Written for the Internet by: Nightwing
Beneath Wayne Manor, 11:34 p.m.
Hands moved with practiced efficiency over the keyboard. Characters appeared on the small side monitor almost faster than the computer could display them. After nearly a minute of furiously fast and accurate typing, the sounds of fingers pressing keys stopped with one final keystroke. After a moment of silence, the huge twin-Crays computer displayed a list of four names on the large central screen in large 130-point typefont.
Bruce Wayne leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked thoughtfully at the screen. His eyes moved quickly to the side as he heard footsteps descending the limestone steps that led into the cave. His head turned to see Tim Drake trotting down the stairs, a backpack slung over his arm, its contents obviously lightweight. Bruce acknowledged the boy with a nod, then began contemplating the list on the screen again.
Tim, the boy of 15, walked up behind Bruce and put hands to his hips. "Hmmph. Scratchy Ventras, Hard-Knox Yardley, Jimmie Fetchen, and Tony Vintenna," Tim read from the screen. "Rough bunch." Tim tossed his backpack gently on the limestone pedestal that rose up from the cave floor, and sat easily on the left arm of Bruce's chair. "What's this for?" Tim asked, gesturing towards the screen.
Bruce drew in a breath. "Ricky Weller, AKA Ricky the Rigger tried to skip over from Black Mask's organization."
Tim looked surprised. "He left Black Mask? I thought as far as mob jobs go, working for Black Mask was pretty much the equivalent of a good job at Microsoft."
"I've had some information recently given to me that suggests things may not be that way for long," Bruce said grimly.
"Well, then who did the Rigger skip over to?"
Bruce sighed, not sure with the answer he was about to give his partner, but knowing that it was his only one. "He tried to move to whomever is moving in on Black Mask."
Tim crossed his arms. "So, who's that? And what do you mean by tried?"
Bruce punched several keys on the keyboard, and one of the computer's smaller monitors displayed an electronic version of the Gotham Gazette. "They found Ricky Weller's body early this morning. In Crime Alley, of all places."
"Whoa. So, you don't know who's moving in on Mask?"
Bruce shook his head. "No. But, thanks to Weller's death, I may be able to find out. Now that he's dead, Black Mask will be needing a new rigger."
Tim's face was suddenly a portrait of clarity. "The list of names. I had no idea you had so many aliases."
"The names aren't aliases, Tim. These are real people. Black Mask is very choosey about who he lets in his organization, especially as of late. I can't just go up to him as some imaginary person and apply for the job. I have to become someone who actually exists."
"Good idea, unless the guy you're impersonating has something to say about it."
"The second name on this list, Hard-Knox Yardley, is a big name in New York. Black Mask has undoubtedly heard his name, but as far as I know, no one in Gotham's seen him."
"How are you going to be getting him here? I mean, you've got to make sure there's no chance you'll be found out."
"All covered," Bruce said, standing from the computer console. "Black Mask is meeting Yardley tonight in the Robinson district." Bruce picked up the backpack that Tim had brought with him. "Or, at least that's what I said when I sent for him. Better get dressed."
Tim began unbuttoning his shirt, while Bruce walked back behind a stone outcropping. Tim saw lights pop on from behind it, and heard the sound of a heavy steel door being pulled open. "So," Bruce called out from behind the stone, "why didn't you use your private entrance?"
Tim removed the red kevlar tunic from the backpack. "Dad's asleep for the night, and Mrs. McIlvaine's gone until tomorrow. I didn't think there was any harm."
"Not this time, although you're lucky no one besides Alfred and I were here."
"You know, Bruce, I wouldn't have kept coming in the front way if I'd seen cars in the driveway. I would have looked." There was no answer from behind the rock wall. Tim forgot the conversation and finished dressing. Once the tights, tunic, cape, boots and gloves were secured, Tim buckled the yellow belt around his waist, then removed the dark green eye mask from a small pocket inside the lining of his right glove. With a few dabs of spirit glue, he secured it to his face and saw the world from the eyes of Robin.
A moment later, Robin heard the heavy door shut, saw the light go off from behind the stone wall, and saw Batman walk out. He walked towards the black armored car that sat ready on a turntable on the edge of the reach of the main lighting. "Ready?"
Robin nodded.
Jean-Paul Valley had tried to sleep for the past hour or so in the bed that was still new and unfamiliar to him. He chided himself silently for complaining about the bed, since it was only slightly more than one month ago that he was sleeping on the cots at a homeless shelter. A little over a month ago, he was nothing, a broken Batman like Bruce Wayne had been, only worse. Jean-Paul Valley had never been Batman in the first place, not truly. He had worn his costume, then twisted it into his own vision that was only an eyelash different from his original Azrael costume.
Batman, the true Batman, had returned that costume to Jean-Paul, and he had become Azrael again. Azrael was his only true identity. Unreasoning, purely instinctual, flawless in battle, Azrael, assassin for the Sacred Order of Saint Dumas, was the person Jean-Paul had been born to be, literally. Grown in a test tude beneath the desert by a mad, totally dedicated servant of the Order known as the Grey Abbott, Jean-Paul Valley was the combined product of both human and animal genetic codes. He was grown and trained and programmed from his emergence from the tube to be an unquestioning servant of the Order. He was trained from his first breath of air to become exactly what the man they called his father had been, the perfect killer.
He was so much more now, though. Azrael was not an assassing, programmed to kill; he was a savior, a guarding presence that descended upon Jean-Paul when needed. He had always come when danger threatened, and had never failed.
Except against Batman. But, that was best. It was better that Bruce Wayne protect the city of Gotham as Batman than for Azrael to try and imitate him.
Jean-Paul looked at the clock beside his bed; it read 11:46 p.m. He rose from the bed, not tired in the least, and walked out into the hall, walking on the balls of his feet. He moved slowly down the hallway, stoppping at the first door and looking inside. Lilhy, a former Sister of the Order who had escaped from the Ice Cathedral with Jean-Paul when he returned there to find his origins, was asleep in her bed, the sheets pulled up only to her waist. She looked very beautiful when she was asleep. She looked very beautiful all the time.
Jean-Paul put his fingers to his mouth as he watched her. He had never been in love, never felt a woman's touch. As Batman, he had encounters with Catwoman, experienced what he thought of as sinful dreams for the first time. He watched Lilhy breathe, watched her lips, her eyes as the moved back and forth under her eyelids. Then, running a hand through his long, choppy blond hair, Jean-Paul moved on down the hall.
Fast asleep in the next room was the man whom Jean-Paul had met on the streets of Gotham during his seemingly endless time among the homeless. The man was called Brian Brian, and he used to be a psychologist, although he insisted he wasn't a very good one. He had accompanied Jean-Paul to Switzerland--to the Ice Cathedral, and had travelled along with Jean-Paul and Lilhy ever since, overcoming his drinking problem along the way, with some help from Ras al Ghul's Lazarus pit.
Jean-Paul watched his friend sleep for a moment as well, then moved on downstairs to the living room of the house. He sat down on the couch that sat on the floor directly in front of the large picture window. He stared blankly into moonlit space, the contours of the furniture, the borders of the walls, both beginning to fade, blur.
Jean-Paul's eyes closed without his realizing it. He saw himself in the red and black costume, as Azrael. He saw his expert form in battle, his quickness, agility, and pure skill bred into him from the start were total perfection. Jean-Paul smiled without his realizing.
Opening his eyes, he stood and returned upstairs. Hanging in his closet, the only article there, was his Azrael costume. He took it his hands, held it out in front of him and looked at it.
It was time for Azrael, the avenging angel, to return to the dark city.
Paragon Apartments, 12232 West Carlton Street, 12:09 a.m.
Batman stood behind Robin, who was perched on the parapet of the rooftop. The two had been waiting for several minutes, the Batmobile parked safely approximately one-half block away. Edward "Hard-Knox" Yardley's flight from La Guardia had landed nearly one hour ago, and Batman expected him any minute. "Yardley's a big name in the Big Apple, and he didn't get that way by being a sucker," Robin observed to Batman. "What if he saw through your invitation?" Batman stood motionless, looking at his young partner with an expressionless face. "I mean, he's probably got connections in Gotham. What if he, I don't know, called ahead?"
Batman walked forward and joined Robin perching on the roof ledge. "I considered that before I called Yardley. I knew that what you're talking about was a risk, but I also knew that no one in Black Mask's orgnanization has ever seen Hard-Knox Yardley. I think it's a calculated risk." Batman looked from Robin down to the street. "I have to do something. If I don't, then Black Mask loses all control, and that's not something I want."
Robin shifted slightly on the balls of his feet, twisting to face the man beside him. "Since you mentioned it, why are you so worried about someone taking over Black Mask's territory? I mean, the guy's far from good news."
"That's true," Batman conceded, "but at least I know Black Mask. I know his methods, I know his people. I have no idea who is poised to make a run at him. They could be someone in Gotham, or someone from Los Angeles for that matter. They could be a newcomer, and that's not what I want. If I can keep Black Mask on top for long enough, eventually he'll do enough for me or the police to catch him in the act. And, that's what I want."
Robin mouthed an "Ah" silently, nodding several times. "Better get out of sight," he heard Batman say, "I think my party's just arrived."
Edward "Hard-Knox" Yardley had driven to West Carlton Street from Gotham International Airport in a rented BMW. The car was dull green, his favorite color. The man was small, in direct contrast to his big-sounding name, and his reputation as well. This was the first time he had been to Gotham City in over 15 years. Way back then, the town had been run by old Arnie Stromwell. Stromwell had brung Yardley into the business. It was a job for Stromwell that had earned Edward Yardley his nickname. Stromwell had been embroiled in a brutal war with his rival, Boss Maroni. Maroni had ordered two of Stromwell's top lieutenants, including Frank Yanilli, his right-hand man, killed. In retaliation, Stromwell had Edward Yardley blow a hole in the side of the Gotham World Bank, home of the largest gold deposit in the western hemisphere, where Maroni's son worked as a guard.
Now, 15 years later, one of the most respected and feared (and unseen) members of the New York mafia, Hard-Knox Yardley returned to a different Gotham than the one he left. The new head-honcho, Black Mask, was one of the costumed, secret-identity, supercriminals. He did not exactly fit the archetype for a big city crime boss. He was powerful, though. Powerful enough that neither the police, or Gotham's resident legend, the Batman, could touch him.
Then again, it was Black Mask's misfortunes as of late that hade apparently prompted him to call for Hard-Knox. Black Mask's former rigger, Ricky Weller, had tried to leave the organization and gotten what he deserved. As far as Yardley was concerned, it was just as well anyway. Weller was little more than a high-profile amateur. He was the typical monogomous rigger, using the same equipment, the same explosives, even the same timers on every single job. As a rigger himself, Hard-Knox Yardley liked to keep himself informed of the competition.
Yardley stepped out of the car and shut the door softly, latching it with a firm push. He reached into the front pocket of his leather jacket and removed a pack of cigarettes. As he was lighting one up, he thought he noticed a movement around the corner of the building he parked in front of, an apartment complex; Gotham was full of them. He stood there smoking his cigarette, leaning against the car, waiting for Black Mask's advance-man to show himself.
Yardley looked suddenly to his left, this time he knew he had seen something move. Or someone. He dropped the cigarette to the sidewalk, crushed it into the floor with his shoe, and took a step forward. "Who's back there?" he asked in a voice that was suprisingly confident and commanding for coming from such a relatively small-standing man. He saw another movement, and could make out the legs and shoulders of a man standing in the shadow of the apartment building. "What's the word?" Hard-Knox Yardley demanded.
"Falseface number fifty-five," the shadow answered in a low, deep, rasp.
"You the man I'm waiting for?" Yardley asked.
He watched, and suprise that was soon replaced by shocked fear came over his face as Batman emerged from the shadows. "I think so," Batman answered coldly.
Batman's dark blue cape was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing the yellow and black bat ensignia on his chest, as well as the rectangular yellow belt that ran across his waist. Yardley had the opportunity to take a good look at him, and Batman looked just slightly like what he was, a man in a costume. "You?!" Yardley exclaimed, the commanding confidence vanished from his voice.
"Expecting an Armani suit?" Batman asked, although his intent was obviously not humorous. He advanced towards Yardley slowly, deliberately. Hard-Knox turned and moved for the car. He pulled open the door and climbed half-way in when he felt something take hold of his foot. A sharp pain, and he felt something pull him out of the car by the leg. He hit the sidewalk, squirmed to turn over, and saw that a thin cord was wrapped around his left ankle, a black metal projectile cut in the shape of a bat's wing attached to the end of it. Batman held the other end of the cord in his gloved hand.
"Man, what the fuck am I doing here?" Yardley asked Batman emphatically. "What do you want, for Christ's sake?!"
Batman walked over to the rigger, knelt in front of him. "I've been following your activities in New York recently. You're a busy guy. I think you need a vacation, Edward." Batman reached back behind his cape; Yardley could tell he was removing something from his utility belt. Batman pulled his arm out suddenly, and Hard-Knox withdrew, shielding his face with his arms. After a moment when nothing happened, he lowered his arms cautiously: Batman was holding what looked to be an airline ticket. The costumed man held the ticket out to Yardley. "Take it," he demanded firmly. "The flight leaves tomorrow at twelve twenty-five p.m. You're registered under the name Howard Abbott, with two B's and two T's. Batman reached back into his belt again, and removed a small silver key. He held the key up in front of Yardley. "This is a key to locker number three fifty-seven at the airport. Inside, you'll find adequate identification, a passport, and I even threw in some spending cash, once you get there, even though you won't need it."
Batman handed the key to Hard-Knox. The rigger pocketed the key, then examined the ticket. "One way to Bali?" He looked at the Batman, confused. "Why all this?"
Batman seemed as if he had been aching for that question to be asked. "I need you to vanish from the planet for a few days, Edward. Now, you'd better go get some sleep. Don't want to miss your flight tomorrow." Batman stood and started back for the shadows.
"What, no hotel?" Yardley called to him sarcastically. Batman continued moving towards the darkness. "Don't want to miss your flight," Batman repeated, more insistent this time. "I'll be watching you."
Edward "Hard-Knox" Yardley had been in the business for over 15 years. He was smart enough to know not to mess with Batman in his city. Bali sounded good.
The Roof of the Gotham National Bank, Wayne Plaza, 12:26 a.m.
He stood among the rooftops of Gotham City as Azrael for the first time in over a month. He couldn't help but be reminded of his time as Batman; once again, he was protector of innocents. Only this time, he was himself. This time, he would forge his own legend, not try to fill the shoes left by another.
Azrael took a look around him, and realized that he had come to the wrong part of Gotham City; no crime would likey occur in the Plaza after midnight. And, if it did, it was a matter for the police, not an avenger such as Azrael. They dark streets, and alleyways were where he was needed most. Places where the defenseless dwelled among garbage, both inanimate and human.
Azrael looked to the west, where the sun had set, and raised the golden gauntlet that sheathed his right arm. A grappling hook shot out from the top of the armored glove, a cord similar to the one employed by the Batman trailing behind it. Azrael heard the grappling hook latch onto something, and drew it tight. Once the line was taut, he stepped off the roof and into the air. He glided, as the individual strips of material that came from the shoulders of his costume pusehd together to catch the wind and pull him along on it. Whenever he needed to change directions, he simply found an appropriate target and fired another grappling hook, maneuvering on the end of the accompanying cord.
When he reached a point several blocks to the west, it seemed as if the dark forces had been awaiting him. At first, Azrael had not known why he had chosen the west to search out evil, but now he recognized his position. Below him was the alley in which he had often shivered, homeless and trying to keep warm in tattered, borrowed clothes. A man who appeared to be in his late fifties, but was probably much younger, was struggling to sleep in the alley, while three teenagers approached him from the open end. One was carrying a small rectangular canister, and Azrael heard a liquid splashing from within its metal walls.
He had heard of this. It was called a Bum Burning, and had become all the rage among big city gangs all over the country. It was among the cruelest crimes Azrael had heard of. During his time as Batman, he had never been unfortunate enough to witness one. He was determined that this not be the night he saw his first one, not on the night of his return.
Before the teenagers could get two steps closer to the sleeping homeless man, Azrael had hit the ground. The first boy turned to face him, and was met with a hard kick to the stomach that forced an earlier meal to come back up. The other two boys, seeing no alternative, ran for the other end of the alley. Azrael pointed his right gauntlet at the gas can, and a shuriken shot from the top, slicing into the can and knocking it from the boy's grip. Azrael ran forward several steps, then leapt into the air, landing impossibly in front of the scared teenagers. He swept the feet of both boys, and they fell backwards, hitting their heads on the hard asphalt.
Azrael dragged all three boys out of the alley. Looking at the bum, he found that the man was, amazingly, still fast asleep. The avenger tied the three boys tightly together, back-to-back-to-back, then left as suddenly as he had appeared to them.
The dark city was full of such evil, and it was still a young night.
"I want you to call Nightwing," Batman told Robin when the boy swung onto the roof of the St. Gregory's Cathedral after him. "I'll need him to fill in for me for a few days."
Robin gathered his cord back into his utility belt, then regarded his partner. "Again?"
Batman nodded. "Starting tomorrow, I'm going to be Edward Yardley. I've already circulated word that Bruce Wayne was taking his private jet to Tahiti for a vacation of indeterminate length, so that's taken care of.
"You want him to wear the Batman costume?"
Batman shook his head firmly. "Not this time. I shouldn't be out of action too long. You and Nightwing can handle things while I'm working for Black Mask."
Robin crossed his arms, a cynical sneer on his face. "Really? Are you sure you're not doing this because you want me and Nightwing out of your hair so you can start dating?"
Robin knew he shouldn't have said it, but Batman ignored the remark. If there was one thing that Batman was not known for, it was having a sense of humor. "Better call him now. He might be out by now."
Robin reached into the second storage pocket on his left sleeve and removed a small black rectangle. the rectangle unfolded once to reveal a standard 12-button telephone keypad. Robin put his index finger to the small earpiece in his left ear to secure it, then switched on the keypad. The keys lit up, and a dialtone began sounding in Robin's left ear. He dialed seven numbers, then pressed the earpiece with his finger again. This was not necessary, but was a habitual action; Batman often did it as well.
"Dick Grayson," the earpiece said after two rings.
"Hi, Dick. This is Robin. Or, should I be calling you Nightwing?"
"Better go with Nightwing. I was about seventy-feet above Gorten Avenue, between the old and new county courthouses when the phone rang."
"Sorry to interrupt. Any action tonight?"
"Not much. Couple muggings. It's actually pretty quiet."
"Well, the night is young."
"Right. Knock on wood. So, Boy Wonder, to what do I owe the honor?"
"Someone's trying to take over Black Mask's territory."
"Yeah, I've heard rumors. Nothing real big. If I hear anything important, I'll assume that you guys are handling it."
"Thanks. Anyway, Batman is going to try and get inside Black Mask's organization. Undercover."
"Seriously?"
"He's going to impersonate a rigger from New York. Mask's rigger tried to skip over to the enemy and got himself killed. We figure that either Black Mask knows who it is who's after him, or whoever it is will still be needing a rigger and try to snare Batman."
"Clever. So, let me guess, while Batman is digging his shallow grave, you and me have to pull double duty."
"You got it. That is, unless you'd rather not."
Robin heard Nightwing laugh incredulously. "Are you kidding? I'll be glad to fill in for him. Do I have to wear the costume?"
"You'll have to wear your Nightwing costume."
"Wow, maybe I can get Harold to make me another new one!"
Robin laughed, but resisted the urge to comment. "I'll see you for patrol tomorrow."
"Until then, Robin. Hey, tell Batman I said 'Hi', would you?" Nightwing hung up the phone, not waiting for an answer. Robin replaced the phone keypad into its storage compartment. "He says 'Hi'," Robin said to Batman.
Batman nodded. "He'll do it, then?" Robin nodded affirmatively. "Good," Batman said, pulling out a length of cord from his belt.
Robin walked up beside his partner. "You know," he began, "eventually you're going to have to thank him."
Batman looked at Robin for only an instant, then returned his attention to his utility belt. "Nightwing? I might not express my gratitude in plain English, but I thank him in other ways."
Robin raised his eyebrows, although his mask hid the gesture. "Really? How?"
Batman already had the answer. "I thank Nightwing in the same way I thank you, by trusting him. I allow us to be allies. He understands."
"Gotcha," Robin said.
"Now, come'on. We're calling it an early night. I need to put a disguise together; I want to try and make contact with someone from the Falseface society tomorrow evening, before sundown."
The two guardians of the night swung out over the streets. They found the Batmobile waiting half a block away.
Gorten Avenue, 1:37 a.m.
Azrael was crouching on the parapet of the old Gotham County Courthouse.
Nightwing was watching him from the roof of the new courthouse. Azrael had been there since just after Robin had called, and hadn't moved except to turn his hooded head from side to side.
Then Azrael disappeared. Nightwing looked, and he was gone. He had dropped down the other side of the courthouse. The new courthouse was three stories higher than the old one, which made it easier for Nightwing to run and leap from one building to the other. He hit the roof, rolled several times, then got to his feet and ran to the end of the roof where Azrael had been.
Down below, the former assassin for the Order of St. Dumas had already floored two men, and was surrounded by three more, who were advancing on him. Azrael dropped to his knees, and his right arm and left leg shot straight out, contacting with the stomachs of two of the men. The one behind Azrael fell backwards and rolled over several times before coming to a barely conscious rest. The one in front had caught Azrael's punch, so the costumed man drove his other fist into the attacker's stomach. Standing, Azrael executed a hard sidekick to the man's head, knocking him unconscious to the floor.
The third man made a run for the red-clad stranger, but Azrael caught him by the shoulder and hip and flipped him perfectly overhead and onto the asphalt behind.
Nightwing saw one of the two men who had been there before stand and pull a gun. Nightwing recognized it as one of the many automatic weapons that had been banned recently. Even with Azrael's bullet-proof costume, the weapon was still a threat.
Nightwing dropped down to the ground directly in front of the gunman, grabbed hold of the weapon with his left hand, punched the man in the jaw with his right, then took the gun and spun around to finish off the gunman with a hard roundhouse kick. Nightwing stood over the fallen man, looking at the gun. "Let me guess," he said with a triumphant smile, "you were only expecting one freak in a costume!"
Nightwing heard metal against metal, and the gun flew out of his hand. The gun hit the ground behind him, a shuriken imbedded in the barrel. "Why did you interfere?" Azrael demanded, advancing towards Nightwing menacingly.
Nightwing crossed his arms confidently. "Drop the tough-guy act, Jean-Paul. I'm not scared."
Angrily, Azrael fired off another shuriken that flew past Nightwing's head, just missing grazing his temple. "What's next, Paul? The flaming sword?"
Azrael reached behind his head and drew a long, shining blade, its handle bright gold. Azrael held the sword in front of him effortlessly. Nightwing moved quickly to kick the sword away, but Azrael leapt backwards, somersaulting and landing nearly ten feet away. The sword then seemed to spontaneously erupt into flames, and Azrael held the sword out in a defensive posture. "I am Azrael!" he declared.
Nightwing put his palms up in front of him. "Okay, fine. Azrael."
"You will answer my questions!"
"Yeah, sure."
"Why did you interfere?"
Nightwing looked at Azrael, amazed. "Az, in case you missed it, that guy had a major gun there, bud."
"He would not have harmed me!" Azrael insisted. "I had the situation under control!"
Nightwing seemed skeptical, and he was. "Really?" he asked, although he really didn't want an answer. "Tell me, Azrael, while you were kicking ass a few moments ago, did you even once think of the reason why?" Nightwing pointed to two people, a mother and her young daughter, huddled frightened in the back corner of the alley. "The bullets could have hurt you, Jean-Paul. But they could have killed those two."
Azrael lowered the sword, and the flame disappeared. "They're homeless like I was," he said. Nightwing knew that he was listening to Jean-Paul Valley talk now. "I just want to make things right. When I was Batman, I did things that were wrong."
Nightwing seemed only slightly sympathetic. "You can say that again," he said, turning to inspect the unconscious thugs behind him. Nightwing knelt down by the nearest one. Removing his glove, he felt for a pulse. "But you did some good tonight." Nightwing stood. "These guys'll need a doctor. I can call for one. You'd better go home, Paul. You're the best I've ever seen in a fight, except maybe for Batman. But, some of your other techniques need some polishing."
Azrael seemed to agree. Nightwing approached Azrael, pulled on his glove, and reached out his hand. Hesitant, Azrael shook it. "Now, better get out of here. You can get those two to somewhere a little better than this, and I'll see to the five stooges here." Azrael nodded, and gently led the two frightened people out of the alley.
The Dark Angel had found a purpose, now he need only find an acceptable way of serving it.
Beneath Wayne Manor, the next day, 6:42 p.m.
"Are you sure you can't wear a transmitter, Bruce?" Tim asked with deep concern.
Bruce continued buttoning up the silk shirt. "Positive. Black Mask is extremely careful about who he lets into his midst. I can't take that kind of risk, Tim."
"Then, let Dick and me follow you. We can--"
"No. And for the same reasons why I can't wear a transmitter. Too risky. If I get caught, all this is for nothing." Bruce finished buttoning the shirt. He was also wearing black designer slacks, Italian shoes, and draped over the back of a nearby chair, a matching black jacket. Bruce left the collar of the shirt open and pulled on the jacket. He had darkened his complexion with make-up, and died his hair from black to dark brown. Contact lenses took his eyes from blue to brown, and a facial prostethis elongated his face slightly and reshaped his chin to appear less chisled. Bruce inspected himself in a mirror. "There," he said in a practiced New York accent. "Perfect."
Reaching into the breast pocket of the jacket, Bruce removed a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, replaced the pack in his pocket, and from the same pocket removed a pack of wooden matches. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, then dropped the still burning matchstick to the floor and suffocated the flame with his foot. "Couldn't resist adding a little Matches Malone to him, could you?" Tim asked.
Bruce took a drag from the cigarette, then addressed Tim as Hard-Knox Yardley. "Buzz-off, kid."
Felch Street subway station, 7:12 p.m.
Bruce stood in front of the steps as Hard-Knox Yardley. He had been waiting here for about ten minutes after calling a contact from Black Mask's organization and being told to wait here. The man had sounded interested when he had heard who was calling. Bruce's confidence was bolstered, but he still was hoping to learn what he needed, then get out within a few days.
A black Mercury pulled up to the curb, and a man got out. He was tall, dressed in expensive shoes, and Armani suit, and a pink rabbit mask. He was called simply the Rabbit, and was the number one member of the Falseface Society, a group of Black Mask's closest lieutenants. "You are Hard-Knox Yardley?" he asked, although it didn't sound like a question. Bruce nodded.
"That's me, bunny." The Rabbit walked around behind Bruce as if to inspect him. Without warning, he grabbed Bruce around the neck, and two more masked men, one with an Nixon mask, the other with a werewolf, emerged from the car. Nixon pulled a black canvas sack down over Bruce's head, and the werewolf tied it around his neck with a piece of thin rope.
Bruce was forced into the car, and heard the door slam behind him.
The car ride lasted approximately ten minutes. Bruce kept time with his internal clock, a device he had trained into his mind so last it would not be necessary for Batman to wear a watch. He felt the car stop, heard the doors open, and was pulled out of the car. It was colder here, and he could barely hear what sounded like things rushing all around him. The ground beneath him was wooden. The boardwalk. They had taken him to the waterfront.
They pulled him up several steps, and Bruce heard a door open. He was ushered inside, where it was warm and silent. Two arms sat him down in a chair, and pulled the sack from his head. His eyes didn't adjust to the light; the room was as dark as the sack. After several seconds, Bruce could make out a barely visible shape several yards in front of him. It looked like a man, sitting in a large chair.
"Hello?" he said in his New York accent. "Hey! Anyone here?"
The lights in the room came on, and Bruce squinted his eyes at the sudden brightness. He forced them open, and his vision slowly cleared. He looked at the man in the chair, who was looking straight down at his own lap. "Hey!" Bruce demanded. "What's goin' one, huh? You sure as hell ain't makin' a very good impression!"
The man in the chair looked up: it was Hard-Knox Yardley, the real Hard-Knox Yardley. Bruce tried not to let his shock be evident on his face. He caught another, much larger shape moving towards Yardley, and focused in on it. It was Black Mask. The large man stood beside Yardley and clasped his hands in front of him. Dark eyes burned into Bruce from behind the black mask that had given the gangster his name. From all around, gunmen wearing various masks appeared, pointing their weapons directly at Bruce. "Welcome, Mr. Yardley," Black Mask said harshly to Bruce. "Or, should we call you Batman?"
Next Episode: "Flaming Swords and Matchsticks--The Conclusion"