Winter in Gotham City. Under the best of conditions, the cold is only a mild annoyance that keeps people inside their homes for most of the time. In Gotham, there are no best conditions.

The snow piles high at the side of the streets, wisps of white curling across the air, carried by the vicious winter winds. Originating from Gotham Bay, these winds have exceeded over 50 knots and brings a wind-chill that has easily halved the normal temperature (or doubled in the case of sub-zero temperatures).

High above Gotham, it only gets worse. Though all trace of snow has been blown from the rooftops, patches of black ice litter the Gotham skyline, invisible death traps for all but the most experience roof-jumpers.

Standing at the top of Gotham Tower, visibly unaffected by the biting winds, the Batman watches his city sleep. Crouching low at the edge of the roof so that his yellow utility belt is obscured, the Batman is little more than a flickering shadow, all but invisible against the black night.

Down below, the nightlife activity of Gotham is not lessened by the monstrous winter. The Batman can imagine the sounds of the city reaching his ears, though he knows that such a thing isn't possible. Somewhere, a child cries, unfed. Elsewhere, a mother cries, weeping for what she must do to keep her baby alive. Virtually everywhere, someone screams in terror, fearful of death, yet at the same time relieved that a life of difficulties has ended.

Narrowing his eyes beneath his cowl, the Batman presses his fingers to his ear, listening. "Gang war in Dagger territory," A computerized voice informs the Batman. "The Skulls must think they've gained an edge. It may have to do with those rumors of a weapons shipment."

"I'll check it out," the Batman replies. "Wait fifteen minutes, then inform Gordon." Not bothering to wait for a response, the Batman breaks the transmission.

The sound of gunshots in his ears, the Batman leaps from Gotham Tower into the cold night air. His cape billows out behind him, slowing his descent by a fraction of a second, more than long enough to release a bat-line in time. A flick of the Batman's wrist is the only visible sign of the activity, and a bat-line is cast towards a nearby building, catching on a ledge.

The Batman swings onto a nearby rooftop, releasing the bat-line with only a slight tug. Landing in a short roll, the Batman breaks into a run, leaping from one roof to the next. To his ears, Gotham cries out for help. As always, the Batman is ready, and willing, to oblige.

	The Dark Knight Detective..... "A Coward's Weapon"
Batman #1 - January, Year One	by Stephen Crosby

Snow piles alongside the streets. Grime-covered streetlamps cast a dull glow. Patches of ice that aren't frozen water marginally reflect what little light is cast over them.

Dirty snow. Blackened streetlamps. Opaque ice.

This is all that illuminates the violence on this street, on this day.

Concealed among the shadows of the rooftops, the Batman makes note of all this, and adjusts his night-vision lenses accordingly. Below him, two gangs have converged in a bloody street brawl. Several carry firearms--and most of them Skulls--yet thus far no shots have been fired. Nonetheless, blood has been spilled, and dark forms lie unmoving amidst the maddened mobs.

Though he could have ended this immediately, the Batman takes a moment to observe, to take stock of the situation. To his keen eyes, the Skulls have the advantage, with a bare handful of them overpowering many of the Daggers. The Batman doesn't want to admit to himself the reason behind this.

Rolling the small number of gas pellets along his fingers as he places the breather over his mouth, the Batman takes action at last. He hurls the pellets into the midst of the battling gangs.

Exploding on impact, the pellets release their tear gas, bringing about an immediate reaction from gangs. All cough furiously, fighting to hold back endless streams of tears. Many collapse onto the pavement, too weak to fight off the full effects of the gas.

Breather in place, the Batman leaps from the shadows above. Several have yet to collapse, and there is always the possibility that several are playing at it. At any rate, the Batman has questions that demand answers.

Easily landing onto the street, the Batman kneels next to a fallen Skull, quickly frisking for something that can lead to answers. Before he's barely begun, the Batman turns in response to a slight sound...

The heavy weight slams into the Batman's side, sending them both crashing to the ground. Rolling with the impact, the Batman manages to push his assailant away, so that they end up facing off several feet from one-another.

The Batman observed the youth poised against him. He couldn't be older than twenty, but by the look in his eyes those twenty years have been wasted with inflicting pain and suffering. To the Batman's eyes, however, one feature stands out above all others. The gangbanger is huge, easily the size of a committed body-builder.

"Heh, I was hoping you'd show up," The punk squeaks out in a lame attempt at bravado. "Yer about to make me a legend. I'm gonna kill the Batman!" With that cry, he lunged.

The boy's strong, that much the Batman would grant, but he's far too slow. Side-stepping the clumsy attack, the Batman grasps the youth's wrist, twisting his arm sharply. With a cry of pain, the muscled punk drops to his knees. His muscles tighten as he tries to break the hold with sheer brute strength, but the Batman maintains a firm grip.

"Stronger men than you have tried," the Batman quietly comments. "And weaker men have come closer." Keeping his grip, the Batman swiftly kicks the beaten punk in the ribs, receiving a sharp cry in response. "Where is it?"

"Wha-augh gawd!" Another kick to the ribs.

"I'm not as stupid as you. I can see the signs. Highly enhanced strength, increased aggression, lower mental capabilities. I know venom when I see it, now where is it!" The Batman delivers another vicious kick. The loud *snap* is almost silent next to the scream.

"Arrrrrrrruuuuuuugggggggghhh! Oh, ok-k-k-kay. Th-there's a packet in my back pocket. J-just don't hurt me any-anymore. Umph!"

Twisting his arm again, the Batman forces the youth face-first into the ground. Locking the arm under his shoulder, the Batman reaches into the kid's back pocket and removes a small plastic bag filled with white patches.

Gripping the bag, the Batman almost breaks the guy's arm in frustration. He almost demands where the Skulls obtained the steroid. The Batman almost did a lot of things. Only the police sirens kept those 'almosts' from being actions.

By the time to police arrived on the scene to discover the shattered remnants of what had been Gotham's two most powerful gangs, the Batman was long gone.

"Mwe gepped nout da gums, gand yer venog, say math dat nipent bwe wainen a new gays lack."

"Excuse me?"

Detective Bullock swallowed the last of his donut. "As I was saying, Commish, we checked out the guns we found. Sure enough, they're the same type as was in that shipment we found a few days back." Bullock shrugs, throwing a flurry of crumbs of the ground. "I guess we missed a few."

Commissioner James Gordon taps the pencil against his desk, taking in the Detective's comments. Sighing in weariness, Gordon looks up at Bullock, the pencil now taping a small white patch. "And what about this, Harvey? Has the lab confirmed what we know yet?"

Bullock shakes his head. "They said they'll have the final results in the morning. But Commish, if those things are loaded with what we think they're loaded with-"

"I know," Gordon states, just a touch of fear in his voice. "One man, hooked on venom, nearly drove Gotham to its knees, Bullock. Don't wait for the reports. I want this to be the department's top priority."

Bullock tries to get a word in, but Gordon rolls right over him. "Forget the guns, Harvey! They may be a problem, but it's one we're used to. Besides, it's possible the guns and the drugs come from the same supplier."

Detective Bullock grins. "Just what I was about to say, Commish." Bullock turns to open the door, turning to face Gordon before he leaves. "You can count on ol' Bullock to deliver the goods Commish. By the end of the month this city'll be sealed up tighter than a snaredrum."

"Don't tell me promises Bullock. Just deliver on them."

After the Detective left, Gordon leans back in his chair. Taking off his glasses, he rubs the bridge of his nose. "I swear, every year this job gets twice as hard."

"That's your age talking," a voice from the shadows utters.

Clutching his glasses, Gordon waves them at the shadow. "Then every year I'm getting about fifty years older. You heard everything?"

"I heard." The Batman steps out of the shadows, his usual frightening demeanor toned down in the presence of one of the few men he truly admires. "I can tell you from first-hand experience that those patches are loaded with Venom. Apparently Bane's found a way to administer the steroid through the skin. The result is a cheap fix that lasts for about an hour."

Sighing Gordon puts his glasses back on. "I'd better advise Bullock to investigate the schools and sports teams. The last thing this city needs is a scandal."

The Batman nods. "I've also got someone looking into it. Whatever you may think, Jim, the drug isn't the real danger. What do you know about these guns."

Reaching into his deck, Commissioner Gordon takes out what appears to a pistol with an unusually large barrel. "Semi-automatic handguns. At first it looks standard, except for several things. One's the clip, which holds over a hundred rounds." Gordon removes the clip from the gun and tosses it to the Batman. "See for yourself. The bullets are over ten times smaller than standard."

The Batman opens the clip, spilling a handful of the bullets into his hand. Inspecting them, he sees that the Commissioner is right. "These look like they belong in beebee guns, though I suppose these could break the skin. But just barely." Spilling the bullets back into the clip, the Batman tosses it back to Gordon.

"That's what we thought at," Gordon replies. "But we tried these out, and they aren't beebee guns. The shells are hollow, filled with a chemical that reacts explosively when exposed to the air. The tips are fragile, easily breaking upon contact. Imagine these things blowing up just underneath the skin."

The Batman gives a fraction of a nod. "And the barrel?"

Gordon tosses the gun to the Batman. "See for yourself. It's a triangle with three discharge holes. That means three explosive bullets fired at a time. One of the boys fired a few rounds at the practice yard. One shot to the dummy's head, and there wasn't anything left."

The Batman notices the unusual barrel. "Ingenious. Taken one at a time, the bullets wouldn't be as effective, but three at once, that's different. Skin, muscle, even bone would get torn up pretty bad. A shot to the arm or leg would leave it useless, while a head or chest shot would leave a messy corpse." The Batman lifts his eyes to meet Gordon's. "Do you mind if I take this with me."

Gordon waves his hand dismissively. Obviously he'd meant the Batman to have it from the beginning. He turns to his desk to gather some papers. "I have a more detailed report of the gun, if you'd like to have a l-" Gordon looks up from his desk, and nobody is there.

"Hmph," Gordon mumbles. "Someday I've got to figure out how he does that."

"Pardon my intrusion, sir. That call you have been expecting is on the line."

"Thank you Alfred, I'll take it in my office." As the faithful butler closes the doors on his way out of the den, Bruce Wayne lightly takes the glass from his lovely companion's fingers. "I'm truly sorry, Stacey, but business calls."

"Oh, I understand Brucee," Stacey giggles, jumping to her feet with a bounce. Taking Brucee's hand, she flutters her eyes up at him. "You will call me, won't you?"

His arm around her waist, Bruce leads the young beauty out of the den. "Of course I will. Unfortunately, if this call is what I expect, I'll be busy for the rest of the night. We'll meet for brunch tomorrow, I promise."

Reaching the front door, Stacey giggles and gives Bruce a peck on the lips. "You had better! I'm not letting you go without a fight."

Laughing, Bruce pats her on the rear as she goes out the door. Bruce leaves the door open, admiring swaying figure as she gets in her Convertible and drives off.

Closing the door, Bruce's smiling face vanishes as if it never existing. With purposeful, swift strides, Bruce Wayne is in his study, the door closed behind him. Reaching the large grandfather clock near his desk, Bruce opens the face and turns the hands just right.

Silently and swiftly, the clock swings forward, revealing a flight of stone steps leading down into the darkness. Bruce Wayne steps forward through the doorway, the grandfather clock swinging shut behind him.

Striding down the stairs, Bruce Wayne soon finds himself in a vast cavern, one easily larger than his mansion above. Off the left, the sound of running water can be heard, a small creek feeding a large underground lake. To the right, a small gallery of trophies, mementos of past exploits. A robotic T-Rex. A giant copper penny. A giant playing card with the grinning face of a Joker. And finally, a tattered Robin uniform inside a glass case.

Taking a quick glance of the uniform as he passes, Bruce Wayne reminds himself of why he does what he does, and why he has to do it alone. These feeling weighing heavily in his mind, Bruce Wayne continues forward. Forward towards the large super-computer console, the jet black automobile

As always, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne's faithful servant, awaits him near the super-computer, a folded bundle in his arms. "Your work clothes, sir?"

"Thank you Alfred." Bruce Wayne approaches his butler, extracting a pure black mask from the top of the bundle. Pulling the mask over his head, the Batman sits down at the super-computer. "Put the rest on the work bench. Before you turn in, leave out a bowl of cereal."

"Kelloggs, sir? Or Cheerios?"

"Cheerios. Dry."

"As you wish, sir." Nodding his head slightly, Alfred turns and walks towards the stairs.

Left to himself, the Batman types rapidly across the console, speaking softly into the microphone. "What did you find?"

"Well, hello to you too," a computerized voice responds. "I have a name you know. Would it kill you to call me Ba-"

"It just might," the Batman cuts in. "Any frequency can be tapped, not matter how well protected. Now, what did you find."

The computerized voice sighs. "Fine, have it your way. What I found was nothing. However these deals are carried out, it's not electronically. Cash only. Deliveries made privately. Business spreads through word of mouth. Whoever is behind all this, he's good."

"He learned from the best," the Batman states gruffly. "What about the dealers? Surely the non-tech system doesn't go beyond the supplier."

"It doesn't. And don't call me Shirley." The computerized voice chuckles. The Batman glares at the screen, unamused. Eventually the laughter slows down, growing nervous, then stops. "I'm finding traces of sales in Europe. I also found some obituaries of notable armed dealers."

The Batman grunts. "Silence is a condition."

"Apparently with deadly consequences," the voice continues. "Hmph, this is interesting."

"What?"

"I just found a report of a New York arms dealer found in the East River. The interesting part is that he's known to deal in Gotham, and he had connections with European dealers. Looks like the supplier didn't want to operate in Gotham."

"My reputation is spreading," the Batman replies icily. "He obviously knows how to avoid you, so there's no point in keeping you on this. Keep track of the police bulletins and let me know when they find anything."

"Ask, and ye shall receive," the voice chuckles. "The Gotham police surrounded a crackhouse fifteen minutes ago. Only those guns and a hostage keeps them fro-"

"Send me the report," the Batman snarls, snapping on his cape. "I'll read it on the way there."

"But don't you want-"

"You've wasted enough of my time as it is." The Batman cuts the connection. Turning about with a flourish of his cape, the Batman leaps into the Batmobile. Starting the engine with a roar, the Batman careens out of the Batcave.

Cut off abruptly, Barbara Gordon removes the headset, confused. Why hadn't she told Batman about the situation immediately? The rest could have waited, but people could be dead now because of her actions. How could she have acted so foolishly?

Backing her wheelchair away from the keyboard, Barbara glances at one of the many screens, rereading the report with a glance. She knows she should send it. Batman's always been interested in all the information from Arkham, even something as trivial as a new psychiatrist.

Barbara stretches her hand out, fully intending to send the report to the Batcave. Instead she finds herself striking the delete button. As the screen goes blank, Barbara starts to shiver uncontrollably, a jolt of pain lancing up the small of her back.

"For the last time, ya lousy punks! Get the hell out here with your hands up!"

"Real patient Harvey," Detective Montoya mutters to her partner. "It's only been fifteen minutes."

Harvey tosses down the bullhorn, scowling. "I know, but damnit Montoya, I haven't eaten for over two hours!" Turning towards the other officers, he cries, "Hey! Where the hell's that pizza I ordered!"

"It's on it's way sir!" A veteran officer responded. Bullock rubbed his gun, muttering something about tipping that guy if he's late. Montoya just smiled at her partner's back.

Far above, unnoticed by the police, a dark figure leaps onto a nearby rooftop. Running across the low rooftop, the Batman leaps from the edge, shattering through the window of the surrounded building.

"What the fu-?" a gun-wielding, rough faced man turns in surprise. Behind him, Batman can make out a young woman tied to a chair.

Landing lightly, the Batman kicks the gun out of the thug's hand, following with a punch to the gut. "Here's a tip," the Batman whispers as he slams the thug's head down against his knee. "Don't keep hostages close to windows."

Tossing the unconscious criminal to the ground, the Batman quickly restrains him. Not even glancing at the hostage, the Batman turns to open the door. Startled, the hostage shakes frantically, and "mphms" loudly.

The Batman turns to face the hostage, silencing her with a glare. "You'll be freed when the police arrive. Keep quiet until then." With a flourish of his cape, the Batman rushes through the doorway, leaving behind a frightened hostage and her unconscious guard.

The Batman makes his way through the house, quickly glancing into each room. Not long, mind; merely a passing over with his eyes to see that it's empty. Creeping to the top of the stairs, the Batman can make out the voices of those downstairs. Young voices, laughing about their situation, with just a touch of quivering fear. Children who know when they've dug themselves too deep, but too full of stupid pride to admit it and surrender.

Throwing himself over the banister, cape billowing out behind him, the Batman sails over the preoccupied criminals. Landing to a flurry of curses and hands grabbing for weapons, the Batman acts on pure instinct. A lightning fast chop to the wrist, numbing the whole arm. A roundhouse kick to the side of the head, sending another foe crashing into the wall. Fingers gripping long, dirty blond hair, driving a youthful face through the coffee table. A final chop, aimed at the neck, striking a bundle of nerves that sends the final kid dropping to the ground, all consciousness gone.

The Batman stands over the three young men, breathing normally. All thought on the situation at hand, the Batman sweeps over the room with his eyes, searching for anything that could help him. His back to the bathroom, the Batman hears a small click, and swiftly turns.

He finds himself staring at an over-sized barrel, a triangle of three small holes staring back at him.

The young man, barely old enough to shave, tries to keep the gun level at the Batman. His hands shake slightly as he looks down in horror at his friends. "Ar-are they-?"

"They'll live," the Batman responds softly.

The young man jerks his eyes to the moving shadow across from him, the gun suddenly still as water. "D-d-don't move! I-I'll shoot! Don't move, and don't talk unless I say!" Behind his fearful eyes, the Batman detects the unmistakable hint of an animal realizing what it's just caught.

"I know what you're thinking," the Batman states gruffly, seemingly unaware of the gun pointed square at his chest. "'I've got the infamous Batman, scourge of Gotham's underworld. I'm going to be a legend.'"

The Batman doesn't need to ask if it's true. They boy's eyes give him away.

Shifting his eyes throughout the room, taking in the contents, the Batman continues. "When the police get in here, they'll arrest you. No matter what you do, that won't change. So far, the worst you're looking at his possession of illegal drugs with intention to sell, and possession of illegal firearms."

Keeping his gun aimed on the Batman, but once again shaking, the boy shifts his eyes quickly to the bag of white powder and the few guns scattered on the floor.

"At the most, you'd get a few years in prison," the Batman says calmly, mentally grinding his teeth at the state of the justice system. "If you're the age you look, and I figure you are, you'll be looking at maybe a few months in a juvenile detention center."

The Batman spreads his hands before him, sticking his chest out slightly. The gun is shakier. The eyes are softening, thinking. "But the moment you kill me, it's murder. The victim doesn't matter." Although in this case, the murder of a well-known millionaire playboy would have far-reaching repercussions. "Murder means at least half your life in Blackgate. Are you prepared to spend half your life in Blackgate?"

The boy's eyes widen in fear. The Batman narrows his eyes. It's time to drive the point home. "Maybe you think killing the Batman will carry some protection, is that it? If you do, you don't know Blackgate. You've heard about what happened to Bane, don't you? Viciously beaten several times, stuck in the infirmary for over a month. That's what the men at Blackgate did to the man that broke me."

The gun falters for a moment. The Batman's voice grows harsher. "When you get there, you won't be Bane, the man that broke the Batman. You'll just be some snot-nosed punk that got a lucky shot at the Batman. You'll be a walking target; a means for older, bigger, meaner, much more vicious criminals to let their frustrations out on. Kill me, and spend half your life in Blackgate, every day at the mercy of men who have dreamed of killing me."

The boy's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A faint smile crosses the Batman's lips. "But I'm sure that, long after you've wished for death, the Joker will find a way to get you out. I'm sure he'd love to thank you, in his own special way."

Now a squeak escapes the boy's lips, the gun clattering to the floor. Before it even lands, the Batman is there, slamming the boy into the wall. Elbow pressed against that boy's throat, the Batman whispers calmly into his ear. "You will tell me everything you know, or you will beg me to send you to Blackgate."

If air could escape that boy's mouth, he surely would have screamed.

"Alfred, I'll be going abroad for a while," the Batman speaks into the intercom. His eyes never leave the blurred road in front of him, the Batmobile hurtling forward at breakneck speed. "I'll need an overnight bag packed by the time I arrive."

"Very good sir," Alfred's voice responds. "Shall I cancel your plans with Ms. Ketcher?"

"Tell her that Wayne had to go inspect a multi-million dollar factory. She'll be too dazzled by the 'multi-million' that she'll forget to be upset."

"As you say, sir. Shall I book reservations at the airline?"

"No, I don't want this traced to Wayne. Prep the Batplane. Make sure the tank is full, and pack in spare fuel tanks."

"I take it this will be a long trip?"

The Batman nods to himself, gritting his teeth. "I'll be going to Central America. Santa Prisca."

Next Issue: Has the Batman found the man responsible for the drugs and the guns? Will the Batman find a warm reception when he arrives in Santa Prisca? What is wrong with Barbara Gordon, aka Oracle? Well, answering two out of three isn't bad.

Author's Note

Welcome, one-and-all, to the first issue of the Batman! Hopefully, you've gotten this far, which I'll take to mean that you've liked what you've read. As you've noticed, I've decided to emphasize the dark aspect of the Dark Knight. This means plenty of action, plenty of grit, and lots of scary-ass lunacy!

In the course of my run, you can expect smaller, more crime-based stories, as opposed to the far-reaching epics of other titles. Other than this opening story and the run-ending story, everything in-between will be one issue. Well, not counting the underlying plot threads:)

So sit back and enjoy the ride. And I suggest going to the restroom before each story.

Steve

Story © 2001 Steve Crosby and may not be reproduced without permission.