By Jason McDonald
Heroes Challenge – 03.08.07
***
Even when I’m visiting the city I used to call home – back in the days when I still wore red-and-green tights – the night I know so well talks to me. It tells me things. Private things. Things only I can hear.
The shattered silence, the sounding gunfire. The echoing tick-tacks of a woman’s stilettos on hard, cracked asphalt. These are the streets of Gotham.
Gotham has a pathos all its own – a personality, if you will. There are always the regular cackles from below the city streets of madmen in white face paint. There are the dual voices of a gangster and his faithful servant – the puppet and the puppeteer. There is the ivy, crawling up the sides of the buildings….the kittens crouching in the shadows, purring and gazing with green little eyes at the shining jewels of the city.
Gotham truly is a mad place – a psychotic’s paradise. Full of thieves and murderers.
But people like me have tamed the city. My old partner – he and I had solved the riddles of the city together. We crept across it as a singular specter, making sure the average Joe could wake up, go to work, come home, and live their life without fear of the darkness.
Gotham is a mad place, always has been – but it is tamed.
It is ruled by fear.
Fear of him.
And on days like today, fear of me.
But the boys in the alley below, I imagine, didn’t get the memo.
They don’t see me at first of course – my descent from the roof is flawless.
A cartwheel off the roof. Catch my balance on the railing of the fire escape – the one on the second balcony down from the top, where the metal never squeaks. Twist through the bars, keeping the crooks in my line of sight as I grip the bottom of the landing, not too tight – that would snap off the aged metal whose limits I know so well – and catapult toward the brick, lightly bouncing off with the soles of my feet.
Rubber boot against aged brick wall doesn’t even make a squeak in the hands of a gymnast like myself. From the bounce, I thrust off the brick and do a hands-free cartwheel, landing in the tarmac with the silence of a career thief.
I let my muscles chuckle slightly – they do love the times they get to show off.
Five feet away from the perps, who I can see are already working over the woman they’d been chasing earlier.
Two brutes in wife-beaters rip apart her purse, away from the action, grabbing wads of money and credit cards for their own private collections. Another plays the dutiful lookout, looking toward the street, keeping the heavy semi-auto tucked beneath a brown coat that doesn’t fit him well.
The lady is pretty, and surrounded on all sides by muscles and teeth and angry men with complicated networks of tattoos in place of soft skin. They’re all gloves and muscle-shirts and snow caps which they think make them look tough. The steroids help a little better than the snowcaps in that regard.
The lady’s stopped screaming now, knowing it will only bring the pain on faster. Her breasts heave and her stomach quivers. She’s panting and breathless and terrified, all wide eyes and streaming tears – I know the look better than I’d care to. She’s in high heels and a red dress designed to showcase more than the lovely curves about the hips – bad move on her part.
Bad part of town for it, too. The cops in this district are either good-for-nothing or up to no good.
It takes me a second or two to size up the situation. They’re all carrying, whether in the palms of their hands or the creases in their pockets. And by the way the man on point is licking his lips, that red dress probably won’t stay on the girl much longer.
Go-time.
“Heya, boys! Just thought I’d drop in.” I shout in a mocking tone. It’s a cliché, of course, but it gets their attention, makes them do what I want them to do.
They turn about to find the noise – I have them all in perfect line-of-sight.
By the time they pull their pieces, I’ve already pulled mine. Mini-discs, yellow and black with a modified Bat-symbol on both sides. Bruce has taught me the value of carrying projectiles. Makes me long-range.
All six discs hit their targets before any of the brutes can pull a trigger. Six guns clatter to the ground.
I’m nothing but motion after that.
The two with the purse never see me coming, a hands free cartwheel followed by a split-kick under both their jaws. My boots hit the jawbone right in the middle on the right side – which also happens to be a cluster of nerves that, if hit hard enough, end up knocking a person out.
Two grunts, and they drop like stones.
I look to the three surrounding the girl, still clutching their wounded hands. Strike that, one’s not clutching his wounded hand. He’s rubbing them together, looking at me and licking his lips in that “I’m going to try and beat up the highly-trained crime fighter” way that the stupid criminals tend to have.
I have to stifle a laugh. This guy’s the type that thinks the larger your muscles are, the more ladies fall for you. He’s built too well – he’s got to be swimming in steroids. And the snowcap with the fuzzy red ball on top looks ridiculous next to the sweat-stained wife-beater and marred brass knuckles. The topless mermaid tattoo seals the deal – this guy’s the worst-dressed criminal on the planet.
I respond to the challenge in my own way.
“Care to dance?” I smile and tilt my head in an obviously arrogant way. He takes the bait, and stampedes toward me like an angry bull. I wait till the last second and jump up, flipping right over the top of the gullible brute’s head. The criminal stumbles off behind me, and by the time he realizes I’ve long-since gotten out of his way, his two buddies are already unconscious.
Unfortunately, the woman in the high heels and the red dress has tried to run out of the alley, and ran straight into the lookout’s hands. She’s struggling against his grip, and he’s leaning down to pick his firearm back up.
I tense my lip. He’s not going to be using her as a hostage.
My muscles raise their eyebrows as I push myself to the limit, sprinting and then doing enough cartwheels to make a ballerina blush, all to close the gap between me and the gun getting the gun.
On the last revolution, my hand’s on the half staff in my belt. By the time I land, he’s almost got me dead-to-rights, the gun targeted at my masked face.
“Sorry,” I say, pivoting on the balls of my feet, leaning to the left while parrying with the half staff. It slams hard into the bend in his wrist, launching the firearm from his limp hand instantly. “I don’t do firefights.”
He screams and releases the girl, who ducks over to the dirty wall of the alley, clutching it for dear life. I give him an elbow to the face, dodging a pile-driver fist intended for me. I follow through with a knee to the stomach, leaving him wheezing and choking loud enough to wake the dead.
A hop-step, a switch off on the feet, and a right snap kick to the shoulderblades and he’s down for the count. Not completely unconscious, but certainly not an issue at the moment.
Uh-oh.
I look behind me and see the jerk with the snowcap and wife-beater that charged me before. He’s got a gun, one of the other’s semi-automatics.
He’s aiming at me again, this time with the hand I haven’t damaged. He lets loose the gun, and the explosions attack the alleyway like a stampede of wild bison. I run to the side and grab the frightened girl’s arm, ushering her around the corner to safety.
“Don’t worry, beautiful.” I tell her in my most charming smile. She’s trying to buy into it, but the rat-tat-tat behind me’s not making it easy. “I’ve got this.”
I listen to the sound of silence in the alley, the sound of scuffing feet. Glancing back into the alley, I confirm that he is, in fact, running away with his tail between his legs.
Smartest move he’s made all night. But I’m not letting him get away.
I whip around the corner in a full run, diving toward a toppled-over metal trash can and grabbing the lid on the rebound just in time to block against a flurry of badly-aimed shots from the semi-auto.
I run, watching his legs and shoulders all the way, waiting for the moment…
There.
I toss the trash can lid like a Frisbee as the whole of his body weight shifts to his left side, about to make a fast turn off to the left. The lid hits home, and the hood’s leg makes a crackle-pop sound that makes me cringe. He topples over from his own body weight, face tensed in agony feeling the pain of a broken leg.
As I approach, he tries to lift the semi-auto to meet me, but I do a step-handplant off the ground and land beside him, before he can move the arm to re-aim. I kneel and stab my index finger and middle finger into the smooth midriff of the topless mermaid in his arm. Not like I have anything against Mermaids, mind you. I just like the nerve cluster under the Mermaid, the one that numbs the entire length of his right arm.
It, and the gun, falls to the ground like so much dead weight.
“What are you?” The badly-dressed hood says, shaking from the pain of a bone leg and a paralyzed arm. He’s terrified of me. I’ve made him afraid. Bruce would be proud.
I chuckle, naturally, and I flash him a tight-lipped smile.
“Me ? I’m just a concerned citizen.” I answer, patting him on the numbed shoulder. “And I’m great with the ladies.”
His head droops, and he passes out from the pain. I check the leg; the bone didn’t puncture the skin. He’ll be good till the ambulance gets here.
“You guys play nice, now.” I wag my finger smartly at the cursing prisoners I’ve tied up as the red-and-blues finally pull up with the noise and light and sound that enshrouds the once dark and foul little alley with a blanket of calm, and peace, and sanity.
The blonde woman, the one with the heels that show off her legs and the dress that shows off her darkly-tanned shoulders, is long gone. Probably for the best. I hope she’s safe, wherever she’s run off to.
“Good job, Nightwing.” The Commissioner says to me with a wink as he shakes my hand, noting the blue stripe on my jet-black costume that only looks half like a bat’s outline. Bruce and him go way back – before my time. I know Jim’s glad I’m following in his best friend’s footsteps.
The handshake is for Nightwing, in front of the other cops and the sirens and the procedure. The wink is for Dick, telling me that Barbara’s back at the apartment, safe and sound, waiting for me.
I give Jim the purse with the woman’s belongings tucked neatly back inside. I’m sure he’ll be able to track her down – he and his crack team of detectives know the ebbs and flows of the city in ways even I couldn’t imagine.
I wish Jim a good night with a wink of my own, and a smile for the cameras. I take to the fire escape again with enough gymnastics to turn the heads of even the most grizzled officers in the bunch. I do love to perform before the audience.
Concrete and brick beneath my feet. My black ponytail frizzles and flutters in the hot breezes above the streets. I flip over the neon sign on the side of a hotel and dive toward the next building, the next adventure.
The night talks to me, tells me things.
I talk back to it, telling it that everything’s going to be alright now.
I talk back to it, telling it I’ll be there to keep it safe.
***
END
***
By D. Golightly
Here’s the thing I don’t understand: what’s the point of being a criminal in Gotham?
Maybe I need to explain that better. As the former boy wonder, garbed in bright colors and goofy green booties, I can accept the fact that people didn’t find me that intimidating. Tim has a much better go of it; his image is sharper. Times have changed in his favor. Jason…well, Jason did a lot of things wrong. Let’s not go there.
But being the original Robin myself I was the closest thing to a juxtaposition that Batman could have. Standing side by side against maniacs like the Joker, Two-Face, Penguin, Killer Croc…let’s just say all the scariness came from Him and not me. I was the back-up, the sidekick. I’m okay with that. I’ve outgrown a lot of the harbored resentment and antagonistic behavior.
As Nightwing I’m my own man, standing on a rooftop just like this one, watching some random scumbag try to boost a car just like he is now. Earlier tonight I took down a mugger, a rapist, another carjacker, followed a lead on a corrupt member of the GCPD, and now I’m here, watching this idiot pretend he’s as smooth as silk. Gotham never sleeps.
My point? I stalk the shadows like most people in my profession do, which means the criminals I prey upon usually only catch sight of my outline in the dark before I punch their lights out. The mugger saw the whites of my eyes against my brooding silhouette and thought I was Batman. So did the rapist and the carjacker.
Bruce always reiterated one thing nearly every night during the first week I was Robin: criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. Nine times out of ten all you have to do is show up and they’ll be freaked out enough to stand down. There’s something about the shadows that play tricks on your mind, especially if you’re a little paranoid to begin with. You wouldn’t believe the reputation Batman has in the underworld. None of the rumors you hear do it justice; you have to see it for yourself. Just the thought of Batman keeps some of these guys from unleashing their demons into the night.
Bruce’s reputation always precedes him. Always. I don’t do this for the glory, far from it. I do it because I don’t really know anything else. Nearly since birth I’ve walked the highwire, balancing carefully lest I fall prematurely. The majority of my life I’ve been slugging it out with creeps like the Mad Hatter and Penguin. This is what I do, this is my job.
So what’s the point of being a criminal in Gotham City?
Take the carjacker beneath me for instance. Why bother? I know I’ve seen him before, probably in one of the hundreds of mug shots I’ve glanced over throughout the years. If I recognize the face that doesn’t bode well for whomever it is I’m looking at. He’s probably a repeat offender, meaning he’s more than aware of what will happen to him if one of Gotham’s protectors catches up with him. Is that worth boosting a Ford Explorer?
Our city has one of the highest crime rates in the country, but the most amount of spandex-wearing, cape-flapping, roof-hopping vigilantes per square mile. You’d have to be insane to want to boost a car in Gotham. You’re practically begging to be caught.
And maybe that’s the answer. Maybe those superstitious cowards like the challenge. Maybe they’re all crazy enough to think they can take on a legendary reputation. They might as well be fighting the shadows themselves. Bruce was the first, and bruised ego aside, we’re all playing off of his foundation. Even me. That’s why it doesn’t bother me when I drop down into a dark alley and the purse snatcher’s eyes widen as his lips whisper, “The Bat…”
Still, just once I wouldn’t mind if they said my name.
The drop line rocketed out of the spring-loaded grappler silently, planting its tip into the brick wall across the parking lot. I tested the tautness, making sure that when I swing down and nail this creep I won’t fall flat on my rear. Babs would have a field day with that scenario.
It may not pay to be a criminal in Gotham City, but being one of its silent protectors has its benefits.
END