Dark Matter

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:01pm): Nightwing and Spider-Man need help, sending coordinates now.

Message Failed; No Signal

Barbara (07:01pm): Emergency, everyone get to Nightwing.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

So he has a bit of a situation here.

From left to right: Killer Croc, hunched low for a pounce, flexing his meaty claw tipped fingers, watches Peter hungrily, breath steaming in frigid air. Beside him stands Clayface, a man with skin the color of white clay, muscles gradually growing thicker by the moment; when he sees Peter glance at him, he grins, revealing rows of jagged, stone-like teeth, and clenches fists the size of small boulders. Next to him, front and center to the whole group is the Joker in his purple suit, gripping an old crowbar covered in the rust like stains formed from dried blood, teeth bared in a wide slasher’s smile. To his right is a man in a simple two toned suit, one half white, the other half black, matching the wildly different halves of his face. One normal, the other horrifically scarred, as if freshly scorched from some massive fire, lips peeled back in a sneering snarl. Two-Face. He regards Peter coldly, idly flipping a coin in one hand. And beside him is an absolute nightmare: a spindly man standing well over six feet tall wearing a leather mask over his face. The eyes and rictus grin mouth shelter a hellfire red glow within, as if there isn’t a man behind the mask at all. In his hands rests a scythe with a trailing chain welded to the handle. Peter can hear the clink of bottles inside his tattered coat as he moves. The Scarecrow.

Five of Gotham’s worst, and all of them looking right at him. He definitely isn’t cutting an intimidating figure here: all of them tower over him, wild eyed and grinning at him cruelly. They stalk towards him, wolves circling wounded prey. The distant crack-crack of sniper fire echoes across the air, at odds with the snow gently falling from the slate gray sky above. That gunfire means he’s well and truly on his own; Nightwing can swing fast, but he can’t swing fast enough to avoid snipers. It also means that Nightwing is still alive. There’s no need to shoot a dead man, after all.

Peter hunches into a fighter’s stance, thinking quickly. His left side is stiff; the skin around the bullet wound is already growing tight from the no doubt massive bruise forming across the length of his torso. He takes a moment to shoot a glob of web fluid across the wound to stop the bleeding. He has to bite back a sudden shout of pain; holy shit, that hurt.

He’s at a massive disadvantage, to put it lightly. He slowly backs away as the others approach, considering his options. He doesn’t have many: he could run away, but that just means these assholes will find and kill Nightwing. Not an option. But he sure as hell can’t fight Gotham’s worst on his own.

Can he?

Peter blinks behind his mask. Maybe he can. Oracle had said she was calling for help. He doesn’t have to win the fight. He just has to keep them busy long enough for back up to arrive. And the longer he keeps from fighting, the better off he’ll be.

Okay. So stall. Put up a tough front. Don’t let them see how drained he is. Peter straightens his back and faces the approaching gang, chin held high. Even doing that much pulls at his wound, but he pushes through the pain.

Time to bluff.

“Okay, this is how it's gonna go,” Peter says, slowly shifting in place to keep them all in view. He manages to keep from sounding breathless and exhausted, but only barely. "Right now, every Bat in the city is on their way. The whole crew. Plus the GCPD, maybe the Justice League--"

"Hardly," Joker says dryly. "The only bats in this city are right here. Nightwing up there--” He points to the building above, and the steady cracking thunder of sniper rifles. “And you, down here. With us.”

“He’s hurt,” Scarecrow says, pointing his scythe towards the bloodstain that covers Peter’s side. His voice is gentle, even, and unnervingly calm, at complete odds with his appearance. “Look at the blood.”

“He won’t last five seconds,” Clayface remarks. He sounds annoyed and bored. “Get it over with.”

“Croc? Tear his arms off,” Two-Face says.

Killer Croc laughs, lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His nostrils flare at the scent of blood, and Peter can see the feeding frenzy forming behind the monster’s eyes. He moves with a heavy limp, favoring the leg that Loki impaled at the school.

So much for stalling. Time to show them he means business.

Peter aims both web shooters at Killer Croc and fires. Twin tendrils shoot out. One tangles up Croc’s good leg, forcing him to land too heavily on the wounded one. He lets out a startled snarl when it starts to collapse beneath him. The other tendril sticks squarely to his scaly chest, holding as tightly as any of the buildings Peter would swing from on a normal night. He still intends to swing, but the method is a bit stranger tonight.

Peter braces both feet on the ground, enabling his sticky powers, and pulls, putting his strength behind it. He yanks Killer Croc right off of his feet and into the air, twisting his body around to swing the confused and frightened lizard man in a wide arc that ends at Two-Face. The two men crash into each other with thunderous force, cursing and crying out in pain as they’re bodily flung across the roof to land on the far side ledge. He hears Two-Face’s arms and ribs break and knows he won’t be a problem after this. Peter wouldn’t normally use that much strength, but he needs to send a message to the rest, to make them second guess their plan.

The others stare at their comrades, then face him, stunned. Peter stares them down, fists clenched, doing his best to keep from swaying on his feet. He can feel a trickling warmth seep out of his side.

“Who’s next?” he asks.

The others hesitate. Peter considers that a victory. Every second they aren’t trying to kill him is one second closer to help reaching him.

He just has to hold the line. Just long enough for help to reach him.

* * *

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:05pm): If anyone can see this, respond.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Peter says when the Joker, Scarecrow, and Clayface start to move towards him. Adrenaline is numbing the pain in his side and chasing away the exhaustion. “And you don’t want the hard way. So if you’d all just line up with your hands out so I can web ‘em up, that’d be great--”

“Oh,” Joker breathes. “I’m going to have so much fun with you, little spider.”

Peter points at him without missing a beat. “Okay, wow, creepy. You’re definitely next in time out--”

Clayface swings one massive fist at him from halfway across the roof. His arms lengthens, stretches, and flies straight at Peter with enough speed that Peter barely has enough time to turn with the punch. He still catches a rock hard set of knuckles to the side of his face, but the force is mitigated. Instead of losing several teeth and breaking his jaw, the punch merely rattles his mind and flings him off the side of the building.

He enters free fall, sailing towards the ground alongside thick, fat snow flakes. After losing two precious seconds of awareness while in free fall, he raises one wrist and engages his web shooter.

It clicks. Nothing comes out.

Empty.

Peter doesn’t have enough time to reload them. He thinks, for one panicked second, I need help!

Something gold flashes above him, and the sound of wings follows. Not natural wings. Falcon’s wings. Moments later, strong hands grip Peter’s outstretched arm and slow his descent. It’s hard work; the snow storm is picking up speed, and Sam has to fight against a rising wind that keeps trying to slam them both into the building. He manages it, wings braced against the wind snow like an angel’s.

“I’ve got you!” Sam yells. “Don’t let go!”

Peter clutches Sam’s hand, confused, hopeful, and desperately relieved by his sudden appearance. He even helps Sam move them away from the building and into a controlled fall towards the ground.

And then Sam disappears. One moment he’s there, lowering Peter safely to the ground, and the next, Peter is in full free fall again. He barely has enough time to register that Sam is gone before hitting the ground.

* * *

To: Bruce Wayne

Barbara (07:10pm): Dick is in trouble. He needs you.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

Peter lays on the ground, catching his breath. He can feel the burning itch of his healing factor kick in along his ribs. He must have cracked one or two with that last fall. He’s damn lucky he didn’t crack his back. He lays still, catching his breath, and lets his healing factor work as much as it can. Horrified motorists and pedestrians stare at him. They’re quick to make a hasty retreat when Clayface slithers down the side of the building with Joker and Scarecrow in his arms. He sets them down on the sidewalk some distance from Peter.

Peter groans. So much for letting his healing factor kick in.

“Why did it push me back here?” Sam asks, furious.

“Because the boy needs to use the Stone to summon you. He doesn’t know how to do that consciously, and when you appear, you are borrowing against his own life force,” Loki explains, his tone short. “Something he is rather short of at the moment.”

“So every time we appear, we drain him,” Bucky says.

“Then we better make our appearances count,” Fury says.

“Aw, the little spider survived the fall. Good. I was worried,” Joker says.

Peter clenches his eyes shut. He can’t fight them all alone. He needs help.

The Joker takes a few steps towards Peter, raising his crowbar. And then freezes.

The flash of gold is subtle this time. The form above him is real for only a moment: the black silhouetted figure of the Black Panther, standing in a fighter’s crouch above Peter, staring down Gotham’s worst. An eerie stillness comes from the King of Wakanda, and Gotham’s villains pause in genuine terror at this stark reminder of their own worst fear made manifest.

A moment later he disappears. He’s bought Peter time, nothing more. But that might be enough. Peter’s head is clearer now, sharper, and cycles back to the stall portion of his plan.

“So, hey, guys,” he says, pushing himself back onto his feet. That landing had been one of his rougher ones, to put it lightly. “While you’re all here, I’ve got a question or two.”

“Oh?” Joker asks, grinning at him.

“I might have stolen some plans from your hideout,” Peter says. A blatant lie, but he can protect Felicia with it, at least. He can do that much. “What’s with the machine? What’s it supposed to do?”

“Oh, that,” Joker says, his grin stretching wider. “That’s a gift for him.”

“Him?” Peter asks, taking a few more steps away.

“Yeah, him. He can’t bring his army here, so we’re gonna make one for him,” Clayface laughs, lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His eyes are opaque stones, glittering darkly in the snowy night.

“You’re being annoyingly cryptic right now,” Peter remarks, flexing his arms. His hand aches where it was broken when he first came to Gotham. And his arm flashes with pain from his stab wound; the swinging hasn’t been good for it.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about it too much,” Joker says idly. “Scarecrow? Your turn.”

The spindly man’s eyes flare red, the grin on his mask growing wider somehow. He idly swings his scythe on its chain. He’s unnervingly fast, and Peter has no doubt that the man is whipcord strong despite looking like a toothpick with a Halloween fetish.

His suspicions are confirmed when his spider senses flare and the scythe is suddenly in his thigh; Scarecrow had thrown it so quickly Peter had been unable to track it. Peter curses his lapse in attention and yanks the scythe out of his flesh. Blood pours out of the wound, but it’s already starting to slow; the wound is shallow, and is well on its way to healing. The biggest victim of that attack is his suit; a ragged tear traces the length of his thigh, letting in the cold and snow.

Scarecrow yanks back the scythe and traces its bloodied edge. The infernal glow within his mask grows brighter.

Peter quickly reloads his web shooters using the pellets Batman made. He pours some more distance between himself and Scarecrow, limping on his wounded leg.

This is gonna suck.

* * *

The Titans Network

Oracle (07:13pm): This is Oracle from Gotham City. Titans, Nightwing needs you.

Message Failed; Signal Lost

* * *

The Scarecrow is frighteningly efficient with his scythe. Without his spider sense and years of experience (short as they may be), Peter would’ve been sliced into pieces seconds after the fight began. As it is, he can barely dodge out of the way of most of Scarecrow’s attacks; the snow has grown heavier, obscuring his vision. Add to that general exhaustion, a mad sprint to suspend several tons of steel and metal between skyscrapers above, and an honest to god bullet wound and Peter just isn’t at his best.

The Scarecrow lands three big strikes against Peter; once across his chest, once in his bicep, and once down the length of his back. Every last one oozes blood into his ruined suit. Peter is starting to feel woozy. He tries to aim his web shooters but his arms are just a hair too slow. All three shots of web sail harmlessly past Scarecrow. After the last one misses him, Scarecrow stops advancing.

It occurs to Peter, far too late, that the Scarecrow’s goal isn’t to kill him. It’s to exhaust him. Which he’s done beautifully.

“Do you boys mind if I go next?” Joker asks, strolling up to Scarecrow, crowbar held loosely in one hand. “I’d like to get some licks in.”

Scarecrow stands aside, but produces a small vial from within his tattered coat: the liquid is a milky orange color, holding it out towards Joker. “Make sure to spray this on him before you land the killing blow. I want to study its effects.”

Joker’s face positively lights up. He beams, grabbing the vial and holding it up. “Oh, our little project together! I’m honored you brought it with you, dear boy!”

This is really going to suck.

Peter tries to push himself back onto his feet. His arms tremble with the effort, and he’s starting to feel dizzy. Where the hell is that back up? He can still hear sniper fire. It’s distant, muffled by the steadily falling snow.

“Ask for help,” Bucky says.

Help isn’t here yet, though. Who is he going to ask? Nightwing is closest, and he’s on a rooftop a block away

“Just ask for help!” Wanda snaps.

Okay.

He needs hel--

The crowbar strikes him across the back, sending him to his knees.

He needs--

The next blow strikes his head. Stars fill his vision, and a white roaring noise fills his ears. He becomes confused. For some reason, he can hear Ben, distantly, repeating an old ad from TV after a particularly rough shift at the fire station where he worked: Don’t worry May. I can take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’!

“Focus!” Fury snaps. “Ask us for help!”

Right. Right, he needs---

The Joker raises the crowbar for a third blow and Peter’s mind becomes overwhelmed with panic, interrupting his thoughts.

The blow never comes.

Two things happen instead: the rev of a motorcycle engine, and the snap of a pistol. The motorcycle, red and black, with the Batman’s signal painted across it, sails down the slick, snowy street and right into Clayface and Scarecrow. The rider, Red Hood, leaps off of the bike and aims his pistol at the Joker, firing three more times as he stalks towards Joker. The bullets strike home, all of them burying into the arm holding the crowbar. It falls from Joker’s thoroughly demolished arm and lands on ground with a rattling clatter, snow sticking to the bloodied surface. Red Hood holsters his gun and swipes the crowbar off the ground, closing in on the Joker.

What follows is one of the most brutal beatings Peter has ever seen. Red Hood does more than just put Joker on the ground; he destroys the arm the Joker used to wield that crowbar only seconds before. First his shoulder, then his elbow, then the delicate bones of his hand. All of them crushed and nearly flattened by a series of heavy, meaty thumps fueled more by rage than the pragmatic efficiency he’s seen Red Hood use in every fight up to this point. Either Red Hood really likes him or this is a bit personal for the guy.

The creepiest part is that the Joker just laughs during it.

Peter stops to catch his breath, to let his healing factor kick in, and then stands up. “Red, that’s enough.”

Red Hood stops and does a double take. “How the fuck are you even conscious right now?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Peter says, feeling anything but. “They’re trying to kill Nightwing. They ambushed us.”

Red Hood stiffens, and his grip on the crowbar tightens. “Where is he?”

“Up top,” Peter says, bracing himself against a car. His hand smears blood across the window, and a horrified driver stares up at him through it. “Snipers have him pinned down.”

Red Hood stops, listens, and seems to relax when he hears the steady crack-crack of gunfire from above. “If they’re still shooting at him, then he’s alive.”

“You need to go up and get rid of the snipers. I can’t make that swing right now, but you can--”

“He can handle himself. Nightwing is the best of us,” Red Hood snaps. “And like hell am I going to leave you alone to handle the worst Gotham has to offer.”

Peter blinks, momentarily thrown by Red Hood’s protective anger.

Which is a moment he should’ve used to warn the man about Clayface. The shapeshifter swells up and off of the ground, and then skids across it towards Red Hood’s open back. He slams into the Bat from behind, gripping his neck and slamming his head against the frozen ground. Red Hood’s helmet cracks under the first strike. The second shatters it. After the third, blood begins to seep through the ruined helmet.

* * *

Hall of Justice Network

Oracle (07:20pm): This is a general distress call from Gotham City. If anyone can see this, we need help.

Message Failed; No Signal

* * *

Red Hood is unconscious. He’s not fighting against Clayface anymore; that last strike to the head was too hard, too well placed. Peter is at a loss of what to do.

Think, think, think--

Peter can’t fight Clayface. If he was at full strength, he could make a go of it, but he’s not. He can’t wrench Clayface off of Red Hood, and he can’t fight him even if he could. So he needs to think outside the box. Which is a shame, because thinking is starting to become very, very difficult. He can hear Red Hood gasp and weakly struggle against Clayface’s weight, can hear his pounding heartbeat, and how his lungs begin to deflate from lack of air.

Peter’s panic is starting to climb. How the hell do you fight clay? It’s dirt you can’t just--

Peter’s eyes lock onto a bright red fire hydrant half covered by snow. He sprints over to it in a lumbering, shuffling gait, slipping across the ice and slush. He drives his heel across the lid covering one of the outlets. His strength hasn’t failed him yet; the lid cracks under his heel and water shoots out of the side of the hydrant. Peter braces himself, and then cups his hands over the water. It hurts and stings, and the cold numbers his hands within seconds, but he’s able to guide the water blast. He aims it right at Clayface’s chest.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Clayface is pretty damn big, and he falls harder than most. The water strikes him with enough force to send him flying off of Red Hood. It cuts right through him, making him roar in pain and fury. Peter doesn’t let up; he uses the water to chase Clayface away, forcing the monster towards a sewer grate. He melts down and slithers inside it, cursing Peter vehemently.

Peter is just about to let out a sigh of relief when someone flings snow and ice into his face. It blinds him, temporarily, and he backs away from the hydrant. He starts swiping at his eyes, clearing them just in time to see the Joker standing in front of him, grinning madly, holding that vial of milky orange liquid in his one good hand. His other arm, crushed beyond all recognition, hangs limply at his side.

"You may have won this one, kiddo, but I’ll make sure you don’t savor the victory," he says, in that same manic sing-song.

He slams his fist into Peter’s face, crushing the vial against his nose. An explosion of heat and pain sears his mask. He smells burning diesel and lavender for a brief moment, mixed with something else, and then he starts to laugh. It’s a strangely terrified, manic sort of laughter that hurts. And the fear that comes after is overpowering and all consuming.

Using strength he didn’t think he had left, Peter launches himself back into the Gotham sky, swinging away from the Joker, Two-Face, Clayface, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, and Red Hood. The fear toxin takes hold of him completely, and his terrified laughter echoes off of the buildings as he flees in a blind panic.

* * *

BATCHAT

Signal Restored; Messages Delivered.

Duke (07:25pm): what’s going on?

Tim (07:25pm): just got the message, suiting up

Steph (07:25pm): Cass and I are suiting up, too. We need the location, Babs.

Barbara (07:26pm): Sending now. Confirm that you got the coordinates.

Tim (07:26pm): Got them

Steph (07:27pm): confirmed, on our way

Duke (07:27pm): Confirmed.

Tim (07:28pm): Where’s Jason?

Barbara (07:29pm): Standby. I’ve finally got the news feed back.

Barbara (07:31pm): Witnesses are saying Spider-Man and Red Hood fought Joker, Killer Croc, Two-Face, and Scarecrow. Casualties unknown.

Tim (07:32pm): What the fuck?

Barbara (07:32pm): Jason’s suit isn’t responding to my pings. Spider-Man has been shot and is currently MIA. Nightwing is unaccounted for.

Barbara (07:34pm): Get there and find out what the hell happened. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to take.