Batman

PREVIOUSLY: A series of murders points Batman in the direction of the Russian mob, and in particular at a metahuman assassin known as the Steel Wolf. Meanwhile the mob, led by a brutal gangster named Romana, infringes on the Penguin’s established territory, apparently corrupting Gotham’s Mayor Daniel Dickerson as well.

“You think this was the Russians?” muttered Harvey Bullock as he tossed the report from his desk.

Renee Montoya and Crispus Allen both shook their heads. Montoya took the lead in responding, as she usually did with Bullock. “Could be, I guess, but it just doesn’t feel quite right.” Earlier that evening one of Gotham’s largest law firms had been penetrated. The thieves had gained access to the firm’s office, which was located on a supposedly secure floor of the Rogers Building downtown, one of Gotham’s newest and most impressive skyscrapers. The computer system had been breached and the office administrator’s password hacked. The thieves had gained access to untold amounts of confidential client information, as well as the firm’s financial information, bank account numbers, and the like. There was no telling how much damage had been done, and the partners of Gentile Lewis & Sperry, LLP, were scrambling to shield their assets, and those of their clients, from further compromise. “Frankly,” Montoya added as she handed her and Allen’s report to Bullock, “This has got inside job written all over it.”

Bullock gave the report a cursory glance, then “filed” it in the mound of papers and food on his desk. Allen stared out the window, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Montoya ignored him, focusing on Bullock as she made her report.

Harvey finally grunted. “Yeah, things like this usually are inside jobs. Who else knows all the passwords and stuff, right?”

Allen finally turned from the window. He looked as if he was about to offer an opinion, then turned back toward the window. “Something on your mind, Peacock?” asked Bullock gruffly.

Allen barely acknowledged Bullock, but turned and looked at Montoya. “Renee, if this was an inside job, why did the perps bother sneaking in after hours? I mean, if you’ve got all those passwords, and a relatively secluded office, you could do it at your leisure, right?”

Montoya shrugged. “Maybe. But that would make it easier to get caught, too. Why not wait until the office is empty and you can pilfer undisturbed?”

Allen nodded, and then turned back to the window. Rain had begun to fall in Gotham City, and drops pelted the window of Bullock’s office. Clearly he was unconvinced. The firm was also suspicious of an inside job, but Allen’s gut told him otherwise. Something was happening in Gotham. How could an outsider have penetrated the firm so easily?

For the second time in two days, Penguin’s sanctuary was defiled. And this time he wasn’t taking it sitting down. Three hulking men surrounded the black-caped figure, each feeding off the other’s confidence.

They never had a chance. A sweeping kick knocked two of them off their feet. The third man lunged at what was now a moving target, only to miss badly and land on his face. The Batman dealt three roundhouse punches, each finding its respective target, within two seconds. The Penguin’s thugs slumped to the floor.

“What do say we cut out this nonsense and get down to business, Penguin?”

Oswald Cobblepot clenched his fists behind his desks. He would have liked nothing more than to put a bullet in the head of this intruder. He had never dealt well with feelings of impotence, and the repeated invasions of his sanctuary had left him feeling quite impotent indeed. Nonetheless, he knew no good would come of him losing his composure. His reason won out over his rage. “By all means have a seat, my caped friend. Could I offer you something – some hemlock perhaps?”

Batman strode over to Penguin’s desk, placing his gloved fingertips on the desk. “I hear you’ve been having some trouble, Oswald.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You sure about that? Word is you got roughed up pretty badly. You know how rumors are, Oswald. In your game, perception is paramount. If people believe that you’re weak, you’re weak. Period.”

“Even if that’s true – and I’m not saying it is – you are irrelevant to the equation.”

Batman leaned over the desk. “Oswald – this is my city. I am relevant to every equation.”

Penguin cleared his throat. “What exactly is it that you want, freak?”

“Information, Cobblepot. I want to know who’s squeezing you.”

Penguin stared at Batman for a good five seconds before answering. “The Russians. It was the Russians.”

Batman straightened, his suspicions confirmed. “What do they want?”

“What they always want. What we all want. Money. And lots of it. They want money, Bat-fink. But like I said when you came blustering your way through the door, I. Can. Handle. It. I’ve dealt with these clowns before. They talk tough, but they don’t have the real muscle to survive.

“I mean, what are they going to do? Sic the KGBeast on me? Color me worried.”

Cobblepot’s insufferable arrogance was always difficult for Batman to take, and he almost smiled as he replied. “It’s not the Beast this time, Penguin. The Russians have learned from their mistakes. They’ve gotten someone more formidable to be the bully of the block.”

“The NKVDemon? Please. Didn’t he get blown up or something?”

“The Steel Wolf.”

Penguin tried to maintain his composure, but Batman saw it. Just an instant, a flash of hesitation, of fear. He almost whispered the word “metahuman” before regaining his bearings. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. We’ve dealt with the Russians before, and we’ll do it again, my freakish friend.” But the lie was obvious. Batman said nothing, turned and headed for the door, knowing that a bead of sweat was forming on the Penguin’s brow. He’d thought Romana was bluffing before. Now he knew it was true.

The Steel Wolf. The game had changed; the stakes had been raised. And Cobblepot had no answer, no way to match the ante.

Mayor Dickerson was late, as usual. He’d overslept and missed the opportune time to commute to his office, leaving him stuck in gridlock traffic. No big deal, usually. As the Mayor, he could set his own hours unless he had an appointment at a specific time, which was not the case today. So he wasn’t harried as he exited his Lexus.

No, what surprised him was having a microphone suddenly tossed in his face. “Mister Mayor? Mister Mayor? Do you have a moment?”

Dickerson turned to face a pretty blonde reporter. Dickerson was a short man, and the reporter actually had a few inches on him. He found himself staring at cleavage as she spoke. “Laura Getter, Spotlight News. Mister Mayor, can you comment on the City’s award of the arena contract to Spetsnaz Industries?” Gotham was in the process of constructing an arena for its basketball team, the Goliaths.

A wave of panic gripped the Mayor, but the politician in him allowed him to keep control. “Ah, yes, Ms. Getter. We were very impressed with Spetsnaz; they submitted an excellent proposal at a fair price.”

“Mister Mayor, sources within City Hall have indicated that Spetsnaz was not in the bidding until the eleventh hour, and in fact no one had heard of them at all. Then they submitted the low bid at the last moment. Some pundits are suggesting that nepotism may have played a role in the award of the contract. Do you have any comment on these allegations?”

The panic resurfaced. “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of it, Ms. Getter. Sounds like internet speculation to me, though. One can’t believe everything one reads on a message board or a chatroom.”

“Is that a denial, Mister Mayor? For the record, I mean?”

Dickerson had started to walk off, but now turned to face Getter’s cameraman. He gave the camera his most earnest look, then sighed. “Yes. It’s a denial. Allegations like that are spurious and irresponsible. And I’ll have no further comment on rumors and innuendo. Now if you’ll excuse me, there is real business that needs to be conducted.” With that, he stalked off, not bothering to wait for Getter’s meek “thank you.”

He was furious by the time he reached his office. He swore at Wanda on his way in, telling her to hold his calls. She was starting to tell him something, but he didn’t hear, slamming his door to the rest of the world.

“You are in, as they say, quite a state.”

Dickerson nearly jumped out of his pants. Romana was seated on his couch, dressed impeccably in a professional business suit. She held a manila envelope in her lap. Her usually indispensable team of bodyguards was nowhere in sight. She looked more like an accountant than an unprincipled killer.

“Are you out of your mind? What are you doing here?” barked Dickerson.

Romana glared, but remained seated. She would only tolerate this little man for so long. “I needed to discuss business with you.”

“That’s what phones are for. It is not good for us to be seen together. It’s sloppy. It’s.. URK!”

Before Dickerson could register the thought, Romana had stood, dropped her folder, crossed the office, and grabbed him by his throat, lifting him from the ground. Dickerson felt extreme pain in his throat, and gasped without success for air. Romana’s detached expression was unchanged. “Mister Dickerson.” she said. “Daniel. You will not address me in that manner. Ever. Are we clear? Hold up two fingers if we are clear.”

Dickerson complied meekly, and Romana slowly lowered him to the ground and released him. He grabbed his throat, gasping loudly for air. Romana went back to her seat and placed the envelope back in her lap.

Finally, Dickerson pulled himself together. “Romana. Romana. I meant.. I meant no disrespect. I’m just concerned. If someone draws a connection between us, it could mean disaster.”

“For you.”

“For you too, if your in at City Hall is eliminated. There was a reporter waiting for me outside, asking me questions about Spetsnaz Industries. About the bidding.”

“Questions?”

“People.. people are making allegations. Suggesting that the bidding process was tainted. Saying that something fishy is going on.” Which it is, he didn’t add.

“These people. .do they have any proof?”

“I don’t think so, not right now. But listen – I mean, please listen.” Dickerson felt his armpits wet with sweat. “These people are very tenacious. They will investigate. They will hunt. They will look for some evidence of impropriety. It is – I think – I think it makes sense if we don’t – if we do everything we can to keep them from finding anything. Evidence, I mean.” His hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Da. There is wisdom in what you say. I will not visit you here again. I will contact you via email or cell phone.”

“Email isn’t really all that..”

“I will contact you by email or cell phone.” She handed the envelope to Dickerson. “Now,” she said as she stood, “Here is your next project.”

The urge had overcome him about nine pm. He’d had a few drinks, just to loosen up. Stolnoivolk didn’t drink very much, especially when he was on call. But tonight, like the last few nights, he’d needed to take the edge off. For days he’d been cooped up. No matter where he went, he was cooped up. He walked the streets (in disguise), strolled through the park, whatever he could think to do to occupy his time, to no avail. He needed to be free. He needed to release the emotions building within him. He needed to kill.

Even though he wasn’t supposed to contact Romana, he’d done so late this afternoon. He’d asked for something to do, only to be told that he was not needed for the moment. Things were proceeding very well for Romana’s people, as they moved into the city’s legitimate – and illegitimate – enterprises. Gort had read about the award of the arena contract and, though he didn’t know for sure, had strong suspicions about the true proprietor of Spetsnaz Industries. Now there was some flap over a break-in at a law firm. Stories in the media were conflicting, but Gort saw the ray of truth – Romana had been involved. She was moving into every aspect of the city, tangling herself in its web, and it in hers. The resident bully was not needed at the moment. His presence alone was sufficient, like a nuclear device held in reserve against a hostile nation.

Denied an acceptable release for his adrenaline, he sought another outlet. Perhaps sex; he hadn’t indulged in several days, since the incident with the hookers. He needed a target; someone who wouldn’t be missed. The brothel he’d destroyed previously was, of course, out of the question as a hunting ground.

He’d finally settled on a teenage girl working alone at a convenience store twelve blocks from his hotel. Maybe she’d be missed; maybe she wouldn’t. But even if she’d be missed, he’d make sure she wouldn’t be found for weeks. This time he’d be more careful.

The target finished her duties shortly after eleven, and locked the store from the outside. She wore a threadbare sweater over a ridiculous convenience store uniform as she struggled with the finicky lock. Stupid Americans, Gort thought, leaving a young girl to close alone. He supposed that was the consequence of women’s liberation, that women were sacrificed as quickly to the elements as men.

She didn’t see him coming, so intent was she on making sure the store was properly locked. Stupid whore, he thought, as he grabbed her around the waist with one arm and placed the other hand over her mouth. Before she could scream, Gort slid his other hand up to her neck, quickly applying pressure to a sensitive nerve. The girl fell forward in his arms, unconscious.

He tossed her back against him and looked at her. She was quite pretty, short dark hair, a nice figure, a delicate innocence. He would enjoy changing that.

Carrying her carefully, Gort reached down and picked up her dropped keys from the ground. He unlocked the store and took her back inside, careful to lock the door behind him.

“Dammit!” came the muted swear from across the street, behind a pair of binoculars. This couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Batman was perched on top of the Rogers Building, his cape strung out behind him, blowing in the cool breeze. The rain had stopped, and he was in his element. Batman never read the newspaper all the way through, but Alfred prepared some news bytes for him each day, to keep him current on the day’s events. He knew of the theft at the Gentile firm the night before. Police were focused on a possible inside job, but Batman was unconvinced. Oracle was working on figuring out what had been stolen, hoping the damage could be contained. Panic was gripping the firm as well as its clients, despite desperate attempts to reassure them. What if chaos itself was the goal, rather than the stolen information? Who would benefit? Who stood to gain?

He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the pager going off at first. At first he assumed Gordon must be paging him, but the number was unfamiliar. Who else had the number? “Oracle.” he spoke into his headset. “Who’s paging me?”

“Just a minute, boss. Hang on.. wait, I know this one. Gimme a second.”

“Oracle?”

“Got it. You better get moving. It’s Gort.”

The girl was weak now, struggling both to regain consciousness and prevent him from achieving his vile goal. He’d gotten her clothes off without any difficulty. It was only when he began his true work that she’d awakened, as if alerted to the violence he was about to do her. She had no chance of escaping, however. Her mouth was taped, preventing her from screaming, and causing her to hyperventilate when she tried. She kicked and punched with all her might, but his strength was too far superior to hers for desperation, or even the instinct for self-preservation, to make much difference.

The entire time, he was thinking of the cleanup, of how he’d dispose of her once he had finished. His hope, and suspicion, was that no one would miss her for a few days, and that no one would find her for weeks. Even if someone ultimately tied the crime to him, it would take many months. By then he might be tired of Gotham anyway, and en route to some other locale. He tried never to stay too long in one place, after all.

He felt detached from himself after he was finished. The girl was whimpering, bleeding on the mat he’d laid on the floor of the storeroom. He’d let go of her, but knew he would have to grab her again soon to prevent her from pulling out her gag and screaming. It was time to finish the job. Release had returned his professional detachment, and he was ready to end this as efficiently as possible.

He hadn’t heard glass breaking in the front of the store, he was so consumed during the act. The first thing he heard was footfalls behind him, and by the time he turned the figure was leaping through the air towards him. Stolnoivolk spun, and managed to deliver a glancing elbow as his attacker smashed into him, causing each of them to yelp with pain and surprise. The attacker was knocked off-balance and to the floor. Gort staggered briefly, but regained his balance before falling. The girl tried again to scream, without removing the gag, and began again to hyperventilate. She made a gurgling sound as she threw up into her gag, causing her to choke and begin to drown in her vomit.

The attacker rolled to a seated position, attempting to draw some sort of weapon. Gort couldn’t make out his face, only that he was dressed in all black. Snarling, Stolnoivolk lunged at the attacker before he could withdraw his weapon, slamming him again to the ground. He heard an arm snap, his attacker now yelling with pain. Moving in, he prepared to finish the job.

A batarang hit his fist as he raised it, knocking him a step or two off balance. Gort again spun around, just in time to see The Batman barreling down on him. Batman delivered a swift booted kick to Gort’s face, much more efficiently than the man in black. Gort felt little pain, but growled with annoyance. Batman somersaulted to a standing position opposite Stolnoivolk. He noticed the girl was no longer choking.

“Stolnoivolk,” Batman addressed him. “It’s over.”

Gort suppressed a laugh. “Come and get me, little man.”

Batman instead withdrew a gas pellet, and as he stepped into the light for the first time Gort could see he was wearing a gas mask. He tossed the pellet in Gort’s direction, then lunged for the black-clad attacker still prone on the floor. Pink gas exploded in a cloud around Gort, and he felt his lungs burn briefly as he inhaled.

Batman pulled the groaning man-in-black away from the cloud, placing him next to the unconscious woman he’d pulled from harm’s way a moment earlier. Turning, he expected to see Gort staggering and falling. The gas he’d hit him with could take down a rhino.

But not the Steel Wolf.

Fanning with both hands, Stolnoivolk emerged from the cloud of gas. His face was a mask of rage, his teeth clenched and eyes narrowed menacingly. He bellowed as he raced toward Batman. Batman leapt straight up, hoping to leap over Gort. He almost made it, but Gort snagged his right leg and began spinning him. After three rotations that left even Batman dizzy, Gort threw him across the room, through the dissipating cloud of dust, and into the wall. Batman heard mortar crack as his body impacted the wall, pain shooting through his spine. Even through the Kevlar-lined cowl, he felt his head crack against cement. Don’t lose consciousness, he thought to himself. If you do, you’re dead.

Batman’s vision blurred as he slid to the floor. Two Gorts ran toward him, ready to finish the kill. Batman’s gloved fingers reached for his grapnel. Swinging it around, he fired it right in Gort’s face as he approached. The loud PAF sound knocked both men backwards, causing Batman to impact the wall with force yet again. Gort screamed, covering his face with his hands, and staggered backward.

Suddenly the sound of sirens filled the air. As usual, Oracle had done her job. Gort turned and surveyed the situation, then bolted for the door. He contemplated grabbing a hostage on his way out, but decided to just make a break for it.

Dizziness and nausea overcame Batman as he tried to get up. His back ached, and pain radiated into his legs. His head spun from two impacts with the wall. He knew he needed to get out of the store before the police arrived, but his brain couldn’t will his limbs to move.

“Easy there, pal.” came a sluggish voice from behind him. He felt himself lifted to his feet and walked from the building into the cool back alley. “You got a car around here somewhere?” asked his support. Batman nodded, the cool air snapping him back to consciousness, and hit his remote for the Batmobile. “I see Oracle got you my message.”

“You.. called Oracle?” Batman struggled to focus his vision, his senses slowly returning.

“We do have a history, albeit limited. We worked together very briefly before the last time I died.”

At first he thought he was having audio hallucinations, but as Batman realized his counterpart was serious. Gears began to spin in his head, and pieces fell into place. He looked at his companion in a new light.

“Welcome back. How’d you cheat death this time?”

“It’s a long story, old pal.” Even before he withdrew the ski mask he was wearing, Batman knew. “Takes more than getting blown up to keep me down.” He rubbed a sore arm. “Although I think Gort may have broken something back there.”

The mask pulled off to reveal a mane of blond hair, Batman regarded Tom Tresser.

“For better or worse, though, Nemesis is back.”

Penguin replaced his phone in its cradle. One call was all it had taken to restore the balance of power in Gotham City. The Russians thought they could strongarm their way into Gotham on the back of a metahuman enforcer. Well, two could play at that game, he thought. We’ll just see how Mr. Steel Wolf holds up against Rexas. We’ll just see.

To Be Continued...

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