Sometimes I judge the parents that let their kids live in this godforsaken city. Especially now as I arrive at the residence of the Serana family.
Not that I’m free of that judgment, for my dear Barbara also lives a stone’s throw away from the evils of this despotic criminal zeitgeist of Gotham.
The blue and red lights prickled my already terrible eyesight as dozens of police officers mill about the crime scene, not knowing what to do with their hands. They never do.
“Lieutenant Gordon!” Someone called out to me, a brash and hopeful tone, probably a rookie. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“What you got, kid?” The brashness of my question deflated the rookie, probably lowering his fondness for me.
“Uh, let’s see.” He takes time to scour his notes, intermittently looking at me to detect any hints of dissatisfaction.
'Definitely a rookie.'
“Guiesseppe Serana called 911 at about 11:32 p.m., and reported multiple dead bodies. When we arrived at the scene, there were 17 dead bodies. Mostly bodyguards, but there were 3 dead masked assailants too. 1 of the bodyguards survived but sustained heavy injuries. Uh, his name is Olgar V-Vuli-linita, head of security. And, also, 1 kidnapped victim. Edmund Serana.”
Realizing that this will be a long night, I grab my cigarette case and take one out to light. I offered one to the rookie, fortunately; he refused on account of him being on duty.
I wave him away and stride inside the manor, careful not to disturb any remaining pieces of evidence the other cops hadn't already contaminated.
The inside of the manor was a touch too different from the outside, one difference being the mutilated limbs of the bodyguards hanging atop the crystalline chandelier and the pool of blood underneath it.
The assailants were thorough, at least, and wanted to inflict terrible pain while saving as much time as possible, so they cut off the limbs and bleed them to death.
“Like Cattle.”
My words, although whispered to the midnight breeze, still carried on towards the man of the house. Guiesseppe Serena stands at six feet tall with a shock of shoulder-length mousy brown and a pencil mustache that looks frailer than ever.
A conniving, self-serving bastard of a man. If not for his family’s slowly declining wealth and marrying into a family of European bank owners.
“Ah, Jim!” Guiesseppe waves a finger at me, his usual radiant demeanor now replaced by a somber elegance. He strides closer, careful not to get blood on his, admittedly, well-crafted shoes. “It is good to see you here. Tell me, how is the hunt for my beloved son?”
“We have an APB out for your son’s whereabouts. If he’s on the streets, then we’ll find him.” I calm him down, muttering about some other police jargon that he’s probably too tired to comprehend. “What you can do to help is to answer my question. Can you do that?”
“Indubitably!”
“Now, where was your son before the kidnapping?”
“Metropolis. Personal internship program by the Luthor Foundation. He was supposed to be there until Saturday. Unfortunately, his mother missed him dearly.” He recounts his side of the story, more often varnishing the truth to make him look good. Every so often I have to guide him to the crutch of events, reminding him of how much time since his son had gone missing.
“By 11:20, we arrived and saw the utter carnage! Dear me, every time I think about it… it breaks my heart that my child is not home safe.”
I try my best not to sneer at the Father Of The Year recipient in front of me, so I merely thank him and blandly promise that my full attention will be on this case.
That was a lie. I lie a lot. Mostly because the department does not have the time nor budget to pursue a long and fruitless endeavor such as investigating a coal magnate’s missing eight-year-old son.
He’s probably dead by now, or, if they were lucky, they would receive a ransom message within the next 24 hours. Just enough time to simmer them into a baked potato and make them more malleable to the kidnappers' designs.
My next course is interrogating the survivor, Olgar. The burly eight foot tall belarusian man, an environmental activist, turned personal bodyguard for the rich.
Upon seeing the man lying on a dainty white ambulance stretcher, I noticed the red welts on his right arm and his missing left arm. I inwardly put forth a theory that the assailants failed to end his life.
'Or did they?'
I motion for the EMTs to move away, posting myself beside him as I offer a cigarette. Unfortunately, he accepted, and I had to light up one of my best for him.
“Did you see anything before you got knocked out?” I ask after a drag, blowing smoke out my nose.
“There were eleven of them. There was a leader, I think, but he didn't do anything… just stood there. He had an owl mask. It had large amber eyes.” He describes the scene, gazing at the forest just outside the estate. “My men gunned down one of them. I killed two, but the leader… he was cut above the rest. Only survived because of my training.”
The man crumbles into a heap of angry mess, a genuine fear coursing through his body. I don’t know whether to believe him or throw him in the Grave for obstruction of justice. All I know is that he’s hiding something.
I give a weary sigh, knowing full well what I have to do if my guess is correct.
“C-can you get back the kid?” Olgar’s words bring me out of my musings as I gaze at him in a different light.
He seems genuinely concerned for the kid.
I strain through his re-surging accent. “I- the kid is just different. He’s good to me. Taught me how to invest, you know.”
I nod, another bland promise moving out of my mouth.
I step out of the estate, pinching the rest of my cigarette and throwing it out on the nearby dirt path. My heart is aching to resolve the case, but my mind knows it’s a lost cause.
“What do you think?” I ask the surrounding air.
“You know what I think.” The darkness responds, his voice swallowing every worry burdening my body. “Do you have the file?”
“Already sent.” I respond, stepping on my cigarette. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
----------------------------------------
*Batman (POV)*
“Do you think he’s still alive?”
I let the words hang in the air, my mind running through a series of deductive gauntlets to figure out the key to solving this puzzle.
Yes, this is a puzzle. Everything is.
The file opened up in my visor’s HUD, filling my vision with certificates, merits, and classified business operations that neither Gordon nor the mayor could have access to.
Edmund Serana, an eight-year-old boy genius, caught the eye of Alexander Luthor during his father’s angel investment rounds in Metropolis. Immediately putting him in a room to test the limits of his intelligence.
Someone has sealed the records.
Luthor. A dangerous variable, one that has resources on par or even greater than mine. He would be on the top of my list if he could only control his ego.
But this doesn’t sound and feels like him. If anything, he’d ingratiate himself with the boy, not harm a bodyguard he is quite fond of.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Gordon asks when I still haven’t answered his first question.
“Luthor didn’t do it. Too wasteful and caring for his taste. Exit strategy is clean, no evidence points to familiar operations within Gotham’s criminal system.” I run down the list while my HUD engages in light cyber crime by hacking Gotham’s security cameras. “No visible entrance or exit in the estate, a peculiar case for eleven assailants. Suggests extensive criminal training.”
I gaze at the flashing lights atop the police cruisers as the HUD uses Wayne Enterprise’s facial recognition software on nearby cameras.
“Not the mobsters, too. Given the recent crackdown on organized crime, they would be too busy hitting the politicians, and I checked the Serana bank records. Nothing unusual to suggest a connection to them, barring the secret deposits of Maria Serana’s lover living downtown using her family’s money.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
That ought to put Gordon’s mind at ease.
“Great. I’ll tell them that.” Gordon nods, still not looking towards me, before walking back towards the estate. “Uh, bats… Please save the kid.”
I gaze at his back and see the pieces of gray hair with my magnified lenses. He had gotten older since we first met. “I will.”
My movements are swift and silent, nary a single blade waves as I pass through their glade; thanks to the newly improved striding system, I acquired from Kord Industries. Although its owner is obnoxious, his armor improvements were top-notch.
A hundred feet away is the Batmobile standing still as a dark monolith of human machinery. The thee ton beast of burden is the pinnacle of Wayne Automobile.
They could have built a thousand low-income housing for this, but they did not. That’s why I ‘borrowed’ it, indefinitely.
It purrs like a sleepy cat as I bring it back to life, easily traversing the narrow foliage of the New Jersey woodlands.
Given the vehicle’s top speed, it did not take long for me to drive on a proper asphalt road. I turn on the autopilot and rest my body on my seat, having been on the job for the last five hours before I arrive at the estate.
“Alfred. What do you have?” I ask as I peruse the GCPD database for any hints of a criminal with an ‘Owl mask’ with the skills of a master burglar.
“Nothing on the state database, Master Bruce.” Answers Alfred before taking a sip of his favorite tea, I assume. “Would you like me to access the national database?”
“Not yet. It might alert them to our search.” I sigh, thinking things through. “If these were an assassination, then why kidnap the child and leave a survivor to identify them? If it were to purely send a message to the Serana… can you check the bodyguard?”
“Already have. Olgar Vulinita, former KGB agent that went by the nickname, The Bulldozer. Famed for his rather exuberant vitality, he performed a dozen assassination missions before going missing in 1963. He turned up in 1997 as an environmentalist for an organization under the CIA watchlist.”
Alfred’s answer confounded me. Such an enormous gap in the bodyguard’s timeline does not add up, unless…
“Time traveller?” I ask, a tinge of intrigue in my voice.
“Or he manipulated his files,” Alfred offers a more plausible reason. “Either way, Master Bruce, with how thorough this organization is, I find it hard to believe that they would leave one of their people behind to act as a fall guy.”
The man does have a point. The severe wounds on the bodyguard’s body are indicative of non-serrated blades pushing downwards repeatedly. There are no hesitation marks, nor a decrease in violence.
One might assume that expert assassins such as the assailants would not find it difficult to attack one of their own and they would be right, more so given the fact that they left their allies’ bodies when they acquired the boy.
"We need to conduct further investigation on the subject," I say as the AI on the Batcomputer takes down my command. “Prioritize the line; override Joker’s disappearance.”
Alfred’s hums resounded in my ears. “Master Bruce, might I presume, what if their target is the child?”
I tilt my head in contemplation. “Hmm. They might have construed him to be Luthor’s protégé, but I doubt their intelligence would suggest otherwise. The reports indicate a mild interest in the boy, not outright mentorship,”
I add the Daily Planet newspaper clippings regarding the personal internship of Edmund Serana by Ronald Troupe. It debuted on page eight, not even enough for a cover story.
“They did not kill Olgar because they already have their target. A worthy lead. I’ll continue running through the files. I’ll let you get some sleep.”
“You too, Master Bruce.” He said, concerned about my health. I could see the sad smile on the radio.
“Alfred,” I call out before he disappears. “How’s the boy?”
“He’s better, sir. It’s been a few months, after all. Still don't like my tea, but I’ll get him sooner or later.” Alfred replies, with mirth in his tone. “It might be too presumptuous of me, Master Bruce, but… are you going to train him?”
I take time to answer his question; the answer hitting me harder than I ever thought it could.
“I already know the answer, Master Bruce. I just.. I hoped you would change your mind.” He says, ending the call.
I know it was terrible for me, but I had to do it. It was for the best.
My mind now reeling from the words of my dearest friend, I turn off the autopilot and move away from the highway. The vehicle, thrumming with vibrant energy, tumbles off the road and heads towards the docks.
If anyone knows what is going on in Gotham, it would be the dockmasters. More corrupt than half the Gotham cops, but much less inclined to make it hard for me.
The Gotham Harbor lay at the eastern end of the Sprang River. It being the best place for ships and planes to unload goods and merchandise has also attracted most of the low-level unsavory characters in the city.
The Batmobile drives to the edge of a cliff overlooking the whole dock before speeding up and driving off the cliff edge.
I punch the propellers and release the secondary chutes as the Batmobile turns into a makeshift blimp. Using the Wayne Enterprise-patented vehicle-camouflage module, the car blended into the moonlit night.
The scissor door automatically opens for me as I exit the vehicle and begin my stalk of the dimly illuminated parts of the dock. My visor turns from normal to night vision.
The green-tinted glasses offer me a better view of my surroundings as I traverse silently into the containers.
My hunt had begun.
The target: Dockmaster, Anthony Lowenfeld.
A former council member embroiled in a sex scandal and used his last bits of influence to gain this position. Although less glorified, had much more influx of bribes.
Of course, great danger comes with the territory.
Exhibit A: Five dock workers are being beaten to death by a group of highly trained mercenaries with crossed bones on their backs.
Bane’s underlings.
Here comes Anthony, sweating like a pig on a hot day, swaying his hands and running his mouth in a futile attempt to placate the mercenaries.
It was clear as day that they were merely here for business, and that business meant harassing the corrupt workers for lesser taxes. The leading mercenary pulls out a gun, proving my deductions true.
Unfortunately for him, my batarang had already struck it away from his hands.
Before the rest can reel themselves from the shock, I jump towards them, cape fluttering in the blustering winds.
My flight is brief as I land on the shoulders of a mercenary, forcing my weight upon his back and smashing him to the ground. I roll away, not forgetting to take another crack at the man’s head. Double tap.
One down.
The leading mercenary yells to his associates, “IT’S THE BAT!”
As if roused from their leader’s war cry, the other seven mercenaries raise their weapons and begin firing at my silhouette.
My flitting form flipped from freight containers to freight containers, dodging most of the bullets heading my way. My modular light armor stopped those few who got through.
It still hurts, but tolerable enough to continue unabated.
I hide in the darkness between the containers as the leading mercenary yells orders. “Split up! Kill anyone that even looks like that motherfucker!”
They must be new.
Gliding through the shadows, I struck each and every one a blow to a fragile point in their body. Knocking them unconscious and causing them a couple of weeks of physical therapy.
As I jump atop another freight container, my eyes clocking the leader, sweat dampening his whole body as he roars for my presence.
“I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL–”
I take out a Rebound Batarang and aim at his jaw. As soon as the blunt tip touches his skin, the Batarang splits in the middle using a mechanized spring inside and effectively hits him with enough force to qualify as one of my punches.
He falls down to the ground unconscious, returning this part of the docks to a temporary tranquility.
I return to Lowenfeld and, upon seeing me, immediately confesses to nearly two dozen misdemeanors, larceny, and at least seven counts of bribery.
Fortunately for him, I’m here for something else. I instructed him to retrieve the master ledger from his side of the docks. He does so under the guise of a surrender, but tripped off the burglar alarm.
Knowing the basic procedure and routes of GCPD, I have ample time to record the master ledger and inquire of its content.
There was no variation in the ledger markings. Very few legitimate businesses run their ships through here. In fact, the most notable difference was that there was an increase in cargo coming from Seaward Island.
* ••
Page 11
Le Rattane Inc. | 3150 lbs | 23/09
Le Rattane Inc. | 3400 lbs | 19/08
Page 28
Le Rattane Inc. | 1500 lbs | 12/07
Le Rattane Inc. | 3120 lbs | 31/06
Page 42
Le Rattane Inc. | 3600 lbs | 31/03
Le Rattane Inc. | 1500 lbs | 31/04
Le Rattane Inc. | 3100 lbs | 31/05
Page 55
Le Rattane Inc. | 2900 lbs | 31/06
* ••
But as I peruse deeper into the book, I notice a pattern from one of the shady third-world corporations, one that exports a native fruit. Every so often, three to four months on average, a lighter container would be unloaded and immediately delivered to its destination.
The organization that runs the dock at the time ensures that they can take their piece by maintaining most of their cargo for about two-three days. So, this is highly unusual.
I flip to the end of the ledger and see that their newest load is two hundred pounds lighter.
“Where is it?” I ask calmly, but Lowenfeld is, expectedly, still terrified.
But it’s easy enough to find without his help. The dark blue shipping container appears before my eyes. As a precaution, I change my vision to an X-ray and see nothing but pure lead.
Planting a few clay charges on its hinges, I jump atop the nearest container and crouch down, before detonating the explosives.
The dull explosions rumbled silently through the docks as the container doors screeched and flew outwards, crashing into nearby containers.
As I jump down, ready to investigate, I see nothing but a message written in blood:
The Court of Owls sends its regards.
That was before the winds battered my body as a sudden explosion engulfed the entirety of my vision.
The fire left me bereft of nothing but my sense of touch, all the more agonizing as my back felt the hard crunch of steel.
Fragments of rubble and steel tore past my armor, fire burned my skin, before the all familiar darkness welcomed me in its icy embrace.