Issue# 9, Sep Yr. 2

Resurgence of the Demon (part 2 of 2)
"Flight of the Bat"

By Rory O'Sullivan

---

If Gotham City was Purgatory, Bludhaven was Hell. It had always been this way, but the lack of a sleek, Utopian skyline brought the point home for its visitor.
Bruce Wayne, who had finally allowed his fashion sense its say and tacked a billowing cape to his makeshift costume, surveyed the city from atop one if its only skyscrapers. It was a war zone, out of place in the modern world. As Batman, he'd been the scourge of Gotham's underworld, but even he had always been hesitant before even scratching the surface of Bludhaven's corruption. There was just too much for any one man to take. Even their 'police force' was overwhelmed.
Luckily, Bruce wasn't here to clean up the streets. He was here for information, part of which he'd already received. He'd tapped into the Bludhaven Police Department radio frequency, and overheard, in a somewhat more vulgar and less professional manner than he was used to, that the second Metron had been stolen from the Bludhaven Institute. He was too late, then.
Or was he?

---

The man known to his friends only as Jimbo pulled his coat tighter about him as he stepped out of the foyer of the soup kitchen. The kitchen was the only place left of its kind in the Haven, and the volunteers were starting to scam their 'customers' a little, abusing their monopoly. That annoyed him, but what could he do. He'd fend for himself, like he had in the past. It'd be harder, but it'd be honest---
"Keeping your nose clean, Jimbo?"
The voice was a voice that Jimbo hadn't heard in at least twenty years. It warmed his spirit and chilled him to the bone at the same time. "Yessuh, Mistah Batman!"
"Good." The voice, he discovered, was coming from deep within the shadows of the alley that ran next to the kitchen. He strained his eyes, but could see nothing.
"Heard anything about a Metron lately, Jimbo?"
Jimbo swallowed. "Uh-huh. I heard it jus' been stolen."
"Tell me something I don't know, Jimbo." The voice had hardened, not much, but enough to set the snitch's teeth on edge. "I heard the gang what did it been jettin' in 'n' out of a warehouse, on the Front. One o' the old WayneCorp ones."
"Thanks, Jimbo." A twenty-dollar bill floated from the alley. Jimbo pounced on it, without noticing the vigilante disappearing in a rush of wind and felt.

---

A dockside warehouse. Can you get any more classic? he thought.
Bruce anchored himself about the antenna atop the Bludhaven Ferry Terminal. From here, he could survey the entire waterfront, which was deserted besides a few drunken stragglers at this hour. He settled into a crouch, and began scanning the area rhythmically with a pair of compact binoculars. All he could do was watch and wait.

---

Terry eased himself to the rooftop, gently cutting his boot-jets at the last moment. He'd found that the sudden jerks and turns involved in flight sent ripples of pain shooting through his ribs. But he had no choice. He had a duty to perform.
On the adjacent rooftop, that of the Gotham Natural History Museum, two black-clad figures worked feverishly on the skylight. Terry smiled beneath his cowl. He'd played a hunch, as Bruce had taught him. These punks had been bound to try again.
He stood, a mite too rapidly, and cursed himself for it. Then he plunged into flight, hurtling downward. He'd barely landed, when one of the punks had whirled toward him. A quick kick sent the man reeling.
The second was a bit faster. Coiling one arm around Batman's throat, he plunged a fist into the hero's ribcage, over and over. Batman gasped, a red haze swimming before his eyes. The blows kept coming, until finally he sank to his knees, semi-conscious and biting his lip. Damn it!

---

A van ambled up to one of the warehouses at a nice leisurely pace. Bruce smiled slightly, a smile that might as well have been a frown for its intensity. His shoulder cracked as he rose, and he let a dash of self-pity seep into his mind for just a second. Then he prepared himself for action.
One of his utility belt compartments beeped for attention, and showed no sign of stopping. He hefted it to his lips. "Bruce here."
"Bruce, it's... Terry. They got it... They got... the first one..."
"Damn it! I told you to stay home!"
"They got... it..."
Bruce severed the connection, and glowered at the warehouse. He was tired of playing catch-up.
Surging with energy, he leapt into the air, somersaulted neatly, and landed in a dead run. Inside of seconds he was plowing his way through the main door. The warehouse, really just one large, crate-littered room, was empty, though he caught sight of a shadow disappearing out the rear door. "Freeze!" He bellowed, sprinting now. As he passed one crate, he thought he heard a mild beep, just a snatch of sound, like something...
...being activated...
And suddenly he was running in the other direction, mad and scared and frustrated, focused only on the doorway. He catapulted through it, and skidded out onto the dock, just as the warehouse erupted in a great ball of flame.

---

A small boat came to life in Bludhaven harbor. From the deck, a cloaked figure watched the pyrotechnics on the shore. He laid a detonator switch gently down on the rail, as a shower of debris lightly peppered the boat and the water around it. "Goodbye, Detective," he murmured.

---

Bruce rose slowly, not really in any pain as far as he knew. That would set in later. He stumbled into the rubble, ignoring the ash and wood that poured from the Heavens. Eventually, he came across the crate whose telltale beep had saved his life. Sure enough, there were shards of plastic about, pieces of a bomb. He lifted one, and examined it. On the back was a tiny stylized logo, a calling card.
The Symbol of the Demon.
The symbol of Ra's al Ghul.

---

The buzz of a hovercopter was an unfamiliar sound in the chasms between the Himalayas. Of course, this was also unfamiliar territory for its lonely pilot.
Bruce Wayne, still in costume and sporting a day's growth of beard, maneuvered lightly and alertly despite his fatigue. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. A small, level plateau jutting from one of the great snow-peaked mountains. He set down gently, and stalked the distance to the mouth of a great cave.
Inside were only the charred remnants of computer banks, and a handful of sentries, killed in what looked like a hasty withdrawal. This had been al Ghul's last hideout. It was empty. He was too late.
Bruce sank against the wall of the cave. Ra's al Ghul could very easily claim to be the most dangerous man alive. His immortality only fueled his desire and his ability to dominate the world. And if he had discovered a way to produce natural nuclear power, the planet was his.
How to stop him?
Bruce levered himself on the wall, stood, and paced. How? How?
Something crunched underfoot. Stooping, he found a charred envelope, labeled 'Bruce' in feminine script. Heart racing, he tore it open. Sure enough, it was from Talia. Talia, al Ghul's unwitting pawn. Talia, the Dark Knight's one-time lover. Talia, daughter of the Demon.
Despite her upbringing, her heart was in the right place. Detailed in the letter were her father's plans, and where he was. Bruce smiled. He was going to need a boat.

---

The GPS unit in his utility belt guided him to the exact coordinates Talia had mentioned in her letter, once he disembarked on some Caribbean island he'd never heard of. Bruce was exhausted, a combination of jet lag and lack of sleep slowly degrading his faculties. Still he pressed on, seized by an unwavering sense of duty, to the planet, to his friends and family, and to himself.
Still, he paused long enough to observe the sunrise over the rolling sea. It was quite striking, and a wave of emotion swept over him. He carefully turned his mind inward, and felt the rapid beat of his new heart against his chest once more. Everything in perfect working order. Renewed, he started up a steep incline, ready for anything.
Instantly, as if from nowhere, there was an arm around his neck and he was tumbling backward. Grasping a ledge, he let his attacker fall the few meters to the dusty earth. It was one of Ra's assassins, he realized, wielding a horrible-looking knife as he steadied himself.
Bruce dropped into a defensive crouch that quickly turned offensive, as he planted three rapid but solid kicks in his assailant's midsection. The man doubled over, setting himself up for Bruce's roundhouse punch finale.
So, he realized, as he leaned against the incline, he'd been taken. That hadn't been Talia's letter. A wild goose chase.
Of course, he thought as he gazed at the body at his feet, there are other ways of obtaining information.

---

A few days and a handful of boat rides later, he was back in Gotham, having thoroughly enjoyed a hot shower and a close shave. He strode into the Batcave, all right with the world. He was relaxed, yet he still radiated intensity, anguish over the upcoming conflict.
"So," Terry began as he rotated in the swivel chair before the BatComputer, "you know where Ghul is?"
"Yep," Bruce returned. "His henchman told me Ra's was scouring a snowy wasteland, just inside the Arctic Circle, for the reactor."
"So how long're you hanging around?"
"I've chartered a plane for tomorrow morning. I'm heading out immediately."
"Bruce, think this through, okay?" Terry was bordering on patronizing the old man, and he knew it. "You can't go in alone. Take me with you."
"No."
He would not be defeated that easily. "A Justice Leaguer, then. Somebody!"
"No." He sensed this response might not be adequate, and twisted to face his young colleague. "I owe these guys. I owe al Ghul many times over. I'm going alone."
That was that.

---

The next morning was a beautiful one. Bruce found himself wishing he spent less time in the city as he gazed out over the tarmac of Gotham International and into the green-and-fawn countryside.
His pilot's license was a little out of date, but he wasn't in the mood to argue points of law with himself. He'd fought and won these little battles with his conscience hundreds of times throughout his career, and was quite sick of them. He'd finally reached the point where he could do what he had to do without reservation. Then he'd retired.
He mounted the steps to the small WayneCorp hover-jet as quick as he could manage. The tarmac was more or less deserted, but the usual morning rush was bound to start soon.
"Bruce!" The voice, deep and charismatic, had him arching his neck into the sky.
Superman, looking a bit gray around the edges but otherwise none the worse for wear, dropped to the runway before him. "Long time no see." Bruce didn't bother to respond. "That kid you have running around in your stead asked me to tag along," the Man of Steel continued, nonplused.
Bruce considered for a long moment. Finally, he concluded that he was too old to continue the lonely fight by himself. "Hop in."

---

Inside of a few hours at forty thousand feet, they were over one of the great northern tundras. Bruce had said little, and said even less as the moment of confrontation neared. He just toggled his gaze mechanically from the instrument panel to the window.
Superman watched him carefully. He'd changed so little. He was still the same dark, brooding presence he'd always been. The Man of Steel had always held out hope that the passage of time would mellow the Dark Knight. It stung a bit that he'd been wrong.
At Bruce's silent signal, they plunged from the jet, which was already set to return to base. Bruce's parachute battled the bitter winds, setting him down knee deep in a snow bank. Superman hovered nearby.
"So where do we start?" the Man of Steel commanded.
Bruce pointed. "There ought to be a natural cave beyond that ridge, Clark. Can you---"
"I'll check it out," Superman replied, rocketing forward at breakneck speed. He shot over the ridge, bearing down on the cave ahead. Suddenly, something seared into his shoulder, a laser beam of some description. He cried out, writhing, feeling his consciousness ebb. "Damn…"
Superman should've waited, Bruce thought as he advanced on the ridge, crawling on is belly despite the frigid ground. He peered over, and noted the presence of a laser turret positioned at the cave entrance. He breathed deeply for a long moment, preparing himself, then sprang into view.
The first blast creased his thigh, doing little damage, but sparking his senses. He bounded into a somersault, and came down solidly on the lone gunner. There was a mild scuffle, and the gunner toppled face-first into the snow.
"Stay here," Bruce muttered to Superman's spread-eagled form. He sprinted into the cave without a moment's hesitation, weaving past stalactites and stalagmites and finally reaching the entrance of a great natural grotto. The breath caught in his throat.
The cavern was lined with computer banks, all centered around a brilliant pillar of light that cascaded outward every few moments in ripples, pulsating. The reactor had been harnessed.
"Good evening, detective."
Bruce whirled, and his glare found that of Ra's al Ghul. The man had aged little, and his eyes still glowed with an odd combination of fanaticism and modesty. He stood draped in a scarlet cape and collar that conjured up images of sixteenth century vampires.
"You're alone," Bruce said, even as he realized it. "Where are the usual posse of henchmen?"
"Come now, detective," al Ghul began, his voice both patronizing and admiring, "you know me better than that. I wouldn't allow my men to witness the source of my grip of power."
Twenty, thirty years ago, Bruce would of produced some startlingly witty remark of his own, some retort that would have both their ears ringing. Or he would of considered such petty bickering beneath him, and simply intensified his cold stare. But he and this man had been at each other's throats for most of his adult life, and he did not possess the reserve he once did.
So Bruce gritted his teeth, and put all his strength behind a single, fiery punch that splayed the villain out across the cave floor.
As much as he would've loved to continue the fight, he realized the opportunity he'd been given to nip the entire villainous plan in the bud. Al Ghul was down for thirty seconds at least. The vigilante sprinted toward the entrance at top speed. The reactor had to be destroyed.
He bounded into the blinding sunlight, and twirled the laser turret around to face the cave. Priming it to maximum, he closed his eyes and let loose. Instantly, a wave of heat passed over him, and he offered up a silent prayer…
There was a hand at the base of his neck then, tugging him upward. His eyes opened of their own volition. Below, the landscape was afire, the entire area exploding. Above, Superman was grimacing into the wind as he dragged them both to safety.
They set down on a mountain peak nearby, and Bruce sank unashamedly to his knees. He was exhausted, but at the same time energized. It was over.
"You took your time coming to," he muttered at the presence behind him.
Superman nodded by way of apology. "So much for that reactor. Is Ghul... is he..."
"Ra's al Ghul is a resourceful man."
"So he's not dead. But how do you know?"
Batman smiled an ironic smile. The flame was clearing, and seared into the ground, at least half a kilometer wide, was the Symbol of the Demon. "He left his calling card."

END