Chapter 14 – A Little Suprise for little Batsy
The night was cold, sharp, the kind of Gotham night that cut through skin and bone. A thin fog lay on the city's veins, wrapping itself around rusted lampposts and broken brick alleys. The underworld moved as always, hungry and unafraid, but tonight the Bat was hunting.
Batman crouched on a rooftop above the East End. His cape billowed against the wind, shadow stretching long and jagged across the asphalt below. The voices reached him—low, hurried, like rats scurrying in the dark.
"Get the crates inside—boss wants the guns moved before sunrise!"
A smuggler's warehouse. Nothing unusual. Nothing Gotham hadn't seen a thousand times. But tonight, Batman's patience was razor thin.
He leapt.
The cape snapped open like a predator's wings, swallowing the moonlight. He landed in silence, boots slamming onto the steel balcony of the warehouse. One guard turned, eyes widening—
"—What the—"
A batarang cut him off, spinning sharp, slamming into the man's wrist. The gun clattered away, sparks flying. Batman's gauntlet smashed into the man's jaw before his cry left his lips. He dropped, unconscious.
Inside, chaos bloomed.
"Shit, it's the Bat!"
"Kill him! Don't freeze up—just kill him!"
The criminals scrambled, grabbing rifles, shotguns, whatever their sweaty hands could find. But Batman was already moving.
A smoke pellet cracked against the ground. Black fog hissed, swallowing the light.
Coughs. Shouts. Fear.
Then fists. Heavy, merciless fists.
One thug swung wild into the smoke—Batman caught the arm, twisted, the snap echoing as the bone bent wrong. The man screamed before a boot to his gut silenced him. Another charged with a knife—Batman flowed sideways, the blade slashing air, then crushed the man's throat with a brutal elbow.
A third fired blind into the smoke. Bullets ricocheted. Batman's grapple-line shot out, coiling around the barrel. A single yank ripped the weapon away before Batman dropped down, smashing the man's head into a crate. Blood sprayed.
Within minutes, it was done.
The smoke cleared, revealing broken bodies sprawled across the floor. Groans, whimpers, the stink of fear. Batman stood at the center, chest heaving, cape torn at the edges, shadows curling around him.
He pulled one man up by the collar. The thug's eyes rolled, swollen lip trembling.
"Who's supplying you?" Batman's voice was a growl, gravel broken against steel.
"N-no name, no face—just drop-off points! Please, I don't—"
Batman let him drop. Another rat. Another pawn.
He tied them together with cable restraints, dragging their bodies into a heap. His mind was already elsewhere—Arkham's breakout a week ago, Joker's whispers crawling through the underworld, Falcone sniffing at power again. Gotham was always bleeding. Always screaming.
Batman reached for his comm, ready to signal GCPD pickup.
That's when the warehouse groaned.
A heavy weight pressed into the air, thick, suffocating. Like the room itself shrank. Batman felt it before he heard it—footsteps. Not hurried. Not careless. Slow. Measured. Each one sinking deep into the cracked concrete.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The shadows shifted, peeled open, and a figure stepped out.
He was massive. Larger than any man had the right to be. Towering. Shoulders like stone pillars. Muscles stacked and corded beneath a black combat vest. His skin shone with sweat, veins pulsing like snakes across his arms. A mask covered his face—black, stretched tight, with white eye slits and a red, snarling mouth.
And from his back—tubes. Green tubes pumping liquid fire straight into him, hissing with every breath.
Bane.
Batman's chest tightened. His instincts screamed. This wasn't a thug. This wasn't even Killer Croc. This was something else.
"You fight well, Batman," the man rumbled. His voice was deep, rolling, touched with an accent Batman couldn't place. "But you fight small. Small battles. Petty thieves. You waste yourself on insects while the real predators sharpen their claws."
Batman didn't answer. His stance shifted, weight balanced, gauntlets tightening.
Bane stepped closer. The floor seemed to bend beneath him.
"I watched you tonight. Precision. Brutality. But you are still a man. And men… break."
Batman struck first.
A batarang hissed through the air—Bane caught it mid-flight, metal snapping in his grip. Batman was already moving, cape flashing, fists cutting arcs. He struck at Bane's ribs, his throat, his knees—each blow sharp, efficient.
But Bane didn't move.
The hits landed, yes. But they sank like punches into stone. Bane's hand shot out, faster than his size should allow. It caught Batman's wrist. The gauntlet creaked. Pain lanced up Batman's arm before Bane hurled him across the room.
The Dark Knight smashed through a crate, splinters slicing his skin. He rolled, gasping, forcing himself up.
Bane was already there.
A fist like a sledgehammer swung—Batman ducked, countered with a knee to Bane's gut, then drove an elbow to the jaw. The mask shifted. For a moment, Batman thought he'd found an opening—
Then the hiss.
The tubes glowed. Green liquid surged. Bane's muscles swelled, his veins pulsing wider, skin stretching tight. His growl deepened into something inhuman.
The next punch shattered the air.
Batman barely crossed his arms before it landed. The impact hurled him back like a ragdoll, ribs cracking under the weight. He slammed against the wall, pain exploding through his chest.
Cough. Blood.
Bane's shadow swallowed him.
"You are skilled, Batman. But I am inevitable."
The giant's hand wrapped around Batman's throat, lifting him like a child. Batman's boots kicked against the wall, desperate for leverage. He jammed a taser-gauntlet into Bane's arm. Electricity crackled. The smell of burning flesh filled the room.
Bane roared, but his grip didn't loosen. Instead, he hurled Batman across the warehouse again. The Dark Knight rolled, gasping, body screaming.
Broken ribs. Maybe punctured lung. His shoulder felt wrong—dislocated.
Still, he rose. He always rose.
A flash-bang exploded. White light. Deafening sound. Batman moved in, striking, clawing for weaknesses—eyes, tubes, joints. He cut one of the venom lines, green liquid spraying.
Bane staggered. For a heartbeat, Batman saw hope.
Then the monster laughed. A deep, rolling sound.
"You think one vein weakens me? Fool."
He slammed his foot down, the concrete spiderwebbing. Batman's balance faltered. That was all it took.
The fist came.
It broke through Batman's guard. A crunch echoed as his skull split at the edge, vision exploding white. Another blow caved his chest, ribs snapping one after another. Pain like fire spread through him.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Bane lifted him, high, high into the air, massive hands gripping his body. Batman felt the weight of it, the inevitability. He'd been beaten before, bloodied, broken. But this was different. This was a predator made for one purpose—
"To break you."
Bane's voice was final.
And then, mercy.
Not from him. From the phone.
A crackle. A sharp ring from the device on his belt. Bane froze, head turning. He growled, low, before answering.
A voice. Cold. Distant. Batman couldn't make out the words, only the tone. Commanding. Calculated.
Bane listened. His jaw clenched. His grip loosened.
He dropped Batman.
The Dark Knight hit the ground, gasping, pain wracking his body.
Bane loomed above, shadow vast and suffocating. His red mouthpiece flared with breath.
"Not tonight, Batman. Your death is… postponed."
He stepped back, fading into the shadows the way he came. A phantom of muscle and venom and inevitability.
Batman lay there, blood dripping down his lips, vision swimming. His mind clawed through the haze, trying to understand. Who had called him off? Why?
One word burned in his skull.
Joker.
But the night gave no answers. Only pain. Only silence.
And Gotham's heart kept beating, waiting for the war to come.