HOT ON THE TRAIL

By Jason McDonald

Wayne Manor
Bruce Wayne’s Bedchambers
Late Morning

Bruce Wayne groaned, forcefully pulling himself from the comforting calm of sleep.

“Ughhnn,” he murmured, yawning hard and stretching his arms out above his head. He slid his hand along his cheek and smiled, remembering all the gentle kisses she’d planted along the once-smooth surface of what was now razorwire stubble, and sighed.

Veronica Lavigne. You amazing, amazing woman.

Veronica – the lovely Russian supermodel Bruce was dating – had come over to the manor to surprise him following last night’s less-than-satisfactory romp as the Batman. Despite all his stubborn attempts to remain in the cave and continue his investigations, Bruce was happy he’d finally let Alfred corral him into going upstairs and spending the night in Veronica’s company.

Alfred was right. Veronica and I needed that, Bruce thought, cracking his neck. Definitely can’t let him know he was right, though. That would set a bad precedent. He’d never let me live it down.

What a wonderful night that had been. There had been champagne, and a movie involved – not that they finished the movie, of course. There had been the little white lie about spilling incredibly hot tea along his right arm to cover up the fact he’d gotten singed in his battle with the Firefly. Bruce took his fingers and felt along the burnt flesh of his arm.

It’s healing. The pain is manageable now.

There had been a second bottle of champagne – this time from his own private stock in the wine cellar. They’d retired downstairs for a game of pool and some impromptu dancing before he’d swept her right off her feet and carried her all the way upstairs to his bedchambers to finish their wonderful evening right here.

He rolled over to put his arm around the beautiful Veronica Lavigne and instead inhaled a face full of empty pillow.

“Mmunnff!” Bruce gagged, jerking up out of his half-awake state and stared at the empty space where the Russian supermodel had been just hours ago. Instead of seeing her curvaceous figure wrapped up inside his silk bed sheets, there was a single folded piece of paper with a lipstick kiss planted atop.

Curious, Bruce picked up the paper and unfolded it, reading the message within:

Bruce,

Sorry, had an early-morning meeting with my agent I couldn’t miss. Looked too cute sleeping; I could not bear to wake you. I had a WONDERFUL evening, and am still full of your butler’s delicious popcorn. Your Dom Perignon was perfect – our dancing was not, but still fun. We need to do this again soon.

P.S.
About the arm: Don’t EVER make tea by yourself.
Get Alfred to do it. 🙂

Bruce placed the note on the night stand and smiled, resting his arms behind his head. What a wonderful night, indeed.

Nighttime
Gotham City
The serpentine alleys behind Baubles and Trinkets

Bruce placed the single bullet casing back upon the ground and grimaced, pulling his cape back across his chest as he stood. He left the crime scene that had once called itself a jewelry store with the grace of a dark specter, shaking his head solemnly.

She’d dropped the gun and ran outside, Batman thought, combing through the alleyways behind the darkened storefront with a determined gleam in his detective’s eye.

The dark knight was investigating the death of one Robert Schmidt, jewelry store owner turned murder victim. His killer? A costumed villainess going by the name Magpie. Otherwise known as Margaret Pye, she was a bird-obsessed kleptomaniac with a penchant for jewelry of all shapes and sizes, as long as they were the prettiest, shiniest jewels around. Her spree as a thief was notable, although all indications had pointed to her legitimately trying to put her shameful, villainous past behind her. She’d served her sentence in Arkham Asylum, was rehabilitated at the Wayne Foundation Clinic for the Emotionally Troubled, and signed herself out of their psychiatric care. She’d gotten a new job at Baubles and Trinkets, a jewelry store located in one of the lesser-known districts in Gotham City.

The story of a former jewelry thief going straight and coming full circle to work at a jewelry store would be inspirational, save for the fact that someone had helped her land this job. Someone who knew that Margaret Pye – the Magpie – was an incurable kleptomaniac whose only hope for rehabilitation would be to never set foot in a jewelry store again. Predictably, she’d gone back to her old ways and because of that, an innocent, elderly store owner had been killed.

The police had combed the inside of the shop, looking through the forensics for clues as to Magpie’s current whereabouts. The chalk outline and the gun laying on the floor had shown Batman where Margaret had been standing when she shot Robert Schmidt. The media was painting her out to be a cold-blooded killer, who’d been surprised by the couple during her robbery and killed Robert in her getaway.

However, Eleanor – Robert’s husband – had indicated that they knew Margaret very well, and that there was no reason why she’d shoot her husband. The man had been in his seventies and unarmed – clearly no threat to the experienced jewel thief. From his position, it looked like he’d made no physical attempt to run either. Moreover, there was the fact that Magpie dropped her gun at the scene of the crime. Any sane killer would keep the murder weapon with them and dispose of it elsewhere.

Margaret was remorseful for what she’d done, Batman surmised. She dropped the gun in surprise, and fled the scene out of panic and guilt for murdering someone she cared about. It’s the only scenario that fits.

The dark knight followed her tracks from the store, through the long and winding alleyways, to a spot littered with dried blood and shreds of her Magpie outfit. Close to the scene, there was a definitive drag mark of blood that stretched in an almost straight line to the tread marks of a car leaving the alleyway.

Batman grimaced.

“She was abducted,” said a familiar voice as the dark knight’s back tensed up suddenly and reached for a batarang. He let out a breath through his nostrils as he heard the sounds of soft leather boots slap against hard cement and put the weapon back into his belt.

He turned his head to the side, listening to the tap, tap, tap of heeled boots sound off in the alleyway until she strode into view. The sensuous woman was clad head-to-toe in tight-fitting black leather, carrying a long whip that hung from her waist, coiled up like a snake ready to strike. A tight black belt with a large buckle in the front hugged her shapely hips. Her clawed fingertips, which terminated into razor-sharp, deadly points, retracted suddenly with a flick from her wrists. Her slender hands moved to her face to adjust her large golden-hued goggles that reminded him of large, loving cat’s eyes. Her ruby lips curled up into a smile. As he gazed upon her headgear, clad with a pair of wide cat-shaped ears, he knew exactly what he was in for.

“Catwoman,” the dark knight said.

“Oh, come now Batman,” she strode over to the detective, whispering to him with her husky, sensuous voice. “You can do better than that.”

He breathed out as she approached, and she could see his cheeks begin to flush. “Selina.”

“Bruce,” she smiled, licking her lips as she spoke the name with a seductive flourish. She leisurely traced the Bat-symbol on his muscular chest with a long, slender finger clad in leather. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Batman’s dark heart began to pound with a well of mixed emotions the dangerous beauty always tended to stir. He swallowed those emotions down hard, and his disciplined mind worked overtime to maintain what little composure he had left. He frowned slightly as he noticed her attire had changed since their last encounter. “New costume?”

“Oh, this little thing?” Catwoman licked her lips, tracing her hands along her own curvaceous frame. She leaned in close, and as she spoke, the dark knight could feel her hot breath against his cheek. “I made it myself. What do you think?”

The dark knight stared at her sternly for a moment, and she playfully devoured him with her eyes before he finally spoke: “I preferred the purple.”

Catwoman narrowed her eyes, pulling her lips away from his bare mouth and crossed her arms, playfully pointing an accusatory finger at him. “That’s only because it came with a short skirt!”

“Not just the skirt; there were green boots too,” he said in a soft tenor. Bruce’s voice. “Though, where does the hair go now?”

She pointed to the stylized pieces on either side of her headgear. “Why do you think I widened the cat’s ears so much?”

“Of course,” Batman smirked. “Too bad. I always enjoyed that flowing raven hair of yours.”

“Ah, yes,” she smiled. “It was always getting in my face during our rooftop get-togethers, our nights on the town. I honestly don’t remember why I wore it that way, anymore.”

Batman smiled down at her.

“Catching all those criminals, and watching the sunrise after a long, hot night together,” she said sweetly, looking up into his eyes. “We had fun in those days, didn’t we?”

They looked at one another for a beat, their gentle gazes bringing back sweet thoughts of yesteryear. A soft, soothing sigh escaped her lips before her delicate features twisted into a sickening scowl.

“Besides,” Selina said suddenly, turning herself away from the dark knight. “After everything that happened between us, I couldn’t prowl around the city in that purple thing anymore. Too many bad memories.”

“Some of them good, I’d hope.” Batman said softly.

Catwoman scoffed.

His eyes gazed upon the smooth, sensuous arc of her back and it would have been so easy to place his hands atop her shoulders, and hold her in his arms. She’d sigh happily, crossing her arms and placing her hands atop his, gently nestling her head against his chest, with her long raven hair wafting in the breeze in tune with his cape. He’d breathe in her perfume and gently kiss her until the morning sun came up to claim both of them.

In the darkness of the night, however, he did none of those things. The morning sunrises they’d spent together seemed like yesterday, and yet so very much had changed between them since then. Too many things left unsaid, and too many other things that were said. The world he inhabited in the here and now had seemed so much darker since the day Selina Kyle could no longer be a part of it.

Darker, of course, until the lovely Veronica Lavigne had entered the picture. The dark knight sighed, and no one but the woman before him could see the small, soft smile on his lips.

She scowled as he circled around to face her, biting her lip while watching his cape pick up in the breeze. From the looks of her new costume, it looked like her world had grown darker since then as well. The difference, of course, was that she’d stayed there, trapped inside her own private darkness. “You have someone else now, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

He nodded.

“Dating one girl, chasing down another, and spending a night in a dark alley with me? Bruce, you certainly are keeping on top of that playboy image, aren’t you?” Selina said, a biting bitterness creeping into her once-playful tone.

“Selina,” he said, trying to calm her frayed nerves. “You know that I–”

“How–how is she?” Her voice began to crack as she cut him off. “This new girl of yours. Is she–good to you?”

The question hung in the distance between them for only a moment.

“She is,” he said simply.

“That’s–that’s nice,” she breathed out, breaking his gaze. With a sniffle, Catwoman quickly composed herself, sensuously sauntering over toward the tire tracks that led out of the alley. Her seductive tone couldn’t cover up the sadness in her voice. “The woman you’re looking for – the one in the bird costume. He beat the crap out of her and hauled her off into his van.”

“You were here when it happened?” the Batman spoke, pointing toward the torn fibers of Magpie’s costume that were left behind in the assault.

“Well, more up there when it happened,” Catwoman said, gesturing up toward one of the taller buildings that lined the alleyway.

“You didn’t try to help her at all?” Batman spoke, disappointment creeping into his voice.

“By the time I saw what was happening, Bruce, she was already being thrown into the van. I tried following it from the rooftops, but I lost it around Academy and Eighth. He flew off down the street like a bat out of hell,” she said, smirking as she traced the outline of Batman’s pointed ears in the air between them. “So to speak.”

Batman almost smirked at the awful pun, but instead let out an annoyed grunt and rolled his eyes.

“Why were you even here, Selina?” Batman asked, placing his hand on his hips. “At this time? In this alleyway?”

“Why Bruce, I would almost believe you were interrogating me,” she smiled, biting her lips excitedly, pretending everything was alright. “Not that I’d mind.”

“Selina.”

His voice was calm and steady, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw it – the same look that she’d seen him give to hundreds of criminals, but never to her. Never to her, until now. Something in her heart shattered like cheap glass. Her flirtatious, confident exterior faded, and she couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice.

“I–I was making my way across the city on the rooftops, when I saw you perched over there, staring at the jewelry store,” she stammered, the memory obviously a painful one. “I wanted to–I was about to drop in, and say hello when you suddenly ran off toward that fire. That’s when I saw her come out the side door, running down the alley, and by the time I got around to her, he was already driving away.”

She bit her lip, collecting herself, swallowing the hurt down deep.

“Did you get a make on the car?” Batman asked. She could detect an urgency creeping into his voice. “Who took her? What was he wearing?”

“A big guy, pretty tall. Wearing some kind of black, bulky costume. I thought he was you at first, dressed head-to-toe in black, before I saw those god-awful shoulder pads. He was bigger, meaner than you. The van was black too, like one of those old police vans, only completely painted black on all sides. No license plate. I couldn’t tell you the make if I tried – I only concern myself with the luxury vehicles.” Catwoman said, licking her lips, smiling at the images of hot Jaguars and Mercedes swimming in her mind.

“You said it was a police van?” Batman repeated, his mind struggling to work the problem as a faint glimmer of a memory drudged its way to the surface. “It definitely looked like one?”

“I’d say so. I think there were lights on the top, but they weren’t red-and-blue. Maybe clear white lights? They weren’t flashing, though, so I can’t be sure.”

“Catwoman, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Of course, darling.” She pouted, crossing her arms. “Have fun with the bird girl, whenever you find her.”

Batman frowned, locking his eyes onto Catwoman’s sardonic glare before pulling out his grappling hook and firing a line to an adjacent building. He was about to press the retractor button when leather-clad beauty shouted.

“Batman, wait!”

Pausing quickly, he regarded the woman with a stern stare. “Yes, Catwoman?”

“Bruce,” she said, in a softer tone this time. “Just be careful of the new broad.”

The dark knight raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Why do you say that?”

Catwoman’s boots tapped across the alleyway as she strode towards the Batman, placing her hands atop his chest, and smiled up at him. “Because you always fall for the ones with wild sides underneath. Like me.”

“I’ll be ready,” he said after a moment, pressing the retract button and shooting off like a bullet toward the next building.

Catwoman looked to the skies, watching her knight take off across the rooftops, and smiled a sad smile. “You weren’t ready for mine.”

The Batcave
Silent Ruminations, Stubborn Mysteries and Videotape 

Batman stared at the computer screen with narrowed, determined eyes as his mind pieced together the clues from this latest mystery.

The video, shot from the movie theatre’s outdoor surveillance cameras, was focused on the ticket station. Silently, it had recorded the bald man in the usher’s uniform striding purposefully into the theatre entrance, and walking to the information desk. Unlike the dwindling crowds of moviegoers for the Tuesday night’s shows, his steps were oddly misplaced. He walked rigidly, spine stiffened and set uncomfortably straight, almost as if his every movement were mechanized and artificial. One might think this man were some kind of anthropomorphic robot. However, the dark knight knew for a fact that Burt Weston – the Film Freak – was anything but a machine.

As Weston approached the desk, Batman could see the red-headed clerk getting into a conversation with him. Burt Weston had been a movie theatre usher at the Gotham Cinema for nearly two weeks, judging by the date of the recording, and clearly the red-headed clerk was a co-worker who knew him well. The redhead’s name was Edison Kelly, and Batman knew that it would be only two minutes before Edison was crippled for life.

The dark knight watched the monochrome grey video in silence, seeing the conversation between the two become more heated. Weston was presumably arguing with Kelly about the theatre’s recent upgrades. The Gotham Cinema was an older building, and had been serving its patrons with classic film reels for years, even after so many of the other movie houses throughout the country were transferring exclusively to digital. The Gotham Cinema had finally realized the futility of hanging onto the old systems, and were converting its extensive movie library and its theatre set-ups for digital only. Unfortunately, that meant the old film negatives and reels that the theatre had once used needed to be thrown away. Oh, how hard Weston had fought to keep those film negatives off the cutting room floor.

The argument ended as Weston dropped his hands and got back into character. His back stiffened, he stared straight ahead – almost as if he were looking through Kelly. From the conversation Batman would have later with Edison, the detective knew that the last words Weston spoke to him were: “I’ll be back.”

The dark knight watched the Film Freak in his usher’s uniform exit in the same exaggeratedly-mechanized way he came in, as Kelly reclined in the information desk, idly going about his business. Kelly had merely thought that Film Freak’s demeanor and mannerisms were due to his excitement over the thirtieth anniversary of The Terminator, which was now playing in a special 3-D theatre to commemorate the event. With his jerking, mechanized movements, he moved exactly like the T-800 robot that nearly killed the beleaguered Sarah Conner in that movie. Other than that, he thought Weston was completely harmless. Edison Kelly would later go on to say that the bright lights shining through the theatre’s front windows and the revving of the car engines told him that he’d been horribly, horribly wrong.

Weston drove the car through the front windows of the movie theatre, hitting two people before slamming directly into the information desk, crushing Edison Kelly between the destroyed desk and the cracking wall. Batman clenched his fists as Kelly writhed in pain, while Weston exited the smashed vehicle with a burlap sack draped over his shoulder, and armed with two sawed-off shotguns. The Film Freak fired his guns at as many of the fleeing patrons and employees as he could, mimicking the wanton violence and destruction that the Terminator had done in that film. On his way to the room where they stored the soon-to-be-discarded film reels, he critically injured four people and fatally shot seven, including the movie theatre’s owner. The police and media had coined the incident as The Gotham Cinema Slaughterhouse.

This particular crime was based on the movie The Terminator – specifically on the character’s vehicular assault on the precinct in an effort to get to Sarah Connor, main protagonist in that movie. Weston’s mechanized movements, singular determination and unstoppable demeanor were all aspects of the character he was portraying. The dark knight knew that the Film Freak was a creature of imitation. His self-confidence and self-worth were based entirely on the characters he could portray from the movies he loved. Stepping into the shoes of movie protagonists had always been a way of avoidance from his own problems and from his negative self-image. However, a sheltered and lonely childhood changed a simple fantasy life into a deeply-ingrained psychological disorder. Weston could not help but cloak himself in the movie tropes he identified with.

Batman gritted his teeth as he clicked between camera views, watching Weston work his way through the slaughterhouse. The dark knight saw Weston approach the front counter with the stolen film reels in his arms, or at least all those which he could carry – his pretense of being the Terminator was now gone with the surely-coming police sirens. Weston had paused briefly at the getaway car – now destroyed – before hurrying out through the front window down a side alley.

The dark knight slowed the video now, watching through the front window of the theatre intensely. A black van – just like the one Catwoman had described – pulled out of the parking lot and drove off toward Weston’s direction. There were no cameras focused outside, and whatever happened next that night was lost. Originally, Batman had thought that the van was a fleeing movie patron but considering what he now knew about the van, perhaps Weston had been a victim of the man in black as well, just as Magpie had been.

“That would mean that Film Freak and Magpie were both abducted by the same man – presumably the man in black that Selina–Catwoman saw,” the dark knight detective thought aloud.

Batman tapped his fingers on the side of the massive computer terminal, working the problem. Magpie, Film Freak and Firefly were both guided out of outpatient psychiatric care by a mysterious benefactor – If they could be called as such – who then guided them back toward lives of crime. Magpie was given a job at a jewelry store, tempting her pervasive kleptomania for pretty and shiny objects, and pushing her over the edge back toward a life of crime. Film Freak was given a job in a movie theatre, surrounded by the films that were the crux of his psychological fixations, guiding him back toward a life of crime. Firefly was given a chemical formula for an improved flamethrower accelerant that stimulated his curiosity and drew him back towards his pyromaniacal tendencies like a moth to the flame.

Three recovering criminals, goaded back to lives of crime by a mysterious benefactor who knew each of their individual psychoses, Batman thought grimly.Two of those criminals were abducted by the same man in black, driving a distinctive black van.

The third – Garfield Lynns – still remains free. Obviously then, Firefly would have to be the next target.

Batman knew that the motivations for the benefactor and the abductor were still unclear. Clearly the culprit(s) were clever – using these criminals as pawns in some grander scheme. Methodically, Batman picked apart the criminal psychologies of the most likely suspects, racing toward the train of thought that would close this stubborn case.

Ra’s Al Ghul and Joker have been known for such manipulative tendencies, but this is hardly their style. Ra’s would have a grander, bolder motivation outside of these criminals which would concern the entire planet’s ecosystem.

The Joker – this crime is simply too ordered and too logical for that grinning monster’s psychotic motivations.

The Riddler would be plausible, were there clues left at any of the scenes. The Riddler’s use of clues is not merely intentional – it’s pathological. Each scene would contain one clue both easy enough for him to find but complex enough to pique his own interest.

“No,” Batman spoke sternly. “None of those three is pulling the marionette strings.”

Perhaps these criminals were being groomed, for something, he thought. An enemy who needed their specific skills for a grander heist, or scheme, or machination.

The dark knight grabbed the file beside the desk, paging through the crime scene photos from Magpie’s abduction. He analyzed the photos taken of blood and skin samples left behind at the scene in the alleyway, as well as the tattered costume shreds. All the evidence indicated that Magpie was beaten to within an inch of her life before she was kidnapped. If they were simply pawns, the manipulating force would need the Magpie and the Film Freak fully functional. What use would they be to him crippled, or near death? A drug-filled dart or a few well-placed blows would have subdued her just as easily as the vicious attack she received. However, this method of abduction was passion-filled – as if the attacker bore some deep-seated hatred for the woman.

Batman pursed his lips, staring at the piles of evidence and the reports surrounding him. Someone connected to all three criminals. Patient. Methodical. Unnecessarily brutal and violent. Cunning enough to know their psychological weaknesses and exploit those to his own ends.

Batman knew this would not be an easy answer. A simple psychological profiling was not enough. He needed more information.

Firefly, the detective surmised. Tracking down Lynns will need to be the next step.

The dark knight’s fingers moved all on their own across the computer terminal, and his analytical mind began its research, attempting to discover Lynns’ whereabouts while the trail remained hot.

Wayne Enterprises
Applied Sciences
Early Morning

FWWWWOOOOOSH!

The flames engulfed the target utterly, and the practice dummy seemed to glow with a radiant hellfire for forty-five full seconds as the flamethrower spewed merciless death upon its target. As the barrage continued, Bruce Wayne saw the test dummy’s vest begin to char and blacken upon the onslaught. He watched as the dummy’s soft material slowly popped, and blackened, and finally disintegrated under the intense heat generated by the powerful flamethrower.

“This is the level of protection that the current NomexLine Mark I material gives a person in the event of a flash-fire,” Calvin Evans spoke nervously to the two representatives of Wayne Enterprises, gesturing to the destroyed practice dummy on the other side of their transparent plastic blast shield. The Applied Sciences’ director turned back toward the pair and smiled hesitantly, absently tapping on the side of his tablet. “Ah, despite its advantages, the material fails after a twenty-seven second burst at one thousand degrees Fahrenheit, fully incinerating at the forty-five second mark.”

Bruce Wayne watched the test dummy continue to burn, and pursed his lips. He remembered the pain of his still-healing hand, burnt by the Firefly’s powerful accelerant. Clearly, the Firefly’s new weapon generated a similar type of intense heat.

Aldous Kain, the third member of the trio, frowned. Wayne Enterprises’ silver-haired and silver-tongued senior financial advisor pointed at the destroyed dummy, voice dripping with disdain. “Awful lot of money Wayne Enterprises invested in an inferior product.”

Bruce Wayne gave Kain a stern look, shutting down the financial advisor’s snark comments. He then turned back toward Calvin, with a thin smile on his lips.

“Forgive my advisor,” Bruce said. “Please proceed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Calvin said meekly.

Calvin cleared his throat nervously, walking the pair over toward the next dummy, which was wearing a brightly-colored vest. The vest was similar to the one the first dummy wore, and although it looked less bulky and cumbersome to wear, it appeared much thinner and weaker as a protective fabric. The flamethrower traveled with them on its floor-mounted metal tracks opposite the blast shield, and with a hydraulic hiss, stopped dead center in front of the second dummy.

“This is the NomexLine Mark II fabric,” Calvin said before pulling up his tablet and tapping the controls. The flamethrower roared to life and blasted a massive plume of sustained flame upon the test dummy. The dummy was engulfed in a fiery pyre, as was the first dummy, and the financial advisor smirked with a contemptuous disapproval. For a full minute, the executives and the scientist watched as the flamethrower covered the test dummy in wave after wave of thousand-degree fire.

Another tap upon the tablet, and the flamethrower’s blast stopped, leaving the still-burning dummy finally freed of the infernal onslaught. As the flames cooled down and sputtered out, Kain’s eyes opened wide with shock, seeing for the first time that the dummy was completely unscathed. Bruce Wayne simply smiled.

“Lighter, stronger and more durable, the NomexLine Mark II can withstand up to seventy-five seconds of continuous thousand degree flame before failing,” Calvin said, signaling the flamethrower to return to its station. “The extra forty-five seconds could be absolutely critical in saving the lives of those exposed to such potent flash fires. This material would shrink down the traditional bulky, cumbersome suits that firefighters wear by at least thirty percent, allowing them to be faster and survive longer in intense situations. Petroleum and petrochemical plants can use this material for emergency survival suits, in case of fire. The armed forces can use this to augment their troops and gear, allowing them greater protection to extreme situations. Astronauts can use this material to survive potential cockpit fires, and so on.”

Bruce could hardly hide the glint of excitement in his eyes, seeing all the benefits and possibilities the new suit could bring, not just to the Batman, but to all those working in deadly, hazardous situations. In contrast, Aldous Kain crossed his arms and shook his head sternly.

“Your proposal states that creating even one suit of this new NomexLine material costs forty-seven million dollars. That’s a forty-seven percent increase in costs over the original NomexLine Mark I and the current NomexLine product is already running several million dollars in the red! There simply aren’t enough applications to make this product profitable.”

Calvin cleared his throat. “There are several hundreds of applications, Mr. Kain. They are all outlined in the proposal you read.”

“There isn’t enough demand for the product. As you know, I was brought in by the Wayne Enterprises board as a financial advisor, to help identify and eliminate the extensive budget overruns that several sectors of Wayne Enterprises has shown in the past several years. The current business trend is that all companies are looking to cut costs and are more risk-averse now than ever before. That includes all government-owned and financed endeavors. Asking a firehouse, or a police station, or a military base to expend forty-seven million to protect a single employee? That will never happen in this economic climate.”

“The current NomexLine material has already saved thousands of lives across the country,” Calvin said, leveling his eyes sternly at the financial advisor. “This new material will save thousands more.”

“Enough,” Kain growled, dismissing the scientist with a wave as he turned to the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. “It is my recommendation that, if anything, we stick with producing the Mark I suit. At a reduced rate, at that. This Mark II is just too costly for Wayne Enterprises.”

“You were just condemning the Mark I and now you’re praising it?” Bruce Wayne said, attempting to diffuse the tension with a healthy dose of his trademark charm. “All I can say is, I could’ve used the Mark II during my tea-making mishap.”

Bruce held up his still-bandaged hand to prove the point. Calvin smiled as Kain rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Wayne, let’s be serious. I honestly do not believe this division of Wayne Enterprises can afford such a capital-intensive venture right now,” Kain spoke again, frustration giving way to an almost sincere plea. “The demand just isn’t there.”

Bruce Wayne nodded, his light-hearted charm giving way to a stern, serious demeanor as he carefully pondered the situation. When he spoke, he spoke with determination and a sudden conviction. “Then we’ll have to create some demand. Convince the people, businesses, fire chiefs and politicians that these suits will save lives.”

“But we can’t recoup forty-seven million dollars per suit!” Kain said.

“Bereaved families can’t recoup the loss of their loved ones either,” Bruce said. He turned to Calvin with stony, determined eyes. “Keep this line of research active, and work on ways to cut costs without decreasing quality. I will work to create demand and advertise its value on the private sectors, and show that the benefits outweigh the costs. We can make this work.”

Kain ran his hands through his hair frantically. “Mister Wayne–!”

The CEO leveled his eyes at his advisor. “We have to make this work.”

The irritated financial advisor drew in a breath to continue the debate, one look into Bruce’s stern gaze told him that he was beaten. Kain sighed, crossing his arms and walking away from the pair to look at the Mark II angrily from behind the blast shield.

“All the Lean Principles in the world won’t make up this cost overrun,” he mumbled to himself. “Out of his bloody mind . . .”

Bruce shook Calvin’s hand, and smiled a thin smile. “Good work, Calvin. I promise we’ll make this work somehow.”

The Wayne Enterprises CEO glanced over at Kain, who was still mumbling to himself – far outside of listening range. “Say, could I borrow one of the Mark II prototypes you’ve made?”

Calvin’s eyes shot open in surprise and he stammered at the CEO’s question. “Oh? Well, yes. Yes, sir. Absolutely. Though, may I ask what on earth would you need it for?”

“Well, let’s just say that I can think of a few important applications that might spark some demand for the suit.”

“Ah, for one of your bigger clients?”

Bruce smirked. “Yes. Yes, something like that.”

Some Nights Later
Tennyson Apartments
The Apartment of Richard Fiedler

The window of the darkened apartment slid open quietly – carefully – so as not to attract attention. The man in the gunmetal grey bodysuit slid inside through the opened portal, having since climbed down the outside stairwell after landing upon the apartment’s deserted rooftop. The wide goggles of the criminal known as Firefly lit up with a fiery light, his night vision scanning the room quickly before he let out a relaxed sigh that filtered through his helmet’s voice synthesizer. Closing the window, he grasped his helmet and turned it quickly to the left, a slight hiss escaping from the broken seal. The gunmetal grey creature pulled off the heavy helmet, and revealed the tired visage of Garfield Lynns.

He removed the pieces of his fireproof armor slowly, the adrenaline high from the night’s activities having long given way to exhaustion. He cracked his neck, clicking on the safety for the flamethrower as he disconnected the jet engine and fuel reservoir pack off of his back. Stretching, he placed the pieces of his prized Firefly costume on the table, and ran his hands through hair thick with ash and sweat. Despite his costume being fireproof and self-contained, he could never figure out how the ash managed to work its way in there.

With his suit’s leggings still on, held in place by microfiber weave suspenders, he turned his attention to a small picture frame standing on the table. Inside the elaborately-decorated frame was the picture of a beautiful young woman with short blond hair, her smile radiant and kind. Garfield’s stance slackened then, as he brushed his hand along her picturesque face, tracing her smile.

“Cassidy,” he said sadly. “Oh, my lovely Cass.”

He stood, transfixed as memories – good and bad – washed over his mind. He tried shaking them out of his head, sighing hard as they refused to go away.

“You had the voice of an angel. Why couldn’t I save you?”

“Because you need help, Lynns,” a hard, grating voice growled.

Garfield’s face went pale, heart pounding beneath his chest. He had just enough time to turn before a figure emerged from the darkness. Not just emerged – coalesced from the very blackness of the shadows themselves. The man known as Firefly began to reach for the flamethrower, still discarded upon the kitchen table, before the darkness clutched his arm and twisted it, sending just the right kind of pain radiating along his entire arm. Garfield squealed, feeling his arm stretch from the pressure point and felt his knees begin to give out. Luckily, a powerful, hard hand clutched his throat moved him bodily through the air, slamming him hard against the fridge, pinning him fast.

The exchange took less than three seconds.

“Jesus, my arm!” the struggling Garfield rasped out through the powerful chokehold.

“–is hyper-extended, not broken. You’ll live.”

“Where did you come from, where–?”

“You should have checked all the rooms when you entered, Lynns,” the Batman sneered through his cowl, squinting at the arsonist and watching as the terror crawled across Lynns’ body. “We really need to talk.”

“T-t-talk? What–why do we–what–?” Lynns stammered, desperately searching for the right words.

“The Old Gallagher building. The Old Mercer Apartment Complex. Now, Stoneyford Inn, just off the Boulevard.  You’ve been a very busy arsonist indeed.”

“Not an arsonist, you bastard. I’m–”

“All places you and Cassidy stayed while she sang in concert in Gotham,” Batman scowled, talking through Firefly’s protests. “All throughout the last two years of her life. Before your stage-front pyrotechnics killed her.”

“No! I would never hurt my beautiful Cassidy, you little–!” Firefly growled, his rage nearing the boiling point.

“Enough!” Batman said, suddenly pulling Lynns toward him and then slamming him back against the fridge – hard. A pained groan sounded from the lips of the half-armored arsonist as his hands slumped to his sides. The fight was – momentarily – taken out of him.

“You’re trying, in your own misguided way, to let her go. Desperately trying to burn away your memories of the past. I sympathize, Lynns. Losing a loved one is never easy, and the pain never really goes away, but this is not the answer.”

Lynns sighed, trying to hold back the tears as Batman’s words resonated in his addled mind.

“Damn you, Batman,” he said quietly. His voice was no longer angry, or enraged – it was just finally defeated. “Damn you.”

Batman simply harrumphed, and for a brief moment, allowed the villain his grief. When the dark knight spoke again, his voice was colder, harsher than before. “Before I take you back to Arkham, I want to know who supplied you the formula.”

“A-Arkham?” Lynns stammered. “Taking me back to Arkham?”

“The formula, Lynns. The chemical formula for your new accelerant. We both know you’re a creature of habit. You stick to what works. Someone researched this formula for you, knew it would burn hotter and faster than any of your previous accelerants. Knew something like that would capture your imagination, that you would not be able to resist going back to your pyromaniac ways, despite your outpatient rehabilitation.

“Using the pseudonym of ‘Richard Fiedler’ was a nice touch, Lynns, both in the outpatient care facility and with this new apartment. Richard Fiedler, credited as the inventor of the first modern flamethrower. I almost missed the connection.”

Firefly struggled in the Batman’s iron grip. “No one! No one gave me the formula! I won’t go back to Arkham, you pointy-eared freak! I won’t!”

“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll see what I can do to reduce your stay there. You need rehabilitation, Lynns, and we both know that an outpatient facility can never–”

“No! No, you don’t understand! I can’t go back to Arkham. I can’t go back! He’ll kill me, this time!”

Batman narrowed his eyes at the villain, confused.

“Who, Lynns? Who will kill you?” the dark knight asked, struggling against the Firefly’s wild, desperate attempts to get loose.

“I can’t go back! I won’t!”

Batman pulled him closer; a coarse, frustrated growl escaping his lips.

“Who?”

The Firefly’s panic and fear deflated, and he looked into the dark knight’s eyes with a palpable fear. A fear of something worse than the dark knight.

“–the new warden of Arkham,” Garfield Lynns sighed breathlessly.

“The warden?” Batman asked before two metal prongs slammed against the Firefly’s chest and two hundred thousand volts of electricity lit both Lynns and the Batman in vibrant shades of neon blue and icy white light.

Both men collapsed to the floor as the Batman heard the tread of thick, heavy military boots clomping against the apartment’s paper-thin carpet. Batman cursed himself for not hearing the man enter despite Garfield’s shrieking and struggling. Shakily, the dark knight glanced over toward the Firefly – still shaking from the shock – before bringing his gaze up toward their attacker.

Black military boots. Heavy black shoulder pads connected with a thick metal chain in the middle. Padded riot gear. And a black facemask that covered everything but his cruel, angry eyes.

Catwoman’s man in black.

As the Batman shook on the floor, the man in black unsheathed a thick wooden baton, painted jet black, and lifted it over his head, staring down at the dark knight with cruel, merciless eyes. With a growl of pure, unbridled rage, he brought the weapon down against the dark knight.

Next Issue:  A violent battle, a desperate escape, and perhaps the answer to the mystery that has plagued our Dark Knight Detective! Join us next time, and help Batman discover the whereabouts of both Magpie and Film Freak in “Follow the Man in Black.”