A Night of Villains and Vigilantes

It was late at night. 

Bane and his men emerged from their hidden lair, striding through the dimly lit streets of Gotham's slums. 

The average person might envision a villain as a hulking brute, a bull-like figure capable of devouring three children in a single sitting. 

And, truth be told, Bane fit that description to a tee. 

Yet, even in Gotham, those driven to desperation would seek aid from such menacing figures. 

A prime example was unfolding before him. 

"Excuse me, could you please help my mother?"

A young girl, her eyes wide with fear, stared up at the mountain of muscle towering over her. She clutched a puppet tightly, a discarded treasure from a trash can that matched her ragged clothes all too well. 

"My mother has cancer," she whispered. "She needs medicine. She's in so much pain. People say only God can help her." 

Her voice trembled as she gazed at Bane with pleading eyes. 

"Could you please help me?" 

Bane raised a hand, silencing his men who moved to shoo the girl away.

"Where is your home?" 

The girl pointed to a dilapidated house behind her. 

Bane entered, his massive frame casting an imposing shadow. 

Minutes later, he emerged, wiping brain matter and blood from his hands. 

"Your mother will never suffer again... bury her." 

"Do not seek help rashly from others, little one, or the world's suffering will find you on its own." 

He tilted his head back, his eyes fixed on the eastern sky where stars twinkled beneath the dark veil. 

"There is no God here," Bane declared. "But Bane is here." 

....

Gotham's night was deceptively tranquil, a tombstone-like silence cloaking the city. 

Gray rain, carrying a faint acidic tang, mingled with the smog of industrial waste beneath the neon glow. Deadshot perched atop a building, surveying the city as it grinned back at him through the misty drizzle. 

On the street below, a car sped by, splashing mud on a passerby. Without hesitation, the pedestrian whipped out a submachine gun and fired a volley at the retreating vehicle. 

The people in this city are too exaggerated. 

As Deadshot contemplated this, he expertly retrieved an anti-tank rocket launcher and a mortar from his duffel bag. 

He gave a thumbs-up to a distant building, gauging distance and wind speed. 

"A friendly reminder, Deadshot. My mission parameters strictly forbid any casualties." 

His employer's voice crackled through his headset. 

"Ventriloquist, you've been in the game for years. How'd you end up with such a superhero esque no-kill rule?" 

"A bad guy should act like a bad guy," came the curt reply. 

Deadshot grumbled as he set up the mortar on the rooftop's edge. "If you weren't a repeat client, I'd almost think you were on the Bat's payroll." 

"Speaking of which, that new doll of yours... You didn't actually surrender to the Bat, did you? Did he give you a Robin costume without pants as a gift?" 

Click! 

The mortar launched, arcing through the air as the Ventriloquist's voice echoed in Deadshot's earpiece. 

"Deduction for the fatality." 

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Relax." 

Deadshot licked his lips and raised the anti-tank rocket launcher to his shoulder. 

Boom! 

The rocket, launched later, arrived first, meeting the mortar shell in a fiery embrace above the target building's roof.

Kaboom! 

The deafening explosion ripped through the rooftop like an opened can, revealing the terrified figures below, scrambling like ants. 

"See? I told you I'd deliver the Mad Hatter in one piece." 

Deadshot shouldered his sniper rifle but remained motionless. "But now, my dear employer..." 

"Due to your lack of trust, I'm no longer interested in this job." 

"What?" 

"After that scare, the Mad Hatter is likely to go into hiding. Catching him again will be ten times harder. And Gotham, being under Batman's watchful eye, isn't exactly teeming with eager mercenaries." Deadshot paused for effect. "You wouldn't want to fail this mission, would you?" 

"Enough! Just state the conditions directly." 

Deadshot tilted his head towards the sky at a 45-degree angle, a picture of righteous indignation. "It's going to cost you extra." 

The night is like a girl who has taken off her clothes, lingering with the city with sincerity and passion. 

The night draped itself over Gotham like a lover, embracing the city with a sensual intensity. 

....

Catwoman, sleek and agile, prowled the deserted corridors of Gotham Heights High School. Outside, the wails of sirens and panicked shouts echoed through the night. 

"A gentle reminder, ma'am. The target, Zsasz, is a lethal killer, much like yourself." The voice of the Ventriloquist – or rather, his Bat-Baby puppet – buzzed in her earpiece. 

"I have no doubt you can handle him, but my client insists on the safety of every student hostage. So, please separate Zsasz from the girls before engaging."

"Oh, really?" 

Catwoman's slender fingers traced her curves, lingering on the alluring expanse of skin above her catsuit, before coming to rest on her grinning mask. 

"I don't think that's necessary, do you?" 

"What are you talking about–"

"She's not talking to you." 

The cold moonlight, mingling with the flashing red and blue of police lights, illuminated a figure emerging from the shadows. 

His muscular body was a canvas of jagged scars. 

Victor Zsasz, one of Gotham's most infamous villains. 

His gaze raked over Catwoman's form. "Why don't you show me your face, ma'am?" 

"Oh no, you know the rules." 

She turned to face him fully.

"A cat never removes her mask – especially not in front of a naked exhibitionist." 

A short knife materialized in Zsasz's hand. 

Catwoman sighed, drawing a switchblade from her boot. Then, like a hamster emptying its cheek pouches, she produced a cascade of shuriken from seemingly nowhere. 

She tilted her head, a playful lilt in her voice. "Catfight?" 

Gotham's notorious exhibitionist and serial killer, Zsasz, flashed a twisted grin.

 "Cat Hunt." 

....

In the Batcave beneath Wayne Manor, Adam, channeling the Ventriloquist's voice, remotely micromanaged his mercenary crew like a puppeteer. 

"More money? I can pay more!" He barked into the receiver, adopting the Ventriloquist's distinctive growl. 

He turned to find the Robin, Tim Drake, holding a handwritten note in front of him, his expression a mixture of anger and hurt. It read: "Batman, I can't believe you didn't bring me and instead hired mercenaries to deal with Bane!" 

The real Ventriloquist, meanwhile, cowered in the corner, feigning the innocence as of a house pet. 

Tim glared at him, his fists clenching, but he knew better than to lash out in front of Batman. 

Instead, the young Robin gritted his teeth and continued writing: "And not only did you bring the bad guys outside into our home, but you're also calling in even more bad guys right in front of me!!!"

Batman hung up the phone with a sigh. 

Robin remained silent for a moment. 

"Is this because of Jean-Paul?" he finally asked, referring to the Azrael who had been killed by Bane. 

"Not entirely,"

Adam replied. "Listen, Tim." 

He turned and gripped the young man's shoulders, locking eyes with him. "I'm planning to retire." 

"Wha... what?" The unexpected declaration stunned Robin. 

"Youth is fleeting, Tim. Youth fades, the cup empties, and old dreams wither. Batman is just a dream an eight-year-old boy refused to wake from... and now it's time to wake up." 

"I want to do one last thing for Gotham, and then live a normal life, the life I deserve. And so should you, Tim." 

"You're a bright, accomplished student with a loving family." 

"You don't understand how rare that is!" 

"You deserve all the good things in the world. You should be in school, finding your soulmate." 

"She might have blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, or maybe fiery red hair... Her last name could be Gordon, or Brown, but one day it will be Drake." 

"You'll meet, and you'll fall in love, my boy... A young, pure love like that is something I'll never experience again." 

"We should all escape this nightmare." 

Behind them, a tray slipped from Alfred's grasp, shattering on the floor. The old butler covered his face, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. 

"Is this real, Master Bruce? Am I truly not dreaming?"