Heavy footfalls echoed across the empty corridor. Three men, their silhouettes dimly outlined within the dark halls, tread carefully and loudly. Even the illusion of an attempt at surprise was suicidal when it came to the man they came to see.

Judging by their outlines, these men were as different as could be. One tall and gaunt, another short and stout, and the other of medium height and build. Physically, they represented a balance, just as they did psychologically as well. One a frenzy of emotions and blood-lust, another calm and logical and methodical, and the other professional with a light and quick temperament.

These three men balanced and complemented each other as no other trio could. This is, more than any other, the reason they were chosen to work with their employer. He needed a balanced team of henchmen that could deal with any threat and follow orders implicitly. Thus far he has not been disappointed.

At last, after nearly half-an-hour of traveling those long and winding corridors, the three men found the man they needed to speak to. Approaching loudly so his known presence wouldn't be perceived as a threat, the middle-man stood outside the cold, rusted bars of the cell.

"You wanted to know when word came about those unauthorized shipments to Gotham." He coughed loudly, choking on the dust, then continued. "Several hours after a supply house was raided, an unidentified flying object was observed departing Gotham. It was heading south."

"It's him," a gruff, hard voice stated from deep within the dark cell. "As I suspected, he's coming to deal with the threat at it's source. Send out the orders to expect his arrival at oh two hundred hours."

Outside the cell, the three men fidgeted nervously. The middle-man spoke up again. "About the orders, we still aren't sure about what you told us about dealing with him. It'd be better if we just-"

"Don't question me." The voice wasn't any louder than before, but the anger was evident. "To beat me, we shall play by his rules. He will not expect it, and that alone will place him off-balance. Besides, I don't anticipate him being a problem, win or lose."

The tall man licks his lips, nervous about whether they should go and begin the preparations. The squat man is already backing away.

"Leave me!" A large wooden bed slams against the bars, splintering against the unyielding steel.

The squat man moves faster down the hall, his two companions close on his heels.

	The Dark Knight Detective..... "In No Bat's Land"
Batman #2 - February, Year One	by Stephen Crosby

It's still dark when the Batman arrives at the island. A low overcast limits his visual, but the readouts from the instruments provide everything needed for a safe landing. The Batman enables the VTOL, hovering the Bat-Jet over the beach at the base of a cliff. With virtually no sound, the Batman lands on the island nation of Santa Prisca.

Sliding the hatch back, the Batman jumps from the cockpit, his cape snapping in the warm air. He lands amidst settling sand, some distance from the thunderous waves crashing against the shore.

At the activation of an electronic signal, thin plastic plates slide across the Bat-Jet, sealing the aircraft air-tight. Soon, the tide will come in, and the Bat-Jet will be completely hidden for most of the morning. But the Batman isn't concerned with that right now.

Tugging on the specially designed gloves, the Batman looks up, up, and up at the sheer cliff before him.

The Batman strides towards the cliff face, his footprints clearly visible in the wet sand. Grabbing onto a pair of handhold, the Batman peers up and identifies nearly a dozen others before he begins the climb.

Rock climbing is slow, arduous work. All of your senses are on constant alert, not only scouring the cliff face for handholds and loose rocks, but monitoring the wind, temperature, air pressure, and oxygen. Most rock climbing casualties have been the result of numb fingers, lightheadedness, and the inability to transform thought in action quickly enough.

The Batman isn't thinking of any of this as he climbs. Instinctively, he's already identified every handhold and remotely loose rock in clear sight, as well as calculated the various conditions of the air. Instead, the Batman plans on what to do once he reaches the top.

It doesn't make sense that Bane would invest in manufacturing venom, considering his own addiction and quest to break it. Perhaps one of the developing scientists, or maybe even one of Bane's old henchmen. At any rate, the Batman decides that his first priority is to hit the manufacturing plants. Considering the worldwide distribution of the drug and the guns, these plants will be numerous, and security tight at each. The Batman feels the weight of the incendiary devices attached to his belt. The true danger of the guns is the explosive chemical compound placed within the bullets. Somewhere on Santa Prisca, there's a large stockpile of the chemical. The destruction of the stockpile and the smaller caches undoubtedly located at the munitions plants will deal a huge blow to whomever's behind this.

Nearly halfway up, the Batman mentally goes over a memorized map of the island that he'd reviewed on the flight. About half a mile inland rests a small series of caves that have served as hideouts to various guerrilla rebels. The network of caves should serve as a suitable base of operations, as it's very likely the Batman will be operating for several days, possibly even weeks. Hopefully, a rebel faction is based in the area already. The Batman reflects that he could use all the help he could get in this potentially hostile territory.

Digging his fingers into the handholds, the edge of the cliff in sight, the Batman rehashes his plan again, this time factoring in the local island residents. No doubt the local government is as dictatorial and militaristic as most other Third World nations, and it's always the common folk that suffer most. How many have been worked to death, creating weapons of death? How many have been used as guinea pigs for the Venom patches, driven to near-insanity and death?

His head clearing the edge of the cliff, the Batman is confident that the citizens of Santa Prisca will aid him, if for nothing else but their own freedom.

SWOK!

The light boot appeared from nowhere, slamming directly beneath the point of the Batman's chin.

"Nghn!" His head driven back by the force of the blow, the Batman was caught unprepared, and his grip failed to hold. The Batman hurtled away from the cliff face, sent spiraling into free-fall towards the beach far below.

Instinctively, a batarang appeared in the plummeting Batman's hand, and his arm tensed to hurl it towards a rock outcropping identified earlier. However, before the Batman could make action out of instinct, his life was saved for him. Expertly thrown, a thin rope latched around one of the Batman's ankles, quickly going taut. His descent halted, the Batman slammed against the face of the cliff, his shoulder scoured by the rough rocks.

The Batman grit his teeth, blocking out the pain and the sensation of blood rushing to his head. He fought for consciousness, concentrating on the voices he could hear above him.

<"We have caught him, but so easy..."*>
<"Perhaps he is not the threat we were told of.">

<"We should wait. We cannot risk El Presidente's anger.">

*(Translated from Spanish)

Concentrating on those words, the Batman tenses up. If much more time passes, he'll be too disoriented to offer much resistance. It's now or never.

Straining with every muscle in his body, the Batman slowly lifts his upper-body forward, reaching for the rope hooked around his left ankle. The Batman's shoulder ached, his abdominal muscles burned, and he couldn't feel his legs. Fighting past the pain, reaching for every inch, the Batman's fingers grazed the rope tight around his ankle.

Digging his fingers between the rope and his boot, the Batman makes use of the leverage to lift himself up further. Now the Batman's head was clearing, and he planned his next moves precisely. Taking a handhold with his other hand, the Batman shifted his legs, planting his feet firmly against the face of the cliff.

Without an instant's hesitation, the Batman leaped up and away from the face of the cliff, almost executing a back flip. At the absolute last instant, the Batman reverses his momentum, somersaulting towards the edge of the cliff, his hands reaching.

Grasping the cliff edge, the Batman pulls himself forward, swiftly rolling on the rough ground past his astonished attackers. Leaping to his feet, the Batman wastes no time. He aims a solid punch straight for one man's jaw.

With amazing speed, he grabbed the Batman's hand and turned on his heel, attempting to flip the Batman back over the cliff. Fortunately, the Batman reacts quickly, kicking the man at the back of his knee. With the Batman's other hand, a chop to the back of his neck sends the semi-conscious man to the ground.

Of the remaining two men, one lunges towards the Batman's back, both fists aimed for the Batman's ears. Acting on instinct, the Batman raises his arms to block, kicking out behind him for the man's groin. Spinning on his heel, the Batman executes a roundhouse into the man's ribs. A sickening snap, and he falls, groaning with pain.

Barely breathing hard, the Batman turns his gaze to the last man. The one with the boots.

"You expected me," the Batman growled in perfect Spanish. "You waited for me, you attacked at the exact moment, you almost got me. You were trained for me specifically, and trained well, but it's not enough. Take my word for it, and tell me what I want to know."

The man with the boots didn't go white in the face, nor did his eyes widen slightly in fear. His expression wasn't anything like those worn by numerous criminals in Gotham City. He merely looked...determined.

The boot, leg attached, sailed towards the Batman's head. Effortlessly, the Batman snatched it by the ankle, palm out. Spinning with the momentum, the man leaped of the air and shot his second leg towards the Batman's head. The Batman caught this palm out as well, and was nearly rolled off his feet when the man landed on the ground and twisted. However, the Batman expected it, and he braced his legs.

The man on the ground screamed in pain as the Batman twisting his wrists, turning his palms inward. Bones snapped, and two legs fell to the ground, feet hanging at unnatural angles.

Angry, the Batman knelt down and grabbed the man by his unwashed hair, fully intending to interrogate him. But he'd passed out from the pain. Curious, the Batman considered the man's hair, and took another look at his boots. The treads were filled with soil, and the same soil rested beneath his fingernails.

Suspicious, the Batman moved on to the other two unconscious men, and found the same thing. Also, they all had rough hands, as though they were used to handling tools. These men were nothing but simple farmers. Farmers that knew the Batman's moves and how to fight him, albeit poorly.

With an idea of what to expect, the Batman left the men where the were and headed away from the cliff's edge. The caves would be occupied all right, but it's doubtful they'd be willing to help him. Whoever it is behind the drugs and the guns, that person expected the Batman, and that person was prepared.

Overhead, a falcon flies by.

"Ge-get offa me!!!" Terry 'Masked Death' Rowen roared. Swinging his thick arms out, he hurled away two GCPD officers and a burly detective, and it took the remaining two everything they had just to hang on.

"Shock him Mills!" Officer Keaton cried to the fourth officer, his arms desperately hanging onto the enraged wrestler's neck. Officer Mills quickly grabbed the discarded taser from the ground and slammed it into Rowen's chest, full force. ZZAAAAAKKKKK!!!!!!!

"Argh!" Rowen screamed in pain, but if the officers expected him to go down, they were wrong. Thrown back by the force of the taser, Rowen slammed into the lockers behind him. Officer Keaton was caught between a hammer and an anvil. His arms went limp, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious. Spent taser in hand, Officer Mills stood still as Rowen shambled towards him, much like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "You ain't gonna hurt me no more!" Rowen roared, one of his large fists raised over Mills' head. Mills could make out the white patch on Rowen's bicep.

THUNK!

The butt of the shotgun slammed against Rowen's head, behind his ear. "Then by all means, let me," Detective Harvey Bullock snarled.

Groaning, Rowen tried to swing a punch, but it was slow and off-balance. Bullock ducked it easily, and slammed the shotgun butt up into his sternum for good measure. The wind wheezing out of him, Rowen stumbled backwards onto his ass. Unwilling to give the burly wrestler a chance, Bullock slammed the butt of the shotgun against his face, right between the eyes.

Shouldering his shotgun, Detective Bullock looked over at Officer Mills. "Cuff 'im. We got the bum on assault, resisting arrest, possession, and theft."

Grabbing his cuffs, Mills flipped Rowan over and slapped them on while another officer peeled the patch off with tweezers. "Theft, detective?"

Detective Bullock spat on the ground. "Lousy mook cost me fifty bucks tonight."

The Batman is far more than a gifted athlete and skilled fighter. He is also a detective, an observer that has rarely, if ever, been surprised.

Now, standing on a rooftop to observe a small town in Santa Prisca, the Batman is surprised.

For one thing, the building is over four stories tall, rare in most Third World countries, and unheard of in small villages within such countries. Also, the building is a hospital, clean and equipped with technology that is barely five years old. Looking down through the skylights, the Batman observed various patients being treated by skilled doctors.

Beyond the hospital, the surprises only multiplied. The roads of the village were paved, and there was even a street light. While private cars were few and far between, there were several modern buses churning along the streets. There were buses for ferrying the elderly, buses to transport young children to the modern school across from the hospital, and one large bus that was now leaving the village. It was this bus, loaded with workers, that currently held the Batman's attention.

The Batman had observed the village since his arrival at dawn, watching the movements of its inhabitants. It made sense that manual labor for the factories would be taken from nearby villages, and that meant a trail that could be followed. At noon, the bus had arrived, unloaded it's capacity, then drove off with another bus full. Sure enough, as twilight came, the bus returned to repeat the process.

Holding his cape close to his body, the Batman silently but swiftly leaped onto the bus as it passed by the hospital. The Batman timed his landing to coincide with a pothole, using the bump to cover his own rough landing. Hanging on tight, the Batman went with the work bus to it's destination.

Flat on the roof of the bus, the Batman presses his ear down, and he makes out the conversation inside.

Worker 1: "Christina is expecting again. After so many attempts...another miscarriage would break her heart."

Worker 2: "We have the hospital now. Perhaps the doctors can save the baby this time.

Worker 1: "I pray that they do. Perhaps the difference is that I no longer pray that the child dies in the womb. I am ashamed that I would do such a thing, yet life here..."

Worker 3: "Do not feel shame. After my second child, I prayed that there would be no others. Better to lose them before you have them than to watch them die slowly while you can do nothing."

Worker 2: "Things are better now. We have money to feed our children, doctors to care for them, and schools to educate them. Little Mikal has always dreamed of being a pilot, and now I can tell him truthfully that he can."

Though the Batman listens to this, and is moved, he does not falter in his resolve to stop the guns and the drugs. Lives built on deaths aren't lives worth living. Later, Bruce Wayne can talk to Lucious about Waynecorp establishing a factory or two in Santa Prisca.

As the bus ambled towards it's destination, the Batman continued to hear the workers go on about their dreams and their families. Night had completely fallen by the time the bus stopped. At a mining and ore processing plant.

Of course; the Batman thought; manufacturing the guns would be mostly automated, with a few specialized technicians and chemists overseeing everything. The same with the Venom patches. Most likely the laborers never went near the manufacturing plants. Still, the processed metal will be transported to the manufacturing plants eventually.

Rolling to a stop outside the processing plant, the bus door opened and the workers filed out. An equal number of workers filed out of the plant towards the bus, no doubt the relieved shift. The Batman remained pressed on the roof. As the bus is leaving, he'll disembark and make his way through the mine, observing. Eventually a truck will arrive to transport the processed metal to the weapons manufacturer, and then-

SWIP!

Without warning, the ends of half-a-dozen whips latched around the railing of one side of the bus. The Batman leaped as the bus was yanked onto it's side, rolling to a stance in the midst of the surprised workers.

Correction. None of the workers were surprised. There was virtually no time for the Batman to prepare before he was set upon by attackers that came by the dozens.

Utilizing every skill and maneuver he knew, the Batman fought. Not to win; he knew he had no chance, but perhaps he could find a way to escape. He executed roundhouse kicks, flipped attackers into other attackers, and swung his bat-line like a bola, all to keep them back.

In the end, however, the Batman was overwhelmed by the forces around him. One of them ducked his kick and jabbed him behind the knee, numbing his leg. One took the pain of the bola, wrapping it around his arm and taking away it's effectiveness. Finally, the converged on the Batman, fists clobbering and legs kicking.

Still, the Batman fought, struggling to defend himself against the barrage of blows. An elbow to one man's groin ensured an end to his worries about children. A chop at another Adam's Apple sent him to the ground, gasping for air. Yet while he dealt damage, the majority of his attacks failed. His moves were simply too well anticipated.

At last, his arms pinned behind him, the Batman felt a wet rag placed over his mouth and nostrils. Though he struggled against inhaling the chloroform, several of the workers pounded into his mid-section. Finally, one of them struck the Batman on the side of his head, directly on a muscle that forced open the Batman's mouth reflexively. He inhaled a lung-full of air, and immediately felt the effects.

As the enfolding blackness invaded the Batman's vision, he saw three shadows forcing their way through the crowd. One short and wide, another tall and gaunt, and another with a bird resting on his arm. At the moment consciousness left him, the Batman knew who was behind Santa Prisca.

Outside the small, barred window, snow fell gently onto the grounds of Arkham Asylum. Seen from the outside, from far away, one would never suspect that is quaint, sprawling estate could be home to the most dangerous and unbalanced criminals in the world. From, the inside looking out, however, this was plainly evident.

The small office was lightly padded, as were most rooms in Arkham, and sharp objects were forbidden past a certain point. Most interviews are recorded, then analyzed and written about after the fact.

Not so tonight. The man in the sprawling easy chair licked the point of his writing device and calmly scribbled on the pad in his lap. When he appeared satisfied, he turned his attention to the woman on the couch, observing her with his over-sized glasses.

"Now, you say you didn't laugh much as a young girl. Let's explore that, shall we. Why didn't you laugh?"

The young woman on the couch paused a moment, then responded in a voice that seemed to switch from being low and professional to high and squeaky.

"I just didn't see what was funny. Most of the jokes I heard in school were about me, mostly about my name."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Children can be so cruel, my dear. Well, I certainly wouldn't expect you to try and laugh at yourself, but did you ever try to think of comebacks? Little zingers that shut those little brats up and made them go crying to mommy while you rolled on the ground in laughter."

"No," now the young woman seemed to be weeping softly. "I-I didn't want to play at their level. I thought if I just ignored it, that they'd leave me alone."

"But they didn't, did they?"

"No, they just got worse. Once, some kids on the school yearbook altered my photo so that I looked like....you know, my name."

"Yes, let's talk about your name. Why-oh-why weren't you able to embrace such a glorious and wondrous gift from your parents? I remember a former colleague of mine named Curt Jestle. Funny, funny man. Too funny for his own good, in fact. Nasty business, that, but hilarious at the same time."

"I tried!" The woman whined. "But they just forced it down my throat, making me wear those horrifying costumes for Halloween, and even making fun of my name! My own parents, making jokes about me on a name they gave me!" She was screaming now.

"Ghastly. I hope they got what was coming to them."

"Oh, they did. A fire broke out, while I was away at college. That must have been the only time I ever laughed."

The man in the chair leaped forward, a wide grin on his face. "Eureka! That's it! I know how to cure you!"

The woman sat up, ecstatic. "Really? You really think you can help me?"

"It's simple, really. Do you still have the yearbooks? The one's with the altered photos?"

"Yes, their boxed up in the attic."

"Excellent! Tonight, I want you to look through those yearbooks, and pick a photo you absolutely hate. I mean the photo that sent you to the girl's room bawling your eyes out. I want to use that photo, and become it. Wear the makeup, dress up flamboyantly, adopt the expressions. Then, I want you to track down each and every student in each of those yearbooks, and I want you to laugh at them. Just like you laughed at your parents. You can fantasize about it, or even do it, but what I really want is for you to laugh."

With joy, the young woman bounced off the couch and wrapped her arms around the man. "Oh yes!" She said in that high and squeaky voice. "I'll do it right away! Oh, thank you, Dr. J! You don't know what this means to me!"

Bouncing away from the chair, the woman looked at the clock. "Oh dear, our session is almost over. Tomorrow? Same time?"

"I'll clear my schedule."

Ecstatic with the news, the young woman walked to the door and opened it, smiling at the orderlies standing outside. "Okay boys," she stated in that professional voice. "Take him back to his room. I'm through with him for today."

Back inside the room, the man stood from the chair, twirling the over-sized glasses on one finger. The light shined dully off his green hair, and a wind grin broke his chalk white face. He was very pleased with today's session.

Trogg cracked his knuckles loudly. "Why the hell can't we kill him? It's the Batman, for Christ's sake!"

Zombie calmly rolled his knives over his fingers as he watched the slumped, unconscious figure in the cell. "For once, I agree with Trogg. Unless we kill the Batman now, he'll find a way to escape. Then he'll find his second wind, and better prepare himself for dealing with us."

"Then kill him," Bird snarled. "I just hope you're prepared to deal with the consequences. We wait till his awake, then we take him down to solitary. But if you want to go against the plan..." Trogg spat on the ground, nailing a rat in the eye and sending it scurrying away. "Nah, I'll play nice for now. But the minute I see a death-trap, I'm leaving."

Eyeing the body on the other side of the bars, Zombie's knives disappeared, tucked into his sleeves. "Stand to attention boys. He decided that he's heard enough."

Indeed, the slumped figure was just now stirring, those these three men know he hadn't just regained consciousness. Suddenly, with a snap, the cape swirled back and the Batman was on his feet. He stared past the bars at the three henchmen, as though the metal bars weren't even there.

"Where is he?" the Batman growled. It was clear that he intended to get answers one way or another.

Bird didn't realize that he was holding his breath until he slowly exhaled. Even when he was obviously beaten, the Batman had a way of making it seem as though he had the upper hand. Most of the time, he still did.

Zombie, however, took it in stride. "He's two levels below us, in the old solitary section. He likes to be alone there most of the time, to think. We'll take you there, of course." Zombie motioned to Trogg with a knife that suddenly appeared in his hand.

Nervous, but trying hard not to show it, Trogg stepped forward and slid back the unlocked cell door. If he thought he was prepared for what happened next, he was wrong.

The Batman knows that Trogg has tremendous upper body strength, and has killed many men using only his bare hands. He has experienced first-hand that kind of damage Trogg can deal when he gets his arms around someone. That's why the Batman didn't try to get in close. As Trogg slid back the cell door, the Batman just kicked out and slammed the heel of his boot against the underside of Trogg's jaw. He must have flown back about six feet before landing harshly on the rough stone floor.

His cape fluttering around him, the Batman stepped out of the cell. Zombie rushed forward from the side, knife aimed at the neck. Without turning his head, the Batman grabbed the wrist with his far hand and twisted. As the knife fell, his near hand slammed into Zombie's nose, cracking bone and splattering blood. Zombie fell only a moment later than his knife did.

The whole time, the Batman didn't take his eyes off of Bird.

Bird merely spread his hands and stepped back. "If you wanted to find him yourself, all you had to do was say so." He bowed, gesturing down the hall. "The stairs are that way. Two levels down. His room is easy to find."

The Batman strode past Bird, and made his way through the dark halls of Pena Duro. He kicked out the rusted old door and rushed down the stairs, cape billowing out behind him.

As the Batman entered the lower levels of the prison, he was aware that he was being observed. Security equipment was active all around him, recording his every more. Besides this single renovation, Pena Duro was exactly as it had always been.

The prison was old and hard, a reflection of the criminals it had been meant to hold. And hold it did. In all of Santa Prisca's history, only four men had managed to escape from the prison of Pena Duro. Today, they ruled the small nation from the prison that once restricted them in every way.

Bird said that the Batman would know the room would be easy to find, and he wasn't wrong. Scribbled on the walls and the floor outside of the solitary chamber were...children's drawings. Chalk drawings of headless teddy bears, burning houses, dead bodies with knives sticking in them, a boy fleeing what appeared to be a swarm of bats, and many more. Not the sort of things that a child would draw, but then, most children haven't been raised in a maximum security prison.

The Batman stood outside of the thick metal door for only a moment, taking in the drawings, before he kicked out at the door. One kick was enough to break the rusted old lock, and the door swung open.

On the other side of the doorway, within the pitch black dungeon cell, a large figure stirred. The Batman, with his night lenses, could make out the figure clearly. He spoke the man's name, with a voice bathed in hate and pity.

"Bane."

Next Issue: The Batman confronts Bane! Will the man who broke the bat do it again? In Gotham, the GCPD continue the hunt to rid the city of Venom, and they see just how dangerous those new guns really are. All this, and the Joker too!

Author's Note:

I love writing this title. Somehow, I seem to move smoothly through, gaining ideas constantly as I write the scenes. Whether the scenes involve fast-paced action or insane dialogue, it just seems to come naturally. Perhaps too naturally.

As I wrote several of the fight scenes, I found myself mimicking the maneuvers, trying to work out how it could be done and best describe it in words. While I obviously can't equal the physical feats of the Batman, I can pull of a fair simulation when I try. Really hard.
In writing these insane characters, I try to imagine this character's motivations and basic personality, and work from there. There are thousands of ways to translate say any one sentence, each with basically the same meaning. Whether it be by the words, punctuation, accent, or even by not saying anything and just using body language and a look, each character has a unique way of saying something. I hope I can find the correct way with the characters that I write, whether it's the Joker or Bullock or Batman, or an everyday individual.

I had a lot of fun writing this issue, and I have a feeling I'll have lots of fun writing more issues. I hope you have fun reading them.

Stephen Crosby

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