Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The hum of the newsroom’s backup generators was the only sound in the darkened office of The New Orleans Advocate. The red emergency lights bathed the rows of empty desks in a bloody, surreal glow. Outside, the world was a strobe light of blue and red.
Detective Michelle Walsh sat on the floor, her back against a heavy oak desk, her service weapon resting on her knee. Across from her, Robert Knowland was hunched over a laptop, his face illuminated by the harsh white light of the screen.
“Sixty percent.” Rob’s voice cracked. “The satellite uplink is slow. Leonard’s people are running a localized jammer. If they get inside before this hits a hundred, they’ll just wipe the server and call us casualties of a high-risk warrant.”
“They’re already inside.” Michelle’s eyes stayed fixed on the heavy double doors of the newsroom. “I heard the mag-locks blow on the ground floor three minutes ago.”
Outside, Lieutenant Dave Leonard stood behind the open door of an armored Lenco BearCat, a radio pressed to his ear. He wasn’t wearing his dress uniform anymore. Full tactical black, a Kevlar vest over his chest.
“Team Alpha, floor four. Team Bravo, service elevators.” Leonard’s voice was flat and precise. “Standard rules of engagement: suspect Walsh is armed and dangerous. If the reporter interferes, treat him as a hostile. I want that drive. I don’t care how many holes are in it when you find it.”
The breach was a masterclass in specialized violence. On the fourth floor, the glass partitions shattered as flashbangs detonated in the lobby, the white light searing the retinas of anyone caught in the blast.
Leonard’s hand-picked squad moved in a stack formation, thermal optics active, silhouettes ghosting through the smoke. They weren’t checking badges. They were clearing rooms with suppressed submachine guns, the thud of bullets hitting drywall the only indicator of their progress.
“They’re on the floor.” Rob’s fingers flew across the keys. “Michelle, seventy percent! I need four minutes!”
“You have two,” a voice growled from the shadows above.
Michelle nearly pulled the trigger before she recognized the silhouette. Batman dropped from the ventilation duct like a gargoyle made of shadow. He didn’t look at them. His head was tilted, listening to the tactical frequencies through his cowl.
“They’re using the service stairs to flank you.” He reached into his belt and pulled out a handful of small, blackened spheres. “Stay behind the desk. Don’t look at the door.”
The double doors of the newsroom exploded off their hinges. Three tactical officers swarmed in, their laser sights cutting through the smoke like red needles.
“DROP THE WEAPON!”
Batman didn’t respond with words. He threw the spheres, specialized EMP disruptors. A localized pulse hissed through the air, and the tactical team’s night-vision goggles flickered and died. Their laser sights vanished.
In the sudden, total darkness, Batman became a phantom.
Michelle heard the wet thwack of a fist meeting a riot helmet. The sound of a heavy body being slammed into a filing cabinet. Leonard’s units fired blindly, the muzzle flashes illuminating Batman for fractions of a second, a cape swirling, a gauntlet striking, a predator moving faster than the human eye could track.
Batman wasn’t using theatrics. He was using fear. He dragged the lead officer into the shadows of the ceiling with a grapple line; the man’s terrified scream was cut short by a sleeper hold.
“Eighty-five percent!” Rob yelled over the sound of a stray bullet shattering a nearby monitor.
One of Leonard’s men, a sergeant Michelle recognized from the Second District, circled the desks, his sights landing on Rob’s laptop. “I got the drive! Cease fire!”
He leveled his weapon at the computer.
CLANG.
A bat-shaped piece of sharpened steel embedded itself into the receiver of the officer’s rifle, jamming the bolt. Before the sergeant could transition to his sidearm, Michelle stepped out from behind the desk.
“Drop it, Miller!” Her weapon was steady. “You’re a cop, not a hitman!”
Miller looked at the badge on Michelle’s belt, then at the dark, terrifying shape of Batman standing behind her. He dropped the gun.
“Ninety-nine… one hundred!” Rob slammed the Enter key. “It’s out. Cloud, AP wire, every major news outlet in the state. Leonard’s face is the lead story on the morning digital edition.”
Batman moved to the window, looking down at the street where Leonard was frantically screaming into his radio. The Lieutenant’s phone was likely already blowing up with calls from the Mayor and the Feds.
“The evidence is out.” His voice was a low vibration. “Leonard won’t surrender. He has nothing left to lose.”
“He’s pulling back.” Michelle looked through a gap in the blinds. “The tactical units are retreating to the vans. He’s running.”
“He won’t get far.” Batman turned to Michelle, his white lenses reflecting the red emergency lights. “You stayed at your post, Detective. That’s more than most people in this city can say.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, a dark blur through the shattered window.
Down on the street, Dave Leonard realized the sirens he heard in the distance weren’t his reinforcements. They were State Police. He climbed into his unmarked car, tires screaming as he fled toward the industrial edge of the city, where the Dark Knight artwork stood as a silent witness to his crimes.
Disclaimer: Dark Knight of the Crescent City 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.
