Like an arrow piercing the night, a dark figure descended and landed on the gravel-coated roof, his body coming to rest in a crouch as he touched down. Despite his mass and the amount of equipment on his person, he made no discernible sound, at least no sound audible enough to be detected amongst the other ambient noises of the night.

        As the weight of his cape settled gently across his shoulders, the man leaned forward, peering over the edge of the rooftop at the sight below.

        It was his annual time to visit the hallowed lane of Crime Alley, the time he would spend every year in remembrance and requiem of the night a child watched his mother and father die by the hands of a desperate mugger with a revolver.

        Bruce Wayne had changed that night. Suddenly his birth name became the alter ego, the disguise. A darker self emerged that night, but it would not be until he became a young adult that he would come to terms completely with who he was.

        He was no longer that frightened child. He was the Batman, and he would take a small piece of his revenge on everyone who preyed on the fearful and helpless on the streets of Gotham.

        He stared at the sidewalk only a short distance under him, watching and listening as two burly men tugged and yanked at a teen, shoving him into the brick wall behind them, one grasping the collar of his leather jacket, the other pulling his backpack, both with nothing less than robbery on their minds.

        The Dark Knight sighed. He reached into his utility belt, started to draw a pair of gas-releasing pellets. Too easy, the vigilante thought, reneging on the plan. It had been a slow night, and he was feeling unusually restless.

        Like a yoyo with no string, the Batman swirled off the roof in a somersault and came to rest on the ground not three feet behind one of the muggers.

        “Crap! It’s the Bat!” said the one who saw it while his accomplice turned clumsily to look over his shoulder. But he did not even have time to react to the sight, for before he knew it he was already flying upward and backward from the Batman’s uppercut, with momentum augmented by his legs as he rose from his crouching stance.

        Thug one crashed into nearby garbage cans, trash and debris falling risibly all around him as Thug two felt the need to ignore his prey and rush at the Batman with his knife ready. Instantly the knife and the arm that held it were both helplessly twisted inside the Batman’s forearms, the thug falling victim to an expert defensive martial arts technique. His hand turned outward, the thug had no choice but to drop the knife, but his being disarmed didn’t stop the Dark Knight from propelling his cowl-covered skull towards the enemy’s forehead, slamming into it like a wrecking ball and sending him unceremoniously tumbling to the ground.

        The would-be victim watched all this with awe. Common sense would have told him to escape while the getting was good, but like many citizens of Gotham, he had never seen the mysterious Batman in person before and found himself enthralled and fascinated.

        A fascination he’d come to regret.
        Because while the Batman busied himself with the second thug, the first one had recovered from the Batman’s surprise attack and drew a revolver.

        The Batman heard the metal of the gun brushing against the man’s belt buckle. He heard the hammer drawing back. Instinctively he prepared to dodge the shot and counterattack.

        The gunshot rang out and echoed in the night.
        The bullet never came anywhere near the Dark Knight.
        A red splash erupted from the boy’s back and he stumbled forward, trembled on the ground and stopped moving in an instant.

        What started as a rudimentary robbery turned into a murder. And the thug intended to put two bodies on the ground that night.

        Never had a man moved so fast.
        The Batman was upon Thug one in an instant, taking hold of his gun hand and bending it. Breaking it. The bones snapped, echoing along with the thug’s scream.

        He didn’t stop there. The Batman slammed his armored knuckles into the thug’s face. Again. And again. Blood spattered everywhere.

        The thug had become the victim, his eyes rolling back, his limbs falling limp.
        The Batman stopped himself. Looked around.
        Thug two was still unconscious. The boy, laying still in a pool of his own blood.
        Thug one still had a heartbeat. He was alive.

        Klaxons sounded in the distance. Sirens. The Batman drew a grappling hook from his belt and swung away moments before red and white lights danced along the walls of the alley.

        He watched as the thugs were cuffed and dragged into police wagons, watched as the coroner showed up to investigate and extrapolate the youth’s body.

        The Dark Knight sighed.