Written for the Internet by: Nightwing
The city looked so different from the rooftops, different from any other point of view. From the comfort of an airplane, Gotham looked clean, civil, parts of it even struck the viewer with a certain beauty. From the streets, the real ugliness of the place was evident in the sight of every overflowing trashcan, the sound of every terrified scream, every siren.
From the rooftops though, (if they were high enough) the city could be viewed with a kind of knowing, hopeful neutrality. Things didn't look near as perfect as seen from the air, nor did they seem as dirty and bleek as when viewed from street level.
If you didn't know any better, you might mistake Gotham for another New York, or Los Angeles without the numerous big-spenders and stylish, Bel Air-type neighborhoods.
Batman knew better. He knew enough that he believed neither the image of Gotham projected from plane or rooftop or street. He knew the truth, he knew from experience. He knew the heart of Gotham City, all its darkness and bleak natures. He knew of the syndicates that operated on fear and threat; he knew of both the large, city-wide illegal corporations that dealt in murder and prostitution, and power gained by way of blood, as well as the small-time drug dealers who sold to grade schoolers, and of the young street gangs who ruled their self-claimed territories with an iron fist that would have made Al Capone look like a gutless blowhard.
Batman knew of the real Gotham City, and although he hated the overwhelming evils of the place with every human part of him, there was also a part of him that deeply loved this city, its ugliness, and cared for its innocent, frightened masses. Batman was a creature of vengeance, or violence and retribution. But, he was also a man, one of strong convictions, one possessed of amazing compassion and understanding. Such would have to be true, why else had he endured a decade of punishment, torture, and unadulterated hatred directed towards the the wearer of the dark blue cape and cowl.
Batman stood on the southwest corner of the roof of the Green/Schutt Cash Crops warehouse that skirted the edges of Gotham's factory district. His eyes, hidden beneath his cowl and seen as only two pure white slits in the mask, surveyed down below, his ears listening for any stray sound. He knew the sounds of his city well enough after ten years to know when something was wrong simply by the sound it made.
He had waited for nearly twenty minutes in perfect, motionless silence. Twenty minutes was the most amount of time he would spend in a given area of the city unless he had some predetermined reason to be there. On this night, he had an appointment in another section of this ugly city.
Batman was in the Robinson district just over ten minutes later. He waited in patient shadow for almost five minutes before a man's footsteps were heard on the sidewalk. It was on a residential street, with an enforced curfew that was two hours active, so hearing someone approaching either meant trouble, or Batman's specific reason for being here, at this time, on this early morning. He was ready for either possibility.
A tall, skinny man wearing a grey trenchcoat that looked to be about two sizes too large for him stopped beneath the dim light of a slowly dying lampost and resigned himself to a long wait.
"You're Punny?" the thin man heard, sounding almost as if the voice had come from all around him. "Answer," the voice of Batman implored at the man's silence.
"Uh, yes. I'm Punny. Le--"
Batman emerged from the shadows behind the man. "Lester Punny, convicted of armed robbery, sentenced to seven years in Blackgate prison. That sentence was plea-bargained down to two years after you squealed--"
Lester Punny held up his hand. "I didn't squeal. I ain't no--"
" . . .after you squealed on your partner, who was a known member of an east coast drug syndicate and wanted bad by Narcs from here all the way down to Baltimore. Your partner was prominent in the organization, but not respected, therefore you maintain to this day most of your connections to the players, despite your reputation as a stool pigeon." Batman looked the man over for a moment, then repeated, "You're Punny?"
"I said so. What do you want?"
"You have no idea why you were called here, and yet you showed up anyway."
"Hey, I knowed that it was the Batman who called me here."
"It could have been a trap. You could have been called here to be killed."
Punny grinned, shaking his head from side to side. "Everyone knows the Batman don't kill."
Batman's mouth curled into a practiced sinister grin. "Certain you're not just fooling yourself?"
Punny shifted uncomfortable on the balls of his feet. "Why'd you call me here, for Christ's sake?"
Batman took several slow, deliberate steps forward. His dark blue cape was draped over his shoulders, hiding most of his body from chin to ankles. As a result, he seemed almost to float as he walked. "I'll be brief, Punny. You have what I need, what I thrive on: information. Although not actively involved in the drug trafficking, you know when and where the major plays go down around here. I want to know what you know."
Punny snickered to himself, looking to the side. When he looked back, Batman was practically standing on his toes, the masked man's dark form blotting out most of Punny's straight ahead view. He was more nervous than a second ago, but still managed to mutter "Why should I tell you a . . . why should I tell you anything?"
Batman didn't hesitate to answer. "I have a few reasons that might serve to persuade you." Punny seemed to be regaining his confidence, albeit slowly. He crossed his arms in a confident gesture. "Like what?" he asked, managing to stifle the crack in his voice.
"Like the prostitute you invited over for dinner and drinks at your place, in violation of your parole a week before."
Punny seemed much more confident now; he seemed to be distracting himself from the fact that he was standing only inches away from the city's most feared agent of justice. "That it? Lettin' nature take its course with some whore I never met before? 'S a minor offense."
"Is extortion?" Batman fired back.
Punny gave the darkly dressed man a strange look. "It's not as if you don't know what I'm talking about, Punny," Batman commented. "The owner of the antique shop on Geraldine Avenue, three blocks south of Wayne Plaza?" Punny's memory didn't appear jogged. "The seventy year old man with a wife, two children, and three grandsons who you demanded protection money from?"
Punny continued to feign ignorance. "You're not an honest man, Punny. You're not cut out for an honest man's work, you simply do not fit the mold. Fresh out of prison, with your connections intact but your former position in your old organization taken, you had to make a living somehow. So, you turned to the only thing you knew how to do, namely fear."
"You can't prove nothin'."
"I can prove plenty. More than enough to send you back to Blackgate for at least a few more years."
Punny crossed his arms frustratedly. He might not like the idea of betraying his people again, especially to the Batman, but he liked the idea of more prison time even less. He looked at the ground for a moment, then returned his gaze to Batman. "Okay, vigilante. You win. A few of my old pals are going to be at Pier 36 in Gotham Harbor, about an hour from now. There's a shipment coming in on a ship called the Greenwich High Roller."
It was now Batman who crossed his arms. "Shipment of what?"
"You know, just about everything. Ship made a stop in Mexico, and in Florida, and Maryland before moving up to Gotham. Probably a good bit of coke, heroin, and some pot for the kids." Batman glared at Punny with an intensity that was evident even not being able to see the costumed man's eyes. "Look, from what I hear, some of the guys . . . you know, they're like, lower echelon, are planning to withold a good bit of the cargo for themselves."
"Are they addicts?"
"Oh, hell no. At least, I don't think so. They just ain't satisfied with their cut in the operations, and want some more cash. You know, for like, a nest egg. Plannin' on sellin' it straight offa the streets themselves."
"Is that all?"
"It's all I know right now. If the guys don't find out about me fartin' around here with you, I might hold onto my connections."
"I will ask your help again, Punny."
Punny looked down at the ground again. "Sure, sure. Just keep you mouth shut about that old man's shop, okay?" Punny looked up for an answer, but Batman had already vanished.
2:37 a.m.
"I still ain't too sure about this, you know," Batman heard one of the men waiting at the dock say. Batman had arrived at Pier 36 just minutes ago, and was waiting for the ship to come in. A thick fog hung low over the water of the harbor, providing for almost no visibility out past the pier.
Waiting restlessly for the Greenwich High Roller were four men, all in their mid-twenties, one black, one Latino, two white. Both white men sported beards that were slowly in the process of growing in, and the shorter of them was continuously scratching his face with his gloved hand. The other white man and the Latino puffed nervously on cigarettes, while the black man simply stood with his hands in his coat pockets, staring out at the invisible water.
"You know, I really don't give a damn if you ain't too sure about this," the taller white man said in response the Latino's remark. "Christ, if you didn't want in on things, you shoulda said something before tonight, you stupid spic."
The Latino dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it beneath his foot as he lunged for the white man. He landed a hard right hand punch to the white man's chin before the black man moved in and pushed both men apart. Speaking with quiet anger, he addressed the angry Latino. "You'd better just cool off, Geraldo. God, ain't you got no brains in that Mexican head o'yours? Our man on the boat ain't expecting us, dumbass!" In the shadows behind the men, Batman's eyes narrowed. "He's expecting Print Shop!" the black man concluded.
Batman heard the name Print Shop and began to search his memory for a real name. It would have to wait, though; a fog horn bleated out its call from the water, and its lights were barely visible, approaching a faintly glowing disks of illumination in the wall of fog.
"Here they come," announced the tall white man calmy, planting his hands in his pockets and retreating easily from the water. He noticed the uneasiness of his companions. "Now just calm down, you guys. I mean, Christ, we agreed on this, right? We're goin' through with it." The other three seemed slightly more confident, but were still plainly uneasy.
Once the ship had completed its approach and docking procedures, people onboard began scurrying about like trained rats, some moving to the row of wooden crates and lifting them and carrying them down the ramp to the dock.
The shorter white man on the pier had disappeared moments ago, and Batman saw him reemerge driving a moving van, registered with New Jersey license plates. The truck stopped, and the black and Latino lifted up the back door. The tall white man was speaking with someone who had been on the boat. Anticipating what was about to happen, Batman shifted positions in the shadows slightly, and removed a miniature infrared camera from his utility belt. As the tall white man reached into his pocket, Batman took a shot of his face, then of his full body, then of the man he was talking to. When the white man removed a large roll of one hundred dollar bills from his pocket and counted out nearly all of it to the boatman, Batman recorded the entire transaction with the camera.
Meanwhile, the black man, Latino, and shorter white man were loading the wooden crates that had been brought from the High Roller into the back of the moving van. There were a total of nine boxes, each about the size of medium fruit crates. Once the boxes were loaded, the van locked, and the white man who had been called Print Shop done talking to the boatman, all four men piled into the moving van and drove away from the dock.
Batman had been standing on the roof of a nearby storage house, and began to follow the van along the rooftops.
3:06 a.m.
The moving van stopped at an old parking garage, South Frederick Street, downtown Gotham City. Print Shop was the first to exit the cab, walking around to the back of the van and unlocking the door to the storage trailer. His three companions followed, each taking one crate and carrying it into the old garage. Print Shop walked back around the front of the van, climbed in behind the steering wheel and drove away. As the van moved away from the parking garage, Batman leapt from off of the top of it, and entered the parking garage, via a ledge on the second level.
The three remaining men were on the bottom floor. Batman could hear the voice of the black man, and removed a small, somewhat bulky looking device from his belt, pressed it onto the floor, and held his ear to it. The device was a miniaturized sonic-microphone, which picked up on the vibrations in a room it was focused on and amplified those that it determined came from vocal chords.
" . . . figure we'll start tomorrow on Kentell Avenue, then work our way over to the Square by the middle o'next week," Batman heard the black man tell him through the microphone. "So long as the big man don't find out, we could have a pretty sweet deal on our hands."
Batman picked up his microphone, and headed for the ground floor. When he got there, the three men were standing in a triangle near the center of the floor, the three boxes in a row behind the Latino. The large absence of light gave the garage floor numerous shadows that provided Batman with suitable means of concealment. He removed a small tape recorder and amplifier from his belt and attached it to a square pillar that helped hold up the second floor.
Keeping his eye on the three men sitting near the boxes, Batman removed the square buckle plate from his belt. The yellow rectangular plate unfolded into a small, palm-sized computer. It was too small to hold anything but the most basic programming, and served as a link-up to the computer in the Batcave below Wayne Manor. Batman activated the link, and began a search program. The small computer responded that the search requested would take several minutes, so Batman attached it to the square pillar, much as he had done with the tape recorder and amplifier.
The three men continued to talk, to plan, and to gloat with themselves. "Home free, boys," the black man kept saying. "We home free from here on out! Can't nobody stop us now!"
What happened next seemed like it had taken place in slow motion, even though it was over in seconds. Something emerged from behind the white man, and pulled him back behind the boxes. The Latino heard the sound of something solid colliding with flesh and bone, and then whatever it was was on top of him. The Latino lost consciousness in great pain.
The black man was the final target for the intruder, and he was given a hard kick to the stomach, followed by a punch to the jaw that was not as hard as it could have been. Batman stood over the only member of the three who remained conscious. He lifted the man to his knees by the collar of his shirt. Batman looked down at the man with contempt. "I can't stop all of you, but I can stop you bastards." Batman threw the man hard into one of the crates, shattering the wood and spilling packing fiber and packs of something wrapped in white paper onto the floor.
Batman picked up one of the white packets and tore it open. He held its contents up to his nose and sniffed. Nodding, he threw it back with the rest of the white packets.
It was powder cocaine.
Batman reclaimed his tape recorder and amplifier, and then removed his computer link-up from the wall. His search results were displayed on its tiny screen:
Search Characters: Print Shop1 File found
Batcave Systems Electronic Dossier #1313:
NAME: Travis Hartford
HEIGHT: 6' 5"
WEIGHT: 176 lbs.
AGE: 28 years
ALIAS(ES): Print Shop, P. S. Hart, Green Hart
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CONVICTIONS: Aggravated assault(served 6 mos.), robbery(served 17 mos.), counterfeiting(served 2 yrs.)
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Currently free, having served his jail time. Possibly still involved in counterfeiting. Also said to have connections to Mossman's drug organization.
END FILE
3:47 a.m.
Lester Punny heard a knock on his window.
Rising from bed, annoyed after having finally fallen asleep, he pulled up the window and leaned out over the fire escape. "Over here."
Punny looked to the source of the sound at his left, and saw Batman perched on the rail of the fire escape like a cat ready to spring. "I need more information on the one they call Print Shop. Travis Hartford."
Punny yawned loudly. "Can't this wait 'till tomorrow?"
"I'm here now," Batman said flatly. "What's Travis Hartford's connection to Mossman? And why is he betraying him?"
"Your information is out of date, Batman. Print Shop has been on Black Mask's unofficial payroll for a few months, ever since B. M. sank his teeth into a piece of the Gotham heroin scene. Only thing is, Shop ain't too happy about the pay. Black Mask wouldn't give his drug runners and dealers the same perks as he gave the members of the False Face society. He thinks it's too risky."
Batman had been maintaining eye contact with Punny since the two first spoke. "So, Hartford is dealing behind Black Mask's back for money?"
"Truth is, until a few nights ago, I couldn't understand why Print Shop was so nervous, and why he was taking such a big chance doin' what he's doin'."
"Then . . ." Batman prompted.
"Gotta remember that Black Mask's top dog in Gotham. I hear he's actually a pretty generous guy if you do your job well. But, I think Travis heard what I heard last weekend."
"Which is?"
"Black Mask . . . well, his throne might not be completely safe. Word is, someone's warming up to make a major move on Black Mask's territory. Might even end up knocking Mask off the top spot."
"Mossman?" Batman asked, suspicion in his raspy voice.
Punny shook his head and yawned again. "Mossman is the biggest drug guy on this side of the country. He runs everything, from Toronto down to Miami. If he took over Black Mask's territory, it'd be a minor acquisition. Mossman already owns as much of Gotham as he needs. He ain't the kind of guy who's over-hungry for power."
"You sound like you know Mossman pretty well, Punny."
Lester Punny yawned again. "I worked with the Moss for a little while in Fawcett City about six years ago, before he took over Gateway City on the west coast. I haven't been too close to him since he took over the east three years ago."
"What was your connection to him in Fawcett?"
"I did some stuff I ain't too proud of for the Moss in Fawcett, and for a little while in Keystone and Coast City. Nasty stuff I shouldn'ta done. Sellin' to kids an' shit."
Batman nodded grimly. "Do me a favor and keep your ear to the wall."
Punny scratched the back of his head and yawned yet again. "Yeah, whatever. Good-ni--" Punny looked to his left, but Batman was nowhere to be seen.
4:02 a.m.
The Batmobile pulled into the cave.
Alfred was waiting with a tray of bandages and antiseptic ointment, if their services would be required. Amazingly, Batman emerged from the car unscathed. He tugged at the fingers of his gloves, then pulled them off completely. Sitting down in front of the Batcave's massive computer console, he pulled the cowl back off of his face, and took in a breath as Bruce Wayne. "The night was gentle, I trust," Alfred wondered, placing the tray of bandages on the limestone pedestal that rose up from the smooth stone floor of the Batcave's main plateau.
"I suppose it was physically," Bruce said, running his fingers through his black hair. "But I got some disturbing information tonight. Some frightening things could begin happening in this city. Hell, all up and down this side of the continent."
Alfred saw the time at hand to change the subject. "Did Master Robin not accompany you this evening?"
Bruce knew what Alfred was doing, but went along with it this time. "If Tim didn't go out solo, he spent the night at home. I suggested to him that he might want to take a breather for one night. I hope he did. He might be needing the rest pretty soon."
"You seem worried, sir. What exactly did you learn tonight?"
Bruce sighed heavily. "Maybe I'm not worried; may it's just advanced exhaustion."
Alfred gave his friend, employer, and surrogate son a confused and concerned look. "Tell me what you mean, Master Bruce."
"Alfred, " Bruce said, looking into the eyes of his oldest friend on earth. "do you believe in fate? That certain events are preordained to happen? Certain battles meant to be fought?"
The Englishman's concern grew, but he answered the question anyway. "To a certain extent. But, not entirely."
Bruce exhaled loudly. "Then, why do I have the feeling that all the battles I've fought for the last ten years as Batman have just been a prelude for the one that's yet to come?"
Alfred was silent.
He had no answer.