Previously on Dark Knight of the Crescent City
The sky over New Orleans didn’t just rain. It opened up, a torrential downpour that turned the neon lights of Bourbon Street into blurred streaks of pink and electric blue. The crowds had thinned, driven away by the storm and the terrifying news alerts blinking on every smartphone in the city.
Dave Leonard’s black unmarked sedan hydroplaned through a red light at Royal and St. Louis, the tires screaming against the wet cobblestones. He was driving with one hand, the other frantically reloading a service pistol. His radio was a cacophony of static and betrayal, dispatch calling his unit number not with orders, but with a warrant for his arrest.
“I built this city!” Leonard screamed at the empty passenger seat, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “I kept the peace!”
He looked into his rearview mirror. At first, nothing but the gray curtain of rain. Then a pair of low, predatory LED headlights cut through the mist. The Hellcat was gaining.
Batman pushed the Charger into a tight drift, the rear end sliding dangerously close to the wrought-iron balconies of a boutique hotel. He wasn’t trying to ram Leonard. He was herding him, pushing the Lieutenant away from the populated residential blocks and toward the industrial desolation of the riverfront.
“He’s heading for the Claiborne overpass, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice was steady, a stark contrast to the roar of the Hemi engine. “State Police have blocked the ramps. He’s trapped in the Quarter.”
Leonard realized it, too. He slammed on his brakes, spinning the sedan in a 180-degree turn that sent a trash can flying into a storefront. He hopped out before it stopped moving, ducking into a narrow, dark alleyway, the kind of shortcut only a cop who had spent twenty years on the beat would know.
Batman engaged the Hellcat’s autopilot and vaulted from the driver’s seat while the car was still rolling, his cape catching the wind like a sail. He landed silently on a terracotta roof, his boots crunching on the wet tiles.
From above, the French Quarter looked like a labyrinth. Leonard was running, his heavy breathing audible over the rain through Batman’s audio sensors. The Lieutenant ducked behind a stack of beer crates in the courtyard of an old Creole restaurant.
“Leonard!” Batman’s voice dropped from the sky, amplified and distorted by the storm. “There’s nowhere left to run. The drive is public. Your men are surrendering.”
“Liar!” Leonard fired three shots blindly into the air. The muzzle flashes illuminated the rain for a heartbeat. “You’re the one who ruined it! We had a balance! Nicks, Bonito, they were manageable! You brought the chaos!”
Batman moved with terrifying fluidity, leaping from a balcony to a wrought-iron lamppost, then disappearing into the shadows of a chimney stack. He was playing with Leonard’s perception, making the Lieutenant feel like the walls themselves were closing in.
CLANG.
A Batarang hissed through the rain, striking the brick wall inches from Leonard’s head. The Lieutenant spun and fired another volley of shots, but Batman was already gone.
“You didn’t manage the crime, Dave.” The voice came from the opposite direction. “You fed it. You let it grow until it ate those people on the porch. You traded lives for a quiet precinct.”
Leonard broke into a sprint, bursting out of the alley onto the empty, rain-slicked expanse of North Peters Street. The Mississippi River was a churning black void to his right. In front of him loomed the massive concrete pillars of the Claiborne Bridge.
He stumbled, his dress shoes slipping on the wet pavement. He looked up. There it was, the artwork Robert Knowland had photographed. A massive, spray-painted silhouette of a bat, its wings spread across the concrete.
Leonard crawled toward the pillar and leaned his back against the image of the man who had destroyed him. Out of breath, his lungs burning. He raised his gun, pointing it at the darkness.
“Come on then!” Leonard yelled into the storm. “Show yourself! End it!”
Batman stepped out of the curtain of rain. No gadget. No hiding. He walked toward Leonard with the slow, inevitable pace of a closing cell door.
Leonard pulled the trigger.
Click.
The slide locked back. Empty.
The Lieutenant let out a sob of frustration and threw the weapon at Batman’s chest. The Dark Knight didn’t flinch as the metal bounced off his armor. He reached out, grabbed Leonard by the tactical vest, and slammed him against the pillar, right in the center of the bat symbol.
“You’re going to spend the rest of your life answering for every name on that drive.” Batman’s face was inches from Leonard’s.
“The city will fall apart without men like me,” Leonard wheezed, a defiant, bloody grin spreading across his face. “Who’s going to hold the line now, huh? You? You’re just a freak in a mask.”
“I’m not the one holding the line,” Batman said, his gaze shifting to the street.
Out of the rain, three sets of headlights appeared. Not armored vans. Standard NOPD patrol cars. Leading them was Michelle Walsh.
She stepped out of her car, her badge hanging from a chain around her neck, her service weapon holstered. She didn’t look afraid. She looked like a woman who had finally cleared the air.
“Lieutenant Dave Leonard.” Her voice was clear over the rain. “You’re under arrest for racketeering, conspiracy to commit murder, and a dozen other charges I haven’t even written down yet.”
Batman looked at Michelle, then back at Leonard. He said nothing. He let go of the Lieutenant’s vest. Leonard slumped to the ground as the real cops moved in to put the cuffs on the man who had led them into the dark.
As the officers led Leonard away, Michelle walked up to the pillar. The rain was letting up, leaving the city in a quiet, dripping haze. She looked for Batman, but the space where he had been standing was empty.
Only the spray-painted bat remained, staring out over the Crescent City.
Michelle looked at the artwork, then at the sunrise beginning to bleed through the gray clouds over the river. The war wasn’t over. Jimmy Nicks was still in the wind, and the vacuum left by Bonito would soon be filled. But for the first time in years, the city felt like it was breathing.
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.
