"I saw your announcement at the hospital, Master Bruce," Alfred told him as Bruce climbed into the back seat of the shiny black car Alfred was driving.

"What did you think?" Bruce asked.

"You made an impressive speech," Alfred complimented. "I was rather surprised by your sudden generosity. With your plans to fight crime, rebuilding hospitals was unexpected."

"It needed to be done," Bruce replied. "Besides helping the people of Gotham who require a decent hospital, it also covers my activities. Because I'm rebuilding the hospital and maintaining a temporary facility, my purchasing of medical supplies and equipment won't raise any red flags. Some of what I bought will end up in the cave for my personal use."

"I hope you won't need the cave medical supplies on a regular basis, Master Bruce," Alfred said.

"Me too," Bruce agreed.

"Did you have this planned all along, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired.

"Not entirely," Bruce denied. "I had originally intended on providing large amounts of inventory to the hospital as a charity donation, but after the GothCorp mess, I decided I could do better."

"Replacing a dangerously built hospital is an admirable accomplishment, Master Bruce," Alfred complimented.

Bruce smiled. "There's no point in tearing down the bad if we don't put something better in its place."

                                                                                            ***

The sun went down in the west, and clouds covered the darkening sky, cutting off what little light was offered by the stars and moon. The grounds of Wayne Manor were concealed in gloom, and ominous shadows were cast by the sharply angled structure.

Bruce entered the garage attired in all black. Even though he planned on wearing a ski mask to cover his face, he'd still applied enough makeup and prosthetics to alter his appearance should the mask be lost in a scuffle.

Alfred was waiting in the van.

"Are you ready, Master Bruce?" he inquired of him.

"My training would say yes, but my nerves might argue the point," Bruce replied as he climbed into the van with his crime fighting accomplice.

"Where do you wish to go?" Alfred asked. He turned on the engine and opened the garage door by remote.

"There was police chatter about some shady deals going down near a gambling establishment called The Stacked Deck," Bruce informed him. "Why don't we start there?"

"Very good, Sir," Alfred accepted. He put the van in gear and departed from the garage.  The headlights created cones of brightness, illuminating only the roadway in front of the van and little else.

Bruce and Alfred didn't speak on the entire journey. They'd undertaken missions before, but this would be the first incidence where they'd been unable to investigate ahead of time. They were going in blind and had no idea what might be waiting for them.

                                                                                            ***

"Please be careful, Master Bruce," Alfred bid to him as he parked the van a block from the targeted building.

"I will do my best," Bruce promised. He pulled a ski mask down over his face. "I'll meet you at the rendezvous location."

Bruce exited the van and slipped into the darkness of the night. Only a few of the streetlights were working in this part of town, and of those, the majority flickered as if teetering on the edge of burning out as well. It left Bruce multiple areas of shadow in which to hide, but the concealment was fickle and could disappear in a momentary flash. Bruce avoided all the lights regardless of their functionality.

Climbing a pile of old crates sitting behind a fish market, Bruce reached the roof and ran silently across to the far edge where he crouched down to get a view of the seedy gambling hall. The Stacked Deck was a haven for all manner of scum, and even in crime ridden Gotham, it had a bad reputation. The cops knew better than to come here, at least the ones who weren't on the take. Bruce knew this was an ideal place to hit as everyone here was guilty of something and there was almost no chance of encountering an innocent. The high concentration of criminals also increased the danger as he would be facing more opponents.

Bruce had brought some gear with him to be better prepared for whatever problems might arise. Reaching into a pouch slung at his side by a strap crossing his chest diagonally, Bruce removed a pair of binoculars and examined the notorious casino and bar. The Stacked Deck was dark in appearance, even with the neon lights of its name and the highlighted playing cards fanned out behind it. The orange light spilling from the two front windows didn't reach too far onto the surrounding pavement of the parking lot. Despite the terrible reputation of the place, over a dozen cars were parked out front.

Bruce could only see part of what was going on behind the building as the structure itself blocked his field of vision. He was considering changing positions for a better vantage point when an approaching motor caught his attention. He directed his binoculars toward the sound and watched a delivery truck pull up beside the gambling hall. Several goons exited the building and rolled up the back door on the truck, inspecting its contents.

From Bruce's perch on the roof, he could see the crates of automatic rifles being opened. Without a weapon of his own, his combat skills would be no match for the long range killing power of the guns. As much as he wanted to break up the arms deal, he decided to err on the side of caution and come back to these criminals when he had something to even the playing field. Bruce was about to sneak away when he heard the slide on a rifle being pulled back and snap forward again to chamber a round. The noise had come from behind him, and Bruce knew he was no longer alone on the roof.

"Where do you think you're going?" taunted the criminal with a gun pointed at Bruce. "How about the morgue?"

Bruce hurled his binoculars toward the thug, distracting him long enough for Bruce to take two running steps and close the distance between them. Rather than trying to lay hold of the weapon and risk a tug of war, Bruce performed a backflip, his shoes swinging up to catch the gun from underneath and send it flying into the air. Before the now weaponless criminal realized what was happening, Bruce unleashed his attack, striking quickly to disable the man as fast as possible. The man went down with only a few perfectly placed hits, but the noise had drawn the attention of the other goons.

Determined to eliminate the intruder and test the weapons they'd just purchased, the gang members from the bar opened fire on Bruce, peppering the roof and building with white hot lead. The wood siding exploded in firework style bursts of splinters, forcing Bruce to drop down flat against the roof or risk getting hit by a stray shot.

Crawling away from the side of the building with the gunmen, Bruce stayed low while looking for an exit. Hindsight told him he should've found one before the bullets started flying, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Lunging off the roof, Bruce snared a hold on a hanging bundle of crates wrapped in a cocoon of a cargo net. The cargo net bundle was suspended from a pulley mounted to a bracket extending out from the roof of the building. When he took hold of it, the increase in weight tripped the pulley; Bruce and the bundle were barely slowed at all as they plummeted to the ground.

The gunmen wasted no time in running around to the opposite side of the building in order to continue shooting at Bruce. He dodged and weaved between the stacks of wooden pallets, bullets impacting around him in a deadly hailstorm of metal.

Gotham was positioned on an island, connected to the rest of the world by a spider web of bridges. It made a good portion of the city waterfront property, but it also constricted growth. Tonight, the proximity of the water provided Bruce with an escape. Increasing his speed to a full sprint, Bruce built up as much velocity as he could in preparation for diving into the water, but before he reached the edge, Bruce was shot. The bullet hit him in the right shoulder, throwing him off balance. He stumbled, slamming hard into a metal dumpster as he was thrown sideways. Searing pain exploded outward in fiery waves from the injury, but Bruce forced himself to ignore it and keep moving. He knew the one bullet wound would be the least of his problems if he didn't escape the gunmen in pursuit.

Because he'd lost the majority of his momentum, Bruce didn't so much dive into the water as fall. The temperature of the liquid surrounding him was cold, and the salt burned at his injury, intensifying the pain. Having planned for the possibility of ending up in the water, Bruce had brought something to assist him. Rather than being forced to rely on the improvised snorkel he'd made from an ink pen the last time things had gone wrong, Bruce pulled out a small rebreather and gripped it between his teeth. The device filtered the carbon dioxide he exhaled, purifying it enough for him to be able to breathe back in clean air. Although the rebreather's size limited its use to only a short duration, Bruce only needed it long enough to escape the gunmen.

Swimming was an agonizing experience, but Bruce knew staying put would be potentially fatal, so he forced himself to fight against the pain and keep moving away. Bullets lanced down through the water, leaving trails of air in their wake before the water flowed back together. Bruce gritted his teeth and swam harder.