Chương 12: Chapter 12: A night to Remember.
Arnold Flass sauntered away from a food vendor, tucking the stolen cash into his jacket. The alley was dark and narrow, lined with wet, grimy brick walls. A faint drizzle coated the streets, illuminated by the occasional flicker of streetlights. The hum of Gotham's underworld pulsed through the night air.
Without warning, Flass was yanked off the ground, his legs kicking as he was pulled upward with terrifying speed. The city blurred below him as he was hoisted ten stories high, hanging helplessly. He could barely make out the figure looming above him. His dark silhouette blended seamlessly into the night, except for the piercing gaze beneath the cowl.
"Who was with Falcone at the docks?" Batman's voice was cold, commanding.
"I don't know, I swear to God…" Flass's words were cut short as Batman released the wire. He plummeted three stories before Batman's hand snapped the line taut, yanking him back up. Flass gasped, terror gripping his chest.
"Swear to me." Batman's voice was a low growl, reverberating through the darkness.
Flass, now visibly shaking, whispered, "I never knew his name... never... Sometimes shipments went to this guy before they went to the dealers."
"Why?"
"There was something else in the drugs, something hidden…"
"What?" Batman's grip tightened as he pulled Flass closer, demanding answers.
"I don't know, something! I never went to the drop-off! It's in the Narrows, cops can't go in the Narrows except in force..."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Batman can."
He released Flass, leaving him hanging precariously as he disappeared into the shadows.
---
A few hours later, in the dead of night, Batman arrived at the Narrows, a decrepit island that housed Gotham's most dangerous slums. The crumbling public housing and makeshift structures clung to the sides of an old insane asylum, slick with rain. The narrow streets twisted like a maze, lit only by the occasional flicker of neon signs and dim street lamps.
Batman landed silently on a rooftop near a warehouse built around the supports of the old monorail tracks. His cape billowed behind him as he crouched low, studying the structure. Rain pelted his armor, but he barely noticed, his focus locked on the task at hand.
He slipped through an open louver and dropped to the floor, his footsteps silent against the cold concrete. Nearby, a massive shipping crate caught his attention. The lid creaked as Batman pried it open, revealing an industrial machine the size of a small van. His eyes immediately locked onto the Wayne Industries logo.
Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the warehouse. Batman melted into the shadows as three men entered. Two dock employees pushed the crate toward a freight elevator, while the third, a man wearing a strange mask like a scare crow, directed them.
"The boss wants you to keep it in the asylum until the time comes," the first dock employee said.
The masked man, Crane, nodded. "Fine, leave the body. Torch the place. No traces."
The thugs pulled a body from the shadows, dumping it beside the crate. One of them lit a Molotov cocktail, preparing to burn the evidence. But before he could throw it, a cord wrapped around the bottle, yanking it into the darkness. Its fuse extinguished instantly.
The thugs exchanged nervous glances. Batman burst from the shadows, his movements a blur. He smashed one thug's arm to the ground, disarming him with a swift strike. The second thug rushed in but was dropped by a quick elbow to the neck.
Crane, now fully aware of Batman's presence, pulled on his mask securing the hidden gas mask within. His hand flicked toward Batman, releasing a puff of strange gas. Batman dodged, but the fumes clouded his senses, disorienting him. His vision blurred as Crane's form twisted into a grotesque figure with flaming eyes and elongated limbs, spinning wildly. Suddenly stuff from his worst nightmare came to life, bats lots of bats, memory of his parents begin murdered all came rushing into his mind.
Batman stumbled, gasping for air as the hallucinations assaulted his mind. Crane seized the opportunity, smashing a bottle of gasoline over Batman, soaking him. The sickly sweet smell of gasoline filled the air as Crane taunted him, holding a flaming lighter inches from his face.
"Need a light?" Crane said as he tossed the lighter at Batman, igniting him in a burst of flames. Batman's cape caught fire as he desperately lunged toward the windows, his mind reeling from the hallucinations. With a final effort, he smashed through the glass, his cloak ablaze. He spiraled through the air, rain pelting his burning body as he plummeted toward the ground.
Gasping for breath, Batman barely managed to activate one side of his cloak, slowing his fall just enough to crash into an alley. He lay there, smoldering, his breath ragged as he raised his grapnel gun and fired upward, pulling himself to safety. His vision swam, rain blurring his sight as he hoarsely whispered, "Alfred... Alfred... Help me..."
Suddenly, a figure dropped from the rooftop, landing beside him with a casual grace. The figure knelt, grabbing Batman's arm.
"Alfred, no need to come," a voice mocked. "I'll bring the young prince back to Wayne Castle myself." Batman turned his head weakly, eyes narrowing to see through the rain. Standing over him was Spider-Man, spraying a foam extinguishing the burning Bat.
Spider-Man's black-and-white armored suit gleaming in the rain. The crimson glow of his arc reactor pulsated through the dark armor. His helmed face looked down at him, the insect-like eyes reflecting Batman's struggle. Viktor was glad he kept a close eye on Bruce, he knew the man infront of him is inexperience a far cry to what he will become in the future. Good thing the suit protected his life or he'll be dead. But his severely hurt with burns specially on the expose part of his cowl.
Suddenly, the air around them shifted. Metal plates on Spider-Man's boots and arms back began to fold, shifting as he slowly lift off the ground with the help of Stark's repulsor tech. A low, mechanical hum filled the air as the mechanical spider legs began to unfold from the back of his suit. Each legs wiggled menacingly, spreading wide like a predator preparing. The rain slid off the sharp edges of the legs, their size expanding as they stretched out, giving Spider-Man an almost demonic appearance against the stormy backdrop.
While on Batman's point of view who's currently affected by the fear toxin, sees something more. A humanoid arachnid, who seems to devour both darkness and light, relishing on the chaos. Blood colored demonic legs sprout from its back like a demon sent to destroy the world.
Spider-Man's voice, now less mocking, had an edge of amusement as he looked at Batman. "Don't worry, Bats," he said with a smirk behind his mask. "I've got you."
With a smooth motion, the spider legs pick up Batman's limp body. The sudden force caused Batman to groan, but before he could resist, Spider-Man flew higher, as jet trails blast of his feet and palms. The armor broke through the droplets of the rain, sending a burst of wind down into the alley below, lifting both of them into the night sky.
In one fluid motion, Spider-Man soared, carrying the battered Bruce toward Wayne Manor, leaving only the faint echo of his repulser jetting through the rain-soaked streets of Gotham. The weight of an unconscious Bruce Wayne secured in his spider-legs. His armor sleek and jagged, barely made a sound as they cut through the air, their black edges blending perfectly with the night sky. The city below remained unaware of his presence. Even the passing police helicopters and patrol cars missed him completely, thanks to the stealth mode activated in his suit, making him and his cargo invisible to radar and human eyes alike.
As Spider-Man approached the towering gates of Wayne Manor, the darkness surrounding the mansion appeared almost impenetrable. The large, Gothic structure loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel standing guard over its troubled owner. Viktor's compound eyes shifted slightly as he glanced down at Bruce. JARVIS fed him detailed diagnostics, his HUD blinking with medical information. Bruised ribs, severe burns, signs of smoke inhalation, and possible internal bleeding. The injuries were extensive, but not beyond his capabilities to manage.
Spider-Man landed gracefully near the back entrance of the manor, his spider-legs carrying the unconscious Bruce Wayne. He stepped toward the door, scanning the area for any signs of life. The door creaked open as Alfred stood in the dimly lit entryway. His eyes widened when he saw the figure carrying his injured young master. His composed demeanor faltered for just a second, the mask of calm slipping into something rawer, fear, and grief for his young master.
"Master Wayne," Alfred whispered, his voice trembling as he saw Bruce's limp form in Spider-Man's arms. His hands shook slightly as he reached out to steady Bruce, who groaned weakly, still unconscious.
Spider-Man's eyes, though hidden behind his compound lenses, observed Alfred's reaction closely. He could see the depth of care the old butler had for Bruce, the sadness that seemed to weigh heavily on his heart. Without a word, Viktor stepped into the manor, glancing at the lavish yet dark surroundings. Old portraits, high ceilings, and ancient furniture. The place carried the weight of history of the Wayne family and tonight, it also carried the weight of Bruce Wayne's injuries.
"I've kept us off the radar," Spider-Man said, his voice low, calm, yet with a faint undertone of mockery. "No one saw us come in. Your secret's safe."
Alfred's usual wit was nowhere to be found. He stared at the vigilante standing before him, a stranger in his home, his concern entirely focused on Bruce. "What... what happened to him?"
"Your young master decided to play hero," Spider-Man answered dryly, walking over to a nearby table and gently laying Bruce down. "I found him. He was burning, hallucinating. Poisoned from some unknown toxin. Got lucky I was in the area, or he'd be ash by now."
Alfred blinked, absorbing the details. "How is he?" His voice was soft, pleading almost.
Spider-Man's scan revealed the extent of Bruce Wayne's injuries, "Severe second and third-degree burns covered much of the unarmored parts, like the legs, arms and his face the skin blistered and charred from exposure to intense flames. His breathing is heavy, likely from smoke inhalation, and his oxygen levels were dangerously low, indicating potential lung damage. His ribs showed signs of trauma, possibly bruised or even fractured, and internal bleeding is a looming threat. Bruce is in critical condition, barely holding on"
Hearing this, Alfred's eyes darkened with worry. "I should call a private doctor. One of our family contacts will,"
"No," Spider-Man cut him off sharply. "No doctors, your master here won't like that." He stepped forward, pulling something from a compartment on his suit. "He'll be fine."
Alfred's eyes narrowed as he watched Spider-Man produce a small injector gun. It was sleek, metallic, with a vial of glowing green liquid nestled in the chamber. The strange substance shimmered faintly under the dim lighting, like something out of a science fiction film.
"What are you doing and what... is that?" Alfred asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
"Curative Reach," Spider-Man responded as he crouched down beside Bruce. "Advanced regenerative tech. It'll heal him, and fast. One of the perks of my... unique arsenal."
Alfred took a cautious step back, unsure of what he was witnessing. The green liquid inside the injector seemed almost too good to be true. "Is it safe?" he asked.
Spider-Man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pressed the injector to Bruce's neck, the soft hiss of the gun piercing the silence as the green liquid flowed into Bruce's bloodstream.
Almost immediately, Bruce's body responded. The burns on his skin began to fade, healing as if time itself had reversed. The bruises lightened, the wounds on his body closing rapidly, even his old wounds and injury were healed. His breathing steadied, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest grew stronger with each passing second. Within moments, Bruce looked as though he had never been injured at all. Unbeknownst to Viktor, he did more than just cured this Batman, he had strengthened him more, by healing his old injuries.
Alfred's mouth hung open in shock, his mind struggling to comprehend the miracle unfolding before him. "By God..." he whispered. "How...?"
Spider-Man stood up, placing the injector back into his suit. "A trade secret, I hope you keep it, like how I plan to keep Bruce's secret. I have faith in him. That he will do this city good."
Alfred, still reeling from what he had just witnessed, stepped forward, his voice a mixture of relief and concern. "You've saved him tonight. I... I don't know how to thank you."
Spider-Man shrugged, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the weight of his words. He glanced down at Bruce, now resting peacefully. "Don't thank me yet. Gotham, your 'young prince' here... it's all living on borrowed time. He'll keep throwing himself into the fire, and I'll keep watching his back. But he's not invincible, and he knows that." Spider-Man gestured toward Bruce's newly healed body. "Remind him, tonight he got lucky. Next time, he might not be. If he's not careful, it could end a lot worse."
Spider-Man didn't respond. Instead, he turned away, the glow from his crimson arc reactor casting a faint light on the stone walls.
Without another word, he moved toward the exit. But before disappearing into the shadows, he paused. "Take care of him, Alfred. He'll need more than just you soon."
With that, Spider-Man activated his stealth mode, his form shimmering into near-invisibility as he vanished into the night, leaving the butler standing alone, watching over a still-healing Bruce Wayne.
The next day, Bruce stirred, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light in his bedroom. The familiar scent of the Wayne Manor lingered around him, fresh linen, polished wood, and a faint hint of Alfred's coffee from the hallway. His body ached slightly, a dull reminder of the battle he barely remembered. Yet something felt different he was stronger not in a sense of extraordinary but as if any injuries from his body new or old had healed completely.
"How long was I out?" Bruce asked groggily, his voice hoarse.
Alfred, who stood by the window, gazing out at the grand garden, turned at the sound of Bruce's voice. The butler, ever the picture of grace and calm, was dressed in his usual black suit, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Two days, sir," Alfred replied, walking over to Bruce's bedside. "And, if I may say, happy birthday."
Bruce sat up slowly, wincing a little as his muscles protested the sudden movement. "What happened while I was out?"
Before Alfred could respond, the door to his bedroom creaked open, and Lucius Fox stepped in. He was dressed sharply in a dark gray suit, his tie neatly knotted, and his expression a mix of relief and concern.
"You've been hanging in the wrong clubs, Mister Wayne," Fox said with a smirk, crossing the room and taking a seat in one of the leather chairs.
Bruce gave a weak chuckle but his expression quickly grew serious. "How was I healed so quickly? The burns... my body shouldn't have recovered like this."
Lucius leaned forward. "You've been injected with what I can only describe as a miraculous healing agent. I tried looking for any trace of it in your system, but there's nothing. No side effects, no lingering compounds, it's like it never happened."
Bruce frowned, his mind racing. "What about the toxin? Any trace of that? Could you synthesize an antidote?"
Fox leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Well, the hallucinatory compounds from the toxin have been balanced. I ran tests on your blood, and it's all been cleared out, thanks to your mysterious friend."
Bruce's eyes narrowed his thoughts ran back to when he saw a silhouette of Spider-man's ugly demonic form when he was under the influence of the fear toxin.
Fox nodded. "But I was able to get a sample from your... costume," he said, referring to Bruce's damaged Batsuit. "There's a compound on it I've never seen before."
Bruce reached for a paper on the desk inti has the report about the composition of the fear toxin, scanning the data quickly. "So, you can't synthesize it."
Fox snatched the paper from Bruce's hand, raising an eyebrow. "Did I say that? Just be glad I was able to get a sample. I want you to know how hard this is going to be, but... bottom line, I was able to synthesize an antidote." He placed the report back on the desk with a satisfied smirk.
Bruce looked up, his face serious. "Can you make more?"
Lucius chuckled, shaking his head. "Are you planning to drug yourself again, Mister Wayne? Those substances aren't good for you, Bruce. I suggest you stay away from those 'parties' you seem so eager to attend."
Bruce offered a weak smile. "You never know, Lucius. Just be prepared."
Fox sighed, standing up and gathering his things. "I'll have more ready, just in case. You've got a strange way of celebrating your birthday, Bruce." He glanced at Alfred, who stood silently by the desk. "Thanks for having me, Alfred."
Alfred nodded politely. "Take care, Mister Fox."
As Lucius left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, Alfred turned back to Bruce. The tension in the air shifted as the butler approached the bed, his expression more serious now.
"There's something you should know, Master Wayne," Alfred said softly. "Spider-Man... he's the one who brought you here. He cured you."
Bruce's eyes darkened with worry. "I know, I just don't know how he was able to deduce it so easily even without taking my mask off."
Alfred nodded. "It appears so. I don't believe he means you harm, but... your secret may not be as secure as we once thought."
Bruce leaned back against the headboard, his mind racing. His secret identity, his Batman persona, now in the hands of someone he didn't even know. Spider-Man had saved him, yes, but what did that mean for the future?
"He's no enemy," Alfred continued, "but it would be wise to tread carefully. This city is already a maze of trust and deception. Adding another player into the mix... well, I'll leave that for you to consider."
Bruce stared at the ceiling, the weight of Gotham's future once again resting heavily on his shoulders. His body may have healed, but the scars of old memories about the time on that night ran much deeper.
"I'll be careful," Bruce finally said, his voice low but determined. "But we'll need to keep an eye on him."
Alfred gave a slight nod, his face unreadable. "As always, sir."
Bruce lay back in bed, his mind still racing with thoughts of the mysterious Spider-Man and what his presence in Gotham meant for the city and for his newly establish persona Batman.
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