User:Nextoy/Batman/3

Although James Gordon kept himself awake during the day, having to play nice with the political games that comes with being Commissioner, he was never truly alive except for on nights like these. The moon basking over the seemingly desolate city, the streets lined with predators, and an eerie mist over the normally dark atmosphere. Some may call Gotham a hell hole, but to him it was really the perfect place.

Course each night had its own funny way of proving to be that hell hole everyone claimed it was, but it only made it more exciting for Gordon. Like tonight, for instance, one Victor Zsasz was finally cornered in a way that Gordon would be able to personally take care of.

“Alright Zsasz, give it up. Even if you didn’t have GCPD crawling up your ass you’d still have to deal with me.” Gordon told him, levelling his gun to the crazed killer.

“Stand down Commissioner, we both know you aren’t the one I’m waiting for.” Zsasz pointed out, knife drawn as he slowly advanced. Gordon popped off a shot at the crazed killer, but Zsasz managed to step to the side and slap the bullet out of the air with the side of his knife.

“Well, it's about time I had a decent challenge.” Gordon spoke in an all-too-excited tone as he put away his gun and drew a knife.

“Now, now, commissioner. Must we complicate things?” Zsasz asked, a grin all too wide against his pale white skin.

“Oh, but I think we do.” Gordon pointed out, grabbing Zsasz’s lunging thrust and pulling him into a knee strike.

Zsasz wasn’t expecting immediate resistance, but enjoyed it nonetheless as he brought his leg up into Gordon’s face. It got cut up with the knife and hooked away just as fast as the previous counter technique however. He brought his elbow down towards Zsasz’s skull at the same time as the leg pull, slamming Zsasz against the ground.

“You deserve to be put down like a dog.” He pointed out, pulling out his gun again and shooting the depraved psychopath. First shot and Zsasz rolls out of the way, second and he springs back onto his feet. Victor may have been a lunatic, but his godly reflexes have saved him today.

Dipping low and trying to cross up, Zsasz found his elbow bent backwards out of his joint, Gordon’s boot bending his knee out of position, and the underside of the gun coming to his head. He countered with a knee strike of his own, Gordon grunting and loosening his grip unintentionally, and headbutt the commissioner.

“Don’t project yourself.” Zsasz ordered in a more dry tone than usual, slamming his good fist into Gordon’s jaw. Gordon quickly countered with a deep cut to the inside of that elbow, effectively removing both arms. However, both of them knew that Zsasz wouldn’t slow down from this allow, despite having only one actually usable limb.

Another shot, this time landing in Zsasz’s shoulder, knocked him over. Gordon had a clear advantage, and was feeling sadistic after having been forced to take damage from the craven murderer. Metal cord was always on hand for him, as a good hanging of his criminals was a personal favorite of his. This was the last time he’d ever hope to meet Zsasz, and he knew standard rope wouldn’t do it.

He’d bludgeon Zsasz unconscious with the gun and then wrap the metal cording around his neck, tying it at a high point and letting him drop off. The strangulation soon woke him back up and cause him to struggle and kick, dropping the knife.

“Rest in hell, fucker.” He told him, flicking a smoked out cigarette onto the criminal’s bald head and walking down to see it from a front row view.

Batman had seen part of this fight from the distance, choosing not to interfere. He knew that Gordon had earned his position after what he heard about Loeb, but to see him start to relapse back into his old spec-ops self was a sickening sight. Though it didn’t surprise him in the least.

What had surprised him, however, was the truly sickening lack of compassion that came with it. Once he’d remembered his wars, no doubt having flashbacks to similar fights, his normally gentle heart froze over like the winter’s he’d experienced training under the League of Shadow.

He had other things to worry about, however. Such as the odd feeling that he was being watched. Course as much as Fox loves making toys for his employer, he rarely gave the fancy ones away without adequately testing them first. Even that fancy Bat Radar he’d been working on wasn’t “acceptable” yet.

Though right now Fox’s research was the least of his worries, and Gordon had Zsasz covered. So who was this stalker of his? A gunshot was the answer to his question it seems, as he leaps away from where his cape got shot at.

And to think, Alfred always bitched at him about how stupid the cape was. But there was something strange about this shooter, his mark felt like it was purposefully thrown off. For what reason? Why would a sniper purposefully alert his target to his presence.

Gordon heard it too, and decided to leave Zsasz to his fate. His legs aren’t working anyways, and nobody would find him in this back alley, so his choices came down to asphyxiation and blood loss.

“Damn it.” Jack cursed under his breath, his sniping skills rusty. He knew that he needed a range to practice in, but that stubborn mule of a doctor wouldn’t let him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Hugo was a real psychiatrist, considering he just hides himself in his office all day.

“Jack, time to move.” A woman on the other side of his commlink spoke to him. He sighed heavily and grabbed his mosin nagant. Usually he was the one on comm support back in his old unit, but this isn’t the time to be bitching or reminiscing. He was still a few blocks out, but that wouldn’t slow down this bat fuck nearly as much as it would slow down the police.

Now that I think about it, why in the world would I be hired to capture some dude in a cape? Did the states lose its mind in the past few years, or is this some fad?

Nevermind that, last thing he wanted is to get seen. As is something threw off his shot, and the more Jack thought about it the more he realized his rusty skills had nothing to do with it. Something about this strange bat through his aim just a hair to the side, and he wanted to find out what.

Furthermore, why the hell did his team decide that a grapple gun was the most effective form of evac at the time? Solo jobs are rough, sure, but this town was just weird. Crazy good pay though, so what did he care?

Still, he had a good deal of questions about this bat that deserved answered. Who is he, and why does everyone care is a good start. Probably gonna get told he’s not paid to ask question though, as per usual.

No matter, he can’t say there isn’t a certain thrill when it comes to building hopping like this. Plus flowing in the occasional pot shot at that strange bat to throw him off was great too. Bullets do fun things when they hit a slanted surface, after all. Makes people think you're coming from another direction. That way even if he kept missing for whatever god damn reason it would be assured that he’d be hard to track.

Why the hell did he keep missing? Jack never misses, especially when he’s got the advantage on his opponent.

On second thought, that strange man seemed to be onto him. He’s got a pattern, time to change that. Keep shooting from different angles, and keep calm. He doesn’t even have a real gun, so the worse he can do is just keep chasing. Or throw a weird ass knife. Slashed Jack’s cheek, too. That means it’s time for a real standoff, far as he was concerned.

“Alright weirdo, let’s stop playing around.” He announced, turning around and standing on one of the warehouse buildings near Gotham Bay. He could probably just throw his nugget in there right now, but he could hear the police sirens. Any unnecessary actions are just that: unnecessary.

“Who are you?” Bruce asked, bringing himself into a loose combat stance.

“I could ask the same thing, freak.” The hitman pointed out, the mask and eyepiece making him hard to read. This statement caught Bruce by surprise, as everyone in Gotham knew who The Batman was, and this strange man seemed completely unphased.

“What are you, some kind of mercenary?” Bruce asked, tightening his stance. The mask made this man hard to read, as only one of his eyes were truly visible. What made things worse is that this strange man, rifle balanced on his shoulder like a sword, began to laugh.

“Fuck, this is going to be the easiest job yet.” He mused, leveling the rifle down to his side. “And that’s considering that, excluding you, I don’t miss.” And with that the gun is raised to point straight at the bat.

Batman rolled to the side immediately, but heard no shot fire. Instead, it fired as soon as he stabilized himself from the roll, slamming a bullet into his ribs. Or, more it would if the gunner hadn’t been using hollow points. His plan may have been to just not leave evidence, but then why was he firing shots ad nauseum when they were hopping from roof to roof?

“That’s it? After all that running your already tired out?” The hitman asked, walking up to him casually. He made a bounding step forward, kicking at Bruce’s ribs while he was down. Bruce grabbed onto his foot, attempting to off balance him, but merely caught the butt of the rifle to the head.

“Now why would Strange want someone like you for such a high price?” He asked stomping on Batman’s head. And, with that, Bruce finds himself alone with his thoughts.

When Gordon arrived on the scene, with a few beat cops at his side, they were already gone. No shell casings, either. What made things even stranger is that there weren’t any casings at any of the places they suspected the hitman was at when he shot at batman, even if there were markings from the grapple gun he used.

It was times like these that he remembered his old friend and partner, Harvey Bullock. Bullock would always tell him that when things don’t make sense, just take a break and come back to it later. It was sound advice, though strange coming from someone so stubborn. Strange, but helpful.

But if anyone knew that it was possible to defeat Batman, that would cause issues. The main thing keeping crime down in Gotham is the fear of Batman coming out and striking it down. With that fear gone, who knows what might happen? There were too many unpleasant possibilities.

“Alfred?” Gordon asked, having called the Wayne family butler. “We need to speak in person, an issue has sprung up.” “I can’t say I particularly care for the way you said that, Sir.” Alfred moaned. He knew fully well what it meant to hear Gordon say that, but it didn’t make the hassle bother him any less. Oh, if only he knew sooner that he wouldn’t be patching up any wounds that morning.

“I suggest you get some sleep before hand. Clear your mind.” Gordon suggested, his voice calmer than his mind.

“You know that I-”

“Goodnight Alfred.” He then hung up the phone, hoping that poor Mr. Pennyworth would understand what that meant. And, for better or for worse, he did.

And so, starting that night, Gotham would not be able to rest easy for a long time. Things brought into motion by Hugo Strange, his mysterious assassin, and Batman’s bravado would soon cause the spiral that would descend Gotham into madness.

One day, as the Mad Hatter was exploring his mind prison, he happened across a strange man covered in questions and lacking of any answers to give. At first glance perhaps he’d thought Cheshire had returned to him from the depths of Underland, but he quickly corrected himself on such erroneous thoughts. As he approached the strange questionnaire, the Hatter called out to him.

“You sir, good sir.” Jervis called out to Nygma, having seemingly no care as to what sort of business he was poking his head into. Nygma looked up and hummed in curiosity, having not been prepared for visitors. Let alone a fellow inmate wandering around out of their cell and towards his.

“You seem to be a man of riddles, yes?” Jervis asked with a look of amusement on his face.

“I suppose that’s one way to put it. Did you have something you wanted to ask of me?” Nygma answered, his own expression growing curious.

“Indeed I do. In fact, a question which nobody has yet to answer!” Jervis answered excitedly, leaning in a bit. Nygma’s curiosity also grew, but so did a level of suspicion. “Tell me, good sir, how is a raven like a writing desk?”

At first, Nygma didn’t understand the question being asked of him. It took him a short moment to process it, but as soon as he did he shrugged it off. The question had been asked a thousand times by a thousand men, and even the answer Lewis C. Carol himself gave was considered inadequate.

It was then that the Hatter realized how truly, truly sad this man was. Regurgitated answers that meant nothing. Spelling? Caws? Poe? Nonsense! He even went as far as to quote that hack Carol! Even here in Overland he could hear the cackling of the real Cheshire at this man’s sad displays!

After a month of guesses, tries, and blind stabs at the dark the poor man finally had enough of the cursed riddle.

“IT’S NOT! OKAY? IT’S NOT!” He screamed, causing the Hatter to go into a fit of laughter. This both worsened the man’s blind rage and stunned him momentarily, allowing the Hatter to speak.

“That’s correct, good sir.” Hatter spoke calmly, despite his normally jittery voice. “The two have nothing to do with each other. And yet people will continue to try and find how unrelated things relate to each other in an endless struggle to categorize our chaotic lives.”

This answer stunned the strange man, taking him aback. It is when one is given a question to prove their intelligence and then learn that the smartest thing they could have done was turn down an answer that their true nature is shown. This man was not a violent one by nature, oh no, but his grand ego was cracked and scarred that day. For he shall always remember the riddle he could not answer.