Screeeeech—
The truck's brakes screamed as they locked, tires skidding along the cracked pavement. The Bat had already reached in, effortlessly seizing the wheel with one gloved hand. It looked almost casual—except for the force behind it, the kind of strength that felt like it could crush steel.
"Carl Scott."
The voice wasn't human.
It was cold, mechanical, layered in an unnatural distortion—half-human, half-machine, all nightmare. It sounded like it had clawed its way out of Hell just to speak his name.
Carl froze. A chill ran down his spine.
"You know two members of the Falcone family."
"I—I..." Carl's mouth opened, then clamped shut again. He wanted to lie. His instinct screamed for him to lie. But the words wouldn't come.
The Bat didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Its pupil-less eyes stared straight through him, like they could see every guilty thought crawling through his mind.
Carl swallowed hard. He couldn't rat. He wouldn't rat.
But then came the next blow.
"Last Wednesday. 4 a.m. What did they ask you to do?"
"I—"
"September 16th. Three years ago. You committed a hit-and-run. A woman carrying her child—internal trauma. She died instantly. You stood over her. Watched her baby bleed out. And then you drove away."
Carl's entire body locked up.
"Two years ago, December 7th... then again on the 25th. You clipped a motorcycle. Ran over a drunk lying in the street. Last year—"
"Enough!" Carl snapped, rage and panic colliding in his chest. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, you freak!"
Crack.
The Bat's hand moved faster than a blink. Carl's right arm dropped limply to his side, the bone inside snapping like a twig.
He screamed.
The pistol he'd been reaching for clattered to the floor, useless.
"Answer. The. Question."
The Bat's voice was eerily calm—unbothered by the act of violence it had just committed, as if breaking someone's arm was no more eventful than tying a shoelace.
"I swear to God, I'll—AUGH!"
Crack.
Carl toppled out of the truck, howling, his right leg now just as useless as his arm. He'd tried to escape—tried to open the door with his left hand.
Wrong move.
"Okay! OKAY!" he wailed, pain and terror shredding his defiance. "I'll talk! I'll tell you everything! Just don't—don't touch me again!"
The Bat stepped out of the cab and hoisted him up with one arm like he weighed nothing. A cable shot out from his gauntlet, hooking onto a rooftop. Seconds later, they were airborne—ascending in a blur of cape and rope until they landed on the roof of a nearby building.
"Talk."
Carl spilled it all.
Names, dates, drop locations, cargo routes, who paid him, who covered it up. Every last rotten detail. When it was over, he was panting like a dog, praying he'd just earned himself a second chance.
"I told you everything. You—you can let me go now, right?"
The Bat didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.
Instead, he pulled out Carl's phone and dialed.
"Gotham PD."
A woman's voice on the other end picked up.
"Tell Gordon," the Bat said. "Otisburg District. Pickup needed. Suspect is wanted in multiple vehicular homicide and hit-and-run cases. I'll leave the phone as a beacon."
Carl's face contorted into disbelief. "No! You can't! You lying, self-righteous, costumed psycho—!"
Thunk.
A single punch—calm, controlled—snapped Carl's mouth shut. His jaw cracked. Two front teeth hit the rooftop.
He didn't speak again.
"I'm leaving the line open," the Bat told the dispatcher. "Track his location through the phone. You'll find him inside the truck."
Then he turned back to Carl. One chop to the neck, and the man dropped unconscious.
"Bring a stretcher."
With that, the Bat disappeared—black wings slicing through the night as he vanished into Gotham's ever-hungry sky.
One target down. More to go.
As always.
---
"Where the hell did you get something like that?"
"It's not 'something like that.' It's my ride. And I'll have you know it got me from Otisburg to here in under twelve minutes. Put some respect on its name."
Drake stared.
"Wait, that thing... flies?"
"It's a wheelchair, thank you very much."
Ren flicked a latch and unfolded the streamlined unicycle, which promptly transformed back into his neon-outfitted ghost-wheelchair. He'd switched the lights off—no sense blinding the neighbors—but even dormant, it looked like something Batman would repo.
Drake was speechless. Wheelchair. Unicycle. Whatever. It definitely didn't fit into his mental image of high-speed transportation.
Not even a little.
"Anyway," Ren said, brushing it off, "Work go alright today?"
"Harvey Dent showed up."
"...You're joking."
Ren gave him a look.
"Okay, okay, no—I heard something about it." Drake raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not deaf. Word gets around. You alright?"
"Not exactly," Ren muttered. "But I survived. Barely."
Drake tried to calm him down. "Look, that kind of thing almost never happens. Dent usually avoids spots like ours."
"Except when he doesn't."
"Yeah," Drake admitted. "But when he does, it's either to gather intel or provoke something. He's surgical like that."
He paused, then added quietly, "You know someone actually shot him last year? Bullet hit his vest. That incident ended with Batman and Gordon tearing through the Falcone family's gray market operations. Brought down half their dirty empire. And they got one of their big guys, too."
"...Yeah, that tracks."
"But hey," Drake grinned, "the tips were good, right?"
That worked.
Ren visibly relaxed. "Can't complain. Covered the wheelchair mods and the driving skill chip. All thanks to Gotham's big spenders."
The only downside?
That rich socialite lady he'd served—her perfume had the clinginess of a heat-seeking missile. His right hip still smelled like it had been hugged by a floral-scented bear.
Still, a job was a job.
After dinner—one of Camilla's comforting homemade meals—Ren took a hot shower, flipped through his System's waiter training logs, and did a bit of studying. He might be flying through Gotham on a rainbow death-chair by night, but by day, he was a model employee.
Get paid. Learn fast. Work hard. That was his rhythm.
He counted his tips. Not bad.
Then, like a true Gothamite, he glanced out the window to see if tonight's unlucky punk had been strung up on a gargoyle.
Yup. There he was.
Satisfied, Ren lay back and let sleep take him.
Today had been his third day in Gotham.
Other than nearly getting caught in a shootout, crossing paths with Harvey Dent, flying home on a neon wheelchair, and being chased by idiots with automatic weapons...
It was a peaceful day.
(End of Chapter)