THE MANY MASKS OF BATMAN

By Jason McDonald

Baron’s Billiards
Nighttime.

The Batman.

The urban legend of the Bat had swept the streets of Gotham so long ago. Like the whipping chill of arctic winds that legend had penetrated all the way down into the marrow of the city’s rotting bones, eradicating the corruption centered deep inside its superstructure. Like a hurricane wind, the legend struck against the city’s many sins and toppled the devastating reign by the various mobs that had once kept the city bottled tight inside their fat pockets by way of fear, intimidation, and political power. Now, acting as a watchful guardian, the legendary dark knight would watch over the denizens of the still-beleaguered city, striking terror into the hearts of criminals and keeping the City of Sin safe for the innocent.

Or so the legends once said.

In the back room of Baron’s Billiards – the sleazy, grimy, festering hole that laughingly pretended to be a pool hall – a gang of criminals had their own ideas about the dark knight.

“He’s a fucking myth, is what he is,” said a gaunt, goateed man in his early forties with a predator’s hiss, wrinkles etched deep and hard into his brow as he separated a deck of well-used playing cards into two halves, expertly shuffling and cutting the deck with a flourish that would make the dealers at the Atlantic Casino jealous. Tapping the cards on the table, Walter Baron glared at the players before him in icy defiance. “News stories be damned. I been running this poker game for years, and I’ve never seen him.”

A fidgety, wisp of a man watched the cards as they were dealt. Cyrus wiped the sweat off his forehead with a worn handkerchief, placing a hand atop his cards and speaking in a squeaky, unsure voice. “I saw him. Yes, I did. I saw him once. He’s got fangs, and black leather wings and growls with a voice like the Devil himself. I think he is the Devil Himself. If you ever see him, you’d agree. It all started when we were lifting this sweet Cadillac back in the day, don’t you remember, Sam?”

Sam, a burly mountain of muscle who was involuntarily stretching against the seams of his thick leather jacket with each movement, tightened his fists angrily. “First of all, it was a Porsche we were after, and yes, I remember. Oh, I remember him. That prick cost me two fucking years of my life, man. If he were here right now, I’d gut that bastard like a trout.”

“Least you got out, right?” said the laid back man at the end of the table, peering over his stylish sunglasses with a bemused smirk while picking at his teeth with an unused matchstick. He tapped his fingers against the table, seemingly unconcerned with the large pile of money and chips in front of him as he looked at his two cards and simply set them face-down again.

“Two fucking years ain’t something a guy just up and forgets!” Sam hammered his fist down hard against the tabletop as he threw two yellow poker chips at the colossal pile of poker chips and wrinkled dollar bills in the center, which shifted slightly from the heavy vibrations from Sam’s meaty fist. He turned back to Cyrus with an annoyed grunt. “There isn’t anything supernatural about that piece of shit. He’s just a man in a costume. I swear to you, when I get my hands on him…”

“Now, now. This is a respectable poker game.” Walter Baron said, smirking at the leviathan’s rage. “Let’s play nice.”

“Yeah, play nice. We’ll see who plays nice with this lousy, no-good, stinkin’…”

“Raise,” the man at the end smiled, clutching his matchstick in his mouth while he pushed a stack of chips into the middle. “Thirty bucks.”

Cyrus shook his head, folding his cards against the table and gazed sadly upon his quickly-receding pile of poker chips. “Too rich for me. A little too rich, isn’t it, Sam?”

“Not for me,” Sam grumbled as he shoved another stack of chips into the center to match the bet. “Thirty more, Matchstick.”

“It’s Matches,” the man in the sunglasses smiled, resting his head on his hand as Walter also matched their bets. “Matches Malone.”

Matches Malone rubbed the razor wire stubble on his chin and tapped his fingers on the table as he saw Sam’s cheeks flush red with a growing anger. Most of the money in Matches’ pile of winnings had come from Sam, but he was less than concerned about the newfound enemy he was making. He was more interested in the conversation between the other two poker players in the corner of the room, who had been sitting out for the last four games now.

As the game continued with a frenzied fervor before him, Matches caught fleeting bits of conversation between the two men:

“…boss wants thirteen Mercedes by the end of tomorrow night?”

“You got it.”

“That’s insane. Where we gonna come across thirteen of them? Gotta drive them all back to the shop, too! No way two people can pull that in a night.”

“Oh shit, Sam looks pissed. He’s losing big. Bet he’ll help us grab a few. Get his mind off of this game, at least.”

“Uh-uh, no. Hell no.”

“He’s fast at this sort of thing. He’s been doing it since–”

“No! You know how he is! You want to deal with his shit the whole time we’re on the road?”

“Can think of any better way of getting all those hot cars off the street by tonight?”

“…”

“Well? Can you?”

“Yeah, I get it. Knock it off, already.”

“I’ll sit him down tonight, talk to him, get him down with the program. You just worry about your end. Besides, by the looks of things, he’ll need the money.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right. Look at him – he’s losing big time. He’s down at least four hundred bucks, give or take. Matches is just whooping his ass. Never seen him lose so bad.”

“Yeah, me either. Might need to pull Sam outta there sooner rather than later.”

“Nah, let them go at it. Might be fun to watch Sam do his thing to the new guy.”

“We don’t have time to be cleanin’ up the mess and dumpin’ any bodies, tonight. Better break it up before–”

“Allen, look at Sam just sitting there, fuming! He’s about two seconds away from filleting him. Tell me you don’t want to see that!”

“Knock it off. Look, we’ll need to start at dusk tomorrow and keep out of sight. Cops been on the warpath lately.”

“Ain’t lettin’ that stop me. Ain’t afraid of no cops, just like I ain’t afraid of no Bat.”

Tyrese Jones – wanted for armed robbery, grand theft auto, and questioning on several unsolved homicides. Allen Wellington – wanted for aggravated assault, kidnapping, and also grand theft auto. Sam Murdock, the rage-fueled behemoth still playing the game next to him, was wanted for grand theft auto, grand larceny, prison break and far too many misdemeanors and felonies to list. Matches knew all the players very well, even if they didn’t know him. The real him, the one hiding beneath the fake mustache and false crooked teeth and the cocky smile of a con man and card shark who could smell a good Texas Holdem match from a continent away.

Tyrese and Sam (the two having the clandestine conversation in the corner) were clearly the brawn, with Sam much more knowledgeable about the logistics of the operation. Sam was clearly the higher target between the two. Nevertheless, it was Allen who was the brains behind this particular stunt, despite the fact that there was someone above him that would have to be dealt with sooner, rather than later.

“Hey, you playin’ or what?” Matches’ attention settled back to focus on the fully-enraged Sam, who pounded his fist against the table, further unsettling the haphazard stacks of chips and money at its center.

Walter Baron glared at the angry player with a murderous fury. “Settle down, you moron! You’re liable to…”

Matches Malone cocked his head at Sam, cutting off the Baron’s warning with a smirk. “Oh, sorry. Miles away.”

“Time to draw,” Sam said, revealing his cards to Matches – the only remaining opponent in the hand. Apparently, Walter had folded some time ago. “Three aces, you little shit. Read it and weep.”

Sam harrumphed, pulling the entire pot – a sizeable hundred and ninety dollars in chips and change – toward his nearly-emptied pile when he heard Matches clear his throat in protest. Sam whipped his head around, scowling. “What now?”

Matches fiddled with the match in his teeth, picking up one card and slowly turning over the other one with it. “Full house. Tens over aces.”

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of this piece of shit!” Sam slammed his hands on the table as he stood up and produced a gleaming knife from his pocket, growling as he stalked over towards the seemingly-calm Matches, who was leisurely rising to his feet. Matches met the furious gaze of the burly man and regarded him and his deadly-sharp hunter’s knife as someone would regard a tiny, purring kitten. Matches crossed his arms as Tyrese and Allen hopped up from the sidelines and quickly stepped in-between the two men.

“Don’t kill him, man!” Tyrese gestured, holding out his arms.

“He’s right. It’s not worth it.” Allen said. “We got business matters to discuss with you.”

“The only business I’m concerned with, is the one where I cut his puny little ass to ribbons and mail those pieces back to his…”

All four men turned suddenly at the unmistakable sound of the hammer of a gun clicking into place. Their gaze fell on the face of Walter Baron – owner of the establishment – brandishing a shining Desert Eagle Magnum in his thick, calloused fingers.

“Not in here, you’re not,” the man growled. “I’ve got a business to run. You take that shit outside.”

Matches slowly moved his hand toward the heavy metal object in his pocket, stealing a glance back and forth between the man with the knife and the gunman. He readied himself for whatever lay ahead, watching Walter’s body language and trigger finger with an eagle’s eye.

Tyrese quickly broke the tense silence as he raised his hands, palms forward, in a non-threatening pose. “It’s cool! Everything’s cool here, man. Me and Sam and Allen were just about to talk over here, weren’t we guys?”

“Yes we were. No problems here.” Allen held his hands out as well, coolly staring sidelong at the man wielding the hunting knife. “Right, Sam? No problems?” he asked the man with a forceful voice.

Sam narrowed his eyes at Allen, then at Walter, and then glared at Matches, licking his lips. He turned his palms face-out and slowly put the knife back in his pocket. Gritting his teeth and scowling in defeat, he finally spoke. “Take it. Just take the damn pot. No problems here, but if I see you again, I swear to God…”

Matches’ smirk faded to a thin narrow line as he glared right back at Sam, the look somehow taking the characteristics of a deadly-serious warning. Walter lowered the gun as Matches released the pointed metal object in his grip, allowing the weapon to sink back into his pocket. Sam, Allen and Tyrese shuffled over to the side as Matches took the winnings. Before he left, Matches thanked Walter for breaking up the fight and not shooting first before heading out of the establishment with his earnings.

The metal batarang silently shook and rustled against his pocket as he circled around to the side of the building. Standing outside of an unseen window, he listened to the men inside for any further signs of tension and aggression. Satisfied that the situation was under control and that the thugs were too busy planning their next heist for any further violence, Matches Malone stopped off at the nearby orphanage and slipped something into the slot next to the heavy, locked doors before getting into his car, parked in the darkness in the back of the pool hall.

Matches Malone took off the mustache and removed the fake teeth from his mouth, revealing a set of impeccably pearly whites that couldn’t have resulted from the poor East End upbringing Matches claimed to have. The man smiled and drove the antique car down the street, thinking of the nuns and the children in the orphanage he’d passed. He could help but think of the smiles that would line their faces once they looked in the donation box in the morning.

Wayne Manor
The Next Morning

“Rise and shine, Master Bruce!”

Suddenly, Bruce Wayne’s world was assaulted by a brilliant, blinding white light. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises saw a fireworks of shapes and colors blinking and swirling within the twilight haze, as his eyes adjusted to the horrible rush of daylight flooding into the room. The cobwebs in his skull were stirred from their still slumber and slowly brushed away, as the once-exhausted man was unwillingly pulled back into an unsteady train of conscious thought. As the bursts of white and silver receded into the vibrant colors of his master bedroom, Bruce became dimly aware of both the open curtains (the source of the unwelcome sunlight) and his trusted confidante and butler, Alfred Pennyworth. The latter of which was currently (and futilely) trying to hide his mischievous grin beneath his usual, unflappable, austere English demeanor.

Bruce put on his finest grimace and spoke with words dripping with sarcasm. “…and a wonderful Tuesday to you too, Alfred.”

“Actually sir, today happens to be Thursday. It was, however, an exceedingly good guess on your part. Well done, sir.”

Bruce rubbed at his eyes and stretched out his arms, yawning heavily. “Oh, Thursday? Good. That was when I was planning to run the ad.”

Alfred picked up the elaborate tray of food he’d prepared and placed it on the nightstand beside Bruce, unfolding the napkin beside the warm plate. Clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow, Alfred looked at the master. “Oh? What ad would that be, sir?”

“Help wanted. Butler needed,” said Bruce with a smirk. “Must be a night owl.”

Suddenly, the napkin found its way atop his head, covering his still-smirking face.

“Hilarious, sir. I shall recommend you for entrance to the Tower Theatre’s local amateur comedy night. Should you wish to eat now, sir? You must be famished after spending those forty-eight hours drooling into your pillow.”

Bruce laughed as Alfred uncovered the delicious breakfast in front of him: Two slices of buttered toast, lightly crisped. Two juicy, tender strips of bacon. A hearty glass of milk. Topped off with a piping-hot serving of Eggs Benedict, perfectly cooked, with a generous helping of Hollandaise sauce and seasoning. Bruce pulled the napkin off his head and placed it to the side, pretending not to be eying the meal up. “Hmm. Perhaps I’ll keep you on after all, if you serve breakfast like this.”

“I should hope so, sir,” said Alfred smartly, placing the ornamental platter cover beside the tray. “The last time you stepped foot in the kitchen to prepare a meal, you nearly burned the manor down.”

“It was only a small fire,” Bruce said, gulping down the milk and setting his ravenous sights on the Eggs Benedict. “We didn’t even need the fire department that time.”

“Indeed,” said Alfred, rolling his eyes.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Alfred replied with a smirk.

Bruce chuckled, and then sighed, his demeanor changing to one of frustration and regret. “I couldn’t save her, Alfred.”

Placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, Alfred replied sadly. “Don’t blame yourself, Master Bruce. You can’t save them all.”

“Victor Zsasz kidnapped Nemina Verde and turned her into a ruthless serial killer. What’s worse, they’ve set up a website showcasing videos of their killings for all to see.”

“Absolutely deplorable, sir.”

“All the equipment downstairs, the Batcave, the car, the lab, the training. All of that, and still Zsasz was able to…”

“I know,” Alfred sighed. “Although we can take pride in the fact that the devilish rogue is now behind bars, sir. Thanks, in no small part, to your tireless efforts.”

“Nemina Verde is still out there. Still killing. Still updating Zsaszed.com with new videos of her murders.”

Bruce looked at Alfred, who simply bowed his head in agreement.

Bruce rubbed at his temples, vainly trying to cut off the headache beginning behind his eyes. “You know the videos have gone viral now. The ones with me attacking Zsasz. People are starting to believe that the once-ominous legend of the Batman is only one man in a costume.”

“One man in a costume can do great things,” Alfred said.

“He’s still just one man,” Bruce said. “A man can be killed more easily than a legend.”

Bruce picked up the folded newspaper Alfred had set upon the breakfast tray and pointed to the headline. “Who is the Batman?” Bruce repeated the top story with a scowl.

Bruce glared at Alfred with grim determination. “Criminals can fear a legend, but they have no reason to end their wretched ways at the sight of a man dressed as a bat.”

Alfred laid a hand on Bruce’s tensed shoulder. “I disagree. It merely means is that the criminal element knows for a fact that you exist now. They have every reason to be moreafraid.”

Bruce thought about this for a moment and let out a breath, deflating his rising frustration. “The copycat killings Zsasz’s website has inspired are popping up across the world now. I’ll need to expand the legend of the Batman globally in order to stem this spread of homicide and violence…”

“Perhaps, you should focus your efforts on matters closer to home,” Alfred suggested.

“Right!” Bruce exclaimed with a dark intensity. “There’s been a notable rise in car thefts and alleged arsons in Gotham recently. I’ll need to go and…”

Alfred cleared his throat, interrupting Bruce’s train of thought, which was currently careening out of control. The trusted butler leisurely picked up Bruce’s smartphone by the nightstand and held it out to face its owner. “What I meant, Master Bruce, was focusing on matters closer to the manor, rather than that dreary ‘Batcave’ downstairs. If you’ll recall a Ms. Veronica Lavigne?”

Bruce picked up the phone, and noted the fourteen missed calls from the supermodel. “Veronica.”

“Perhaps you should call or text her, and let her know you’re still among the living?”

“Alfred, Gotham needs the Bat-”

“Gotham needs its star citizen back,” Alfred said matter-of-factly, his eyes burrowing into the Wayne Enterprises CEO with determination. “That, and bats are nocturnalcreatures.”

Alfred gestured to the shining new day outside the massive bedroom window overlooking the hills, and to the rolling clouds nestled tight in the blue sky, to further emphasize his point.

Bruce opened his mouth, readying his argument, before sighing and nodding in acceptance. “Fair enough, Alfred. Bruce Wayne has been gone for far too long.”

“Now you’re talking some sense, sir!” Alfred’s warm, cheery smile lit up the room as he picked up the now-empty breakfast tray and started toward the door.

Bruce slid the screen on his phone and scrolled through his contacts, growing confused and frustrated as his efforts to find her number prove to be more difficult that previously thought. “Alfred? Did you save her under ‘L’ for ‘Lavigne’ or ‘V’ for ‘Veronica?’ ”

Alfred turned about-face and smiled. “Ah, yes. You can find her under ‘R’ for ‘Ms. Rapidly-Running-Out-of-Patience.’ ”

Bruce stared at his butler for a beat, cocking his eyebrows in disbelief. He returned his focus to the smartphone, scrolling down the contacts on his phone and finding the woman’s number right where Alfred said it would be. Still in shock, Bruce looked back up at Alfred, who still holding the dinner plates and wearing a thin smile. Pursing his lips, Bruce narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brow and replied sarcastically. “Thanks, Alfred. Thank you very much.”

“Happy to help, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s cheery voice echoed throughout the master bedroom. “Best of luck with that long-overdue conversation.”

Bruce watched Alfred saunter out into the hall mischievously, shaking his head and trying his best not to smile.

Wayne Enterprises
Executive Office. Mid-Morning

Bruce Wayne stepped into the executive office quickly, shutting the door behind him, leaving all the swirling bureaucratic madness outside.

On his first day back in the two and a half weeks since his obsession with the Zsasz case had gotten the better of him and his dual personas, Bruce had barely been welcomed back and asked about his vacation when the questions started. Twelve project managers clamoring for more funding for various projects, seven talks with the board members about his ongoing absence and the need for better communication, four executive meetings he had tried his hardest not to sleep through, seven potential disasters that needed executive-level handling, a small fire in the tech division during a demonstration, and more paperwork shoved in his face than could fit a small warehouse. How could so much paperwork still exist in a company rife with smartphones, tablets and the latest in electronic storage technology?

Nevertheless, Bruce Wayne had handled himself with the good-natured charm and wit that he always managed to exude in his role as the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. His crisp, black suit, three hundred dollar cufflinks, shining black business shoes and perfectly-straight tie further lent credence to his confidence and expert handling of the company. At least, he hoped it did. Although Bruce had final veto power and was kept up-to-date in all of the company’s business affairs, he had left the day-to-day operations up to a man of great integrity and vision. A dedicated man, whose warm, pervasive smile left Bruce confident not only for Wayne Enterprises’ financial future, but its soul as well.

“Welcome back, Mister Wayne,” Lucius Fox – president of Wayne Enterprises – smiled from behind his desk. Lucius stood up, came around from the large mahogany desk and firmly grasped Bruce’s extended hand. “Good to have you back.”

“I’ve told you a million times to just call me Bruce,” the Wayne Enterprises CEO smiled and patted his close colleague on the shoulder.

“Yes, but ‘Mister Wayne’ has just the right level of gravitas, I’d say, for a Chief Executive. Haven’t you learned anything after all these years?”

“I’ve learned that I’m still much more interested in the tech department than some silly board meetings.”

Lucius shook his head with a smirk. “Ah, Bruce. Still as stubborn as ever.”

Bruce chuckled, taking a seat as the greying president of Wayne Enterprises extended his hand to the neatly-stacked pile of folders atop his otherwise pristine and orderly desk. He handed Bruce a few thick files and sat behind the large desk as Bruce perused the materials, which were marked CONFIDENTIAL in thick, bold, black letters.

Lucius watched Bruce pour over the technical division prototypes and files, rubbing his chin as the CEO looked like a kid in a candy store.

“Mister Wayne, I thought you should know that when our stock prices dipped this past week, the board arranged a meeting with Maximillion Powers over a possible merger.”

That comment stopped Bruce in his tracks. Breathless, Bruce dropped the folder full of files and looked at the greying man behind the desk with a fire behind his eyes.

“Maximillion Powers,” Bruce Wayne spoke. “Owner of Powers Incorporated. War profiteer. Responsible for creating weapons that kill thousands of armed troops and civilians overseas.”

“Indeed. I thought you might be displeased,” the grey-haired president proclaimed. “I had the meeting cancelled, and fired the man who arranged it without my knowledge.”

Bruce let out a sigh of relief, brushing his fingers through his dark hair. “Thank God. If we’d merged with that lunatic, I can’t even begin to-”

“Like I said, it’s good to have you back. Still more interested in the tech division than the company affairs?”

Bruce frowned, considering Lucius’s words. “Point taken.”

“Good,” Lucius said, leaning over and pointing toward the discarded files sitting on the tabletop in front of Bruce. “Now that I’ve said that, you might be interested in the second file down. As you might phrase it, that’s where the really ‘cool’ research begins.”

Sid’s Scrapyard
Near the Gotham Harbor
Early Evening

The winds from the harbor whipped at the passersby on the street, making a chill wind tunnel out of the darkened streets. Graffiti lined the walls of the adjacent buildings and assorted trash blew haphazardly across the cool tarmac. Disturbing shapes and shadows could be seen flitting in and out of the alleyways at various intervals (which happened to be the norm in this neighborhood) and those on the street could practically feel the gaze of something sinister tracking their every move. Those who knew this area tended to stay away from the shadows, for fear of what horrors might be lurking within.

Those familiar with the area also knew to stay away from the shadowed heaps piled high across Sid’s Scrapyard. From the street, those same mounds of cars looked like blackened skyscrapers, dreamt from the schizophrenic mind of some disturbed architect. The expansive yard was filled to the brim with the burnt and broken remains of automobiles, which were piled into several massive heaps and surrounded by a haphazard scattering of cranes, pullies, tow trucks and car crushers. None of the fourteen exterior lamps worked, turning the simple machines lining the outside yard into a dark network of vast and disturbing shapes, not suited for the faint of heart. Yet, at the center of this dark fortress lay the large workshop where cars were dropped off, and stripped of their useful parts. The workshop glowed with a bright light, emitting a cloud of black smog that enshrouded the outer yard and encased it in an everlasting darkness.

It was toward this glowing heart of the scrap yard that three bright, shiny Mercedes sped toward, tearing up asphalt and choking dust in their wake. A dark, determined shadow watched these cars cruise in formation through the closing metal entrance gates. He knew that very, very few of the cars in this particular scrap yard were willingly donated.

The moving shadow perched himself at the edge of the rooftop across the street, settling for this as the best vantage point from which to study the scene. His cape whipped in the winds like a wild animal, as it had through the past thirty-seven blocks since the three criminals had stolen the triad of Mercedes’ off the street under cover of darkness. The vigilante clad in shadow could hear police sirens a mile away, but they would never catch up to these men in time to bring them to justice. It was no fault of Gordon’s of course – the men below were simply that good. They had the police response time measured out to the second, and had escaped in well under that time from years of practice.

The dark knight clicked off the GPS receptor on his belt and placed a glove to his earpiece, fine-tuning his receptor to the specific frequency. Sam Murdock – the sore loser at the poker game the night before – had given Batman all the time in the world to plant the GPS tracker and transceiver inside his well-used coat pocket. The dark knight had been listening in to their conversations since their crime spree had started, but the receiver was far from flawless. He’d had to adjust the signal several times during the chase to make sure he was still able to hear Sam’s arrogant, angry vocalizations throughout the night.

The dark knight waited until the last Mercedes was inside the scrap yard’s center structure before shooting a grappling hook over to workshop’s roof and sliding down the steel cable into the lion’s den. The receiver chirped in his helmet as the Batman landed, and the vigilante listened into the conversation happening below him as he went to work.

“Woo! It’s cold as balls outside!” Tyrese shouted excitedly as he stepped out of the still-purring car.

“That it is,” Allen said coolly, shutting off the engine to his red Mercedes and parking it neatly beside the other stolen vehicles. He stepped out of the vehicle and glared at Tyrese in irritation.

Sam revved the engine, coming into the garage at full speed before stopping his car just inches away from Tyrese’s feet, eliciting a sudden shriek from the normally-tough criminal.

The hotheaded brute slammed the car door and walked up to Tyrese, balling his shirt up in his fist and pulling the lanky man toward his fiery eyes. “Tyrese, you fucking moron! You unbelievably-useless prick! Are you trying to get us caught?”

“Yo, get the hell offa me, man!” Tyrese said, struggling against Sam’s massive brute strength.

“I told you a hundred fucking times!” Sam boomed, slamming Tyrese’s struggling form against his own still-running car. “We do not carjack!”

“Who cares what kinda car we steal, man? Sid here wants thirteen cars, we give him thirteen Mercedes. I wasn’t seeing any Mercedes just sitting there parked waiting for me, so I did what I had to! You best get up off my back about it!”

“Sam is right, Tyrese,” said the frustrated form of Allen as he strode over from his car, clicking the car locked with his keys. “Police response time to a carjacking is much shorter than to lifting a parked car without passengers or drivers inside. That kid you tossed out of his ride probably called the police the minute you turned the corner.”

“I ain’t afraid of no damn cops!” Tyrese shouted, wriggling out of Sam’s grip.

“If we hadn’t instructed you where to go and which shortcuts to take, you would be in custody now.”

Sam grabbed Tyrese by the throat, cutting off his snappy retort. “I’m not going to prison again, you hear me? I will–”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort before running it by me, first!” A grunt came from behind the welding booth as a lumbering figure strode out from it. The three car thieves turned in awe of the hunched-over figure that staggered toward them with a wayward stride. Wisps of white hair clung to his head in patches and he removed a heavy wrench from his oil-covered overalls, clutching it with a definitive purpose. Tapping it against his free hand menacingly, the elderly man scowled at the team of car thieves.

Clearly, this was Sid. The mastermind behind the crimes.

“Sid, this guy nearly got us all caught!” Sam glared back at Tyrese. “He needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Not by you, he won’t.” Sid growled in a furious rasp, pointing the wrench at Sam.

The two men stared menacingly at one another as Tyrese placed a hand on the elderly man’s shoulder. “Thanks, Sid. I told Allen that Sam was gonna be acting like a little bitch all night but he had to–”

WHAM!

Blood spurted from Tyrese’s nose as Sid slammed his wrench upon the man’s unsuspecting face again and again until the criminal’s twitching form lay on the floor, drawing laborious breaths through what remained of his shattered, bloody face. Allen and Sam watched on in disbelief, surprised at the sudden ferocity of the attack.

Sid placed the bloody wrench back into his overall pockets, walking toward the band of car-strippers and welders in the shop too busy with their work to notice the beating. The old man growled. “I want the three cars over there, by the saw, right now. I want that little piece of shit thrown in the harbor before you go out again. No one endangers this operation while I’m in charge of it.”

Sam and Allen silently obeyed the vicious old man, walking toward the cars when the entire garage was plunged into total darkness.

“What the hell?” Sam asked.

“Goddamn it! Turn those fucking lights back on!” Sid rasp echoed through the building. “Whoever hit that switch, I swear to God…”

“Sid, I don’t think it was the workers.” Allen muttered as the emergency lights switched on, casting the entire workshop in an eerie orange-red glow.

“Of course it was those workers!” Sid turned back toward Allen, face cast in shadow, his eyes alight with a furious rage. “Those goddamn Mexicans wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”

Allen wisely backed off as Sid turned back toward his work force. “You hear that, you fucking Mexicans! Turn the fucking lights back…”

Sid stopped his racist slurs once he heard the panicked shrieks from his men and heavy shuffling noises coming from the darkness. Allen cocked his head at the sound as Sam’s heart began to race faster and faster, his body tensing.

Sid searched the darkened workshop. “Where did the welders go? Are they hiding on me? Is this some sort of a–?”

The old man’s eyes saw a hint of movement, and gasped as two of the workers standing on the top platform were pulled into the darkness by an unseen force, their shrieks of terror silenced almost as quickly. Sid’s eyes went wide.

They heard another sound from a freshly-stripped Mercedes in the darkness, listening to a thumping sound followed by a wet thud. The trio suddenly realized that there were six less workers in the workshop than there had been just one brief minute ago, before the lights had gone out.

Sam growled. “It’s him.”

“It’s who?” Sid asked.

“You pointy-eared prick,” Sam addressed to the darkness surrounding them. “I told you I was gonna fucking gut you like a–”

“Hold on,” Allen walked in front of the other two panicking men, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. “We might have blown a transformer or something. There’s no need to jump to any irrational…”

The trio jumped at the sound of something metal grapple latching tight against another metal object in the darkness above them. They heard the mechanical sounds of a belt tightening, as they saw the sudden shine of a metal wire glinting in the orange light, moving toward them quickly as the grapple reeled itself higher. The trio jumped back quickly as the grapple swung through their circle, holding a heavy weight at the end of it. They all looked up at what was suspended from the device and went slack-jawed in disbelief.

“Enrique.” Sid breathed out as the bound criminal was reeled up by the automatic retraction of the grappling hook, into the unseen darkness above them.

Sid placed a hand to his mouth as Allen looked sidelong at Sam, who wore the face of a psychotic madman ready for his next murderous rampage.

“Sam, just wait–”

“Batman! You little shit!” Sam screamed at the top of his lungs, pulling out his gun and firing off into the darkness. “I’ll kill you!”

Allen backed away from the brute, who was firing into the darkness with reckless abandon, and watched a heavy obsidian object sliced through the air and crash into Sam’s firing hands, drawing blood. Sam dropped the gun to the ground, clutching at his bleeding hand and cursing up a storm. Fumbling from the shock, Sam bent over to pick up his gun with his other hand, only to see a hook emerge seemingly from nowhere, latching onto the gun and reeling it away out of his grasp, dragging it across the threshold of the surrounding darkness.

“Sam, don’t. That’s just what he wants you to–” Allen began saying as Sam completely ignored every word Allen had said to him and went charging headlong into the darkness after their unseen foe. Allen and Sid listened to Sam’s grunts in the shadows with the moving dark figure. The pair heard a few pops from Sam’s gun from further in the shadows before hearing a vicious thud. They heard two snaps along with an agonizing scream from the muscle bound brute. They shivered as they heard several more wet thuds and a horrible choking sound from the darkness. After what seemed like eternity, there was once again only silence from all sides.

Allen pulled out a gun from the holster along his belt and screwed a silencer onto it as Sid careened out of the workshop in the other direction. He left the sounds of gunshots and violence behind him as he tore across the dark yard, his mind besieged with panic and terror. The adrenaline rush caused him to see disturbing shapes in the wreckages littering the yard. The shapes stood silent, mocking him, and his absolute helplessness against the unseen wraith. Frantic and terrified, he toppled into the random debris and detritus strewn about the field, stumbling in a zigzag course toward his truck, which awaited him at the front of the lot.

Terrified, he ripped open the car door and slammed it shut behind him, praying it offered him some safety from this demon chasing after him. He struggled with the keys, cursing his weather-beaten, shaky hands for not being faster. After an eternity of furious jingling, Sid found the car key and slammed it into the starter, turning the engine over as fast as he could manage.

Sid looked behind him as he backed the massive pick-up truck up, and headed toward the entrance gates when he heard an explosion coming from his back two tires. Feeling the kick of turbulence against the wheel, Sid swerved toward the right, desperately trying to right his vehicle. He pounded on the gas, attempting to plow his way through the gate when he felt the front two tires explode under him, forcing his truck to swerve in the opposite direction and slam hard against one of the stripped cars littering the front of the scrap yard.

Sid gasped, looking at the crumpled hood in front of him. Desperately, the scrap yard owner tried to make the cracked engine turn over. He looked down at the wheel, slamming down on the unresponsive gas pedal and cranking the key all the way forward until he heard a heavy weight slam against his front hood. Sweat pouring down his brow, he looked up through the windshield.

The right front headlight was still on, casting disturbing streaks of light across the car and giving him some visibility despite the rest of the car failing to start. Sid’s eyes went wide as he saw the unconscious body of Allen Wellington sprawled atop his vehicle, a visibly-swelling bruise upon the poor man’s brow.

The old man felt a knot tie tight inside his stomach and felt his mouth go dry. Frozen in place, he could barely move as something tugged on the latch for the driver’s side door and exposed the inside of the car to the fluttering cool breeze outside. Slowly, Sid turned his frightened gaze upon the figure standing before him, clad in darkness.

The living shadow glared at him, enveloping him in a world of pure black. Sid trembled as he heard the sound of leather tightening against the wraith’s clenching fist.

“Good night, Sid.”

Then, there was only darkness.

Wayne Manor
Bruce Wayne’s Private Study

Bruce Wayne peered into the dark corners of his study intently. He was halfway through his latest criminology text – ‘Mad as a Hatter’ by Jericho Voldt – a thick volume exploring the causes of madness in the criminal mind. It was still one of the many holdovers currently not published in any digital form whatsoever, which made the book all the more special in Bruce’s eyes. The book itself, however, currently rested face down on his lap.

His criminologist mind was focused on other matters.

From his soft, red leather reading chair, he gazed up at the immense portrait above the fireplace. The portrait was old, but well-maintained. It measured ten feet by twelve, and dominated the entire wall; from the top of the mantle all the way up near the high end of the study’s vaulted ceiling. An ornamental frame outlined the image of a couple with their young son.

The father’s face was strong, with a pronounced jaw line and demeanor which radiated a sense of nobility, influence and strength. Yet the kindness in the father’s heart was just as easily seen through his notable features, just as his wife’s was seen in her gentle eyes and sweet smile. All three were dressed up in their Sunday best, and the glint of the mother’s pearl neckline was visible despite the dark shadows cast from the study’s warm fireplace. The little boy, of course, was someone Bruce had known all his life.

He regarded Thomas and Martha Wayne with a singular intensity, his soft voice lowering to the distinct baritone of the Batman. “Mom. Dad. I missed you a lot today.”

He picked up the criminology book and set it on the table. He looked back up at the couple and sighed. “I wanted to tell you that I stopped a car thief ring today. Gordon was very pleased with how tidy I left things for him at the scene. You would have been so proud of me, Mother.”

Bruce saw a sparkle in the woman’s eyes. He could have sworn his mother was winking at him. He looked over to the frozen image of his father, who seemed to be glaring at him sternly.

“Yes, Father. I didn’t get hit or shot or even grazed this time. My extensive martial arts training in the Far East served to–”

Bruce looked up at the portrait and clenched his teeth in a grimace.

“I know. The man was able to get off a few shots at me. If I were a younger man, he would never have had time to pull the trigger. Nevertheless, that’s twenty more criminals off the streets of Gotham. Twenty less chances that something–”

Bruce stared at his mother’s once-pristine pearl necklace, remembering the sounds they made as they clattered against the pavement more than three decades ago.

“–that something horrible might happen.”

He looked into his mother’s pleading eyes.

“I made a promise to you – to both of you. I know you fear for my safety, Mother, but I must continue with this. If I can keep what happened to you from happening to even one more family, I must continue.”

Bruce noted the concern in his departed mother’s eyes and attempted to reassure the couple in the canvas of his indomitable strength and resolve. He listened for the inevitable question.

“How long? For as long as it takes.”

Bruce stood up, pacing around his study furiously before the tension in his gait eased. He looked back up at his parents, a warm smile appearing on his face. “So I’ve been seeing this girl. Veronica Lavigne. She’s a supermodel, it turns out.”

He thought he caught his father’s smirk.

“I know what you’re thinking, but she does have a brain up there. She’s smart, and warm, and affectionate. You wouldn’t believe how witty she is. I’m sure you’d love her. It’s just that she still hasn’t called me back yet.

“I can’t tell her about the Batman. Not yet. Even though I’ve done my background research on her – credit and background checks, job history, personal history, that sort of thing – to make sure she is who she says she is. You know how clever my enemies and their bags of tricks have become.

“Veronica and I have been out on several dates, and I’m getting the impression that there could be something more between us. It’s just that this business with Victor Zsasz caught me off-guard, and I haven’t had the time to–”

Bruce sighed.

“Yes, Father. If something’s important enough, you make the time. I understand that all too well.”

The young man heard the screeching of bats flying past the wide window of his study, morbid thoughts drifting through his mind in their wake.

“You know I can’t give the Batman up. Not yet. Not while there are still criminals and murderers polluting this city. Polluting my city.”

Bruce waited a beat.

“I just want to do right by you. By the both of you. Gotham is a much safer place now. I’ve carved the worst of the corruption from this town. Still, with each criminal I put away, this hurt – this horrible pain inside my chest – it never goes away. I still miss you both so much.”

The orphan struggled to speak as he wiped a tear from his eye.

“The Batman…helps control this pain. With Veronica, though, I hope that maybe this pain that I’ve held onto for so long might someday, finally–”

Stopping mid-sentence, Bruce listened to the sudden, loud buzzing noise and glanced toward his smartphone, which was sitting against the table. The screen lit up with the flashing image of the red-headed supermodel.

“That’s her.”

Bruce looked up at his parents.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

He strode over to the phone, swiping the screen. His solemn baritone voice switched instinctively to Bruce Wayne’s charming tenor tone.

“Hello, Veronica.”

He listened to the woman’s sultry Russian accent, which conveyed a worried tone that nearly broke his heart. “Bruce. I left you messages for days. I thought something might have happened.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“We should talk.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “Yes, of course we should talk. Tomorrow, we can grab dinner at the Romeo Palace.”

“The Romeo Palace? Bruce, of all the ridiculous–”

“What? It has just the atmosphere for an intimate conversation.”

“It intimately screams ‘overdone’ across its length of two football fields.”

“The bottom floor might. The executive suite above it is perfect for us to catch up.”

“No one gets into the executive suite without a reservation three weeks in advance. You know that.”

“No one, except the person who owns the Romeo Palace.”

Veronica was speechless. “Oh Bruce, tell me you don’t own the Romeo Palace.”

Bruce smiled. “Don’t be late. Wear something nice. Something that’ll catch everyone’s attention. I want us to be on the news tomorrow, we look so good.”

Veronica giggled. “Oh Bruce, you are full of surprises. Just don’t think you’re getting off the hook that easily.”

Their shared levity died quickly. “I know, Veronica. I promise, I’ll explain everything.”

“Alright then. Seven o’clock. If you’re not there, I may just find some other, handsome gentleman to take me home.”

“Why, do you know any men more gentle or handsome than me?”

She laughed. “Seven o’clock, Bruce. This explanation of yours better be good.”

Bruce heard the line click and hit the End Call button on his end. Placing the phone inside his pocket, Bruce looked back at the portrait of his parents.

“I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he said softly as he turned off the lights and walked out of the dark study.

As he walked down the hall, he wondered what it would have been like to introduce Veronica to his parents. The hurt returned to his heart as he realized that he would never know.

Next: The Batman must investigate several suspicious arsons while an enemy from his past battles her own personal demons. Be there for the thrills, chills and excitement with “Shine Brightly in the Dark.”