The humidity of New Orleans clung to the air like a wet shroud. Jacob Christian stood on the sidewalk, adjusting the straps of his heavy luggage while the Uber’s taillights faded into the neon haze of the French Quarter. Beside him, Miranda checked her watch, and Michael, their son, looked up at the wrought-iron balconies with a mixture of awe and exhaustion.
“The driver said the hotel was right around here,” Jacob said, holding his phone up. He squinted at the screen. “The map says we’re on the right block, but none of these building numbers match the reservation.”
“Try calling them again,” Miranda said, her voice tight with the stress of the late flight.
Jacob pressed the call button. He held the phone to his ear for a long moment before pulling it away with a frown. “Nothing. It rings once and then cuts to a dead signal. The address must be off.”
They began walking, turning off the main strip in search of the street listed on their confirmation email. The bright lights of the tourist bars gave way to narrower passages where the streetlamps flickered or had been smashed entirely. They wandered through three different alleys, the wheels of their suitcases clattering loudly against the uneven pavement.
“Jacob, I don’t think we should be back here,” Miranda whispered, pulling Michael closer to her side.
“Just another block,” Jacob insisted, though his eyes scanned the shadows.
Two men stepped out from behind a row of industrial trash bins. They were dressed in oversized hoodies, their faces obscured by the gloom.
“Yo, big man,” one of them called out, his voice raspy. “You look lost. Why don’t you share some of that travel money?”
Jacob didn’t break his stride. “Ignore them,” he muttered to his family. “Keep your heads down and keep moving.”
They hurried past, but the sound of heavy boots echoed behind them. Minutes later, the footsteps accelerated.
“Hey!”
Jacob turned just as the two men rounded the corner, pistols raised. The metal glinted under a single, buzzing lightbulb.
“Give it up! Everything!” the taller one shouted.
“Take it,” Jacob said, stepping in front of his wife. “Just take the bags and let us—”
A deafening crack echoed through the alley. Jacob screamed as he collapsed, clutching his leg where the bullet had torn through.
“Jacob!” Miranda shrieked.
The robbers ignored her cries. One stepped over Jacob and snatched his wallet from his back pocket, while the other ripped the purse from Miranda’s shoulder. The taller robber then turned his weapon toward Michael.
“The wallet, kid. Now!”
Michael’s hands shook as he fished his wallet out and handed it over. Without another word, the two men turned and vanished into the darkness of the city.
As Miranda knelt over her husband, sobbing and trying to staunch the bleeding, a figure stood motionless atop the roof of a nearby building. The silhouette was draped in a heavy, scalloped cape that shifted slightly in the wind, watching the scene unfold with silent, cold intensity.
Inside a cavernous, abandoned warehouse three blocks away, the two robbers dumped the haul onto a rusted metal table. They laughed, the adrenaline of the score still hitting their systems.
“Look at this,” the one named Rick said, fanning out a stack of bills. “Must be close to three grand here. Plus the plastic. We can hit the ATMs before they even get that guy to a hospital.”
“I told you the Quarter was a goldmine,” the other replied, leaning back.
Rick stopped counting and looked toward the back of the warehouse. “Hey, you hear about Miller? He got jumped near the docks last week. Said some guy dressed like a giant bat beat him and his crew into the pavement.”
His partner scoffed, pocketing a handful of credit cards. “Shut up with that. You believe everything you hear on the street? A guy in a bat suit scaring muggers doesn’t exist. It’s a fairy tale for the crackheads.”
A heavy thud echoed from the rafters. Both men jumped, spinning around with their guns drawn.
From the deepest shadow near a stack of rotting crates, a shape emerged. It was tall, armored in matte black, with a cowl that featured two pointed ears. The Batman didn’t say a word; he stepped into the light.
“Is that him?” Rick yelled, his voice cracking. “Kill him!”
They opened fire. The warehouse erupted into a barrage of gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit up the room as they emptied their magazines into the dark figure. The Batman jerked back with the impact of the rounds, eventually falling flat on his back, motionless.
“See?” the partner panted, smoke rising from his barrel. “Just a man. Freak is dead.”
“Let’s get out of here before the sirens start,” Rick said.
They scrambled toward the exit, bursting out into a side alley. They ran ten yards before skidding to a halt.
Standing directly in their path, blocking the exit to the street, was the Batman. He was standing perfectly still, his cape draped around him like a shroud.
“How? We just killed you!” Rick screamed. He raised his gun and fired again, the bullets hitting the chest plate of the suit with metallic pings. The Batman didn’t even flinch. He kept walking forward.
Rick’s partner dropped his gun and tried to swing a heavy punch. The Batman caught the fist in mid-air with a sickening crunch of bone, then delivered a lightning-fast strike to the man’s ribs. With a grunt of effort, he hoisted the man up and tossed him ten feet through the air, where he slammed into a dumpster and fell unconscious.
Rick turned to bolt back toward the warehouse, but he didn’t get far. A weighted rope tipped with a steel bat symbol whirled through the air, wrapping tightly around his ankles. He hit the ground hard, face-first.
The Batman stepped into the light, slowly pulling the rope to drag the struggling robber back toward him. Rick flipped onto his back, his eyes wide with terror as the dark silhouette towered over him.
“Please! Don’t kill me! Please!” Rick pleaded, his voice a pathetic whimper.
The Batman leaned down, his face inches from the robber’s. “I’m not going to kill you,” he growled, the voice sounding like grinding stones. “I want you to tell everyone about this.”
“Who… what are you?” Rick gasped.
“I’m Batman.”
He shoved the robber back to the ground. Before Rick could even blink, the figure fired a grappling hook toward the skyline. A cable hissed through the air, and the Batman was yanked upward, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.
Rick lay in the dirt, staring at the empty sky, shivering in the humid New Orleans heat.
****
The blue and red strobes of the NOPD cruisers bounced off the wet brick walls of the alley, turning the crime scene into a rhythmic blur of color. Rick was being shoved toward an open patrol car door, his zip-tied hands trembling. His face was a mess of tears and road rash.
“I’m telling you, he wasn’t human!” Rick shrieked, dragging his feet against the pavement. “He took the bullets! He took them all and just kept coming!”
“Watch your head, Houdini,” the arresting officer muttered, pressing his hand against the back of Rick’s neck to force him into the plastic backseat.
“He had wings! He came from the roof!” Rick’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “You gotta listen to me! He’s out there right now! He’s watching us!”
The officer slammed the door, muffling the screams to a dull thump. He turned to his partner and rolled his eyes. “Whatever they’re cutting the product with this week, I want none of it.”
Standing just outside the yellow crime scene tape, Robert Knowland adjusted his glasses and scribbled furiously into a leather-bound notebook. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, his tie loosened and his press badge lopsided. As Lieutenant Dave Leonard stepped over the tape, Knowland intercepted him.
“Lieutenant! A moment for the Advocate?” Knowland asked, clicking his pen.
Dave Leonard didn’t stop. He kept walking toward his unmarked sedan, his face a mask of professional boredom. “It’s three in the morning, Robert. Don’t you have a cat stuck in a tree to report on?”
“The suspect, Rick Miller,” Knowland said, scurrying to keep pace. “He was screaming about a man in a bat suit. This is the fourth time in two months that a witness has used that specific description. My sources say the ballistics from the warehouse don’t make sense—empty shells everywhere, but no blood on the floor. What happened in there, Dave?”
Leonard stopped abruptly and turned, his shadow towering over the reporter. “What happened is that two low-life junkies shot a tourist in front of his kid, got high on their own supply, and started hallucinating when the adrenaline hit. That’s the story.”
“Four separate incidents aren’t a hallucination,” Knowland countered. “The people want to know if there’s a vigilante operating in the Quarter.”
“The people want a narrative, and you want clicks,” Leonard snapped, leaning in close. “You’re trying to drive subscriptions by turning New Orleans into a comic book. Stick to the facts, Robert. If you keep chasing ‘Batman’ stories, the only thing you’re going to generate is a reputation for being a tabloid hack. You’ll be writing horoscopes by Christmas. Give it a rest.”
Leonard didn’t wait for a rebuttal. He turned his back on the reporter and disappeared into the darkness of a side street, leaving Knowland standing alone under a flickering streetlamp.
The Lieutenant walked two blocks away from the sirens, ducking into a narrow, unlit passage where the smell of rot was thick. At the end of the alley, a pristine, all-black Mercedes Sedan sat idling, its engine a low, expensive purr.
Jimmy Nicks was perched on the hood, buffing his fingernails against his silk lapel. Standing beside him was Joseph Martin—Joe—a man whose silence was as heavy as the handguns tucked into his waistband.
“The press is getting loud, Dave,” Jimmy said without looking up. “I could hear that little reporter squawking from all the way over here.”
“Knowland is a nuisance, but he’s harmless for now,” Leonard said, his voice losing its authoritative edge and becoming something much more subservient. “I handled it. I told him the junkies were tripping.”
Jimmy reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thick, unmarked envelope. He tossed it toward Leonard. The Lieutenant caught it, the weight of the four thousand dollars in cash feeling heavy in his hand.
“You’re doing good work, Dave,” Jimmy said, finally looking up with a cold, thin smile. “Keeping the boys in blue busy with the small fry while we keep the gears turning. My people need those piers clear for the Friday drop. No patrols, no ‘accidental’ drive-bys. Just empty space.”
“You have my word,” Leonard said, tucking the money into his belt. “The perimeter is locked. My squad will be on the other side of the district processing those two idiots from the warehouse.”
Jimmy hopped off the hood of the Mercedes. “Good. Because $300,000 in profit doesn’t leave much room for error, don’t let the ghost stories distract you. There’s no such thing as a Bat, Dave. Just men who aren’t fast enough to get out of the way.”
Joe opened the rear door for Jimmy, and the Mercedes slid out of the alley like a shark into deep water. Leonard stood in the shadows for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edge of the envelope.
Disclaimer: Enter the Dark Knight is a non-profit work of fan fiction intended for entertainment purposes only. Batman, Bruce Wayne, and all associated characters, locations, and lore are the intellectual property of DC Comics and Warner Bros. Discovery. The author of this story (Strike 7 Network) claims no ownership over these trademarked properties. This story is an original adaptation set within the Batman universe and is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or sponsored by DC Comics.
If you like this gritty take on Batman, check out my original series, The Black Ghost, on the Patreon website for Strike 7 Network.
