Issue# 2, Feb. Yr. 2

The Festive Season (Part 1 of 3)
"Unholy Night"
By Rory O'Sullivan

---

He awoke at dawn, and stared out over the city. Amazing how such an evil place could be so beautiful at such an ungodly hour. The twilight faded, and he moved back inside, perching on a threadbare couch to watch his favorite morning news talkshow on the Gotham Network.
"Good morning, Gothamites, and welcome back to 'Starting Point!' The weather outside is fabulous this October thirty-first, but there's a chilly wind coming down from the north later on, so watch for some nighttime lows of six and seven degrees Celsius," said the man with the plastic-looking face as he swiveled toward his long-legged co-anchor. "I have to say, Mary-Ann, though Congress may not agree with me," a wink to the camera, "that I still haven't quite gotten my head around all this Metric stuff."
"I know what you mean, Tom." It was always Tom, wasn't it? Good old American boys were always named Tom. "But, apparently it is easier to work with, and much more scientific. Who knew?"
"That's right." Tom offered a forced chuckle at his own wit. "Moving right along, our first guest this morning is a high roller on Wall Street, and one of my personal friends, of the Lucious Fox empire---"
He turned off the television. Enough of the prattle that was usually so endearing. He had important business today.
October thirty-first. A holiday across the nation, Halloween. And the day he'd chosen to become famous.
He glanced at his calendar, just to be sure Tom had gotten it right. There, in thick red ink, the date was circled. Excellent. He'd waited so long, preparing, plotting, for just the right moment. In a matter of hours it would be his.
No more toiling anonymously for Gotham's various crime bosses, a hitman with no name and no worth. No, he was going to do as his father had done. (His illegitimate father, to be sure, but a better man than the braggart that had raised him would ever be.) Yes, he would have Gotham talking about him in a matter of days, have the whole city at his fingertips, him the puppet-master. He'd tug strings, and send citizens scurrying in fear. Fear was power, his father had taught him. Power was respect. Respect was fame. Fame was what everyone craved. He would get it.
And then he would sit back and enjoy the rest of the holiday.

---

"So I finally have the coolest costume ever, and I can't trick-or-treat?"
"You have more important things to do."
Terry McGinnis shrugged, and slid into a seat next to the BatComputer, where Bruce Wayne sat, his bloodhound Ace in his lap. "Like what?"
"Halloween is one of the Batman's most active nights of the year. Vandalism, hooliganism, and petty theft are at their peak."
"Right. The scourges of our society." Terry smiled wanly. "So what's the game plan?"
"Tonight, you'll cruise the suburbs. Leave the inner city for later on, when the bars close."
"Boy, you sure do have a rose-colored view of humankind, doncha?" Terry cracked. Then, as was necessary, and, incidentally, was surprisingly mature for him, he switched his mindset into all-business mode. "Okay. So I shouldn't expect any heavy hitters, but plenty of minor league stuff."
"Which is just as important."
"Which is just as important. Okay. Anyway, I gotta jet. Afternoon classes. But I'll see you later, 'kay?"
Bruce only nodded.

---

A long, drawn-out week was coming to a close for the citizenry of Gotham, in particular it's mayor.
Andrea Vale was Gotham's first mayor in a long time that actually put her money where her mouth was as regards campaign promises. She was a hard-working politician, a rare type even in this supposedly "new, post-millennium world." She toiled daily, putting pen to paper, dealing with the usual political blowhards who didn't have an original idea in their heads, and who couldn't fathom why she kept copping out of occupational perks.
But not tonight. For once, Andrea Vale could let her hair down. The US Embassy in downtown Gotham was having a major costume ball for a handful of dignitaries, and Vale's adoring aides had worked hard to have her name slipped onto the list. It took her back to high school, to when she'd disassociate herself from luxury and fun to work hard through the week, to keep her marks up to the standard her mother had demanded, and then finally let it all bleed out in the emotional roller-coaster that was the weekend dance. Work hard, play hard, her mother had taught her. Take it to extremes. While others struggle to balance business and pleasure, push yourself in both directions, and you will achieve your objectives.
Soon, Andy, soon, she thought, and returned to her paperwork.
An aide stuck his head in the door. "Ms Vale?" He hefted a dry-cleaner bag that held a startlingly professional rendition of the original Batgirl costume, an old hero of the mayor's.
"Thank you, Spence. Thank you very much."
Spence left the costume draped across the chair before her, and she stared at it, allowing herself a small smile.
Something to look forward to.

---

He ate his lunch as he usually did, in silence, sitting at the lopsided kitchen table that adorned his hellhole of an apartment. Processed turkey on French bread, hold the mayo, hold the lettuce, hold the condiments. Just the way he liked it. After lunch he decided to relax a little, and took some time to catch up on some reading, a fashion magazine and a quarter of a new paperback. But his mind was racing, making concentration difficult.
Instead, he took to the roof of his apartment building, the only wide, open space he had at his disposal, and took the opportunity to do some jogging. As he jogged, his eyes stabbed into the heart of Gotham City.
Soon...

---

Terry had time to grab a snack from a fast-food vendor as he sped out of Gotham toward Wayne Manor. He was anxious to hit the street tonight. He was having the time of his life as Batman, though dealing with a barrage of serious villains in the last few weeks had left him a bit shaken. Still, his apprehending the Jokerz had given him a confidence boost, at least. Besides, tonight was Halloween. The most he'd have to contend with would be a few off-course eggs and toilet paper rolls. He could have some fun, use his guise to--- how had Bruce put it?--- "to strike fear into the hearts of criminals." Or something to that effect.
Finally, he found his way to the Batcave entrance. Sure enough, as if he'd never moved, Bruce Wayne was busy at the BatComputer, reviewing a series of maps and statistics and flow charts, evidently polling where Batman's influence would be needed most. The old man was really enjoying this, Terry saw. Years of inactivity, of dormancy, and finally he could make a difference again. Must be nice for the guy.
"I'm ba-ack," Terry announced menacingly, quoting a line from some old movie his father had once told him about. "Let's go bust some heads!"
"Have a sandwich first," was Bruce's curt reply.
Terry was dumbfounded. "A... You're kidding, right, Mom? I grabbed a snack on the way---"
Bruce motioned to the silver plate on the keypad before him. "I'm serious."
Terry still looked dubious.
Bruce sighed. "Fine. An old friend of mine once told me... how did he put it...? "If one wishes to be able to fight crime to the best of one's abilities, sir, one mustn't take on such a goal on even a partially empty stomach." He smiled.
Terry sat, taking the offered sandwich tentatively. He'd noticed the wistful note in Bruce's tone. "So who was he?"
"Hmm? Oh. He was my butler for... years. Then, when I gave it up, I financed his return to his dream. Alfred Pennyworth."
Terry looked momentarily pensive. "Pennyworth... Penny... worth..." He reached into his knapsack, and dangled a small book before Bruce's eyes. "This guy?"
Bruce scanned the title. "THE ABRIDGED WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE", compiled by Alfred Pennyworth. He allowed a short chuckle. "So they have him writing textbooks now, huh? Last I heard, he'd hit Broadway with a vengeance."
A moment of awkward silence reigned, before Terry spoke. "So, why'd you let him go?"
"Oh. Well, he didn't want to. But there was no real need for him to stay. My crusade was over, and Robin was gone, and Batgirl had moved on, and Dick---"
A shrill klaxon sparked on Bruce's control board. His fingers, surprisingly nimble, called up the source. "A squad car's being attacked by a gang of punks in the Gotham Heights. Backup is too far away. Go."
I should expect this, Terry thought as he suited up. The old "Bruce-dodges-the-emotional-bullet bit." Hmph.
Fully costumed, he rocketed away from his elusive mentor, and into the shadows of night.

---

Officer Jack Murphy was afraid for his life.
Ten days out of the Academy, ready to fight the good fight and all the rest of it, and it all came crashing down tonight.
After laboriously struggling far beyond it's capabilities, his squad car's hoverdrive finally gave out, and with it the main power system in the car. It dropped two feet onto the dirt road.
Without main power, the radio was dead. Didn't matter. Backup was still twenty minutes away. For the thirtieth time this evening, he let his hand brush the butt of his handgun, and decided against using it.
His squad car, whose sirens and lights had just died along with his power sub-systems, was penned in by a quartet of motorcycles, and their riders were hurling a continuous hail of rocks at him. It infuriated him, the audacity, and the disrespect, of these punks. But what could he do? They were malicious, and the rocks coursing toward the car were well aimed and intent on killing him. Were he to step into the open, he'd last little more than a few seconds. If he remained locked in the car, it would only be a matter of time before they advanced on him still further. He started to pray.
The lead thug allowed himself a moment's pause, to readjust his balaclava, and size up what to do next. He was really enjoying this, wrapped up in the seducing evil of the night. He lit up a nico-smoke, just to infuriate the cop further at his inability to enforce the anti-smoking laws. And he realized then, that it was time to take this little activity to the next level. He motioned to his followers to cease fire, and, taking a tire iron in hand, shuffled toward the car.
With a whoosh and a spark, a razor-sharp batarang slashed through the tire iron, effectively dividing it in half. Before the thug's bewildered eyes, the batarang ricocheted off the ground, and sliced upward, snuffing out his cigarette.
"Sorry, sir, the 'no smoking' sign was on." Batman touched down before him. "Now beat it, before I return your nose to the upright and locked position!"
"Get the hell away!" Terror seized the thug, and galvanized him into action. He lunged forth with one of the tire iron fragments. Moving quickly, Batman caught his attacker's arm at the elbow, and flipped him into the air.
Two more punks squared off with him. He sized them up quickly, deciding on a course of action. His boot-jets fired, launching him upward, into a tight somersault that placed him on the roof of the squad car. The thugs swiveled, astonishment comically playing about their faces. Then they began moving toward him once more.
Batman's cowl radio chirped for attention. "Terry!" Bruce hissed.
"I'm here."
"What're you doing?"
Batman was suddenly uneasy, thanks to the tone in Bruce's voice. Was he doing something wrong? "I'm, uh, fighting crime?" he tried hopefully.
"They're just kids. They don't need their heads bashed in. Get the cop to safety, and then round them up. Gently."
Slightly chagrined, Batman did as his mentor bade. He dropped to the gravel, and, engaging his costume's strength-enhancing nano-technology, hoisted the squad car onto his shoulder. The thugs paled at the sudden display of brute strength. Batman grinned, and, using short bursts of jet power, he leapfrogged past them, and darted down the road with the squad car slung across his back.
As fun as it was to pull such a stunt, Batman imagined he looked a mite stupid. But Bruce was the boss, and what the boss says goe---
To Batman's utter surprise, the squad car's driver door opened. "No!" he started, "Stay in the---"
Jack Murphy slung himself out onto the wing of the car, anchoring himself with his feet, and fired his hand-laser back along the road.
Astonished, Batman whirled to follow the energy beam as it struck down a punk, one who had evidently been sizing up a shot at Batman's back with his own sidearm. "Whoa!"
Murphy met Batman's gaze solemnly, then slid back into the car.
Once the motorcycle punks were out of sight, Batman lowered the car. Murphy clambered out to meet him, and shake his hand.
"I want to thank you, sir, and to---"
"Relax, Officer." Batman clasped the cop's shoulder. "No need. We saved each other's life tonight."
Without another word, the Dark Knight launched himself skyward, feeling the officer's gaze on him as he went.

---

It was almost time.
He sat in the semi-dark of his living room for a few minutes, mentally going over and over what he had to do. Finally, feeling sufficiently cleansed, he rose, dressed quickly in an all-purpose jumpsuit, and started assembling his other equipment.
Chief among his tools for the night was the machete that he'd bought at the Army/Navy surplus, the one he brandished with practiced ease, as if it were an extension of his own arm. He tucked it away into his belt, and instead took his rappelling equipment in hand.
He headed for the roof.

---

Andrea Vale left work fifteen minutes later than usual, the costume carefully folded in her arms. Spence had actually organized a limo for tonight, a perk she usually denied herself.
She slipped into the spacious back, gave the driver general instructions, and proceeded to change into the costume. It looked better than she'd hoped. Like most modern people, Andrea prided herself on her appearance, and worked hard on developing her form. As she cast herself an approving glance in the small mirror offered, she decided she looked adequately superhero-ish.
The limo pulled up behind a trail of others at the Embassy. She exited escort-less, but was never one to let such social trivialities bother her. The steps to the Embassy were rainswept, a hazard for her high-heeled boots, especially in the dying sunlight. But she navigated them confidently. Nothing would spoil her night.

---

It had taken little effort for him to work his way across the city skyline, finally finding a suitable perch on the rooftop directly opposite the Embassy. With a pair of compact binoculars he watched the dignitaries in their various costumes make their way into the building. Which one, he wondered. Well, the opportunity would present itself soon enough.
He tugged a ski mask into place, and, rechecking the position of his machete, he settled in to wait until the security personnel had relaxed.

---

For all intents and purposes, Spence was proud of himself.
The evening was one of absolute wonder, a paradise right here in the middle of Gotham. It was the first time he'd seen a smile on his boss's face for more than a few minutes. She seemed to be living it up, and was certainly the talk of the party. Good for her.
The evening wound on, and eventually the ambassador called attention to the stage, where he stood.
As the audience turned to listen to his preliminary speech, Spence lead Vale away by the elbow.
"What's going on?" She was mildly intrigued as to where she was being lead, but thought it might look bad for her to duck out on the ambassador's speech.
"We have a little surprise ready for you, ma'am." He produced another dry-cleaning bag. "We've arranged a little tribute." Her eyes glistened, and he smiled. "Please, now, Ms Vale. I've arranged for you to change up here." He indicated a small corridor that led to an out-of-the-way door. "It leads onto the stage. We'll want you looking your best. This could go national!"
With that, he left her to change, and to smile.
She ducked into the room, one of the more run-down of the Embassy, and stood for a moment at the single window, gazing into the rainswept street.
She barely managed to strangle a shriek when a head appeared before her.
Working quickly, the figure jimmied the window open before her, and swung into the room. "I can't believe my luck," he snickered, and she could tell he was grinning beneath his mask.
She thought of yelling for help, for security, or something, but then she caught a glint of light off the razor edge of a demonic-looking knife, and fainted promptly away.
From somewhere outside came a resonating, amplified voice: "---and so, without further ado, let me introduce your mayor, who has my highest regards, Ms Andrea Vale!" They'd come looking soon. He'd have to work fast.

---

There really was nothing to this vigilante business, Batman decided.
He didn't know why Bruce was so solemn half the time. Sure, it was risky, sometimes unpleasant, but you got to be a hero, and to have so much fun on the way.
Rain was starting to disrupt his vid-link as he coasted through Gotham, so he disabled it, and went back to relying on his own vision.
"Careful, Terry," muttered Bruce over the radio. "Don't hit a wall."
"Sure thing, boss. I'm just about done here. Nothing out of the---" His head swung back to take in the Embassy. Was it his imagination, or had someone just slithered out one of it's windows. "Uh, hang on, let me check something out."
He arched around, and slowly approached the Embassy. Rain still kept visibility at a minimum, but a window was definitely open, though there was no one around.
Curiosity got the better of the young hero, and he decided to investigate. It was a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.
Batman dropped in through the window, and instantly recoiled in terror. "Oh God..." he breathed, his eyes darting away from, and then back to, the body of Andrea Vale. "Oh..."
"Terry?" Bruce had picked up the mumbled curse, and was concerned. "What is it?"
"It..." Terry stumbled, found a brace on the windowsill. He tore loose his cowl, and let the rain splash down his face. "I... God, I've---"
"Get it out, Terry."
"I've never seen that much blood in my life!" he gasped finally, compassion married with helplessness gripping him. Fighting down his swirling emotions, he surveyed the scene again, trying desperately to be cold and clinical over his disgust. "It's the mayor. She's been murdered. Looks like a knife... multiple wounds..."
The patter of footsteps just outside gave him the excuse he needed to leave, as fast as he could manage, to leave the horrible scene and rocket into the blackness. Somewhere behind him, someone screamed.
He flew on and on, in the general direction of Wayne Manor, his cowl hanging on his belt. Night had never been so comforting. At least in the darkness, you couldn't see anything.
Bruce Wayne was waiting at the main entrance to the manor. Terry landed, and they eyed each other. Bruce's heart went out to the boy. He remembered his own first experience with the brutalness of human nature, watching helplessly as his parents were gunned down. But the old man had never handled emotion well. He was the first to turn away.
"Are you up to a murder investigation?" He tossed over his shoulder.
Batman hadn't thought that far ahead. "Of course... Of course I am." He had to be, didn't he? He was the Batman.
"Good." Bruce froze, and his very essence seemed to run cold before the boy's eyes. "What's today's date?"
"Uh... The thirty-first."
"That's what I thought." The old man's hands coiled into fists. "It's a holiday."

---

TO BE CONTINUED