"This is going to make you rich, Bruce."

          "I'm already rich, Lucius." Bruce Wayne smiled into his cellphone. He slipped into the rear compartment of his limousine, its sole occupant. "Alfred, lets try to get to WayneTech at best possible speed." Darkness was descending on Gotham City, and Bruce had to wrap up his business day before he could embark on his nightly 'hobby.' "Anyway, Lucius, you were saying?"

          Lucius Fox, on the other side of the city, more precisely seated in a hard plastic chair in the electronic wonderland that was the WayneTech Lab, was ecstatic. Of course, any business manager extraordinaire in his position would be. "I don't think you understand the potential here, Bruce. This chip we've developed, it's at least fifteen times as fast as anything on the market! It's going to revolutionize the computer industry! We're talking trillions!"

          Bruce could practically feel the energy coursing through the phone receiver. Fox was a brilliant man, a perfectly nice man, but the sound of a cash register drawer quickened his pulse to an almost unhealthy level. Bruce had no use for money. He barely had a use for personal comfort. But certain pretenses had to be maintained. "That's fantastic, Lucius. Really. Don't let it out of your sight until I get there, capiche?" It had been decided between them that the safest place for such a technological wonder would be Bruce's private safe. Which explained why now, as Gotham's luminosity switched from natural to electronic, the Wayne limousine was racing through town at alarming speeds.

          The faster the chip was squirreled away to safety, the faster Bruce could get around to what he really wanted to do.

          Jimmy Ricci was an enforcer pure and simple, a job description that he was mildly ashamed of. But Ricci was the traditional type, as he'd been brought up to be, and his talent for engineering had been long overshadowed by his being expected to take up the family business.

          This was why Jimmy Ricci spent his evenings here, in a dusty old warehouse on Gotham's waterfront, rather than in night school or at home watching the game. When the lights went out, Ricci went to work. And what a sickening work it was.

          Gregor Campelli called the meeting to order. They were a ragtag bunch, barely two dozen, all polishing some form of firearm. Yet, in organized crime circles, they were Gotham's cultural elite. They were the Campelli mob, although they preferred to be known simply as the Organization.

          It was Campelli himself who came up with such melodramatics. He was a showman through and through, an extremist, who was always that much more enthusiastic, that much more obsessive, than everyone else. Campelli was a half-breed, a rare Scottish-Italian who's mother had married into the Organization. Therefore, the Campelli boy had had to struggle twice as hard to earn the respect of his peers.

          "All right, boys, c'mon, order already!" Campelli roared from his makeshift podium at the head of the room. "We got issues to discuss." He even went as far as to put on the rough, street-talking accent straight from The Untouchables. Ricci disliked him.

          "Now, as you know," Campelli began, "the Organization's been a little out o' pocket lately. We need cash, and we need it fast. Only there ain't much in Gotham worth hittin' these days." This was true enough. The city had reasserted itself brilliantly since the cataclysmic earthquake two years before, but its economy still struggled. "So, uh... any suggestions?"

          John Vincenzo raised his hand. John was the only man among them with a university degree. He was definitely the thinker of the gang, the only one that didn't have his name twisted into Jack-o or Johnny when he was addressed. Yet another victim of the family business. He slid his rimless glasses into place on his nose, and unfolded a newspaper from the attaché case that was forever at his side. "Yeah, Greg, I have something." Campelli gestured for him to continue. "I don't know if you guys've been following the news---" It was obvious they hadn't, "--- but WayneTech's just finished developing a super-chip, a computer processor that's going to send industry stocks rocketing..." A glance around at his companions revealed that he should get to the point. "Anyway, if we had the chip, and we sold it on the black market... We're talking big bucks, Greg. Serious money."

          Campelli nodded. "Where's the chip?"

          "Last I heard, the WayneTech Lab uptown. They've got the usual night security, but nothing major."

          Campelli smiled. "Okay. Any objections? Then let's go get us a chip. Ain't no time like the present. I know I'm itchin' for action. Saddle up, boys!"

          "I'm impressed, Lucius."

          Bruce turned the chip over and over in the palm of his hand, then tucked it away in his jacket pocket. "Alright. I'll put it in the safe at the office. We've got better security over there, anyway." Not that it would take much. Of the three guards assigned to the lab, two had been asleep when he'd arrived.

          "Sure thing, Bruce." Lucius led the way back to the main entrance. There had been a bit of a commotion when Bruce had walked in, for the various scientists gathered for a late-night session hadn't been expecting an inspection by their CEO. But, like scientific types the world over, sociality wasn't their strong point, and they'd quickly forgotten him and returned to research. "Sorry you didn't get a warmer reception.

          "Better they focus on their research." Bruce swung himself back into the limo. "Take care, Lucius. And don't work to late, okay?"

          Lucius only smiled and waved. They both knew he'd be toiling well into the wee hours.

          The limo pulled away, and Lucius turned back to the door. He'd just gather his things and start the long commute home... Hopefully he could make a dent in the paperwork on the train. In either case, it would be a long night---

          The rev of an engine pushed to his limit caused him to turn in his tracks. A sleek black sedan appeared suddenly, wheeling over to face him. He stared for a moment, transfixed by the headlights, deer-like.

          The sedan's rear doors burst open, and two men toting sub-machine guns stepped out. Lucius gasped. He'd seen gunplay before, Bruce Wayne had a way of attracting such events, but the sight of the weapons pointed in his direction always instilled horror.

          Two security guards appeared in his periphery, and were suddenly, bluntly, shot dead. Bruce had long ago adapted a policy of not arming his security guards, a policy that Lucius would dispute hotly tomorrow morning.

          One of the machine gunners grabbed Lucius by the collar and ushered him inside, while the other rounded up the scientists, who were more annoyed than frightened. The sedan continued to idle.

          "Okay," the first gunner began, spitting a cigarette butt to the carpet as he did so, "where's the chip?"

          Lucius let out a sigh. "You just missed it."

          The man was not impressed. "Don't gimme that crap. Fork it over." He waved the weapon menacingly.

          Lucius rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry, but the chip is on its way to a safe place. There's nothing I can do for you."

          "John!" the thug barked at his compatriot, "Is this little puke tellin' the truth?"

          John Vincenzo looked Lucius over. "It's feasible."

          "What?"

          "Maybe."

          "Oh." The thug wavered. "So... whadda we do?"

          John seized Lucius by the throat. "We find out where." He began to squeeze. Lucius gasped, his jaw flapping open as though he were a fish out of water. "Well?" John inquired, increasing the pressure.

          "All right!" Lucius managed. John released him, and he spent a long moment rubbing his throat. "It's in Bruce Wayne's personal safe at Wayne Tower." He chuckled. "Good luck getting hold of it there. The place is a fortress."

          The gunman's face fell, but John only stepped back, his lips thinned. This was a challenge. He loved challenges.

          They bounded out to the car, and were off like a shot. Ricci was at the wheel, and swerved in and out of the sparse late-night traffic as he gasped, "Didja get it?"

          "Uh-uh," John informed him. "Wayne Tower. Go!"

          Wayne Tower was one of many buildings in Gotham's corporate sector that had been remodeled and redesigned after the quake. The architects had jumped at the chance to remold the towers image, from jagged and gothic to space-age and Utopian. But to Bruce, it was still imposing, even unnerving. It was the tallest building in Gotham, without rival, and it was his. And for some reason, the phrase, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely" kept coming to mind.

          He rode the elevator alone, in silence, savoring the feeling of acceleration. The building was deserted, for the clock was nearing midnight, and Bruce wouldn't allow any workaholics besides himself in his employ. You went home at six o'clock or you spent a week at the company spa.

          His office occupied the entire top story of the structure. From here, he had an incredible view of the city in every direction. Bruce was not one for politics, was not passionate about a great many things. But the things he did feel for he felt for with a frightening intensity. Gotham was one of them. This city was his home. He loved it.

          He circumnavigated his desk, and within seconds had the wall-mounted safe open. This was where he kept his personal records, passport, birth certificate and so forth. It was safer than any safe deposit box. He slid the chip inside, and quickly closed and locked the door.

          "Put your hands on your head, and turn around slowly."

          The voice was a tad nasal, dripping with malicious intent. Bruce knew the caliber of person he was dealing with immediately. He turned.

          Three men, each with a sub-machine gun on his hip, stood in the office doorway. He cursed quietly. He hadn't bothered locking the front door. He'd planned to be back down inside five minutes. Damn.

          The men surrounded him, and one flicked on the office lights. They wore pinstriped suits, not the windbreaker and ski mask that was the uniform of most thugs. These were high-society mobsters.

          "The chip, Mister Wayne," one said, in an oddly well-articulated tone.

          Bruce dropped his hands to his sides. "I don't think so, gentlemen. The only one who knows the combination to the safe is me. And I'll be damned if I'm going to just let you walk in here and break the law."

          He'd obviously struck a nerve. One of the thugs bolted forward, tapping him in the chin with the barrel of his gun. "We don't have time for this! Give us the chip, or I'll splash you across the carpet!"

          Anyone else in Bruce's position would've folded, would've given in then and there. But Bruce Wayne was a different kind of man. He'd trained for this situation, exhaustively. His fist snapped out at light speed, catching the thug in the stomach. As he doubled over, Bruce seized the machine gun, flipped it, and brought the butt down hard on his attacker's head.

          "Shoot 'im, John!" another of the mobsters cried as his teammate fell in a heap.

          'John' sighed. "He has the combination. And might I remind you to not address me by name when we're committing a crime?"

          It was obvious who was the brains of this operation. John stepped over the body, and shoved Bruce backward. "Mister Wayne, life could get very unpleasant for you, sir, unless you open that safe."

          Bruce turned to the safe, raised his hand---

          ---and stabbed at the button just to the right of the safe.

          A shrill alarm erupted from all sides of the office. John cursed, whirling.

          "The police are on their way," Bruce intoned. "It might be a good idea for you to be on yours."

          The two conscious mobsters bolted for the office door, and swung into the elevator. Bruce dimmed the office lights, cut the alarm, and dialed open the safe. Working quickly, he jimmied open the safe's false back, and withdrew from the hidden compartment a bundled costume, which he donned quickly, fluidly, with practiced ease.

          He took to the window sill as the Batman, the Darknight Detective, scourge of Gotham's criminal element. And he was about to met out his own harsh brand of justice.

          He leapt into freefall without hesitation, eyes riveted on the street below. As if by magic, a grapple-gun appeared in one hand, and loosed its high-density cable. Arcing gently across the chasm between buildings, Batman let his feet find purchase on a building across the street, and repeated the procedure, rocketing downward in smooth arcs.

          He reached street level just as the two gangsters did. They both sprinted for a black sedan parked on the curb. In a flurry of movement and shadow, Batman was there, catching the one named John by the shirt and tossing him haphazardly through the air into a brick wall. He didn't rise.

          The last of the mobsters, Ricci, managed his way into the sedan's driver seat, and gunned the engine. He leveled his sub-machine gun in the crook of his elbow, and fired a short burst at the Dark Knight. It was ineffective, but it sent the vigilante diving for cover. That accomplished, Jimmy sped off into the night.

          He cruised through two intersections unhindered, but by the third a trio of squad cars, who'd been responding to the alarm, caught up with him. He pushed the sedan past ninety miles an hour, wishing the whail of sirens would go away so he could concentrate. This was a real, live, edge-of-your-seat car chase.

          The police in the squad cars were weary. Too often they'd seen this sort of situation result in death. Still, they gave chase vehemently, so vehemently in fact that they failed to notice the sleek black form bringing up the rear.

          The Batmobile was between them then, the roar of its V-12 Twin Turbo engine filling the air. It pulled ahead, and closed the gab between them and the sedan.

          Ricci swore in three different languages, hard to do since he only knew one. The police had been bad enough. If the Batman got a hold of him... He'd heard some stories that were too terrible to repeat. He wasn't willing to become a statistic.

          They roared out of central Gotham, through a residential block into a ghetto, and then up Crime Alley. Batman's grip tightened ever so slightly on the wheel. This was where it had begun, all those years ago. The mugger, the well-to-do family on their way home. Two shots that would radiate around his head for the rest of his life. His world shattered, his parents dead. Only the criminal element to blame.

          He was back to focusing on the task at hand once they rounded a corner. The sedan sideswiped a late-night bus, but came out unscathed, and barreling up an exit ramp onto the highway that looped around Gotham like a noose. The turn was too quick for the squad cars, but the Batmobile managed it, barely.

          Ricci had the sedan skip across the highway and down a winding dirt road. They were just on the edge of Gotham Heights, and the engine was starting run ragged. He wasn't sure how much more he could milk from it.

          The Batmobile loomed in his rear-view mirror, looking like a predatory animal. It nudged the sedan gently, then harder. Its cockpit cycled open, and Batman stood in the open air, cape billowing in the wind.

          Looking like a predatory animal.

          Ricci didn't bother to marvel at the fact that the Batmobile stuck to the curves of the road with Formula One precision, even driver-less. He was too fixated on the Caped Crusader. What was he up to?

          Suddenly, Batman vaulted the distance between the cars. He came crashing down on the roof, denting it, and his gloved hand slung through the driver's side window.

          Ricci panicked. He flailed, he swatted at the hand, dimly ware of trees nipping past on either side. Finally, in a moment of murderous clarity, he pointed his sub-machine gun roofward and let fly.

          Batman somersaulted backward evenly, landing on the hood of the Batmobile and stepping back into the cockpit without even a hint of distress. Ricci shook his head in disbelief.

          The end of the road was suddenly upon them. He skipped back across the highway and into the city. Suddenly, at least a half a dozen squad cars were behind him, as well as unmarked cars, and even a van. All with lights and sirens blazing. And leading the pack was the Batmobile. It was horrible.

          Batman hadn't counted on the police turnout either, but it seemed an effective idea. He lifted a CB microphone from the dashboard. "Batman to GCPD."

          "Gordon here," came the gravelly, no-nonsense voice of Police Commissioner James Gordon, obviously riding in one of the cars.

          "Thanks for coming out, Jim," Batman began. "He's heading for the river. For the bridge."

          "Yeah, we know. We've had County set up a road block on the other side."

          "I've got a better idea. That's a separating bridge, isn't it?"

          "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I see. Will do."

          The engine was rattling now, and Ricci's panic was increasing. He was mentally and physically exhausted. How much further would he have to go?

          The bridge over Gotham River was suddenly on the horizon. If he could get across the bridge, he could probably lose himself in the woody suburbs that bordered the city and the country. He pressed his foot farther into the floor.

          Suddenly, his eyes picked up something about the bridge. Movement. Slow, but steady movement. His eyes widened. The bridge was splitting in two, and both halves were rising. It was one of those separating bridges, built for allowing larger ships out of the harbor. He swallowed. Could he make it? If he did, then he'd definitely be safe. But if the bridge was too steep---

          He hit the first few speed bumps hard, heard the tinkle of metal as bits of the chassis were lost. Didn't matter. He barreled up the bridge, bearing down on the end that protruded in the air. Could he...?

          At the last second he decided he couldn't. No way in hell he could make the jump. He slammed the break, and twisted the wheel hard to the right. The tires screeched, begged for mercy, and for a moment he thought the car might flip. Luckily, it only skidded to a stop on the edge of the bridge. He let himself out, staring for a moment down over the edge into the murky blackness that was the river. Then he threw up.

          The police ground to a halt at the base of the bridge, but the Batmobile pulled up next to the spent sedan. As every available gun within the ranks of the officers gathered was drawn and brought to bear, Batman leapt into the open, and stalked toward his prey.

          Jimmy Ricci was having none of it. This great beast coming at him, ready to beat him and drag him back to a mute gray prison cell... it was enough to unhinge the mind.

          In fact, it did.

          Ricci had a small Magnum nestled against his hip, a holdover from his small-time robbery days. He plucked it out, and unloaded six powerful shots into the Batman. As each round left the gun, it kicked, bruising his hands, but he didn't care.

          Each round was dead on. Batman took each in the midsection. He felt his Kevlar armor crack, felt himself being driven backward. Then he was over the edge, and falling. His vision was fading in and out, and he had a feeling that one of the shots might've gotten through. In any event, the water was rushing up, and he had to---

          His firearm spent, Ricci swiveled to face the police. As one, in a terrible wave of thunder, the GCPD fired. At least twenty bullets hit Jimmy Ricci, killing him instantly, slamming him back into the sedan.

          "Hold your fire! Hold your fire, dammit!" Jim Gordon cried. Silence reigned once more, as all eyes were trained on the bridge waiting for the Batman to sweep majestically into view.

          He was nowhere to be seen.