps, Alfred stood in a large cavern. It was brightly lit by artificial light. Near the steps was a large bank of monitors hooked up to a powerful computer system and database. A high-backed, leather chair sat vacant in front of the system, with all the monitors on, flashing through various photographs and criminal mug shots. Not far from that was a large, black car. Heavily armored, yet sleek in design.

The other crucial component of the cavern was the area where the man who summoned Alfred sat. A place set aside for medical and first aid treatment. The Batman removed the pieces that made up his armored cowl, followed by the heavy cape. By the time Alfred approached, he was removing the top portion of his armor, revealing a series of bruises and scars. There were fresh ones in addition to ones gained in the past. Some wounds were bleeding.

Alfred donned a pair of glasses which he removed from the robe pocket. He approached the Batman, examining the wounds closely.

“I feel compelled to inform you, sir, of this new invention I recently heard of,” said Alfred as he prepared antiseptic and dressing for the wounds. “It’s called, if my recollection is correct, an ‘emergency room.’ And they frequently treat wounds in state-of-the-art medical facilities. Moreover, they don’t employ retired British intelligence officers with minimal medical training to treat these wounds. Rather, they employ these people called, and please forgive this old bugger’s shoddy memory, ‘doctors.’ These so-called ‘doctors’ allegedly have years of professional medical training and experience under their belts.”

His patient grinned as Alfred continued with his tirade.

“You know what else they have, Master Wayne?” asked Alfred. “Twenty-four hour service, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Can you imagine, sir?”

Alfred finished cleaning one of the wounds and applied some gauze over it and taped it down. “Now mind you, this is all just gossip I’ve heard. But if they actually existed, what a relief that would be. This old man could actually get a decent night’s sleep for once.”

“I can never tell if you’re grumpy or just trying to make conversation,” said Bruce.

Alfred moved on to the next wound. “I’d say it’s a bit of both, sir. I thought this armor was to protect you from gunfire?”

“It does, but only to an extent,” said Bruce. “If it were fully protective, I’d probably just be able to manage lumbering around.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t do much for your much-valued mystique.”

“That’s the theory,” said Bruce.

“There, all finished.” Alfred began cleaning up the supplies as Bruce stood from the seat. “Just like when you were a lad and skinned your knee. Only this time, you don’t get a lolly.”

“How about a cup of coffee?” asked Bruce.

“I’ll brew a pot, sir.”

The two men moved back towards the center of the cave. Bruce sat at the computer banks as Alfred went to a small alcove which had a kitchen area set up. He put on a pot of coffee and stood waiting, setting out two mugs.

“So what was it tonight?” asked Alfred across the distance.

“Drug shipment,” said Bruce. “Angel Carbone was there.”

“Should that name mean something to me, sir?”

Bruce grinned. “He’s a known associate of Maroni. If I can link it to Maroni, the DA may have enough evidence to bring him to trial.”

Alfred walked over holding two cups of coffee, one which he handed to Bruce. The younger man nodded his thanks and sipped it as he continued to stare at the screen. The computer automatically scrolled through the photos he uploaded.

“How did the improvements on the cowl work?” asked Alfred.

“The red eyes seemed to make an impression,” said Bruce. “Infrared scanner is also working better than expected.”

“Make sure you pass on compliments to Mr. Fox.”

“I’m all grown up and you’re still reminding me to write thank-you cards.”

“Start remembering and I’ll stop reminding,” said Alfred.

“These look good,” said Bruce, scanning over the photos. “Combined with union contracts linked to Maroni, should be enough for Gordon to bring him in on probable cause.”

“Perhaps, sir, you should hire someone to run this Oracle Network for you,” said Alfred. “You can’t handle it all by your lonesome, and my knowledge of computers is limited to Solitaire.”

“I get the Netflix bills, Alfred.”

“Be that as it may.”

“I know,” said Bruce. “And I’m looking into possible candidates within the Network. It’ll take some time to investigate their backgrounds a bit further, though. But that can wait.”

Bruce stood and stretched. “Bruce Wayne has a meeting at nine in the morning.”

“It’s five now, Master Wayne. It will take you at least an hour to get ready and another hour to drive to Wayne Tower.”

“That gives me two hours to sleep. Plenty of time.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Bruce stripped off the last of his armor. Alfred collected the pieces and began to store them in the armor’s case, which stood upright near the computer. “I’ll handle the rest of it, sir. Just go rest.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Arkham Asylum

Dr. Jeremiah Arkham shuffled through the paperwork before him on the conference table. He sat at one end, surrounded by the other head psychiatric staff of the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. On his right was Dr. Alyce Sinner and to his left, Dr. Joan Leeland. Sitting across from him at the other end of the table was the newest addition to Arkham Asylum, a tall, gauntly man with a long face and thin glasses resting on the tip of his nose.

Arkham arranged everything and folded his hands, looking up at the other man with a smile. “Sorry about the delay, just wanted to make sure I had everything in order. I’d like to take this moment to introduce Warden Sharp’s latest addition to our psychiatric family here at Arkham, Dr. Jonathan Crane.”

Crane smiled and offered a slight bow of his head.

“Dr. Crane, Arkham Asylum is a…unique institution. Quite unlike anything you’ve seen before, I can assure you of that,” said Arkham.

“I’m quite aware of this hospital’s…colorful history, Dr. Arkham,” said Crane. “When I received Warden Sharp’s invitation, I felt I could hardly decline.”

“Dr. Crane’s research specializes in the psychology of fear,” said Arkham, now addressing Sinner and Leeland. “Many of our inmates have been gripped by a unique sort of mass hysteria, focused on an urban legend which first started circulating around Gotham a few years ago.”

Crane nodded. “The Batman.”

Arkham cleared his throat. “Yes, well…it’s a ridiculous legend, as you’re no doubt aware. But it’s almost as if this Batman myth has turned into a virus, infecting most of the criminal population at our asylum. Men with no prior history of mental illness have claimed to have been attacked by this Batman, a figure they refer to simply as ‘the Bat.’ Warden Sharp feels that this continued hysteria called for the intervention of an expert on the subject of fear. And that brings us to Dr. Crane. Do you have anything you’d like to add, Doctor?”

Crane cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “These cases are quite interesting to say the least. I’ve read the reports, and all the patients seem to agree on a few points regarding the Batman—he moves with inhuman speed, he turns invisible in the shadows, and they all report that they’ve seen his ‘ears’ and his ‘wings.’ Some have recollections of a humanoid shape beneath these wings, while others simply say he is a creature.

“As I’ve told the warden, I would like to examine this fear not only on a psychological, but also neurobiological level. I believe pharmaceutical treatments could be quite beneficial in their recovery. These men, although they all share a long history of criminal misdeeds, do not share a long history of mental illness, if at all. I believe—with the board’s permission, of course—that I can cure these men of this irrational phobia. From there, they can be transferred to a standard correctional facility.”

“Thank you, Dr. Crane.” Arkham stood. “I believe that’s all for now. I’m looking forward to your results.”

To be continued…