Batman

The hunt was thrilling. He considered himself something of an…adrenaline junkie. There was nothing quite like the high of the pursuit, the prey desperately trying to stave off the inevitable, the smell of fear permeating the air. The look in someone's eyes when they realize, without any doubt, that they are going to die. The last spasms of struggle, replaced with limp resignation. The feeling of conquering someone completely and utterly, destroying them in a way that cannot ever be undone. He lived for the hunt.

The only problem with the hunt, however, was its brevity. Sometimes he enjoyed toying with the prey, drawing out the suspense and sustaining the adrenaline rush. But often, more often than not actually, the trip down after the kill was complete, depressing and anticlimactic. He had never been one for rituals; he did not deface his victims. He had never seen the point of such an exercise. Once the prey had served its use - that is, to die by his hand - he would simply discard it, tossing it aside or just leaving it where it lay. Often there was no one to witness his victory, to marvel at his feats.

But one cannot live life dangerously and violently, in pursuit of a rush, in one aspect of life without also pursuing passion on other fronts. That was the mistake serial killers made, he thought. They quelled their passion most of the time, only releasing it when they made a kill. That way led to madness, he thought, and he was a sane man.

To that end, he searched for other highs, other outlets for his aggressive energies. While not as stimulating to him as the hunt, sex provided a momentary high, a brief and sometimes tiring diversion. So he pursued sex with vigor. There were two problems with sex as an outlet, though, as he'd learned over the years. The first, never insurmountable if one had resources, was to find partners. He preferred willing partners, although he was known to improvise in a pinch.

The second problem was more complex. He was a ghost, could not have his identity compromised. Thus, he needed to dispose of his partners afterward…

The girl was probably in her mid-twenties, but was made up to look no more than eighteen, if that. There was a brown substance caked in her stringy blonde hair. Her eyes were open, with a slightly shocked expression on her face, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, yet her mascara and caked-on makeup still in place. Dried blood was caked onto her bottom lip, running down her neck. Her halter-top was torn, as was her too-short miniskirt. One of her pumps was missing, and her feet and legs were covered with trash. Her two friends lay next to her in the dumpster, their necks snapped as well.

Flashbulbs dotted the grisly scene as the police photographers did their work. The ME was on his way, but there was really no doubt as to cause of death. More important were the details, beyond the obvious, that might give some clue as to who had tossed these women asunder, ended their lives so cruelly.

Renee Montoya watched as the scene unfolded, making sure no one contaminated an already-disgusting scene. Her partner, Crispus Allen, making his return after a fifteen-minute departure, drew her to attention. "Find anything, Cris?" she asked.

Allen was all business at a crime scene. Bullock liked to call him a strutting peacock, and Montoya had to admit Cris was a little full of himself. But he was a good cop and quite thorough. He held a notepad in front of him as he approached and shook his head. "We'll need a warrant to get in there," he replied, gesturing at the flophouse behind him. "No probable cause to believe there's a crime being committed in there right now, even though it's a safe bet these three," he said, gesturing at the dumpster, "had some connection to the place." The victims' profession appeared clear and the building next to the dumpster was well-known for illicit goings-on. "Still," smirked Allen, "I'd say we've got some pretty good evidence on which to base a warrant.

Montoya nodded. The third-floor window of the building opposite the dumpster was decimated. The ME would find tiny glass cuts on two of the victims. Next to the broken window was a person-sized hole in the wall. Stucco mingled with glass on the street. The third victim would show bruising consistent with blunt trauma.

Montoya heard the sound, almost like a shifting in the breeze. One less familiar would have dismissed it as a trick of the air, but she knew better. She looked past Allen, then around toward a nearby alley. "Listen, Cris, can you hold down the fort here for a few?"

Allen looked puzzled. "Sure. Everything ok?"

"Sure. Just need a few minutes." Montoya left Allen shaking his head in puzzlement, then ducked into the alley. She looked this way and that as she trudged into the darkness. She had a flashlight on her key chain, but knew from experience not to use it. The alley was pitch black; Montoya literally couldn't see her hand in front of her face. She walked carefully to avoid stepping on anything or bumping into something.

"You here?" she asked the darkness.

It shuffled, the sound of cloth rustling. "I'm here," replied Batman.

"You taking an interest in this one?"

"Maybe. Did your people take a look inside the brothel?"

"Not yet. We'll need a warrant. Cris'll get one shortly, I'm sure."

"What have you got?"

Montoya hesitated briefly, always uncomfortable feeding confidential police information to a vigilante. Still, she thought, this particular vigilante had proven himself trustworthy. "Three hookers, necks snapped and tossed into a dumpster. We're working on IDs, shouldn't be a problem. All three of them probably have records a mile long. Probably came from the brothel, but we haven't confirmed.

"Looks like the perp tossed two of them through the window and, at least it seems, the other through the wall. Could be someone in your weight class."

"Any leads?"

"Not yet. We'll interview whoever'll talk at the brothel. Forensics might give us something on the girls. If the perp had sex with them before he killed them, maybe we'll get a semen sample."

"How's Jim?"

"Back at work in three days, way too early if you ask..." Montoya heard the shuffling sound again and knew she was alone. Her cross-examination completed, she headed back toward the light.

Oswald Cobblepot tried never to get into a routine. There were certain things he enjoyed - women, alcohol, voyeurism, and just hanging out at his casino, The Iceberg Lounge. He filled his nights with these activities, but tried to vary his schedule. As the Penguin, Cobblepot had many powerful enemies. Any of them could take a shot at him, try to knock him from his perch, at any time, and it paid to move around. At least that's what he told himself. Sometimes he wondered if he was just being paranoid, if his position was more secure than he believed.

Nights like tonight reinforced his paranoia.

He'd been cuddled in his private suite with two attractive young ladies who were in his employ. He'd seen to it that each of them became addicted to a certain designer drug he possessed in large quantities. In exchange for the drug, they'd do anything he wanted, including waiting on him hand and foot. Tonight he was watching television, enjoying the late college football game, counting his winnings, when he was interrupted by his Lieutenant, Yotsa Bija. Yotsa was a seven foot tall African American, bald as a pool cue and built like a linebacker. Although he looked every bit the stereotypical enforcer, Yotsa had as keen a mind for management as Cobblepot had ever encountered, next to his own, of course.

Yotsa knocked then stuck his head in the door without waiting for an answer. He was the only person in Penguin's employ who could get away with such a transgression. "Mister Cobblepot? We may have a situation here."

Penguin sighed, pulled abruptly from the game. "Something you can't handle yourself, Yotsa?"

"Got someone who wants to meet with you."

Penguin tried not to be too sarcastic. "Well unless someone's a leggy she with a promiscuity problem, I'm not interested."

Yotsa nodded. "This's a little different, sir. This lady's been winning - big - all night. Possible she's cheating the house. She's got two very large guys with her, acting like they're her bodyguards or something. She seems like someone you might want to know."
Penguin, nodded. "Show her in, by all means."

Shortly, a short woman with close-cropped dark hair entered, flanked by the two leviathans Yotsa had described. Sensing danger, Yotsa was in the room as well, his piece drawn. The woman wore a dark trench coat and what appeared to be leather boots. "Good evening, Mr. Cobblepot," she droned in a thick Russian accent, without extending her hand. "It is pleasant to meet you at last."

"Likewise, I'm sure," replied Penguin, sneaking a reassuring look at Yotsa. "And you are?"

"Romana."

"Romana what?"

"Romana."

"Romana Romana?" Penguin smiled sarcastically, and was rewarded with a glare that could freeze a volcano.

"Do not waste my time with sarcasm, little man." Romana clearly had business on her mind. "I have come tonight to discuss business, not to, as you say, chit-chat."

Penguin turned to business, a cruel leer slowly fading. He raised himself from his couch and slowly waddled to his large oak desk. After making a show of sitting, he returned his gaze to Romana. "Now then, my dear, what can I do for you this evening?"

Romana snapped to attention. "Da. Mister Cobblepot, it is known to my organization that you are engaged in certain profitable enterprises here in Gotham. And I am not referring to your casino."

"Ah, I see. Well, Miss Romana, let me assure you that any rumors you may have heard involving me in any sort of illicit activity are just…"

Shaking her head, she cut him off. "Please do not waste my time with nonsense. I know what you do, Mr. 'Penguin'. Let us not continue with silly posturing."

Penguin contemplated her. "Assuming," he finally proffered, raising his legs onto the desk, "that I had any idea what you're talking about, how would that concern you?"

"My organization is involved in enterprises similar to yours. Increasingly so, in fact. One might call us rivals, of a sort. My purpose is to make you aware of our presence, so that you might avoid…interfering in our activities."

"Then I'm not sure I understand you, my dear. Are you giving me a, as we say, heads-up, or are you threatening my supposed enterprises?"

Coolly, Romana gestured to her companions. In the blink of an eye, each withdraw a 9 mm gun from his holster and began firing around the room. Yotsa snapped to attention, aiming his own weapon at Romana. Cobblepot covered his head with his hands and leapt under his desk. Bullets struck several pieces of fine art, as well as the television, causing a small fire to break out in the set. Yotsa screamed for the shooting to stop.

When it finally did, Cobblepot slowly emerged from under the desk. Romana was still seated, in exactly the same position she had occupied previously. She seemed oblivious to Yotsa, as did her subordinates, now brandishing their guns openly.

"Mr. Cobblepot," resumed Romana. "I hope we understand one another better now. My world can be a violent and harsh one. It is not a world for soft Americans. You would do well to remember that."

She rose from her seat, still paying no mind to Yotsa. Cobblepot returned to his seat. "I'll be sending you a bill for the damage, Miss Romana. I don't appreciate your manners, or lack thereof. These ruffians may come in and shoot up my home, but you miscreants have nothing that would make me respect you."

"Ah, Mr. Cobblepot. That is where you are wrong. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Steel Wolf?"

Manford Biggins had tried to ignore the threats. He'd run his little shop in Little Odessa for over thirty years. Early on, he'd learned the price of doing business in Gotham City. Every week he'd deliver an envelope containing five hundred dollars to a ‘runner’, in exchange for protection. The concept of ‘protection’ was somewhat nebulous, but basically Manford understood that he was buying insurance against man-made disasters, not only those perpetrated by the recipient of his largesse, but the recipient's rivals. There was a certain honor among thieves, at least. The organization to whom Manford paid appreciated the steady cash flow from Manford's shop, and others like it, and extended its protection in order to allow the profitable arrangement to continue. Manford had just closed his shop on this rainy night when he heard a knock on the front door. He looked past the steel rails right behind the glass front door, barely making out the shape of a large man knocking. "Sorry, we're closed," he mouthed, then repeated, louder, when the knocking continued. Annoyed, Manford headed for the front door, determined to repeat the message a final time.

He never got the chance. Suddenly, a fist smashed through the glass door, shattering it instantly. Powerful hands ripped the shattered door from its frame, tossing it aside like a paperweight. Manford felt himself cut by glass from the door. Blood from a cut on his forehead seeped into his eyes, blinding him. He didn't see the intruder smash his way through the steel gate with his bare hands.

Manford sank to the floor, fighting in vain to regain his eyesight. "I paid. I paid. I paid. I have protection. I have protection."

The attacker sneered. "No one can protect you from the Steel Wolf," he said matter-of-factly. Manford felt himself lose bladder control as hands reached for him.

It was late for Daniel Dickerson to be anywhere near his office. He was usually gone for the day no later than 4:30 unless he was tied up in a meeting. Also, this was Wednesday, which was his golfing day. He usually ducked out for lunch on Wednesdays and did not return.

Tonight, however, Gotham's mayor was burning the midnight oil. A lone lamp lit his immaculate office. Dickerson was very particular about always having his desk clean. His secretary Wanda usually signed all his correspondence for him, often without even showing it to him. He did not read his mail unless he had a special reason to do so. The only items on his desk were phone messages, stuck on a prong and waiting for him to ignore. He'd only used his laptop on a few occasions while in office, usually to look at porn on the Internet. A friend had told him he could access topless women through a link on the Drudge Report, and so he'd learned to bookmark the site. Tonight, though, he was watching his inbox like a teakettle, waiting for an encrypted email to arrive. He'd been waiting for forty-five minutes and was getting annoyed.

Just as Dickerson was ready to give up and shut off the computer, the envelope icon appeared on his screen. He had mail. Dutifully, the Mayor of Gotham City clicked on the icon.

Sirens blared near Manford's store, signaling the police's late arrival. The only movement from inside the store came from the large man slowly emerging toward the street. His hands were empty, his fists clenched as if in rage. After exiting the store, he looked left and right, scanning the street in an attempt to identify potential witnesses and assure himself that the police were still too far away to interfere.

His task accomplished, the figure sprinted across the street, departing down a side street in the opposite direction from the sirens.

He didn't hear the whir of the camera from the rooftop opposite the store. He didn't realize he was being watched.

"Do you ever get involved with anything that doesn't involve hacking government files?" asked Oracle.

Batman stared at the computer screens lining the Batcave, looking not only at Barbara Gordon, but the documents she had just forwarded to him. Alfred stood behind him, trying to conceal his interest in the investigation as well as his amusement at Babs' chiding. Batman didn't answer Oracle's jab.

She decided to break the silence. "So, you've tangled with our friend before, right?"

"Yes," Batman finally answered. "I met him when he was working with Amanda Waller - and you, of course." Batman was not enamored of Babs' former relationship with Amanda Waller, who headed up Task Force X a/k/a Task Force Omega a/k/a the Suicide Squad, a government program offering criminals parole in exchange for participation in black ops. Truth be told, Babs wasn't always proud of her involvement with Waller, either.

"And you're sure he's in Gotham?" Babs asked.

"Tonight three prostitutes were murdered downtown. Two of them were thrown through a window. The other was thrown through a stucco wall. It required massive strength to perform a feat like that. Clearly we're dealing with someone with superhuman strength.”

"Preliminary police investigation found semen samples in one of the three women, as well as on the bed sheets of the room they exited. They'll have to wait six weeks for DNA testing, but I ran the results tonight." No one commented on Batman's ability to perform such a task, without even having direct access to the samples. It was just one of those things you accepted that Batman could pull off. "Access was restricted, even beyond the places I can get."

"I might be able to get in, if you give me some time."

"Probably. But time is of the essence. It seems clear that our perp has government connections as well, thus all the secrecy.

"Moreover, rumor has it the Russians are back in town, making a play for the Gotham crime scene. Figures they'd need an enforcer, someone to make their presence respectable."

"There're tons on super powered strongmen. What about the KGBeast? Or the NKVDemon?"

"Beast's still in stir. Demon's in Transbelvia. There aren't very many Russian metahumans with US Government connections, Oracle. Especially ones we haven't heard from in over five years."

"I just figured he retired."

"Thugs like him don't retire. The pull of the life is too strong."

Babs was silent. She knew Batman was right. Even leaving aside the fact that Batman had a hunch, and was rarely betrayed by his instincts, the circumstantial evidence was pretty damning. She'd known him by several names when she'd worked with the Suicide Squad. Gort. Stolnoivolk. The Steel Wolf. A Russian metahuman ‘created’ by the former Soviet Union. Superhuman strength. Decreased sensation, reducing his ability to feel pain. A nearly unstoppable killing machine, rendered a free agent by the fall of the Soviet Union. No conscience whatsoever, a complete sociopath. A remorseless killer.

Who was now, apparently, in Gotham City.

"Thanks for your help, Oracle," Batman interrupted Babs' ruminations. "If you can keep working on background info for his whereabouts over the last five years, I'd appreciate it."

"No problem, Boss. You're welcome."

"Oh, Barbara?"

"Yes?"

"Congratulations on the engagement. And welcome to the family."

He sat in his plush hotel room, all the lights off, the room lit only by light from the street, alone on his bed. Killing the shop owner had been fun, but ultimately unsatisfying. He'd posed no challenge, wetting himself like a baby, begging for mercy that wouldn't come. The entire experience had left Stolnoivolk wanting more.

He realized he was becoming an adrenaline junkie, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Maybe he'd call Romana, see if there was more work that needed to be done.

No. She had been clear that his role was to wait for orders and then follow them to the letter. In return, she paid him handsomely and pointed him at people to maim and kill. To his mind, it was a perfect arrangement. Once he'd been a true believer in the Communist philosophy, committing himself to a life of self-sacrifice for the greater good. But exposure to the ‘decadent’ West, and the numerous opportunities for financial gain and the pleasures it could buy, had changed his viewpoint noticeably.

For example, he'd never conceived of purchasing sex before visiting America. What a remarkable concept, he thought, while at the same time lamenting his weakness. The prostitutes had been a mistake. No one was to see his face and live, and that meant the hookers had to die. Moreover, his decreased sensation was often…problematic in the bedroom, particularly when he used contraception. All in all, it was a far from optimal situation, and potentially a messy problem.

But he felt the rage and anger boiling within him again. It was like a beast, ready to erupt from inside him at any moment. He was trying to contain it, but he knew that eventually it would overcome him. Eventually he would need an outlet.

And when that happened, more people would die. It was only a matter of time, as inevitable as the tides.

Romana smiled as she checked her email. Mayor Dickerson was complying with her orders quite nicely.

To Be Continued...

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