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Batman: Personal Punchline by Nikki Jenkins The light flickered, casting an eerie light over the abandoned office. Papers lay scattered across a well-worn mahogany desk, intermittently scattered by an errant breeze from an open window. Snow flurries drifted past a lone, dark figure crouched in the opening. A long, black cape draped itself around his shoulders while a cowl disguised his face. A strong, square jaw jutted from beneath the cowl, and the inquisitive eyes of the Batman surveyed the scene. A pool of blood, congealed by the cold, December night, collected on the worn dirty tiles of the floor and the faintest scent of cigar smoke hung air. Two file cabinets stood along the wall, their drawers open. Files lay on the floor stirred only by the occasional gust of wind. There had been a struggle; that much was clear, but over what, Batman couldn't possibly know. Batman raised a finger to his ear, pressed a button cleverly embedded in his cowl, and said, "Alfred. 213 Esther St. Third floor. Office facing the street. I need a name and any other information you can give me about its occupant." The familiar, British voice answered almost immediately, "Right away, sir." After a few moments, Alfred continued, "That entire floor is leased by a company called Klun Industries. That particular office seems to belong to a mid-level manager by the name of Peter Pierot. Single. Twenty-eight years of age. No children. No record of family. No tax returns before last year. Before that...nothing. A ghost." "Thank you, Alfred," Batman responded. "Master Bruce?" Alfred asked expectantly. "Leave this one, sir. I have a bad feeling about it." "You know I can't do that Alfred," the dark knight said. "Be careful," Alfred stated. Batman didn't bother answering; he didn't have the heart to lie to his longtime friend and confidant. The reality was that little that filled his nights could be considered careful. Years of training and experience minimized the risk, certainly, but he was well aware that each night could be his last. That was the nature of his life. That was the price of being the Batman. What had started as an unrelenting quest to rid Gotham of the evil which had resulted in the deaths of his parents had become something far bigger. He wasn't a mere vigilante, though that was the impetus through which he affected change. No - he'd become a symbol, a nightmare to be feared by criminals everywhere. And because of the nature of that escalation, nightmares were born to combat him. He'd spent the first few months of his time as the Batman fighting typical street crime. Muggers, thieves, and rapists were his targets then. Soon, though, he found himself going after drug dealers, smugglers, and mob bosses. For a while, he felt like he was actually making a difference. Crime dropped, and he began to believe that he could actually win the war. Oh, how wrong he had been. Batman had only begun to grasp that fact when he first encountered the Joker - a sadistically brilliant serial killer whose driving force quickly became the Batman's destruction. How many had died in that pursuit? Hundreds? Thousands? Dozens of other maniacs had come and gone. From the chemically enhanced mercenaries like Bane to the genetic anomalies like Killer Croc, he'd dealt with them all. But as soon as one fell, another took his place. It was a never ending cycle, and the reality of it was that he was tired - physically and mentally. But the city needed him, Batman knew. Maybe, if he'd never put on the cowl, Gotham could have survived without him. Now, though? Now, he was the only one who could combat the nightmarish creatures, the villains who had sprung up to challenge his protective watch over Gotham City. And so, he stepped from the window sill, landing lightly, the rustle of the papers on the floor whispering his arrival. Click. Click. Batman instinctually threw himself to the floor as a pair of darts whistled over his back, and thudded against the wall. The window slammed shut. Thick metal rods emerged from the window sill, barring his escape. He heard a metallic clang from the direction of the door, signaling that similar cage had erected itself on the other side. A hiss from a nearby air conditioning duct announced the arrival of a familiar green gas. "Alfred!" Batman yelled. "Activate the GPS. I'm going to be taken. Get Tim...the...J-joker is...behind..." Unconsciousness overtook the Batman. * * * "I've told you a dozen times, Alfred," Tim said. "There's nothing there. The trail's cold. I've been trying to drum up some other leads, but the office where he was taken is a dead end." Tim shifted in his seat, staring at the computer screen, feeling Alfred's accusatory glare. Every night for a month, he had donned the costume he'd sworn never to wear again, and searched for his mentor. And each night, his search had been fruitless. "If you say so," Alfred responded. It would break the old man if Bruce was dead, Tim was sure. "I'll go out again tomorrow night, Alfred," Tim stood, and faced the butler. The old man was nearly seventy years old, and looked every year of it to Tim's young eyes. Wisps of gray hair sprouted from above his ears, while a thin mustache decorated his upper lip. Tim reached out, placing a gloved hand on Alfred's shoulder, and stated, "I'll find him. I won't stop until I do. You know that, right?" "I do," Alfred said. The old man looked terrible; Bruce's disappearance had clearly taken a heavy toll. Tim tried to smile reassuringly, "You know him; he's probably neck deep in some mystery, and he's too busy to check in. He'll turn up. You'll see. But in the meantime, you need to get some rest. No," Tim continued. "No excuses. Go to bed. I've got some things I want to run through the computer - some different scenarios - before I turn in. We'll get this thing solved, okay?" "I just..." Alfred said. "I..." He never finished his sentence, but instead, turned, and wandered toward the Batcave's exit. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It was amazing that it hadn't sooner. With the risks they took each night - with Bruce as Batman, and Tim as Robin - the fact that they were both still alive was a minor miracle. Surely Alfred realized that. Bruce wasn't immortal, no matter what the criminals thought. He was a man - a rare and talented man, to be sure - but still a man. And men died. Tim steeled himself to the thought that he might never see his friend and mentor again. * * * Batman awoke to an all-too-familiar cackle. "Wakey, wakey, Bats!" the Joker's voice sounded over the intercom. "It's almost time for the big show!" Batman looked around at his dank cell for what seemed like the thousandth time. How long had he been held captive? Days? Weeks? He couldn't know; there was nothing to mark the passage of time. He sat crouched in the corner of the small cell, and took it all in. Oppressive moisture hung in the air while water dripped from one of the pipes far above his head. The room was small - a bare five feet wide and perhaps seven feet long. Batman gathered his cape around him - why had the Joker taken his armor, but left him his cowl and cape? What sort of sick game was he playing? Humiliation? The Joker had to know that that was a fruitless pursuit. He stood, and stretched his arms above his head. "Is that all the big, bad Batman's packin'?" came the equally familiar voice of Harley Quinn. She laughed from the other side of the door. "Now you have two choice, Bats. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way, you come quietly. No funny business. Hard way, we knock you out again. Believe me - you don't want the hard way. You don't wanna be drowsy with what Mr. Joker has planned for ya. But it's your choice. So what'll it be?" The Dark Knight let out a guttural growl. He'd been knocked out three times over the past twelve hours. The gas worked quickly, and he knew that he had no choice but to obey. He held out his arms, wrists up, waiting for Harley to open the cell door and restrain him. Harley laughed. "Oh no, Bats. We don't need to cuff you down here. You can't escape, and even if you did...well, you'd be dead within a few days. The gas, you see - it's poison. Unless you get your medicine, you'll die. And before you get that big, batty brain going, trying to solve this, don't. We're the only ones who have the antidote. You could manufacture one, sure, but you'd be dead long before it could synthesize. So, moral of the story? You're our little pet bet for the time being." She could be lying, he knew. It was always a possibility with Quinn, but Batman's intuition said otherwise. The door swung open, and Harley stepped inside, twirling a long piece of ribbon. Batman stood stock still as she knelt in front of him. She hummed a lively tune while she reached up, and grasped Batman's penis. "Does little Batsy Bats like that?" she asked as she tied the ribbon to the base of the shaft. "Such a cute little thing for such a big, bad crime fighter." She stood, staring at Batman for a long moment while she stroked his penis. "Can't get it up for little ol' me? Not your type?" Batman couldn't help but notice her tight, red and black jester's costume, which did little to hide her ample breasts and curvaceous body. Even with the clown makeup covering her face, Batman knew she was a very attractive woman. Even so, his penis remained stubbornly flaccid. "It's okay, baby," she cooed. "Lots of bats have trouble like this. It's not your fault." She laughed again, twirled and began walking away. She tugged on the ribbon, and said, "C'mon Batsy. Let's have some fun." He wanted to lash out, to escape, but he knew that he had no chance of getting away. He also needed to play the Joker's game if he had any hope of stopping whatever he had planned. Batman knew the sadistic clown well enough to know that his capture was merely the preamble to something much, much worse. Batman followed Harley out of the cell, and into a dank, poorly lit corridor. Water dripped from the ceiling, and flickering flourescent lights lit their way. The tile was cold against his bare feet. In front of him, Harley's pigtails bounced as she practically skipped along ahead of him. The tight confines of her outfit did little to disguise her tight, shapely ass, but Batman forced himself to study his surroundings. The more information he had about where he was, the better. Harley tugged on the ribbon again, and said, "Keep up, baby. Mr. Joker's waitin' on ya." Even to Batman's keen eye, the corridors held no clues as to where he was or what the Joker was planning. He kept track of the route, though; he'd need to know the layout if he wanted to escape. After a few minutes, they approached a pair of double doors with the words Entertainment Room crudely spray painted on them. What passed for entertainment for the Joker worried Batman, and a sense of trepidation filled his mind as he was led through the doors. As they walked into the Entertainment Room, a wild cheer erupted from the gathered crowd. There must have been fifty, maybe sixty men. All were armed with guns, baseball bats, knives, and all sorts of other weaponry. They stood in a semicircle around the entrance, but Batman paid them little heed beyond noticing them. Instead, his attention focused on the man standing just inside the semicircle. The Joker was not an imposing man. Tall and rail thin, Batman knew that he posed little physical threat. It was the man's mind, twisted and sociopathic, which truly worried the Dark Knight. His green hair and painted face only hinted at the insanity which lurked beneath the surface, and totally masked his genius. He was Batman's nemesis, through and through. "And here he is, our guest of honor, our entertainment, the great, the wonderful Batman!" Joker yelled, and the crowd grew more raucous. "A man who dresses up like a flying rodent - what could be more entertaining than that?" He let out a cackle. "Batty bat bats, I bet you're wondering why you're here, huh?" Batman refused to answer, instead remaining silent. The Joker strode toward him, his long legs covering the distance in a few steps. Batman braced for the blow he knew was coming, but the Joker surprised him by putting his arm around Batman's shoulder, and saying, "Oh, quit sulking Bats. This is gonna be fun, ya know. You're gonna love it, what I've got planned for you." He laughed again - that evil, echoing laugh that sent shivers down the spines of lesser men. Batman bore it stoically. "Look, listen - here's the thing, Bats," he said, guiding Batman forward. The crowd moved with them, eventually closing around them. "You're going to be a bit of an experiment. You see," he said, the crowd parting in front of him. "You've pissed off a lot of really smart people. Between you and me, Bats, there were a few of 'em who wanted to kill you as soon as we caught ya. But you can thank your good friend Joker for saving your life! They asked me why I didn't want to kill you. Of course, I have the most to gain, you know. Those others, they lack the fortitude to do what we do, right? One little defeat, and they sit crying in Arkham, whining about this or that. Batman beat me up. He broke my freeze ray. Blah blah blah." They stopped walking, and the Joker turned toward Batman. "They do love to whine, ya know. But me? I understand how lucky we are. You complete us. Without you, we wouldn't be here. And without us, you wouldn't be here. It's a perfect arrangement." "But that's not the point, is it?" he asked rhetorically. "So there we were, debating on whether to kill you, and I asked a simple question - where's the fun in that? Bam! Dead. What do we do then? No, there's so much more we can do. So, we put our heads together, and we decided to take the fun route. Isn't that great? I saved your life, Bats." "Thanks," Batman growled. "You're so very welcome!" the Joker exclaimed. "I knew you would understand, what with your aversion to killing. Anyway, there are some people who would like to say hello," he said, sweeping his hand toward the crowd. The men parted ranks, revealing some all-too-familiar faces. Pamela Isley, the eco-terrorist also known as Poison Ivy was the first to draw Batman's eye. She noticed, and said, "Hello, Batman - still a sucker for the pretty ladies, huh?" She sauntered toward him, her bare feet barely making a sound on the tile floor, every male eye in the room glued to her movements. When she reached him, she leaned in, and whispered, "You're going to love what we're going to do to you, hon." Her smell was intoxicating - was it the pheromones he knew she emitted, or was it simply the proximity of a beautiful, half-naked woman? He shook his head, and growled, "Let me go, Pamela. You don't belong with these people. You're a --" She slapped him with surprising force. "I do belong here! You put me here when you took me away from my babies, when you locked me in that dreadful, dark cell!" "Tsk. Tsk, Bats," the Joker said. "You do bring out the worst in the ladies, don't you? Now, now, Ivy - don't hog all of the attention." With a frustrated huff, she said, "I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer, Batman. I truly am." With that, she turned, and sauntered from the room. The men parted, ogling her as she passed. "Riddle me this, Batman," came a familiar voice. Batman hadn't realized that his attention had been on Ivy to the exclusion of all else. Mentally chastising himself, he turned, and stared at the man known as the Riddler. "What's looser than a thread, a fish, or flying ribbons?" he asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I won't play your games, Edward," Batman answered, using the Riddler's given name. He was Edward Nashton, a supremely intelligent man whose infatuation with riddles served his constant need to prove he was smarter than everyone else. Going along with it merely encouraged him. "Ah, you're no fun," the Riddler responded. "A woman's tongue - that was an easy one, yes? Another? Fine - whats -" "Enough, Riddler," came a gravelly voice emanating from the shadowy corner of the room. Batman didn't need to see the speaker to know his identity. "Play with him on your own time." He sparked a flame from his lighter, illuminating his face as he lit his cigarette. One side was that of a handsome man - the other half belonged to a monster. Harvey Dent, the former district attorney of Gotham, had been horribly scarred when a mob boss threw acid on one half of his face, resulting in a psychotic break. Thus, he had become the insane crime boss Two-Face, obsessed with duality and opposites. Batman shouted, "This isn't like you, Harvey. You're not one of them!" Two-Face laughed, the sound mirthless. "The choice has been made. Nothing I can do about it now." "Ah, the dream team, huh Bats?" the Joker said. "Of course, it wouldn't be complete without our resident weirdo, right?" He turned, tapped his foot impatiently, and said, "That's your cue, Crane." "Me? The Weirdo?" Dr. Jonathan Crane said, stepping out of the shadows where he'd been hiding. His face was obscured by a burlap sack; only his eyes were visible. His long arms and legs served to accentuate the costume which was his namesake, the Scarecrow. "Classic projecting." His voice was soft, but threatening. "I am looking forward to seeing what makes the big, bad Batman tick. What scares you, Batman? Certainly not me. Not my colleagues. Tell me, are you, perhaps, afraid of yourself? Of what you may do? Or is it failure which haunts your nightmares? A corrupt city controlled by criminals run amok? We are going to have some fun, you and I. Oh, so much fun." "Each one," the Joker stated. "Each one with a role to play. But that's tomorrow, isn't it? Today, we're going to have a good ol' fashioned beat 'em up. Get him, boys." In a wave, the men rushed the Caped Crusader. He ducked under a punch, and delivered a devastating blow to the first attacker's ribs. He flowed around, taking the next one in the chin with a roundhouse kick. Then another fell to a thundering right cross. Batman blocked yet another attack, and countered with a knee to the thug's midsection. A fist slipped through Batman's defenses, and glanced off of his cheek. He redoubled his efforts, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he was overwhelmed. The Dark Knight fought on, refusing to give in. Three more attackers fell before him, but he took a few more hits as well. There were too many. A burly attacker's fist landed solidly on Batman's chin, sending his world spinning. Then another. And another. Batman fell to the ground, curling in a ball. Fist after fist rained down on his back, his ribs, and his legs. By the time they started kicking, Batman was nearly unconscious. He felt more than one rib crack when one of the men savagely kicked his side. He uncurled himself, gasping for breath. Another kick - this one to his head - made his ears ring. And finally, yet another blow sent him spiraling into welcome unconsciousness. As the blackness overtook him, he saw the Joker standing over him with that all-too-familiar, wicked, and humorless grin. * * * Tim donned the cowl, and turned toward Alfred, "How does it look?" "Like a little boy wearing his father's suit," the old man said dismissively. Tim sighed, "The city needs Batman, Alfred. We both agree on that much, at least, right?" "The city needs The Batman. Not you. Not some imposter," Alfred spat. "You don't seem to understand the mantle you're assuming. You think you do, but there is far more to being Batman than simply putting on the mask and cape." Tim scowled. "I understand full well what I'm doing Alfred. How long have I been Robin? Four years? I'm not Bruce. I understand that. But Bruce is gone - maybe for good." It hurt him to say it, but Bruce had been missing for over a month. Initially, they had hoped that he'd simply been neck deep in one of his investigations, but with each passing day, it was becoming more and more likely that the Batman had finally fallen. "But this city still needs someone to fight the corruption, to stand up to the criminal element. Since he's been gone, crime's gone up by almost two-hundred percent. Wrap your head around that, Alfred!" Tim suddenly realized he'd been shouting. Calming himself, he said, "If not me, then who? Who is going to stand up for the victims, to protect the innocent people of this city?" Alfred was silent for a long moment before saying, "I do not disagree with you Tim. I just think that you should be out looking for him. I'm not talking about Batman. I'm talking about Bruce," he said. "I just want him back home." Tim put his arm around Alfred's shoulders. The old man seemed so frail. Bruce's disappearance had really taken it out of him. "He'll turn up," Tim said. "It's Bruce. He always turns up." "This time seems different. There hasn't been a word - not a peep," Alfred responded, his voice breaking. "It feels like he's really gone." "And he might be," Tim responded. "But that doesn't mean we shut down. We have to keep going. We have to keep fighting. That's what Bruce would want." Alfred didn't respond. Tim retracted his arm, and said, "I'm going on patrol. It's time the city saw that Batman hasn't abandoned them." He strode toward the Batmobile, barely feeling the water dripping from the stalactites far above him. He vaulted into the armored vehicle, and flipped the switch, hearing the satisfying roar of the engine. Was he up to the task? Could he really be the Batman? Would the criminals see through it? It didn't matter. The city needed him. The city needed the Batman. * * * Bruce squared his shoulders, and crouched in a fighter's stance. Even in his weakened state, he was confident that he could take the three thugs facing him. His eyes tracked their movements - there was far more to winning a fight than technique and prowess. It was as much a mental game as it was a physical contest. The man on the far right, tall and thin, moved with the natural grace of a born athlete. But he was sloppy. His hands kept dropping. There was little technique; he'd likely skated by on his natural abilities without ever having to expend much effort to stay on top. The thug to the far left was smaller, but no less talented. Neither truly worried the caped crusader. No - the one in the middle was the most dangerous by far. He moved well, certainly, but that wasn't what caught Bruce's eye. It was the oft-broken, crooked nose. It was the swollen knuckles. The small scars on his face...all evidence of a thousand fights. All evidence of his victories. A man like that, with that many scars, in that particular setting said only one thing - a man who fought until the very end. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't retreat. He'd win or die. No quarter. Batman could play that game. Without warning, the Dark Knight - nude but for his cape and cowl - launched himself at the middle man. To his credit, the man dodged the first blow. Batman cursed his weakness. He'd lost quite a bit of muscle during his captivity. Despite his constant efforts to maintain his body through calisthenics, the weight seemed to melt off. And the loss of so much muscle mass had sapped his strength, his quickness. Still, he was more than a match for anything the Joker might throw at him. He followed the first attempt with another. Then another. Finally, he connected with the fourth blow - a wicked elbow to the man's jaw. Were he full strength, it would have been more than sufficient to drop the man cold. As it stood, though, it merely staggered him. It was enough. The other two men reacted to Batman's sudden flurry, launching their own attacks. One connected, sending Bruce flying across the polished concrete floor. He sprang to his feet effortlessly. "Big, bad Batman," middle man growled, rubbing what Bruce knew was a broken jaw. "Thought you'd be bigger. Thought you'd be tougher." "Sorry to disappoint," Bruce muttered. He consciously tried to lower his voice's register, but when the sound escaped his throat, it sounded like a child trying to imitate an adult. The three men rushed him all at once. Bruce sidestepped, pushing the tallest man to the side, while vaulting into a spinning kick which sent another attacker to the ground with a thud. Batman didn't dare stop moving; he dodged in and out of the two remaining attackers. The tall man quickly recovered, and threw a strikingly quick uppercut straight into Bruce's stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. Another blow rained down on his back. Then another. And another. He threw his hands over his head, and curled into a ball, absorbing kicks and punches alike. Finally, he saw his opening, and grabbed a man's foot. Twisting it, the man fell to the floor, his head striking the concrete. Batman didn't need to see the blood to know that the man was out. Batman climbed to his feet, and faced off against his final attacker. As he expected, it was middle man. The two circled one another warily. There was no fear in the man's eyes - an alien reaction to the infamous Batman. It had been a long time since even the hardest criminal could look upon the Dark Knight without a hint of fear. Batman spared a glance around the room. Like always, he was surrounded by dozens of the Joker's men. He ignored the jeers, their taunts. Harley Quinn stood in the corner, watching intently while the Joker whispered into her ear. The two laughed suddenly. It was time to remind them why they should fear the Batman. Gritting his teeth, and ignoring the not insignificant pain blossoming throughout his entire body, Batman rushed his opponent. The man threw a punch, but Batman dodged it without much effort. He deflected another ill-aimed blow, and rammed his fist into the man's midsection with as much force as he could muster. Quickly, he followed that with a fist to the man's already injured jaw. Then another. A kick to the man's knee sent him to the ground. Another kick sent him into unconsciousness. Batman stood there for a long second, breathing heavily. The heat of battle faded slowly until a slow clap startled Bruce to attention. "Well done, Bats," the Joker said between claps. Batman turned to see him languidly strolling toward him. "Well done indeed." The lanky clown covered the distance quickly, and Batman withstood his scrutiny stoically. The Joker circled him. "Have you noticed the changes, Bats? Surely you have. You haven't guessed our plan yet, have you? No, of course not." He laughed. "Oh, I won't spoil the surprise." Suddenly, he screamed, "Harley!" The curvy blonde appeared out of nowhere; she had been lurking in the shadows. "What d'ya need, Mr. J.?" she asked. "Take our friend back to his cell, and get started on phase two," the Joker instructed. He turned to Batman, and said, "And as for you - you know you can't escape, don't you? Of course you do - you're a smart one, bats. But that doesn't mean you have to cooperate, that you won't fight back, does it? And what if you decide that you'd rather die than endure your punishment? No - we can't have that, not with what I have planned. So I have a deal for you, Bats. One time offer." "I won't deal with you, and you know it," Batman growled. Once again, it came out far less intimidating than it should have. "Even so," the Joker said. "All these years - how long has it been, Bats? A decade? Back and forth, and I never found out your secret identity. I didn't need to, you see. I never cared because, well, that part of you isn't any fun. So imagine my surprise when I find out that you're the famous Bruce Wayne. So here's the thing, Bats." The Joker slapped him on the ass. "Batman doesn't have any weaknesses, but Bruce Wayne? He has certain pressure points...starting with that darling old man who raised you. Albert or something, right?" "Alfred," Batman corrected. He knew the Joker was toying with him. No doubt he knew Alfred's name, but Bruce couldn't help himself. "Alfred, huh? Wouldn't want him to get into a little accident, right?" the Joker said. "And by accident, I mean that he might trip, fall, tie himself up and torture himself for weeks on end. The elderly are accident prone, aren't they? And what about your on-again, off-again special friend, Talia Al-Ghul? Or that little brat of hers? Is he yours, by the way? Never mind. Doesn't matter. I think the point I'm trying to make here, Bats, is that if you don't cooperate, that if you die before I say so, there will be consequences. Do you understand?" Batman nodded. He was sure that they could take care of themselves - even Alfred - but against the Joker's single-minded insanity? None of them would stand the slightest of chances. "Good," the Joker said. "Now, Harley, be a dear, and show our guest a good time." Harley led Bruce through the maze of hallways back to his cell. He could barely contain his rage; the Joker had just threatened everyone he cared about, and he could do nothing about it. Bruce felt powerless, impotent - feelings with which he was completely unfamiliar. "Mr. J. won't hurt them, you know," Harley said, peaking over her shoulder as she walked. "Not so long as you're a good boy." Bruce didn't know what to say, so he remained silent as they made their way. It was an uneventful trek - like every other day of his captivity - so he was unsurprised when Harley followed him into his cell. "Bend over, Bats," she said. "Time for your medicine." He did as he was instructed, and felt the telltale prick of a needle in his hip. He knew that whatever was in that needle each day was the reason he had lost so much muscle mass. He shuddered to think what other changes were in store. Harley's fingers lingered on Bruce's buttocks, caressing it lightly as she stepped in front of him. "You've come a long way, you know. I wish I could show you just how far, but Mr. J. says that he wants to save that until you're finished. He says that he doesn't want to ruin the punchline." A slender finger touched Bruce's chin, prompting him to raise his head. Harley's skintight costume did little to hide her curvacious body as she pushed his chin higher, until Bruce stood straight, staring her in the eyes. And then it hit him - he was the same height as Harley. Sure, she was wearing heels, but even with their extra height, he'd always been a good three or four inches taller than her. Bruce swallowed his panic. There was nothing to be gained from letting her see how much the physical changes had affected him. She hooked a finger under his cowl - the only garment he still wore. Bruce's hand shot to her wrist, and Harley laughed. "Don't bother, Bats. We all know who you are. Besides, I doubt you look enough like yourself for it to even matter." When Bruce didn't release her wrist, she added, "Oh? That's not enough? I guess if that mask is worth one of your friends' lives..." She let the threat hang in the air, and after a moment, Bruce released her hand. She grinned evilly. "That's my boy," she said, slipping the cowl off of Bruce's head. It was a relief; the cool air felt good on his bare face. But it was also terrifying in its own way. Stripped of his mask, he felt truly naked for the first time since he'd been abducted. His hair tickled the back of his neck; in his six weeks of captivity, it had lengthened considerably. "That's better, isn't it?" Harley cooed. "Get on your hands and knees, sweetie. Stay like that until I get back." Batman obeyed. "Arch your back," Harley instructed. "Put your ass in the air. That's it. I'll be right back." Bruce heard the door slam, but he dared not move. He couldn't give them an excuse to kill someone. He knew that they were looking for the slightest disobedience so that they could prove how serious they were. That's how the Joker's mind worked. Bruce wouldn't give him that satisfaction. He would endure whatever the Joker could throw at him, and eventually, he would escape. He dwelt on that thought until he heard the door open, and Harley entered his cell. "Good boy," she said approvingly. "Now, you're going to feel a little pressure - back there. Don't move." Before Bruce could process what she meant, he felt a finger at the entrance of his rectum. It slipped inside of him, and it was all Bruce could do not to jump away. Summoning the entirety of his self-control, Bruce remained immobile. He gritted his teeth as Harley worked her finger in and out of him. "I'm sorry about this," she said. "But the lubricant is for your own good for now. Poison Ivy says that you won't need it once everything's finished, but for now, you need it." Bruce barely had time to wonder what she meant before Harley retracted her finger. Within seconds, he felt something bigger putting pressure on him, and then, without preamble, it plunged inside of him. He gasped in pain. It felt like it was ripping him apart as Harley slowly pushed it inside of him. Each inch was an exercise in agony. He grunted. Further and further, it went, until after what seemed like an eternity, it stopped. "There - that wasn't so bad was it, love?" Harley whispered, leaning onto his back. "I'll just leave it here for a few seconds, let you get used to it." True to her word, she left it inside of him for a solid thirty seconds, letting the pain fade. And then she began pulling it out just as slowly as it had been inserted. Once everything but the tip had been removed, she pushed it back in - a little faster. And out again. Each thrust was a little faster than the one before until a rhythm was established. Over time, the pain subsided - mostly. It was still there, but it faded into the background, replaced by a curious sort of pleasure. In and out. Back and forth. In and out. The pleasure built and built with each subsequent thrust. Bruce's breathing came in ragged gasps. A moan escaped his lips as he began to push back against Harley's every thrust. The moan became a primal scream of ecstasy as his entire body exploded. It began in his anus, and radiated out in waves. Bruce's entire body clenched. His toes curled. And he came - not like a man, but as a woman might. His penis remained flaccid and untouched. The whole affair had lasted only minutes, but it had felt like days. Harley pulled out, leaving a sinking, empty feeling in the pit of Bruce's stomach. He collapsed in exhaustion, and rolled over to see Harley standing over him. A strap-on dildo protruded from her crotch. "Don't worry, hon," she said. "There's more where that came from." * * * Tim perched on the corner of the building, watching the crime unfold. It was a simple arms deal; the Penguin's men were in the midst of selling a few crates of sub-machine guns to the Red Mask's cronies. Tim counted twenty, all heavily armed. One mistake, and he would be killed. One misstep, and the city would lose another Batman. Two months since he'd first donned the cowl, he still doubted whether or not he really was the legendary Dark Knight. Certainly, he'd tried to live up to Bruce's standards, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep himself restrained. That was the true test of the Batman, he'd quickly discovered. Stopping crime was easy; refraining from killing the criminals was the hard part. More than once, he'd almost gotten carried away. Still, more and more, Tim thought of himself as the Batman. He wasn't a sidekick anymore. He was in charge. His first few outings had been fraught with danger and indecision. He'd constantly asked himself if Bruce would approve of his decisions. But as Tim wore the cowl, his confidence grew. He'd always had the skills. After all, he'd been trained by Bruce himself. But being the Batman was a mindset more than a set of skills. There was no compromise. There was no relief - just a constant, never ending quest to eradicate all crime. It was a war which couldn't be won; continuing the mission when there was no hope for victory was what made Batman who he was. Tim finally understood that in a way he'd never even considered when he'd been Robin. But being more than Robin did not constitute being Batman. He still had a long way to go. He leaped from the rooftop, letting his cape catch the wind. Gliding silently toward his prey, he quickly formulated a plan of attack. He altered his angle of descent, and began picking up speed. Just before he hit the ground, he contorted his body, and kicked, landing directly on one of the thugs. The man careened across the pavement, out cold. The element of surprise gave Tim an advantage which he used to take out two more thugs in quick succession. Two more dropped, knocked unconscious by well-thrown batarangs. Fifteen left, he thought. Before the rest of the thugs could react, Tim dropped a smoke pellet, giving himself enough cover to quickly dispatch five more thugs. Gunshots rang out, but the bullets were far afield, missing Tim by almost a dozen feet. He didn't stop moving, flowing from one thug to the next, kicking and punching with deft precision. In the smoke, he seemed a ghost, barely a shadow. They couldn't pin him down. They could barely even register where he was, much less hit him. Before a minute had passed, Batman stood over a pile of unconscious thugs. He'd been hit a couple of times, but nothing had penetrated his armor. In that moment - just like it always was - he wasn't Tim. He wasn't Robin. He was well and truly the Batman. * * * "I am sorry, Tim," Alfred said. "I cannot stay. There are too many memories. You don't need me anymore, anyway. You don't stay at the mansion, and you certainly don't need me to help with...other things." Tim was torn. On the one hand, he was glad that Alfred wanted to leave. He hated himself for it, but the old man had become practically useless. But he was Alfred - Bruce's most trusted confidant, and a good man. Seeing him so broken shook Tim to his core. Bruce would have wanted him to live out his days at Wayne Manor. But Bruce was gone - probably for good. "I understand," Tim said. "You deserve to rest. You deserve to be happy." "Happiness?" Alfred scoffed. "Do you truly think I will ever be happy again? I loved him, Tim. He was my family, like my own son. I can't....I just..." He trailed off, devolving into a crying mess. It was disconcerting, to say the least. For as long as Tim could remember, Alfred had been a rock. He'd been so steady, so solid through everything. But Bruce's apparent death had broken him. And as much as Tim wanted to help the old man, his mission left no room for an old man in his dotage. There were more important things at stake. "You'll recover, Alfred," Tim replied. "He was family to me, too. You know that. But we knew this would happen eventually. It's going to happen to me at some point as well. Even the Batman isn't invincible." Tim had long since come to terms with his own mortality, but he had no intention of being a casualty of his war against crime. He had a plan which was going to change everything. But Alfred wouldn't be a part of it, so Tim never asked. His retirement was a blessing, really. He no longer needed him for operational support. Barbara Gordon - also known as Oracle - had taken over that aspect of his mission, and in truth, she was far more suited to it than Alfred had ever been. No - it was better that Alfred was going. Better for him. Better for the mission. Better for Tim. "If this is what you want, though," Tim said. "I won't stand in your way. Just know that you're always welcome here." He swept his arm around, indicating the Batcave. "And up there." He gestured to the ceiling, indicating the manor which was the Wayne ancestral home. "Thank you," Alfred replied, nodding. "But I will not be returning. There's nothing left for me here." He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Tim's armored shoulders. Tim felt the old man's hand patting his back. "Be careful," Alfred whispered, choking back tears. "And remain true to Bruce's vision. He would want that." Tim didn't have the heart to tell Alfred that he had no intention of following in Bruce's footsteps. He was going to change the game. Alfred released him, and without another word, walked toward the elevator which would take him up to the manor. * * * Bruce stared at his face in the small mirror Harley had given him. He still recognized himself, but only barely. It was like the bones in his face had been rearranged to present a more feminine shape. His once strong chin had weakened, and his jawline had softened into a rounder shape. Between his slightly larger eyes was a subtly upturned nose. His entire smooth face was framed by shoulder-length, black hair. He had lost track of how long he had been imprisoned, but he was sure that months had passed. What started as torture had progressed into something else, something different. Each day since that first encounter with Harely's strap-on, she had given him the same treatment. And each time, he had experienced an intense orgasm. In spite of himself, he had come to crave their daily encounters. Bruce put the mirror on the nightstand, and looked around his new accommodations. It was small, sure, but the room was quite a step up from the cell which had been his previous home. It was utilitarian, but at least it had a bed. The connected bathroom seemed absolutely luxurious. He covered the entire length of the room in only a couple of steps, entering the bathroom. Bruce didn't bother to glance at the vanity mirror; he knew what he'd see. Instead, he stepped into the shower, and turned the knobs. A cascade of water shot from the showerhead, and within moments, his smooth body was covered in the lukewarm liquid. Tilting his head back, Bruce enjoyed the feel of the water. It didn't last long, though. Within moments, his mind settled onto thoughts of his ongoing transformation. His face wasn't the only thing that had changed. His entire body had been transformed, and it didn't seem to be slowing down or stopping. His once impressive physique had shrunken considerably, and Bruce estimated that he was barely over five and a half feet tall and a hundred-and-fifty pounds. Bruce didn't know how they were doing it; he only knew that given the collected expertise of the villains who held him prisoner, it wasn't terribly surprising that they could enact such changes. If only he could escape, he knew he could figure it out. Maybe he could even reverse it. Maybe. But what if he couldn't? Was he destined to live the rest of his life in a shrunken body more suited to a pubescent teen than a grown man? Could he adapt? Bruce forced himself to banish the thoughts. He would escape eventually, and when he did, he would reverse what had been done to him. He always figured something out. His current situation would be no different. As Bruce bathed himself, he went over the scenarios in his head. Escaping meant putting everyone he loved in serious danger. Protecting them was of paramount importance. But how could he, if the poison started to take effect? No - that had to come first. Concoct an antidote, then save his friends. Even as he decided it, he knew it wouldn't work. The Joker wasn't that stupid. No doubt, he would make the antidote complex enough to manufacture that he couldn't do both. That ensured that if he escaped, Bruce would have to make a choice - his friends or his own life. Bruce refused to play that game. Instead, he vowed to wait. It was difficult, ceding control of his situation, but it was the only way that ensured the survival of the people he cared about. He stepped out of the shower, and began to dry himself. The rough towel felt like sandpaper against his smooth, sensitive skin, but he endured it. As if on cue, the door opened, admitting Harley. She was a macabre vision of beautiful insanity. The tight leather of her costume hugged her every curve, and dug into her every crevice. The paint on her face did little to mask her beauty while the pig tails suggested an innocence that Bruce knew did not exist. But Bruce's eyes immediately went to the strap-on dildo jutting from her groin. He licked his lips as she said, "Hey Batsy - you ready for your daily treatment?" Without a word, Bruce stepped forward, his small hand wrapping around the dildo's shaft. He stood on his toes toward Harley's beckoning lips. She leaned down, locking her lips to his. Absently, Bruce worked his hand up and down the dildo as their tongues intertwined. After a few seconds, Harley pulled away, grinning. "I'll take that as a yes," she said. "Suck it," she instructed. Bruce kneeled, the polished concrete of the floor cold on his knees. He didn't care. Without hesitation, Bruce licked the dildo, the rubber taste exciting him because he knew that it meant that it wouldn't be long before he was given what he wanted. Soon, he was bobbing his head up and down as he stared up. Harley liked the eye contact. He lost track of time - did it last seconds? Minutes? Bruce was unsure. Harley grabbed his hair, and pulled his head away. Taking hold of his wrist, she pulled him upright, and kissed him deeply. Her tongue was forceful, insistent. Bruce took it submissively. Harley led him to the bed. Bruce began to climb onto the bed, expecting to once again be taken from behind when Harley stopped him. She shook her head, saying, "No. We're going to do it a little different this time, Batsy." Confused, Bruce watched as Harley lay down on the bed, the dildo reaching toward the ceiling. "On top," she instructed. "Facing me." Bruce did as he was instructed, straddling her. He sat, his ass poised above the dildo for a long moment before he lowered himself onto it. It was everything he wanted and more as it slid inside of him. Up and down. Up and down, his flaccid penis bounced as he rode Harley's dildo. He moaned. The moan turned into a scream of pleasure as he rode faster. And faster. And faster. Up and down. In and out. The dildo was his everything, his goals, his dreams, his pleasure...it was all he wanted. Up and down. Pleasure arced throughout his body as he convulsed in an intense orgasm. But he kept going. Up and down - the waves of pleasure continued. Up and down - they threatened to overwhelm him. In and out - nothing else existed. Up and down - all that mattered was him and the dildo. Finally, he exploded in the most powerful orgasm he had ever experienced. It felt like it lasted an eternity in only a few seconds. He lost himself in the sensations. His muscles contracted, his nerve- endings fired, his mind burst into flame. And he collapsed, the dildo still buried deep in his ass. Subtly, he still moved up and down - barely an inch at a time, an echo of his orgasm. Chest to chest, Bruce's face rested against Harley's. Her makeup rubbed off on his cheek. "I guess you like that, huh?" she said. * * * Ziggy Castor exhaled, his breath misting in the cold, night air. He cast his gaze back and forth, observing his men. As one of the Joker's captains, he knew that he was one failed assignment away from a horrific death. It was a good motivator. Still, the night's activities were boring. There was no reason to suspect that anything would go wrong; after all, they weren't really breaking the law. Bending it, maybe, but it was a minor crime at worst - the sort of thing that got you a fine. "Do you think we have enough guys?" came a whiny voice from behind Castor. Ziggy didn't turn, recognizing the voice as belonging to Edgar Dane, one of his men. "For movin' a little counterfeit merch? Yeah, Dane. We're good." "But what if the Batman hits us?" Dane asked. "He's been a lot more -" Castor's tone was harsh as he interrupted his underling. "You really think he's gonna worry about somethin' like this? He's got bigger fish to fry. Now get back to work. We gotta get these crates loaded before midnight." When Dane didn't reply, Castor turned... The Batman had his arm around Dane's scrawny neck - the small man's watery eyes bulged. Suddenly, an audible crack sounded, and Dane fell to the ground, lifeless. "W-wh...what? Y-you don't...this isn't..." Castor stammered, backing away. "You don't kill," was all he managed. "That was before," the Dark Knight said in his deep, gravelly voice. "Now, I solve the problem...permanently." * * * Bruce studied himself in the mirror. He knew he should be concerned with his appearance, but something in his mind wouldn't let that happen. In fact, he took some slight comfort in his increasingly feminine proportions. How long had he been imprisoned? Six months? Seven? It had to have been longer than that to affect so much change, but Bruce had no frame of reference. It could have been a year for all he knew. Staring at himself, he tried to remember how he'd once looked. Tall, strong, and chiseled, he'd been the epitome of masculine athleticism. No more, though. Far from it, in fact. He estimated his current height at a couple inches under five and a half feet, and he guessed his weight at no more than one-hundred and twenty-five pounds. More than the dimensions of his body, though, had changed; its very shape had been altered. His musculature had all but disappeared, replaced by curves no man should have. He'd even noticed some slight swelling in his chest. What's more, even the scars which had once crisscrossed his body had faded to near invisibility. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. In his life, Bruce had endured hundreds of beatings. He had faced criminals with mind-boggling power. He had seen the death of his parents. He had faced his fears. But each time, his strength had brought him through - not unscathed, of course, but he had come out the other side nonetheless. But the changes affecting him were different. They were robbing him of his very identity, Bruce was sure. He couldn't even think of himself as Batman anymore. He barely even considered himself Bruce. How could he fight that? "Pull yourself together," he told himself grimly. The resulting voice, however, only depressed him. It was a perfect representation of everything which had been done to him, of how much he'd changed. It was sweet and sultry, too high-pitched to belong to a man - certainly a long way from the voice he had utilized as the Batman. The door to his room opened suddenly, admitting Harley. She wore her strap-on over her skintight, red and black costume. Bruce wanted to resist. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't going to let her do it anymore. But he knew he couldn't - and not because of the consequences. Rather, he was truly addicted to the pleasure the dildo promised. And she knew it. Their relationship was a complicated one. On the one hand, Bruce knew the terrible things Harley had been responsible for. She'd stolen, she'd murdered, and she'd kidnapped. She'd committed nearly every crime they had a law for; she was a criminal through and through. But in her, Bruce saw something else - a vulnerable innocence. She'd been manipulated, he knew - a victim of a criminal mastermind who twisted her around until he had forced her to become a strange shadow of himself. Maybe she'd always been crazy, but the Joker had certainly exacerbated the situation. In a way, Bruce felt sorry for her. As he stared at the dildo, more pressing concerns dominated his mind, though. He wanted his medicine. He climbed atop the bed, where he got on all fours. Burying his face in the mattress, Bruce did his best to push his ass into the air; it was an invitation. "Eager today, huh Bats?" Harley said. He knew she was smiling; he could hear it in her voice. "Mmhmm," was Bruce's answer. He hoped she wouldn't make him beg for it; she did that sometimes. This time, however, she didn't hesitate to climb onto the bed, and plunge the dildo deep inside of Bruce's ass. He moaned as she fucked him. Bruce lost track of how long the session lasted, but by the time they were finished, he had experienced multiple orgasms, and was exhausted. As he collapsed onto the bed, Harley walked toward the bathroom, where she began taking off her skin-tight costume. "W-what..." Bruce stuttered. His surprise wouldn't let him form the words, but his mind raced. She'd never been naked in front of him. "I need a shower," was her only reply as she continued disrobe. Within moments, her perfect body was completely bare. Bruce looked away, somehow feeling like an intruder. He didn't dare glance in that direction again until he heard the shower turn on. What was going on? Everything was wrong. The difference in routine sent his mind into overdrive, and he wondered what it meant. The questions occupied his mind until, a few minutes later, Harley stepped out of the shower. Bruce couldn't look away from her perfection. The clown makeup was gone, and her blonde hair hung wet from her shoulders. She was easily the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Why did she cover up such beauty? She dried herself off as Bruce stared, and once she'd finished, Harley crossed the room to sit on the bed. Suddenly, she said, "I want us to be friends." "What?" Bruce blurted. "Friends," she repeated. "You and me. I'm going to be gone for a while. I don't know how long, but I didn't want you to worry." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're both trapped, you know. Our cages are different, but they're no less effective because of it." Without her costume, she even spoke differently. It was disarming. "I...I don't know what to say," Bruce responded. He'd never told a more valid truth. He truly had no response. Friends? And she was going to be gone? What was her game? Why was she telling him anything at all? Harley lay back on the bed. "He's not so bad, you know. Mr. J., I mean. I mean, he is, but he's good to me...most of the time. He keeps me safe." "He's a psychotic criminal," Bruce said. He'd tangled with the Joker enough that no amount of surprise could suppress that knowledge. Harley laughed. "He is that. But he's got a different side, you know. Did I ever tell you how we met?" "You were treating him in Arkham, and you fell for him," Bruce said. It had been quite a scandal at the time. "Then you helped him escape." Harley sighed. "Mostly right. But you know what the papers left out? Do you know why I fell for him? It wasn't some weird fascination. It wasn't that I'm crazy. No, I fell in love because I saw the real man behind the clown. I saw what he could be." Bruce sat up. "What do you mean?" "I remember it like it was yesterday," Harley said. "I was just about to get off of work, but I'd left my purse in the secure area of the facility, so I went back to get it. Turns out, a few of the inmates chose that precise moment to attempt an escape. They overpowered a guard, and took me prisoner." She had a faraway look as she continued, "I remember being so scared. I screamed. I kicked. I bit. I did everything I could, but I wasn't strong enough. And there were five of them. Two of them held me down as one pulled down his pants. I knew what was coming. I screamed my head off, yelling for help." "Just before he did the deed, someone came up behind him, and hit him with a guard's nightstick," Harley said. "He beat that man to death right then and there. When he turned to the rest of them, they ran. They could see the insanity in his eyes." "It was him?" Bruce guessed. "The Joker, I mean." Harley nodded. "He saved me. I never told anyone about it because...I don't know...I just didn't. Maybe I thought I'd get in trouble. Maybe I thought that if I didn't talk about it, it would be like it didn't happen. I just don't know. But he saved me." Bruce didn't know how to respond. "That's the man I love," Harley said. "The rest of it - that's just window dressing. He's in there, still. I know it." * * * Alfred drove his car - a 1939 Rolls Royce Wraith which had been a present from Master Bruce - up the winding drive toward Wayne Manor, taking each curve with reckless abandon. He knew he should slow down, but he was far too excited for caution. Within a minute, the car screeched to a halt in front of the house. Tim awaited him on the steps. Alfred sprang from the driver's seat like a man half his age. A wide grin split his face as he practically screamed, "He's alive! Master Tim, he's alive!" "Woah, Alfred," Tim said, backing away from the old man. "Slow down. Come inside, and explain what's going on." Alfred followed the younger man, barely able to contain his excitement. They passed through the huge double doors, and into the empty house. Disappointed, Alfred said, "It's a shame to see it all go to waste." Tim responded, "It's not my home." Alfred nodded. The answer seemed to satisfy him. The former butler closed the doors behind him, and repeated, "He's alive, Tim. I haven't found him yet, but Bruce is alive." "I know," Tim said. "Or at least I suspected." "And you haven't been looking for him?" Alfred asked. "I thought -" "I have been looking, Alfred," Tim replied. "But I've also been protecting the city. I can't do both at the same time." "Bruce must take top priority!" Alfred insisted. "Call Dick. Call Talia al Ghul. Anyone who can help, and find him!" Tim sighed. "I've told you, Alfred. Dick's over in Bludhaven, doing his own thing. After what he and Bruce went through, I doubt he'd want to help, even if he could. And Talia is unreachable. It's just us, Alfred. And I'm doing everything I can." Angry, Alfred said, "Look here, boy. That man gave you everything you've ever had. You can put aside playing at being Batman for a few days to save his life." "Playing?" Tim asked. "Do you think that's what I'm doing? What would you rather I do? Should I ignore the dangers facing Gotham? Who's expendable? The people that dirty bomb in the narrows would have killed? Or those three murderers who escaped from Arkham, and were about to go on a killing spree? What about those chemical weapons being smuggled in by the Penguin's goons? Where should I turn a blind eye? Which one should I ignore? All of them? For the sake of one man, no matter who he is? Bruce wouldn't want that, and you know it." After a few minutes, Alfred broke down. "I know," he said between sobs. "He would be proud of you, you know." "So tell me what you know," Tim said. "And I'll take it from there." * * * Bruce cowered against the wall. Four men stood a few feet away, lust evident in their eyes. "Don't act like you don't want it, bitch," one of them said. He had a hooked nose and a nasty scar across his cheek. "We know what you get up to with Miss Quinn." They all seemed so big; there was a time when Bruce could have easily dispatched the thugs. But that was before he'd changed. That was before he'd lost his identity. In that moment, trying to make himself as small as he possibly could, he realized that the Batman was completely gone. So was Bruce, if he was honest. He'd ceased being a man, much less the Dark Knight. Panic began to set in. "I don't w-want...any trouble," he stammered. "I j-just...I'll...y-you don't want to mess with me." They laughed. "Oh but we do," another of the toughs said. This one was smaller, with the darting eyes of a rodent. "We definitely want to mess with you." He took a step forward. Bruce tried unsuccessfully to cover himself. Why hadn't they given him any clothes? The man unzipped his pants, freeing his thick, hardening cock. "You don't have to pretend. I know you want this. Just say so, and we'll be gentle. Or we could do this the hard way." Bruce could barely get a word out, he was so frightened. "H-he won't like this. T-the Joker won't want you to d-do this." "The Joker ain't here, love," another one said, grinning evilly. The rodent-eyed man stood in front of Bruce, barely a foot away. His cock was angry and fully engorged. It practically pulsed. It was only a few inches from Bruce's face. "Suck it," the man said. Bruce didn't know what else to do. He couldn't fight them. They'd just beat him senseless, and do it anyway. And he couldn't get away; there was nowhere to go. So he stuck out his tongue, and licked the tip of the man's penis. Tears ran down his cheeks as he leaned forward. It couldn't be happening, he told himself. Not to him. He closed his eyes as he opened his mouth. He could feel the heat from the man's genitals, he was so close. And then it was in his mouth. Overwhelming shame engulfed his mind as he bobbed his head up and down, sucking halfheartedly. It wasn't enough; the man grabbed the back of Bruce's head, shoving the cock deep into his virgin throat. He gagged. He tried to gasp for breath. Struggling to pull away, the man's iron grip kept Bruce's head in place as he proceeded to fuck his face. Bruce lost track of time; his world devolved into pain, an inability to breath, and humiliation. Finally, the man pulled free, a trail of saliva connecting Bruce's lip to the man's member. He collapsed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "She's a born cocksucker, boys!" the man said with obvious mirth. He bent down, grabbing Bruce's hair, and dragging him along the floor. Bruce kicked and screamed, but to no avail. He never felt more powerless than when he was flipped over the bed, his face forced into the rough blankets. He knew what was coming, but he still jerked violently away when he felt the head of a penis nudging his rectum open. "No...no....not that!" he breathed. His voice was barely a whisper. Fright and constant screaming had robbed him of the ability to speak coherently. It didn't matter. Nothing he did mattered; the end was inevitable. He couldn't stop it. He was impotent. He was powerless. He was beaten. The cock plunged into him easily; his sessions with Harley had prepared him well. But where Harley had been gentle, almost caring, his hook- nosed rapist was violent and rough. It wasn't about sex. It was about power. And in that category, Bruce was woefully inadequate. So he lay there as the man fucked him; it didn't take him long to orgasm. And then came another. And another. He drifted away, his mind unable to cope with the traumatic experience, as a seemingly endless parade of rapists used him. By the time they left, Bruce was well and truly defeated. Raw and in considerable pain, he curled into a ball, and wept like he hadn't since his parents had died. * * * Batman scanned the rooftop, noting the armed thugs patrolling its length. He counted four, each armed with M-4 carbines, and wearing military grade body armor. He expected no less from Cobblepot's guards. As an arms dealer, his thugs were well armed, if nothing else. The Dark Knight watched the henchmen for a few minutes, noting their pattern of patrol. Two pairs of two, they did a fair job of covering the entire roof. Did they know he was coming? Had they heard about their comrade who had squealed? Unlikely, considering the man was dead. But it was possible that someone had seen the exchange. Gotham had many hidden eyes and ears. It didn't matter. His plan didn't require surprise - merely adequate planning combined with his singular skills. Leaping from the rooftop adjacent to Cobblepot's lair, Batman spread his cape behind him. It caught the wind, allowing him to glide and control