Demon Lover, Where are You? Chapter 2/5 - Prompt 7
Title: Demon Lover, Where are You? - Chapter 2/5
Entry Number: 07
Author: Spikesgirl58
Fandom: Batman
Rating: R - Warning for sexual situation
Genre: Horror/Superheroes
Word Count: 3584
The rest of the night was spent chasing down scum. It gave him a sense of satisfaction every time he tied one of them up, even knowing that they would be back out on the street within a matter of hours. If he managed to prevent just one crime from taking place, it was worth the effort, the danger and the pain.
The Batmobile roared through the cave tunnel, automatically slowing as it approached the turntable. It braked to a smooth stop just inches from a precipice that dropped several hundred feet straight down. If the brakes ever went out, there would be no escape from plummeting death, but that was just a part of the game he played.
The canopy slid back, however, The Batman remained seated, tilting his head back to study the dark, cavernous ceiling. The returning bats easily avoided the stalactites, slipping into shadows as they prepared for day's rest. He watched them for a long moment before letting out a long exhausted sigh. Like them, he was ready for sleep.
His chest throbbed from having a two-by-four broken across it. His arms and back ached from a night of building climbing. Everything hurt, right down to his toenails - his payment for a hard night's work. He climbed wearily from the car, not having the strength or desire to leap gracefully from it. The bats wouldn't have been impressed, anyway. He stopped by a cage, examining its occupant.
For all the material written about their sense of radar, it still didn't keep one from occasionally bashing into a stalactite or having a hunter take a pot shot at them. He pulled off his gloves, dropped them to the floor, and reached into the cage. The bat let out a high-pitched squeak as he was taken from his perch and protested again as The Batman extended a wing, examining it beneath a nearby low-watt light. He kept the lighting to a minimum to avoid disturbing the eco-culture of the cave any more than he had to.
A sensor at the mouth of the cave notified the butler of his master's return and Alfred appeared now, bearing a tray with a glass and a bottle of mineral water. "Good evening, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he balanced and poured. "How is our little patient today?"
"He looks pretty good. Another day or so and he'll be ready to rejoin the colony." He stroked the tiny head with a gentle finger and placed the bat back in the cage. "How are things going here?" He accepted the proffered glass and downed the contents quickly.
"Mr. Fox asked me to remind you of the eleven o’clock board meeting. And Dr. Thompkins wanted to know if you could meet for a late lunch at Kabul West."
The cowl was pulled off and Bruce Wayne began to emerge, turning his head sidewise to read Alfred's watch. "Tell Lucius I'll be there and have Leslie schedule lunch for about two." He stooped to retrieve his gloves to carry them and the cowl to their resting place. He snapped his fingers, "And Jim may call regarding an autopsy. I'd like to make that if possible. He may be willing to schedule it for evening."
"I shall endeavor to avoid the placement of the autopsy and luncheon within each other's proximity."
“Thanks, Alfred. What would I do without you?” The millionaire continued peeling off the costume, then yawned and massaged a sore spot on his shoulder. He didn't even remember banging it, but by the size of the knot beneath the skin, he should have. There was an eight-inch-long bruise already forming across his chest and he rubbed it gently as he sank into a chair.
“With any luck, you will never find out.”
Suddenly he remembered the ribbon and pulled the vial out of his belt. He reached for a metal plate and shook the contents out. The ribbon fell in a delicate pile and Bruce held it up with a pair of tweezers.
"Are you considering altering the batsuit, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he settled the cowl on its stand. Bruce smirked at the comment, knowing the butler was trying to break the dark facade that enveloped his employer.
"This is my only clue from a murder scene and I was hoping that it might tell me something." He gave the chair a push and together they slid across the floor until Wayne sat before a microscope. Draping the ribbon beneath the objective lens, he focused the microscope. Slowly he drew the ribbon across the field of view and shook his head while sighing deeply.
"Were you really expecting anything, Sir?" Alfred asked.
"No, I suppose not. It was just...just once it would be nice to get a break." He stood. "I'll see you in a few hours," he said as he started up the stairs.
****
In a room of stark white, the black of the Batsuit was strangely out of place. The coroner finished making a final incision and removed the skull cap, revealing the brain of Ian Fletcher. Batman had been through a dozen autopsies, the gore aspect had disappeared years ago, if it had ever existed for him to begin with. All he had now was a scientific fascination with how and why the body existed at all, a love presumably inherited from his father.
"No visible signs of damage to the brain, such as a blow. We'll exam the lungs to see if there is any blood in them, just in case." The coroner took a sample of the brain tissue and continued on, cataloging each step as he went. For Batman, it was too slow by half, but there were students and rookie cops sitting in, or rather trying to sit in. It seemed a few left every time an organ was removed and dropped with an audible 'sloup' into metal bowls.
Batman stood beside the doctor, his eyes studying the man's handiwork carefully. A lung was removed and sliced into. The coroner turned to the black-costumed man. "What do you think?"
"Your preliminary supposition was correct. There was no blow to the head," Batman responded back, using a probe to pull back the tissue and examine the cut more closely. "He smoked too much."
"Why is that?" asked one of the cops. "I mean, how do you know about the blow?"
"Quite often when there is a blow to the head, blood is likely to settle in the lungs because of it," the coroner said, then held up the heart. "If that were the case, there would also be clots in the heart." He seemed blissfully unaware as another person headed for the door.
The autopsy continued and finally the doctor dropped the scalpel to the tray and shook his head. He locked eyes with The Batman, now the sole remaining observer. "As far as I can tell, this man was not killed. He simply died of old age."
"Impossible."
"Tell him that. He's the one who's dead."
"What could age a man like that?"
"Nothing I know of. There are some diseases that have rapid aging as part of their course, but even they couldn't produce results like this literally overnight. There's something else. There's no semen in the body."
"What?"
"Not a drop." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we know why he died with smile on his face."
*****
"No what?"
"You heard me, Jim," The Batman said, without turning from the window. "Either one or both of the guards are lying or there's an entirely new breed of cat burglar afoot." He stared through the stained, dust-covered slats of the venetian blinds, eyes scanning the horizon for he didn't know what.
"There's one other explanation."
"Unless he is extremely secretive about his masturbation, there would have been traces somewhere. On the sheets, his hands. It's possible, but not likely."
"We'll bring the guards back in for questioning, although I don't imagine we'll get anything from them. Call it gut instinct, but I don't think they're lying." Gordon stood and walked to his side. "Would you like to question them?" he asked softly. "I could arrange something."
"Perhaps later."
*****
There was a dead calm settled upon the city. Had he been given to wax poetic, The Batman might have compared it to some eloquent metaphor or the other. As it was, it was merely hot. Trouble fermented in heat like this and with this new, so far undetermined situation, it was trouble he didn't need.
The sound of a nearby shot and a woman screaming and he was off, swinging down from the building with a practiced ease. Had he lingered a moment longer, he would have notice something. Something that would have made even a man who routinely dressed up as a bat pause. Outside a window, a person was hovering, peering voyeuristically through the glass. A Peeping Tom thirty stories above the streets of Gotham.
Inside, a man stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, posing. To Alan Altaffer's way of thinking, it didn't get any better than this. He never tired looking at his handiwork. His carefully- honed body, with its lovingly-sculpted muscles and its even, oiled tan was perfection in itself, a gift from the Gods to its favorite.
Granted it had taken a team of skilled physicians to fix the little imperfections, a host of trainers to work the muscles, plenty of drugs to accelerate or slow down, depending on the problem area.
And lots and lots of money. Alan's mother had died a premature death, forced to work two jobs while her son pursued his dream. It had been worth it though, at least to Alan's way of thinking. If she were alive now, he would have set it right with her, gotten her some of the things she needed, but had to do without. Well, at least that's what he told himself when his conscious started to gnaw at him.
Of course, he'd simply kept himself too busy before to take care of such things while she lived. He'd been making a comfortable salary that afforded him luxuries while his mother scrubbed toilets and washed other people's clothes. She'd been there to bail him out when years of self-abuse began to take their pound of flesh from Altaffer.
It was a shame that she wasn't here to share in his glory, although he wouldn't have permitted her in the suite. His successful return would have commanded him to ignore her any way. He couldn't be connected with a common washwoman after all. Same went for his sister, not that she was likely to admit any kinship to him. They had never gotten along. She was just jealous that he was so beautiful and talented and she was so...so ordinary.
He frowned at the thought that his plans might have been threatened by a stupid police investigation. Well, sure a man had been found dead here a couple of days ago. So what? A thick wad of money had convinced the hotel manager of his mistake and the suite was made ready for its God.
He took a swallow of coffee, making a face at its lukewarm temperature. It didn't matter, he'd simply order more.
He half turned and loving studied his profile. Soon the modeling agencies would be doubling, tripling their prices to get just five minutes of him. It had been a long hard climb back up the ladder, but that hot shot in Vegas was going to be eating dog food in the unemployment line when Alan got through with him. Tomorrow, in this very suite, he would reveal the new and improved Alan A and the modeling world would shake to its core. There would be calendars, movie offers, maybe even his own talk show.
He shook back his blond sun-streaked hair and that's when he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he'd seen plenty of 'em. She was wearing a long white silk robe, her blonde hair tied back with a matching ribbon.
"Alan Altaffer," she sang/spoke as she pulled the ribbon and the hair cascaded forward. "I am the woman of your dreams." She walked, no, glided towards him and draped the ribbon around his neck.
"I got some powerful dreams, lady," Alan said, transfixed by her. She was easily the most incredible thing he'd ever seen, himself excluded, of course. She smiled sleepily, pulling the ribbon across the tanned skin, her tongue toying with her lips. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter," She asked, taking a step away and opened the robe. The body revealed was incredibly muscled, well-tanned and completely naked. Alan suddenly realized what they meant by coming in your pants. He was about to burst out of his bikini shorts.
"No," Alan squeaked out as she began to rub against him. He decided that if he had that much effect on this woman, he would be asking for four times as much from the agencies tomorrow.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, drawing him to the carpet. Everything was in slow motion as the woman smiled at him, joining him on the floor, straddling him. Alan smiled as he got his comeback started with a bang.
Batman intercepted the call on the police band just as the Bat Signal lit the sky, reflecting against the building cumulus clouds. It was easier to take the high road than fight the traffic that always seemed to clog Gotham's streets, even at four am.
Besides, as the crow, or in this case, the bat flies, the Gotham Arms was just around the corner. He aimed the Batharpoon skyward and pulled the trigger.
Even from the roof tops, it was easy to pick out the Gotham Arms. It was the tallest in the neighborhood and the only one touting a restaurant on its thirty-first floor. He dropped through the rooftop and looked around for his bearings. The police call didn't say where in the hotel the murder had taken place. However, it was likely that the presidential suite was still sealed off as police evidence.
He swung over the edge of the building and landed lightly upon plant-lined patio. It should be a piece of cake to jimmy the door and let himself in. That's when he noticed that the door was already ajar. A warning bell started to clang in his head and his lips compressed themselves into a thin line. Either the Gotham police were getting clumsy and lackadaisical about their job or...
The Batman reached for the door and slid it back slowly, silently. That's when the cannonball hit him in the chest, slamming him back against the iron railing. Over-balanced, he was over the edge before even realizing what had happened. He'd trained years for situations like this and his movements were instinctive rather than conscious. The Batharpoon was around and in his hand before he'd fallen the length of a story. It fired and the rope was wrapped firmly around his gauntlet. The stop jerked him fiercely, but considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. The pain laced through his side from his shoulder to his groin. Yet it was secondary when one took into account the effect that bouncing off the pavement had on the human body.
What had hit him? He looked around at the sky, now rosy pink with the approaching dawn. It was empty with the exception of a waning Bat Signal and a solitary bat that was hot footing it back to its roost. That meant that whatever it was was likely to still be on the balcony or within the suite.
The Batman approached the balcony with considerably more caution the second time. It was empty and the curtain blew from within, the white material flapping in the draft. This time, he kept well to the right of the door, his back against the concrete of the building.
Nothing happened as he pulled aside the curtain. The suite was dark and quiet. After a long moment of study, he darted inside and settled into the shadows - nothing.
He reached out and hit a switch, blinking as the room was flooded with light. Nothing was out of place unless you counted the body sprawled out on the floor. He ignored it for the moment, intent upon searching the rest of the suite first for his attacker. Whatever it was must have left immediately afterwards for the suite was now empty. Empty except for the man on the floor.
Batman knelt beside the man and probed the neck for a pulse. There wasn't one, not to his surprise. Even face down, it was obvious that the dead man was extremely old. He rolled the man over just as Gordon, flanked by uniforms, burst into the room. The noise brought The Batman instinctively up to his feet, fists raised before him and the cops aimed their guns at the crimefighter. As if that would stop him.
"Hold your fire," Gordon ordered gruffly. He did not look happy as he stalked up to The Batman.
“Another one?"
He nodded. "Who was it?"
"His name was Alan Altaffer," Gordon said, consulting a notebook. "A local pretty boy model. Hit the skids about two years ago."
"Wasn't this room sealed?"
"He was getting ready for a big modeling comeback and had decided this room was somehow linked to its success. He bribed the manager to let him use the suite."
"Another avenue to pursue."
"We'll bring him in for questioning. If he could be bridged once, then twice wouldn't be a problem."
The Batman didn't appear to be listening as something familiar caught his attention. It was a white hair ribbon. Altaffer's body had been partially laying on it.
****
"Two deaths in three days, same hotel, same room." Alfred Pennyworth regarded his young employer seriously.
"Same ribbon, same lack of clues."
"I believe you have a pattern, Sir." There was silence as Bruce Wayne finished a set of bench presses and settled the bar back into its rest. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his face.
"Under normal circumstances, I'd agreed, but look at the situation." He stood and placed more weight on the bar. "Both of those men were in their late thirties, but they died of old age. Tell me that's normal."
"In a town that boasts such grand grotesques as the Joker and the Penguin, hardly anything seems unlikely these days." Wayne sighed and bobbed his head in agreement as he returned to the bench. "You got a point there."
The manservant was silent as Wayne grunted and fought against the weight of the barbell. He conceded to it after just a few presses. "Alfred, make a reservation for me."
"Is it even necessary for me to inquire where, Master Bruce?"
"I don't think so, unless you're slipping." He rubbed the sweat away with a nearby towel and pulled off the weight gloves. "I should warn you that the manager's going to give you a hard time. Jim's taken him in for questioning. I doubt he'll let us into the room before the police have finished with it."
"Perhaps you should wait a few days then, Sir."
"I don't care how you do it, but I want to be the next person in that room." He pulled on a sweatshirt. "I'll be back."
"I shall warn Mr. Schwarzenegger."
The porter opened the door and allowed the billionaire to precede him into the room, then struggled in with the luggage. 'If he only knew what he was hauling,' Bruce Wayne thought. Those cases held his Batsuit, along with more common items. Bruce walked over to the balcony and examined the sliding glass door. There were new, more secure locks along the edge of the door now and a sensor alarm. That wouldn't stop whatever had killed two men and it certainly wouldn't stop The Batman.
He returned to the living/dining room of the suite and looked around. Unless you were a regular reader of the papers or worked with the police department, you wouldn't have known that two murders had taken place here just days prior.
"Will that be all, Sir?" The porter asked as he deposited the last case in the bedroom and rejoined the dark-haired Wayne.
"Yes, that will be fine, thank you," Bruce passed him a bill as he shook the bellman's hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. If you need anything, my name is Chris."
"I'll remember that, Chris." He waited for the man to depart before shrugging off his light weight suit jacket and dropping it on the couch. With one hand, he undid his tie and it joined the jacket. Twilight was just starting to tug at the skyline, staining the ever-present clouds and smog with orange and red. Soon it would be dark, time for him to go to work. Until then, he had to wait and plan.
He lifted the receiver and dialed Room Service, ordering dinner and lots of coffee. That accomplished, he sat down on the couch and stared out at the city.
"Who are you?" he whispered after a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. The city remained silent.
Entry Number: 07
Author: Spikesgirl58
Fandom: Batman
Rating: R - Warning for sexual situation
Genre: Horror/Superheroes
Word Count: 3584
The rest of the night was spent chasing down scum. It gave him a sense of satisfaction every time he tied one of them up, even knowing that they would be back out on the street within a matter of hours. If he managed to prevent just one crime from taking place, it was worth the effort, the danger and the pain.
The Batmobile roared through the cave tunnel, automatically slowing as it approached the turntable. It braked to a smooth stop just inches from a precipice that dropped several hundred feet straight down. If the brakes ever went out, there would be no escape from plummeting death, but that was just a part of the game he played.
The canopy slid back, however, The Batman remained seated, tilting his head back to study the dark, cavernous ceiling. The returning bats easily avoided the stalactites, slipping into shadows as they prepared for day's rest. He watched them for a long moment before letting out a long exhausted sigh. Like them, he was ready for sleep.
His chest throbbed from having a two-by-four broken across it. His arms and back ached from a night of building climbing. Everything hurt, right down to his toenails - his payment for a hard night's work. He climbed wearily from the car, not having the strength or desire to leap gracefully from it. The bats wouldn't have been impressed, anyway. He stopped by a cage, examining its occupant.
For all the material written about their sense of radar, it still didn't keep one from occasionally bashing into a stalactite or having a hunter take a pot shot at them. He pulled off his gloves, dropped them to the floor, and reached into the cage. The bat let out a high-pitched squeak as he was taken from his perch and protested again as The Batman extended a wing, examining it beneath a nearby low-watt light. He kept the lighting to a minimum to avoid disturbing the eco-culture of the cave any more than he had to.
A sensor at the mouth of the cave notified the butler of his master's return and Alfred appeared now, bearing a tray with a glass and a bottle of mineral water. "Good evening, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he balanced and poured. "How is our little patient today?"
"He looks pretty good. Another day or so and he'll be ready to rejoin the colony." He stroked the tiny head with a gentle finger and placed the bat back in the cage. "How are things going here?" He accepted the proffered glass and downed the contents quickly.
"Mr. Fox asked me to remind you of the eleven o’clock board meeting. And Dr. Thompkins wanted to know if you could meet for a late lunch at Kabul West."
The cowl was pulled off and Bruce Wayne began to emerge, turning his head sidewise to read Alfred's watch. "Tell Lucius I'll be there and have Leslie schedule lunch for about two." He stooped to retrieve his gloves to carry them and the cowl to their resting place. He snapped his fingers, "And Jim may call regarding an autopsy. I'd like to make that if possible. He may be willing to schedule it for evening."
"I shall endeavor to avoid the placement of the autopsy and luncheon within each other's proximity."
“Thanks, Alfred. What would I do without you?” The millionaire continued peeling off the costume, then yawned and massaged a sore spot on his shoulder. He didn't even remember banging it, but by the size of the knot beneath the skin, he should have. There was an eight-inch-long bruise already forming across his chest and he rubbed it gently as he sank into a chair.
“With any luck, you will never find out.”
Suddenly he remembered the ribbon and pulled the vial out of his belt. He reached for a metal plate and shook the contents out. The ribbon fell in a delicate pile and Bruce held it up with a pair of tweezers.
"Are you considering altering the batsuit, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he settled the cowl on its stand. Bruce smirked at the comment, knowing the butler was trying to break the dark facade that enveloped his employer.
"This is my only clue from a murder scene and I was hoping that it might tell me something." He gave the chair a push and together they slid across the floor until Wayne sat before a microscope. Draping the ribbon beneath the objective lens, he focused the microscope. Slowly he drew the ribbon across the field of view and shook his head while sighing deeply.
"Were you really expecting anything, Sir?" Alfred asked.
"No, I suppose not. It was just...just once it would be nice to get a break." He stood. "I'll see you in a few hours," he said as he started up the stairs.
****
In a room of stark white, the black of the Batsuit was strangely out of place. The coroner finished making a final incision and removed the skull cap, revealing the brain of Ian Fletcher. Batman had been through a dozen autopsies, the gore aspect had disappeared years ago, if it had ever existed for him to begin with. All he had now was a scientific fascination with how and why the body existed at all, a love presumably inherited from his father.
"No visible signs of damage to the brain, such as a blow. We'll exam the lungs to see if there is any blood in them, just in case." The coroner took a sample of the brain tissue and continued on, cataloging each step as he went. For Batman, it was too slow by half, but there were students and rookie cops sitting in, or rather trying to sit in. It seemed a few left every time an organ was removed and dropped with an audible 'sloup' into metal bowls.
Batman stood beside the doctor, his eyes studying the man's handiwork carefully. A lung was removed and sliced into. The coroner turned to the black-costumed man. "What do you think?"
"Your preliminary supposition was correct. There was no blow to the head," Batman responded back, using a probe to pull back the tissue and examine the cut more closely. "He smoked too much."
"Why is that?" asked one of the cops. "I mean, how do you know about the blow?"
"Quite often when there is a blow to the head, blood is likely to settle in the lungs because of it," the coroner said, then held up the heart. "If that were the case, there would also be clots in the heart." He seemed blissfully unaware as another person headed for the door.
The autopsy continued and finally the doctor dropped the scalpel to the tray and shook his head. He locked eyes with The Batman, now the sole remaining observer. "As far as I can tell, this man was not killed. He simply died of old age."
"Impossible."
"Tell him that. He's the one who's dead."
"What could age a man like that?"
"Nothing I know of. There are some diseases that have rapid aging as part of their course, but even they couldn't produce results like this literally overnight. There's something else. There's no semen in the body."
"What?"
"Not a drop." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we know why he died with smile on his face."
*****
"No what?"
"You heard me, Jim," The Batman said, without turning from the window. "Either one or both of the guards are lying or there's an entirely new breed of cat burglar afoot." He stared through the stained, dust-covered slats of the venetian blinds, eyes scanning the horizon for he didn't know what.
"There's one other explanation."
"Unless he is extremely secretive about his masturbation, there would have been traces somewhere. On the sheets, his hands. It's possible, but not likely."
"We'll bring the guards back in for questioning, although I don't imagine we'll get anything from them. Call it gut instinct, but I don't think they're lying." Gordon stood and walked to his side. "Would you like to question them?" he asked softly. "I could arrange something."
"Perhaps later."
*****
There was a dead calm settled upon the city. Had he been given to wax poetic, The Batman might have compared it to some eloquent metaphor or the other. As it was, it was merely hot. Trouble fermented in heat like this and with this new, so far undetermined situation, it was trouble he didn't need.
The sound of a nearby shot and a woman screaming and he was off, swinging down from the building with a practiced ease. Had he lingered a moment longer, he would have notice something. Something that would have made even a man who routinely dressed up as a bat pause. Outside a window, a person was hovering, peering voyeuristically through the glass. A Peeping Tom thirty stories above the streets of Gotham.
Inside, a man stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, posing. To Alan Altaffer's way of thinking, it didn't get any better than this. He never tired looking at his handiwork. His carefully- honed body, with its lovingly-sculpted muscles and its even, oiled tan was perfection in itself, a gift from the Gods to its favorite.
Granted it had taken a team of skilled physicians to fix the little imperfections, a host of trainers to work the muscles, plenty of drugs to accelerate or slow down, depending on the problem area.
And lots and lots of money. Alan's mother had died a premature death, forced to work two jobs while her son pursued his dream. It had been worth it though, at least to Alan's way of thinking. If she were alive now, he would have set it right with her, gotten her some of the things she needed, but had to do without. Well, at least that's what he told himself when his conscious started to gnaw at him.
Of course, he'd simply kept himself too busy before to take care of such things while she lived. He'd been making a comfortable salary that afforded him luxuries while his mother scrubbed toilets and washed other people's clothes. She'd been there to bail him out when years of self-abuse began to take their pound of flesh from Altaffer.
It was a shame that she wasn't here to share in his glory, although he wouldn't have permitted her in the suite. His successful return would have commanded him to ignore her any way. He couldn't be connected with a common washwoman after all. Same went for his sister, not that she was likely to admit any kinship to him. They had never gotten along. She was just jealous that he was so beautiful and talented and she was so...so ordinary.
He frowned at the thought that his plans might have been threatened by a stupid police investigation. Well, sure a man had been found dead here a couple of days ago. So what? A thick wad of money had convinced the hotel manager of his mistake and the suite was made ready for its God.
He took a swallow of coffee, making a face at its lukewarm temperature. It didn't matter, he'd simply order more.
He half turned and loving studied his profile. Soon the modeling agencies would be doubling, tripling their prices to get just five minutes of him. It had been a long hard climb back up the ladder, but that hot shot in Vegas was going to be eating dog food in the unemployment line when Alan got through with him. Tomorrow, in this very suite, he would reveal the new and improved Alan A and the modeling world would shake to its core. There would be calendars, movie offers, maybe even his own talk show.
He shook back his blond sun-streaked hair and that's when he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he'd seen plenty of 'em. She was wearing a long white silk robe, her blonde hair tied back with a matching ribbon.
"Alan Altaffer," she sang/spoke as she pulled the ribbon and the hair cascaded forward. "I am the woman of your dreams." She walked, no, glided towards him and draped the ribbon around his neck.
"I got some powerful dreams, lady," Alan said, transfixed by her. She was easily the most incredible thing he'd ever seen, himself excluded, of course. She smiled sleepily, pulling the ribbon across the tanned skin, her tongue toying with her lips. "Who are you?"
"Does it matter," She asked, taking a step away and opened the robe. The body revealed was incredibly muscled, well-tanned and completely naked. Alan suddenly realized what they meant by coming in your pants. He was about to burst out of his bikini shorts.
"No," Alan squeaked out as she began to rub against him. He decided that if he had that much effect on this woman, he would be asking for four times as much from the agencies tomorrow.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, drawing him to the carpet. Everything was in slow motion as the woman smiled at him, joining him on the floor, straddling him. Alan smiled as he got his comeback started with a bang.
Batman intercepted the call on the police band just as the Bat Signal lit the sky, reflecting against the building cumulus clouds. It was easier to take the high road than fight the traffic that always seemed to clog Gotham's streets, even at four am.
Besides, as the crow, or in this case, the bat flies, the Gotham Arms was just around the corner. He aimed the Batharpoon skyward and pulled the trigger.
Even from the roof tops, it was easy to pick out the Gotham Arms. It was the tallest in the neighborhood and the only one touting a restaurant on its thirty-first floor. He dropped through the rooftop and looked around for his bearings. The police call didn't say where in the hotel the murder had taken place. However, it was likely that the presidential suite was still sealed off as police evidence.
He swung over the edge of the building and landed lightly upon plant-lined patio. It should be a piece of cake to jimmy the door and let himself in. That's when he noticed that the door was already ajar. A warning bell started to clang in his head and his lips compressed themselves into a thin line. Either the Gotham police were getting clumsy and lackadaisical about their job or...
The Batman reached for the door and slid it back slowly, silently. That's when the cannonball hit him in the chest, slamming him back against the iron railing. Over-balanced, he was over the edge before even realizing what had happened. He'd trained years for situations like this and his movements were instinctive rather than conscious. The Batharpoon was around and in his hand before he'd fallen the length of a story. It fired and the rope was wrapped firmly around his gauntlet. The stop jerked him fiercely, but considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. The pain laced through his side from his shoulder to his groin. Yet it was secondary when one took into account the effect that bouncing off the pavement had on the human body.
What had hit him? He looked around at the sky, now rosy pink with the approaching dawn. It was empty with the exception of a waning Bat Signal and a solitary bat that was hot footing it back to its roost. That meant that whatever it was was likely to still be on the balcony or within the suite.
The Batman approached the balcony with considerably more caution the second time. It was empty and the curtain blew from within, the white material flapping in the draft. This time, he kept well to the right of the door, his back against the concrete of the building.
Nothing happened as he pulled aside the curtain. The suite was dark and quiet. After a long moment of study, he darted inside and settled into the shadows - nothing.
He reached out and hit a switch, blinking as the room was flooded with light. Nothing was out of place unless you counted the body sprawled out on the floor. He ignored it for the moment, intent upon searching the rest of the suite first for his attacker. Whatever it was must have left immediately afterwards for the suite was now empty. Empty except for the man on the floor.
Batman knelt beside the man and probed the neck for a pulse. There wasn't one, not to his surprise. Even face down, it was obvious that the dead man was extremely old. He rolled the man over just as Gordon, flanked by uniforms, burst into the room. The noise brought The Batman instinctively up to his feet, fists raised before him and the cops aimed their guns at the crimefighter. As if that would stop him.
"Hold your fire," Gordon ordered gruffly. He did not look happy as he stalked up to The Batman.
“Another one?"
He nodded. "Who was it?"
"His name was Alan Altaffer," Gordon said, consulting a notebook. "A local pretty boy model. Hit the skids about two years ago."
"Wasn't this room sealed?"
"He was getting ready for a big modeling comeback and had decided this room was somehow linked to its success. He bribed the manager to let him use the suite."
"Another avenue to pursue."
"We'll bring him in for questioning. If he could be bridged once, then twice wouldn't be a problem."
The Batman didn't appear to be listening as something familiar caught his attention. It was a white hair ribbon. Altaffer's body had been partially laying on it.
****
"Two deaths in three days, same hotel, same room." Alfred Pennyworth regarded his young employer seriously.
"Same ribbon, same lack of clues."
"I believe you have a pattern, Sir." There was silence as Bruce Wayne finished a set of bench presses and settled the bar back into its rest. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his face.
"Under normal circumstances, I'd agreed, but look at the situation." He stood and placed more weight on the bar. "Both of those men were in their late thirties, but they died of old age. Tell me that's normal."
"In a town that boasts such grand grotesques as the Joker and the Penguin, hardly anything seems unlikely these days." Wayne sighed and bobbed his head in agreement as he returned to the bench. "You got a point there."
The manservant was silent as Wayne grunted and fought against the weight of the barbell. He conceded to it after just a few presses. "Alfred, make a reservation for me."
"Is it even necessary for me to inquire where, Master Bruce?"
"I don't think so, unless you're slipping." He rubbed the sweat away with a nearby towel and pulled off the weight gloves. "I should warn you that the manager's going to give you a hard time. Jim's taken him in for questioning. I doubt he'll let us into the room before the police have finished with it."
"Perhaps you should wait a few days then, Sir."
"I don't care how you do it, but I want to be the next person in that room." He pulled on a sweatshirt. "I'll be back."
"I shall warn Mr. Schwarzenegger."
The porter opened the door and allowed the billionaire to precede him into the room, then struggled in with the luggage. 'If he only knew what he was hauling,' Bruce Wayne thought. Those cases held his Batsuit, along with more common items. Bruce walked over to the balcony and examined the sliding glass door. There were new, more secure locks along the edge of the door now and a sensor alarm. That wouldn't stop whatever had killed two men and it certainly wouldn't stop The Batman.
He returned to the living/dining room of the suite and looked around. Unless you were a regular reader of the papers or worked with the police department, you wouldn't have known that two murders had taken place here just days prior.
"Will that be all, Sir?" The porter asked as he deposited the last case in the bedroom and rejoined the dark-haired Wayne.
"Yes, that will be fine, thank you," Bruce passed him a bill as he shook the bellman's hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. If you need anything, my name is Chris."
"I'll remember that, Chris." He waited for the man to depart before shrugging off his light weight suit jacket and dropping it on the couch. With one hand, he undid his tie and it joined the jacket. Twilight was just starting to tug at the skyline, staining the ever-present clouds and smog with orange and red. Soon it would be dark, time for him to go to work. Until then, he had to wait and plan.
He lifted the receiver and dialed Room Service, ordering dinner and lots of coffee. That accomplished, he sat down on the couch and stared out at the city.
"Who are you?" he whispered after a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. The city remained silent.