[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/7l36Zsl.png[/img][/center][color=000000][sub][b]#1.02: The Bat[/b][/sub] [sup][b][right]Earth-93913003, Gotham City[/right][/b][/sup][/color][hr]
[color=darkgray]Earl Skinner was a drug dealer, a hired thug, a gang initiate, a general scumbag, and a landlord. 

His father’s father has been in construction and lived in what was effectively a worker’s village contained to a single two-story bloc estate, 8 apartments of 4 rooms each (including the combination den/kitchenette and the cramped en-suite bathroom) forming a brutalist square around a double-function courtyard and parking lot for bikes and the one guy who’d scrimped and saved enough pay to buy an actual car. Eventually the other workers had died or moved away, and it had been just Ol’ G-Paw Skinner left, living off state pension, nursing arthritis and lung disease. When G-Paw died Earl was still a boy, and didn’t understand that G-Paw had been a long-time blocker to companies that wanted to purchase the lot for redevelopment; he didn’t know that his father had been made an offer for the bloc shortly before G-Paw’s sudden decline after a decade battling illness, nor that his father had countered the offer with the inheritance and bought the whole run-down, crumbling estate himself with city guidance he make the bloc as a whole presentable amidst the other developments around them. What he did understand, through his father’s tutelage, is that paint and spackle was a lot cheaper than actual structural repairs, and that desperate people would pay far more than what a place was worth just to have a roof over their heads on those sodden Gotham rainy nights and a bed to lay their children in. By the time Earl learnt the truth of G-Paw’s demise - confessed by his father on his own deathbed - his only real thought was ‘why ain’t ya do him in sooner’. 

Since his father’s death, he’d come into ownership of the bloc and its leases himself, and he’d developed new, even more degenerately cunning methods of extracting money from his tenants and funneling it into his own assets; see, Earl only took rent in cash, in stark defiance of the modern age, and Earl's pal Brad owned a payday loan business in the same neighborhood, just on the right side of shady to still be operating. Between them, they also knew a revolving door of gang initiates looking to cut their teeth on some violent scut-work. 

So with all the pieces clicking together, the play went like this: Earl would demand payment from whoever was coming up to rent day, and because he demanded it in cash, he'd wait until the unfortunate tenant had made the withdrawal, and then have them mugged. Unable to pay, the tenant invariably found a very un-sympathetic Earl would begin imposing late fees day-by-day, while the stolen cash would be taken straight to Brad. As the victim grew desperate beneath the looming threat of homelessness on Gotham's unforgiving streets, one of two things would happen - either they found a way, almost always a horrible way, to stump up the cash, plus late fees, and Earl and Brad split the original rent money for a tidy little profit; or they came to Brad's door, who was genial and polite and more than happy to lend them back their own stolen money to pay Earl's rent and late fees and all at a tidy little interest rate of 100-150% [i]to start with[/i]. 

The sustainability of such a model mattered little to either man; when the pair's combined ploy eventually drove someone out of the bloc entirely, Gotham's endless font of desperate unfortunates was quick to plug the gap. Anyone who suspected Earl Skinner was never in a position to do anything about it. 

Earl Skinner was about to have a bad night.

[b][center]- - -[/center][/b]

Maggie hurried home through the streets on yet another rainy Gotham night, her jacket held up to shield her hair from the downpour. In truth, she didn't hate the rain; the streets were quieter, she liked the sound of it, and more often than not wet nights were warmer than dry ones, which she felt grateful for in her unheated apartment. The rain hit against her skin and she tried to embrace it rather than shiver. On her thighs she still felt the greasy, clammy grips of the barflies who'd pawed at her as she'd delivered drinks and paraded shots - but it made for good tips, so instead of recoiling in disgust she smiled, put a hand on a shoulder, bent over just enough to present the tray as well as her cleavage, and tips were sorely needed. Today, rent was due. Earl had messaged to remind her this morning. She gripped the envelope of cash tight.

A couple streets over, Earl Skinner sat in his Chevy Suburban, a ghastly SUV monster that looked all the more ridiculous in its overblown and gaudy pompousness when it was sat outside the neglected and degrading apartment block that he'd used to finance it. He fiddled with his phone, flipping between apps and webpages and generally killing time while the rain beat down around him and he waited for the evening to proceed. Out in the wet his goon was splashing across the asphalt, off to fetch Earl his money. 

Maggie was close to home, and grateful for it; she felt like she must be approaching terminal wetness, a plateau of simply how soaked a single person could physically be, and the rain seemed only to worsen in response. She was drenched to the bone, and without a working boiler she was in genuine danger. Towels and blankets might not be good enough to dispel this chill from her core, but she had no other options. Her clothes would take days to dry. 

Ahead of her, the road was awash with a great lake of water; there was a blocked drain and the rain had taken full advantage to sink the street into a shin-high marsh. Maggie didn't even stop to consider her options; she couldn't face having to walk through it and ruin what was left of her shoes - her feet pounding the pavement in double-layered socks was about all the warmth she had left in her right now. Instead, she took a sharp turn, ducking between two buildings to cross through the alley in between them, intending to circle around the flood; she was maybe a block, block-and-a-half from home, and she even had the day off tomorrow. Home, some food, some dry clothes. 

She didn't even see the man holding the crowbar until he stopped her forcefully with a heavy hand against her collarbone. He almost felt like a caricature of Gotham's standard run-of-the-mill muggers; dressed head-to-toe in a grey rubber poncho, balaclava covering his face beneath the poncho, booted in black wellies and gloved hands forming a tight grip around his choice of weapon. Maggie simply started to cry.
[color=DCDCDC]"No dramatics, lady. Just make this easy on the pair of us and hand it o-"[/color]

He was interrupted mid-sentence by the sudden and forceful impact of a stranger's shoulder to his midsection, and his yelp of surprise and pain was cut short by the ringing of metal as they hit a dumpster and the dropped crowbar hit the floor. There were several wet thuds in fast succession and more yelps, and then the stranger stood, hunched over, one hand gripping the goon by the collar of his poncho, the other balled into a fist and rearing back; it came down hard, and even through the poncho and the balaclava, the sound of a fractured jawbone rang clear through the rain. The terrible hands found the discarded crowbar and this too was raised, flashing in the sky against the streetlight like the flaming sword at the gates of Eden; it found its mark against a kneecap, and the cry of pain cut ice through Maggie, even as it came out garbled through the broken jaw. 

The stranger stood tall, fist still clenched around the crowbar. Maggie didn't dare breath. He was some manner of terrible demon: all-black, horns erupting from his head, terrible wings trailing down his back like flayed skin slung over his shoulders, something branded across his chest. His hot breath spooled out as fog from his mouth in the evening air. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, Maggie leaned forward, trying to get a better view of the symbol across his torso; when he finally moved, turning toward her, the illusion was dispelled. 

Stood before her was a man, 6-foot and change, well-built and broad-shouldered; he wore dark-grey military pants, the legs tucked into heavy black boots. His hands flexed inside padded gloves, and his torso was clad in a matte-black armoured jacket; across the chest was the painted insignia of a bat. A cape wrapped around his neck and fell backwards over his shoulders, the ends ragged and torn, and finally a hardened cowl covered his head, that furrowed his brow and darkened his eyes, with great pointed ears sprouting from the top. In the murky night, through the rain, he cut a hellish otherworldly figure; as Maggie adjusted and the terror subsided, he became a saviour, and simply a man.

They looked at each other for a long time; Maggie didn't move, and neither did the Bat; he kept a firm grip on the crowbar, and she still clutched her pay. Finally, with a rasping breath, the Bat stooped over again, passing the crowbar from one hand to the other and picking up the would-be mugger's uninjured leg. Step by step, the Bat began to drag the man past Maggie, his ferocious gaze set on some distant objective that Maggie couldn't see through the rain. He growled as he passed her, offering only a few short words,
[color=DCDCDC]"Get home, get dry. Save your money. No more robbery tonight."[/color]
And then he was gone around the corner, and the spell on Maggie was broken; she scrambled away, running all the way back to the bloc.

[b][center]- - -[/center][/b]

Earl yawned and rubbed his face, feeling eyestrain from staring at his screen in the dark of the car's interior for the last hour. He wondered where the hell that jackass rookie was. That was the problem with kids these days - no drive, no common sense. If he'd taken the money and split, he'd be on crutches within the week, and that was best-case scenario. As it was, Earl was still fixing to deliver him a black eye, or maybe a broken nose, just for the tardiness. 

Something groaned outside the car.
[color=DCDCDC]"Alright, fuck this dumb kid."[/color] Earl muttered to himself, sitting up and twisting the keys in the ignition to bring the engine to life.

There was a great crunching and creaking of metal as something heavy hit the car and the roof buckled beneath the weight. The car rocked side-to-side, something else tumbled down the windshield and landed on the bonnet, and then everything was still, only the beating of the rain against the car once again. Earl breathed heavy, panicked breaths, mind racing. Shakily, he brought his phone to his ear, dialing the rookie.
[i]What the fuck is going on out there?[/i]

Earl jumped as his phone connected and the rings made the car hum like thunder. He peeked over the steering wheel and now saw the object on the bonnet for what it was; his rookie's phone, lighting up against the night and vibrating with each ring. Slowly, but surely, Earl watched the phone vibrate its way to the edge of the car and tumble to the ground; the call fail immediately as the phone cracked and switched off. Earl looked up, and now noticed the outline of a limp hand hanging over the lip at the top of the windshield. Nervously, and with some effort thanks to its now partially-crumpled frame, Earl pushed the door open to try and look at the individual on the roof and confirm his suspicions.

A strong hand gripped Earl roughly by the back of the collar and pulled him bodily from the car, tossing him hard onto the wet asphalt of the road. Earl blinked, trying to wipe the rain from his face and get a good look at his attacker; he scrambled to stand, trying to push himself up, but a forceful kick to his elbow sent it bending the wrong way and put him straight back on the ground. He clutched his arm, growling in enraged pain. 
[color=DCDCDC]“Whoever the [i]fuck[/i] you are, you have no idea who you’re fu-”[/color]
There was a flash of metal in the streetlight and the crowbar Earl had handed the rookie not even an hour previous came down onto his ribs; Earl felt at least three crack from the impact and growled again. 
[color=DCDCDC]“I’m gonna fucking [i]kill[/i] you-”[/color]
This time the crowbar hit his kneecap dead-on, shattering it. The leg would be useless for weeks; he’d never walk on it properly again. 

Earl screamed, and there was a crashing sound of glass from the car; through the pain, Earl looked up. The crowbar was lodged through what remained of his windshield. 
The light from behind Earl’s head was eclipsed as a great shadow stepped behind him. Earl couldn’t twist to see properly, and he was hazy through the pain and the downpour, but he saw…blackness. A dark figure, with wings and horns and a snarl like a primeval beast, looked over him. 

The Bat put a single careful boot on Earl’s wrist. 
[color=DCDCDC]“You will never hurt another person again. You will never take money from another person again.”[/color] 
The pressure on Earl’s wrist increased and he groaned, unable to pull himself free. 
[color=DCDCDC]“You will never push drugs again. You will never rob again.”[/color]
Slowly, slowly, more pressure; Earl could feel the small bones grind against each other, the asphalt bite into his skin. 
[color=DCDCDC]“You will never rape again. You will never kill again. You will hide, and you will think, and you will regret your pathetic life, your sad life, your vicious little life that has been predicated on hurting, and taking, and exploiting, and trafficking, and you will never do any of it again. Because if you do, I will know.”[/color]
The Bat pushed down with that last little push that was needed, and a series of short, sharp snaps popped from Earl’s wrist as it was crushed beyond use entirely. The Bat crouched, inches from Earl’s panicked, terrified face, a demon snarling the truths of Hell into his ear. 
[color=DCDCDC]“[i]And I will come back for you.”[/i][/color]

Earl fainted, the pain finally washing him out of consciousness. The Bat stood up, and walked away, disappearing into the night. 
[/color]