Issue #12: Round Two

I am Olgar.

I came from Belarus, and my mother was of Prussian aristocratic descent. That, of course, did not help at all during my childhood. A washerwoman is still a washerwoman, regardless of their ancestor's title or history.

I grew up tough and deadly. My feet were like ice picks, my hand knives, and my head was strong as a boulder. Backed by my brothers-in-arm in the Vosgul Organization, I wrought chaos and mayhem upon my city.

It was my calling, my destiny. Until the government put the organization down like a dog. Forcing me to work for them, to work for my freedom.

My mother always taught me, "Keep your head down. Never interfere, always see the bigger picture." 

I have lived by that rule in the army. It became my reason for survival. Despite being instructed to kill my comrades in the army, I kept my head down and followed like a good soldier. 'Always keeping the bigger picture in place.'

Finally, when they had instructed me to kill a no-good punk Kennedy and infiltrated me in the United States of Socialism, I finally felt what it was like to be free of will and destiny. I defected immediately.

Of course, they found another one of me to kill the target. It appears he was the king of this country at some point. I do not remember.

Anyway, imagine my surprise when, throughout my years of being a service bodyguard–a profession I am most comfortable with, minus the killing–that I came across this peculiar little fellow.

At four years of age, he already had the gall to talk back to me about my smoking. The brat does not even know that this is a special Cuban cigar, straight from Castro's treasury. 'I bet a thousand yen that even your president does not have this.'

"Hey, buff guy!" The sound of a weasel calling me broke my train of thoughts, just as I was getting to the good part of my story.

I turn to my friend and clap him on the back. "I will tell you later how I got the cigars. If Castro hears I'm telling you this story, then he will undoubtedly be hiding in potatoes. HAHAHA!"

I then stand from my seat, my hulking frame almost reaching the curved ceiling of the establishment. "You have something for me?" I ask the little bartender.

"Yeah, two guys just came in. That's who you're looking for." The weasel points towards the two cloaked figures passing out pictures on the other side of the bar.

"You have my gratitude. Now, bring me three shots of vodka. Lemon vodka." I order, knocking down the second round of my drink before sauntering towards my target.

I take off the gloves in my left hand, my shoulders lower down. It is always necessary to put the safety of their mind before yours in this kind of situation.

"Dobry dzien!" I say, earning both of their attention as they halt their actions and look at me with wariness hidden behind both of their eyes.

Now that I have seen them up-close, except for the mysterious way they presented their clothing–being all-black and wearing a motorcycle helmet–and their haughty demeanor, they were certainly weak as Edmund. Noticing that, my wariness lessens, and my shoulders puff up alongside my chest.

"My friends. I heard you are offering ten grand to look for a redhead, are you not?"

They share a look before the one on the left nods.

"Good. I will be taking this bounty. Exclusively." I state, quite loudly. Such boldness is not uncommon within the vestiges of Gotham, not when Batman usually cleans up the muck hanging around his city.

The one on the left shakes their head. "I'm afraid we cannot do that. Our contract–"

"Fuck. Your. Contract." I say slowly, stepping closer to the little guys. "Who is your employer? I am sure he and I can agree on the fee ourselves."

"If you take–" "Look–"

'Is that all they do? Babble me to boredom?'

I crack my neck as I grab the rightmost man on his helmet and slam the side of his head against the bar counter. Glass, paper, and blood fly all over the place as the man slides down the bar and falls to the ground, unconscious.

'I stand corrected. Edmund is a bit stronger than them.'

"What the fu–" I grab him by his neck before the leftmost man runs away.

'Talk and talk again. What a fool.'

"I ask you one thing. You answer." I say as I lift him up and strangle him with one hand. "Tell me everything you know or I will flay you alive and feed your bones to the ghetto cannibals on West Boulevard."

••

Having a grinding mindset is the stepping stone of power.

It is only by believing that I could punch through a thin metal sheet that I could actually punch through a thin metal sheet. As such, I merely roll my eyes to the back of my head when my finger breaks doing this dumb bet.

"Uargh!" I muffle my pain filled scream as Dick break down in laughter, doubling over his chair as he pounded the flood with his fist. "You're a dick!"

I hurry to the kitchen, dunking the broken ring finger on a bowl of ice water.

It has been two days since I let Olgar gather information regarding Samantha Farris and almost a week since Batman left the city to handle the sudden invasion of the Appellaxians. It also meant that most of the criminals had come out of the woodwork, thinking that since Batman was out of town, that meant they could resume their action.

'How wrong, and at the same time, right they were.'

Since the bat is out, it means that it's the right time for Dick and me to investigate Samantha and the duo that wants to find them. The problem is the ever vigilant eyes of Alfred Pennyworth. But, no matter how wise he was, he could not resist the temptation that was a child's pleading.

••

A few hours earlier.

"A sleepover?" The inquisitive gaze on Alfred's face only burdens me with the dreadful sensation of lying to the absolute best person in this world.

"Uh, y-yeah. My mom thought that since… you've been having me for months now, that she needed to reciprocate." My smile overshadows the sweat on my face. I have thankfully done an hour of training before speaking up, so it meant that he did not become suspicious of it.

"I see. Is that true?" He asks the large man in front of us, Olgar, my bodyguard.

"Yes. The mistress wants to feed the Wayne boy," Olgar answers with a straight face. I knew it was the right idea to have a spy lie for me.

Alfred contemplates for a moment before sighing. "Well, I suppose Master Bruce is coming home soon."

"Uh, yeah. It'll be very safe." It appears Batman is done with the newspaper frenzy in the big city.

Alfred gives me a soft smile, burdening me further. "Very well. I shall prepare Young Master Richard for the sleepover. Is that all that you wish to ask?"

••

By god, that man has the intuition of a starving shark looking for a blonde swimmer, but living with the most rational person in the world sure did hone down his instincts. I swear I will pay back all he had done to me. Not monetarily, of course, but more like saving his future adopted son from a life of pain and resurrection.

"Sir Edmund," A maid interrupts my thoughts, giving me a soft smile as she sees what I was doing. "Olgar has returned and is looking for you."

My eyes brighten. Looks like it's time to hunt. "Thanks, Macy!" I shout as I hurry towards the living room.

The sight of a clearly irate Olgar delighted me, for that means he had made contact with the duo that hands out the pictures. Before he can even say anything, I motion for him to follow me to my room, careful not to stir my mother awake or gain the undue attention of the head maid. As it's half-past eleven, I am quite sure that she had already fallen asleep whilst watching her current favorite show, but it's always apt to be careful.

Dick smiles once we enter the room, halting his game and connecting his own Batget–which I named after Batman and the word gadget–which shows the various files and information we have collected over the course of our home imprisonment.

I settle down on the front of the bed as Olgar stands in front of us, boredom in his face.

"Alright, give us the deets."

And he did. A lot of details. It wasn't that there were many details in the information itself, but that he spoke at length, including numerous diatribes, digresses, and even a catchy jingle from the early 90s.

For a man with such a battle-scarred face and hulking form, Olgar chatters a lot when he has someone that is willing to listen to him. 

Anyway, I had to categorize a lot of his words to relevant and nonsense information.

First of all, the duo that was handing out the pictures were just down-on-their-luck mobsters who botched a Falcone robbery. They did not have any clout to work in Gotham's underworld scene because their underboss was pissed as all hell, so they took on this job as a way to pay the bills.

Apparently, their mysterious employer was generous enough to leave an unmarked brown envelope with $200 in front of their home every night. That was all they had to say about their employer; even their first meet-up was in front of their home. Their employer specifically sought them out.

If I have to guess, they sought the two out not out of their expertise, but out of their desperation. That means whoever is looking for Samantha is smart and patient enough to find just the right kind of fool to hang around sleazy bars.

Second piece of information; they don't know who Samantha Farris is, but they do know that once they found her or have information regarding her whereabouts, they– including the one who gained her or the information–are to head to a condemned office building off of 4th and Rigel Avenue.

Olgar scouted the outside of the building and found it to be eerily silent. Even when it was supposed to be the peak of the nightly rush hour, very few cars and people walked down that street. Perfect for a criminal hideout.

Third and lastly, it appears that their employer is quite adamant that they find Samantha as fast as possible. Going so far as to promise them twice the amount of the bounty if they were to find her within the week.

"Which means that he's in that building right now." I say, a smirk ruining the serene expression on my face.

"If we set up a bait, then he'll have to meet us at the ground floor where we'll POW!" Dick smacks his fists together, eager for some night time tussling.

Olgar, however, does not share our enthusiasm, merely shaking his head with a goofy smile on his face. "You really are funny, little men."

"What do you mean?" I ask, "With you as our back-up, we could handle whoever it is."

'At least those below Batman's main rogue gallery.'

"There is danger everywhere in the city. With the Bat gone, danger only enlarges." Olgar explains. His Russian accent kept getting thicker, and I don't know why.

"It will be alright, Olgar. Dick managed to get some Batgets off the cave. If worse comes to worse, Batman vehemently trained us on how to escape. Like, that's the first thing he did." I reason out, even opening up the leather bag Dick brought from home.

Dick, who earlier was busy imagining the ways to pummel the villain, gazes at Olgar with apprehension. "Wait. Ed, does he know–" 

"No. He only knows that we're working for Batman." My reply seems to relieve him. "Olgar is reliable enough. He's my manservant-ugh"

As soon as the word manservant comes out of my mouth, a large calloused hand grabs the scruff of the back of my shirt and brings me up to Olgar's eye line with ease. "Not your manservant, Edmund." Olgar huffs in frustration.

'Damn it. This guy always picks me up whenever I do this.'

"C'mon, Olgar. I promise that when I get rich… I'll give you a piece of land in Belarus." I held my head up at a 45-degree angle, as if to look down on the world. "Whaddya–Ow!"

I don't even see his other hand as he flicks me in the forehead. "Not manservant." He repeats as if to hypnotize me with his accent.

"Fine, fine!" I grumble under my breath. "You're my personal bodyguard!"

As if a machine operating on voice recognition, Olgar drops me on the foot of my bed. He then looked at Dick and nods. "I do not know the identity of Batman. Nor do I want to. Too much trouble."

Just what a former spook would say. Classic Olgar.

"Now that's all settled… how about we plan our attack on that building?" I say as I type on Dick's Batget, trying to find the blueprint for the specified building. 

••

The mark is pushed into the building, roughly tumbling down the cracked steps of the dilapidated reception area. Vines and moss had become the home of this condemned building, sharing its space with spiderwebs and the occasional carton box and newspaper beddings of the homeless people that used to stay here.

'Used to" being the operative word or, in this case, phrase.

According to the nearby homeless encampment, a few of them disappeared whenever they slept in the building, so it became an infamous danger zone. They even got a few teenage vandals to spray paint a no-go code on the side of the building.

We found the mark, a redheaded prostitute off the side of the highway, blindfolded and bound with a thin rope on her wrists. She tries to get up, but only worsens the scuffs of her landing and grazing her forearms on the loose floor tiles.

Just as she's about to scream for her life, Olgar enters the building and snorts at her squirming form. Armed with a few hidden handguns, explosive devices, and a retractable short blade made entirely by a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprise hidden under a brown overcoat, he seems bored by all the shit in front of him.

"Oy! I have your girl. Where's my money?" He roars across the vast, dark ground floor. "Don't squirm, bitch. You're gonna hurt yourself. You better not deduct this to the bounty."

'God, he's so good at this.'

I look towards Richard's stupid outfit as he stockpiles a slew of ninja stars in his belt and two miniature cattle prods on his back. 

We're sitting on the back of a florist van, which we borrowed from Bruce's menagerie of undercover vehicles, and parked in front of the building, merely waiting for Olgar's secret signal for when the main villain appears to take the girl.

This was the only acceptable condition Olgar had when we planned for the takedown. At least, if they are dangerous enough to warrant a retreat, he will give us enough leeway to escape hastily.

Olgar's shouts become monotonous in the next few minutes. Whomever employed those two made no apparent movement or hint that they would show themselves, so I instructed Olgar to head further inside.

In fact, I was about to fall asleep on my chair–which was acceptable because I'm like eight-years-old and it's four hours past my bedtime–when Dick taps me repeatedly on the shoulder.

"Hey! We got movements outside of the building and, oh, cool! You see this?" He keeps pointing at the camera screen, a smile on his face

The seven of them seems vaguely familiar. I remember that same leather jacket, same corduroy pants, and one of them had some sort of wire around his jaw.

"Oh, shit!" My curse startles both Dick and Olgar. "Olgar, you've got company. Seven bikers and they have a female hostage with them. Must be Samantha!"

"Copy. Don't move. I handle this." His voice replies back from the speaker, his camera moving like it's a handheld documentary.

Although the darkness has obscured most of our vision from outside of the store, it's still apparent that Olgar is doing something within, as the cracked glass doors trembles repeatedly.

Dick and I share a look because we sure as hell are not just staying here. Seeing as Dick had been ready from the get-go, I order him to keep track of the bikers as I equip my armaments for battle.

From what he's saying, the bikers are drunk and under the impression that this would be an easy hand-off. As evident how they pass around Samantha, giving her a kiss, fondling her breast, and, one of them, the leader who has bandages around his neck, kept slapping her around.

"Let's go!" I shout as I tie the last piece of bandage on my knuckles.

With a grin on his face, Dick kicks open the door of the van and jump out with gusto. I follow along as I grab a loaded grappling gun, leaping from the van and rolling onto the ground.

The bikers see us even from across the street, awakening them from drunken stupors, but not enough to assess the both of us as a threat, as they began laughing at us. That meant they had lowered their guards and, also, it meant that they just pissed off Dick Grayson.

The Boy Wonder, clad in an all-black outfit, jumps up and soars through the air, maneuvering his legs as he unleashes a frontal kick to the nearest biker. Dick's metal-padded soles hit the unfortunate biker square in the chest, launching him off his feet.

The attack astonishes the drunk bikers into a blubbering mess as they try to comprehend what happened a few moments ago. Unfortunately, I afford them no time at all. My hands snake towards the leader, knowing full well that he's the strongest of the bunch. The metal end of my cattle prod hits the side of his neck, seizing his nerves in an electrical storm and causing him to drop to the ground.

That hit, however, is only good for a few seconds, but that's enough time to halve their numbers. "Robin, stars!" I order while I take out a flashbang and throw it in the middle of the pack, dazing them further and allowing Dick and me to wreak havoc amongst their party.

Since I have learned my lessons from the previous encounter with the bikers, I have padded the soft and most frequently struck parts of my arms and legs with light metal bands. It allows me to block and deflect their wild haymakers without worrying about broken bones and large bruises.

The battle is swift, but painful.

Just like when the two of them tried to flank me and force me on my back. I had just prodded the biker who groped Samantha's breast in his genitals, roughly reminding him that whenever a chauvinist pig gets hit in the nuts, an angel gets a pair of wings, when my back felt wet and soggy.

I really don't get to say this much, but a butterfly knife being stuck to your shoulder blades really hurts a lot. It would probably hurt more if my adrenaline had not been pumping addictive pheromones into my bloodstream.

Thankfully, I recognize the danger of my situation and quickly spread tiny black balls that, once broken apart and the powder inside oxygenates, explode into a thick dark mist. The mist gives me cover to take out the knife, excruciatingly so, and stab it on the knee of its former owner before bashing his head in with my cow prod. Multiple times, scratch that. About 41 times.

My strength is not enough to cave his skull in, but the quantity of my strikes turns his nose, cheek, and lips into mush. By the time I'm done with the biker, the other person who wanted to flank me had run away, leaving Dick, me and Samantha the only person standing on this dimly lit street.

"Uh, hey… E-Sparrow? Are you… ok?" Dick's voice brought me back to my senses, my hands trembling under the weight of a cattle prod.

I have already swallowed the blood in the air, feeling it lingering on my lips. I don't know what came over me. The pain throbbing on my back just mysteriously lessens when I broke the guy's nose, even more so when I kept breaking his face with my stick. It was as if the solution to my agony was to transfer it to someone.

'That's awesome.'

I'm not a violent guy, not even in my previous life. Hell, the only fight I had gotten into my last world was during my driver's license test, and that ended when I got slapped in the face by my instructor.

But it seems that the rules of this world, or at least in this body, were much more different from my last.

"S-sparrow!" I turn towards Dick, thankful that my blood-stained mask has covered the grin on my face.

"Oh, crap!" My eyes widens as I see the trembling visage of Samantha Farris. I wipe away the blood from my mask as best I can before giving her a smile and hope for the best. "Are you alright, ma'am? We're here to help you!"