The Batmobile narrowly skimmed the Gotham skyline, soaring majestically
through its concrete chasms. But there was something wrong, the
citizenry noted, a sense of urgency about it. That urgency radiated
from the very pores of Bruce Wayne as he mechanically manipulated
the controls, vectoring in on the corner of Molsen and Third.
He had a very important young man to rescue, and he knew he would.
It wasn't ego talking, it never was with Bruce. But there was
a confidence there, a confidence that he would succeed, not because
he could, but because he had to.
Well-rested, Carlos Falcone completed a series of knee-bends,
and glanced at the clock. Ten fifty-nine.
"Well, I'm ready," he said to his captive, secured to the kitchen
floor. "Now good for you?"
Batman returned the stare with undisguised disdain.
"Um... Naw, sorry. How about a week from Tuesday? I'll pencil
you in---"
"Comedian," Falcone muttered, giving the hero silent credit for
keeping his wits about him. He hoisted his machete. "Everyone's
a comedian."
Batman gulped, and mentally did his best to put his thoughts
to rest. Interesting, he though, how his 'last' thought was of
Dana. He'd never been sure about their relationship, always been
a bit hesitant, but now, faced with never seeing her again, his
feelings made that last leap into heartfelt love. Too bad she'd
never know.
Carefully, surgically, Falcone sliced away the Batman's chest
plate, smiling to himself as he dissected the bat symbol, a symbol
that had plagued his father to his death.
"This one's for you, Dad!" he cried, and aimed the wicked knife.
A batarang sliced out of seemingly thin air, neatly chopping
the blade off at the hilt and spinning it away. Both the room's
occupants twisted to take in the window. Crouched there, looking
less than respectable in his Nightwing costume, was Bruce Wayne.
But the expression on his face made it clear he was not to be
trifled with as he growled,
"Let the boy go. Now."
A smile crept across Batman's face, and he regarded Falcone with
a newfound defiance.
"Yeah, punk! Lemme go, huh?"
"No!"Falcone seemed to be in the grip of some sudden force.
It looked as if he were about to break down into tears, or burst
out laughing. With a flick of his wrist, he brought a much less
evil-looking switchblade from his watchband. "No! You can't have
him! He must die!"
"The death stops here, Holiday!" Bruce stepped into the room,
his voice hard and commanding.
Anyone else would've crumpled before him then and there. But
Carlos Falcone was insane by any standard, and he seemed to smolder
with rage in the face of this new variable. The maniac lunged
at Bruce with his switchblade extended. Bruce caught his wrist
easily, and squeezed. However, the killer was so swept up in his
own mind now that he seemed to be impervious to pain. Even as
Bruce's grip tightened, Falcone punched him repeatedly in the
face. Finally, Bruce fell away. Falcone, not relaxing for an instant,
feigned one way, sprang the other, and slipped out the window.
Killing the Batman would be difficult now. But he had to kill
someone... And he only had an hour...
"Nice work, boss, now just let me outta these restraints and---"
The plea fell on deaf ears, for Bruce Wayne had already followed
his prey out into the night. "Harrumph," Batman huffed. "Fine.
Be that way. I'll just lie here..."
Holiday had shimmied his way onto the old building's roof, and
sprinted across it now, hurtling the gap to the next building.
Bruce followed, his bad leg slowing him considerably. Holiday
dropped out of sight for a moment, and Bruce was certain he must've
committed suicide. But when the old man reached the roof's edge,
he spied the killer working his way across a pedestrian bridge
that swept over Third Avenue, twelve stories up. Holiday was making
headway, he decided. The new guy was nowhere to be seen. He was
almost at the other side of the bridge, and once into the building
opposite he could disappear into the street and take some unwitting
victim--- The punch took him full force in the jaw, and knocked
him against the guardrail. Looking up, he managed to focus on
its source. Bruce Wayne was clambering onto the bridge, after
having apparently grappled along its underside. He faced Falcone
down now, looking and feeling every bit the old movie-serial gunfighter.
Falcone rose, and they circled each other, an almost comical but
traditional preliminary aspect of hand-to-hand combat. They eyed
each other, carefully, and finally Falcone charged. Bruce dipped
his shoulder, and used it to toss the killer lightly over his
back. As he fell away, though, Holiday slashed out with the switchblade,
catching the old man across the back of the thigh. Bruce cried
out, and fell, grasping for the guardrail. Holiday appeared behind
him, an evil spectre there on the darkened bridge, and delivered
a savage kick. Mind reeling now, Bruce struggled to rise, only
to find the killer's hands taught about his throat. His mouth
flopped open, and he resembled a dying fish gasping for it's last
breath. Falcone smiled a purely insane smile, one scarier than
Bruce had ever seen, save perhaps the Joker's. It was the same
sort of smile, as well, a smile without logic or rationale, without
a shred of remorse, oddly intense. It sickened him. Lashing out,
he felt his knee connect with his assailant's solar plexus. The
killer doubled over, and Bruce launched another punch into his
midsection. The doubling over was a ploy, however, and Holiday
seized his arm, flipping him over the guardrail. Suddenly, Bruce
Wayne was in the air above Third Avenue, and falling. It had been
a long, long time since he'd been in a position such as this.
And back then he had things like grappel-guns. Stupid of him to
come out tonight unequipped for such an eventuality. The swirling
lights of late-night traffic were almost hypnotic, and not the
most unpleasant thing to fall towards. But under the circumstances,
he was not enjoying himself. There were, of course, certain aspects
of freefall that would always be enjoyable--- the wind, the rush,
the adrenaline--- but his mind knew that this time these were
not welcome sensations. Again, as always, it was the helplessness
that got to him, that frustrated him. Not so much the idea of
his own death, as much as the inability to control a life or death
situation. He cursed emphatically, and resigned himself to Fate.
'Fate' materialized suddenly in the form of two strong, black-clad
arms that abruptly caught him.
"Going up?" queried Batman, as his boot-jets carried them roofward.
"I'm impressed," Bruce returned. "How did you---?"
"I'm not completely without resources, Mister Wayne," Terry allowed
as he set down on the pedestrian bridge. "Give me some credit."
"Sure," the older man said, and extended a hand. "And, Terry...
Call me Bruce."
They shook hands firmly, both smiling, and then Bruce's eyes
clouded over once more.
"We lost Holiday." The grin was evident in Batman's voice.
"Actually, I managed to slap a tracer on him while we were fighting."
He flashed a small electronic signal monitor.
"We've got him. Is the Batmobile around?"
Bruce nodded. "I parked it a few blocks back."
"Good. Why don't you go home, and I'll---"
"No." Bruce led the way. "I'm going to see this through."
The trawler USS General Lee was secured for the night, and her
small crew were strolling home. Her captain was the last off,
and stood for a moment on the dock, admiring the view, even if
you couldn't differentiate at night between water and sky. It
was beautiful in it's own dark way, enough to draw him back every
working day. Next he spent a moment admiring the sleek curves
of his trawler, from the tapered nose all the way down to the
two powerful hoverdrive engines that rose from the back like aftswept
talons. He made an approving noise, and turned to head home himself.
Suddenly, there was an arm coiled about his neck, brandishing
a small knife, and a gruff voice hissed into his ear,
"Sorry, pal, you get to be Contestant Number Two!"
The captain swung an elbow back, more out of instinct than bravery.
Feeling it connect, he began to run, run for his life. The docks,
deserted, echoed with his pounding footsteps. Every few feet he
allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder. His attacker
was nowhere to be seen. He slowed. Shock was beginning to numb
his fingers, and he felt a wave or two of chest pain, but he had
to get to a phone--- Something whistled past his ear, something
he readily identified as a meat hook from the dockside catch storage
facility. He threw himself to the left, around behind a stack
of crates, and gulped down breath after breath of oxygen, trying
to bring himself under control.
"Boo!"
It was the worst sensation of his life, turning and looking into
the eyes of Carlos Falcone. He felt as though his heart had leapt
into his throat, and a quick prayer to Buddha escaped his lips.
The killer drank it in. Fear was like some wonderful drug for
him, and he felt a bit heady as he once more drew his switchblade.
"Hey! You picked him over me?" Holiday glanced up toward the
source of the incredulous statement. Batman stood silhouetted
against the moonlight, hands on his hips, striking a pose that
seemed to somehow emit honor and justice, only with attitude.
"And I thought you liked me!" he crowed.
Falcone seized the fisherman, holding the point of the knife
at the nape of his hostage's neck.
"I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"
"Fine!" Batman quipped. "I want a divorce!"
He somersaulted forward, landing inches away from them.
"Why don't you just back away now? Slowly."
Falcone wavered, staring into the pupil-less white eye slits
of the vigilante's cowl. He started to retreat ever so slightly,
when suddenly there was an ear-splitting cry from the shadows
to his right, and Bruce Wayne plowed into him, shoulder first.
Holiday toppled, slashing out with the knife and hitting only
thin air as he landed hard on his own shoulder. Gasping for breath,
he struggled to rise, but Bruce was atop him in an instant, wrestling
him into submission. They grappled there, for what seemed like
an eternity, both expelling their seething rage toward each other,
and toward the injustice of the situation. Survival instinct took
hold of Falcone, and he managed an edge, flipping Bruce away with
his knee. The old man skidded along the dock, teetering perilously
on the wooden-lipped edge. Batman leapt over Holiday, and rocketed
forward, snatching Bruce away from the icy water and righting
him on the pier.
Falcone scrambled to his feet, muttering. He glanced at his wrist-chronometer,
and established the time. He had twenty minutes left to murder
someone. The captain, he noticed as he glanced down, had fainted
dead away during the battle. Holiday's eye discerned a bulge beneath
the seaman's jacket. He snatched it up, a laser-pistol. Perfect.
In one smooth motion, Falcone twisted, and brought the gun to
bear. He loosed a trio of rapid shots, all close but off the mark
enough that Batman's quick movements kept him and Bruce safe.
Falcone charged them, firing as he went. Bruce and Batman exchanged
a quick glance, and readied themselves. As soon as Holiday was
within their range, they seized him by the arms, batting away
the gun, and pitched him overhead into the frigid waters.
Before Batman could congratulate himself, Bruce had flat-dived
into the harbor after the killer. After a few seconds, he burst
through the surface again. As he clambered onto the dock, he shook
his head. Nowhere to be found. The vigilantes, new and old, made
their way slowly to the Batmobile, among a rapidly approaching
cornucopia of different sirens. The night was young, and just
a little bit safer.
