Chapter 17: The First Batsuit
The instant Aunt May embraced him, Batman's pupils dilated, his body stiffened. Shock and fear nearly consumed him entirely.
For several seconds Batman even wanted to flee in panic. He felt deep within, eight-year-old Bruce Wayne screaming wildly trying to grasp this moment of warmth, only to be viciously suppressed by Batman.
Everything he'd done in this world ultimately served one purpose—returning to Gotham. Peter's identity was only maintained to achieve that goal.
"Peter... God, you're injured."
Seeing her nephew Peter standing motionless, Aunt May looked up and immediately covered her mouth. She forcibly pulled him inside, pressing him into a chair.
During his battle with the Spider Slayer, Batman had taken several punches pursuing efficiency. He himself didn't care, but seeing his swollen eye, Aunt May couldn't help shedding tears.
The old woman sobbed while hurrying to the freezer for an ice pack to press against his eye. Heartache and guilt nearly drained all her strength.
'I am Batman. I must play Peter's role well. I... will protect Aunt May, Peter. Until I return to Gotham."
Batman's hands trembled slightly. He stood up, supporting Aunt May, embracing her:
"Aunt May, I'm fine. I just took a fall."
Batman didn't know how Peter's birthday proceeded. Hurriedly bidding Aunt May farewell, he returned to the lightless, seemingly isolated abandoned shipyard.
He didn't rest. Overnight, he completely disassembled the powered armor and glider stripped from the Spider Slayer, thoroughly modifying them according to his needs.
As night deepened, this suit gradually took form.
Two AM. Hell's Kitchen. A small alley behind an orphanage.
"Boss Joseph, you're sure we should start with this orphanage?" A thug looked with admiration at the broad back ahead.
"That's right. This is Kingpin's territory. I heard he often volunteers at this orphanage. Burn it down. This is a warning to Kingpin, showing him who can truly become New York's underground king."
The figure turned around. The dim yellow streetlight illuminated him, revealing a familiar square face:
"Also, Joseph is a thing of the past. From now on, use my new name... Hammerhead!"
The thug swallowed. If previously he'd followed Joseph from desperation, now he followed Hammerhead because of his ambition.
And that nearly indestructible head.
Shot in the forehead by Black Cat at the abandoned shipyard, Joseph hadn't died but miraculously survived, though his fractured skull required replacement with a metal skull.
A blessing in disguise. With his metal skull, Joseph no longer feared bullets. His ambition no longer limited itself to a small gang of seven or eight thugs. Instead, he targeted Kingpin, the crime boss massively expanding territory.
"Have the brothers stand watch. Paul, go start the fire." Hammerhead instructed.
The thug called Paul nodded. Waving to subordinates, soon the newly formed "Hammerhead Gang" members scattered in twos and threes. Paul himself pulled out bottles of alcohol just robbed from a convenience store to make Molotov cocktails.
Halfway through, Paul suddenly remembered something:
"Boss Hammerhead, that guy shouldn't come again, right?"
Last time's arms deal at the abandoned shipyard was Joseph's first attempt transforming a small gang into a large one.
With those firearms, through resale and intimidation, a seven-or-eight-person gang could become a "large" fifty-plus gang.
Joseph had even specially hired Squid-Man to ensure the operation's success.
The operation ultimately failed. A suddenly appearing black shadow completely disrupted their plans. Joseph took a bullet to the forehead. Squid-Man fled on the spot.
"Last time was Manhattan. This time Hell's Kitchen." Hammerhead shook his head disdainfully. "New York's so big, even Spider-Man can't appear everywhere simultaneously."
"Don't worry. After the fire we'll..."
Before Hammerhead finished speaking, the dim yellow streetlight overhead began flickering. He heard a crisp crack, followed by pained, suppressed whimpering.
Paul's Molotov-making movements froze. His mind instinctively thought of that black shadow.
"Who? Come out!" Hammerhead angrily whispered, simultaneously touching his head. The metal skull gave him sufficient courage.
Bang!
No one answered. Only another sound of heavy impact against human body echoed through the alley.
Hammerhead's face twitched. He looked toward the alley's dark section but saw nothing.
Bang!
Continuous sounds rang out around them. Hammerhead tried calling all his gang members to his side. Receiving no response, he gripped his pistol, disengaged the safety, and carefully walked step by step toward the alley's depths.
Paul also followed with raised gun, slowly advancing. He and Hammerhead simultaneously saw a black shadow hanging in the air.
The shadow swayed, arms and legs flailing. It looked nothing like a human. More like a monster about to pounce the next second.
"Boss..." Paul called quietly. His legs had gone weak. Retreat tempted him.
Hammerhead glanced back at Paul, his eyes sharp:
"Follow!"
Paul swallowed, his heart pounding wildly. But he still mustered courage to follow Hammerhead's slow advance.
They completely left the dim yellow streetlight, entering darkness. Finally seeing the black shadow clearly.
It was a gang member participating in tonight's orphanage arson. Both arms and legs broken, neck twisted grotesquely, foaming at the mouth, swaying in midair.
Aside from faint breathing remaining, this guy was no different from dead.
Paul and Hammerhead nearly breathed sighs of relief. At least this wasn't a monster. But immediately after, their hearts leapt to their throats.
What kind of person could silently accomplish this under their noses?
They'd just been under the streetlight, at most twenty meters from other gang members.
"Retreat first, ret—" Hammerhead's breathing grew increasingly rapid. He felt he'd provoked something he shouldn't have.
Hearing the boss say retreat, Paul immediately turned, wishing he had two more legs to run faster.
But the moment he turned, a huge "thud" sounded behind him, followed by almost simultaneous cracking of breaking bones.
Paul froze in place. Wanted to run, but weak legs couldn't move. Wanted to turn back, but inner fear told him never to do that.
Finally he still mechanically twisted his neck, gaze turning bit by bit backward.
He saw a pair of sharply pointed ears, and eyes cold and inhuman.
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