Robin stared at the criminal underworld around him, noted the close looks of the rugged grunts who lived in this dank area of Gotham, all while continuing to look at the screen on his motorcycle as he followed the only lead he had to find the mayor’s murderer.
He eventually brought the vehicle to a stop in front of an old establishment. It was a ragged bar with drunks stumbling out of its doors as they were thrown flying by stern-looking bodyguards. Robin got off of his motorcycle and walked straight up to the bar, past the drunken men who were lying on the pavement groaning, toward the bodyguards who were watching him with cocked eyebrows.
He unfurled his staff as he drew closer. As they barred his way forward he came to a full stop.
“You’re not allowed in here,” one of the bodyguards said, his hand resting on the handgun on his hip.
Robin looked at him, his lips drawn in a stern line. “I’m not asking permission.”
Before they could react he attacked, using his staff to quickly incapacitate them before walking into the bar, his red-orange cape flowing behind him.
The two-story establishment fashioned like a saloon was full of rowdy folk celebrating for a very apparent reason as the several televisions broadcast the mayor’s death. And then a hush fell over the place as they noticed him standing on the threshold of the bar.
“Who here killed Mayor Barber Anistello?” he demanded.
He actually wasn’t expecting an answer so he was shocked when he heard a woman from above say, “I killed him!”
Before he had time to look up he felt something really heavy fall on the top of his head. His eyes lolled in his head and he fell forward, unconscious.
Harley Quinn giggled as she hurried down the stairs of the “saloon” toward Robin’s unconscious form. By his head, sat the weighted ball that she had dropped on his head to knock him out. Behind her, a trio of black-masked guards who were a part of The Flock followed closely, the guns in their hands dissuading anyone in the bar from getting any ideas.
The bartender, a gruff-looking man with tattoos on his arms, pointed at her. “Get that man out of here. It’s bad luck having someone like him in here.”
She grinned at him before skipping toward him and tickling his chin with one finger. “No problem, sweetie. Hee-hee.”
She then turned to her guards. “Get him out of here!” she barked.
Two of her guards picked Robin up and dragged him out of the bar and with a casual swing of her bat she followed after them, winking at the rugged scallywags who couldn’t keep their gazes from her rear end. As the doors closed behind them they walked around the bar to the back of the establishment where a car was waiting.
“The boss will be so happy with me,” she announced as she skipped forward joyously.
The guards picked Robin up and dumped him into the trunk of the car before seating themselves into the vehicle and driving off.
Lieutenant Lynx sped down the street, her grip tightening on the wheel as she drew closer and closer to the pinging dot, hence Robin. And then, she found his motorcycle. It was parked in the shadows across from a bar.
Robin clearly had headed into the bar, for there two massive men still lying unconscious in the street outside of the place. A couple of drunks were lying nearby, groaning and rolling around in obvious pain.
Lynx got out of the car, unholstering her gun as she hurried to the establishment. She knew this was probably a bad idea because anyone could be in there but if Robin was in trouble she had to help him.
When she burst into the raucous establishment an expected hush fell over everyone.
“Nobody move!” she yelled, pointing the gun at anyone closest to her.
The bartender reached for what was undoubtedly a gun underneath the bar but she dissuaded that by shooting the bar near his hand.
“I see you!” she said. “Don’t move!”
The man looked at her, his neck straining with tension. “You need to get the hell out of here,” he hissed menacingly.
Her gaze grazed the bar, looking for Robin and when she didn’t see him her heartbeat quickened.
“Where’s Robin?” she demanded.
“Harley Quinn and her goons took him,” the bartender announced nonchalantly.
Lynx’s eyebrows furrowed. “Who?”
The man seemed legitimately shocked. “You’re a cop and you don’t know who Harley Quinn is?”
She shook her head as she started to grow frustrated. “This isn’t a time for jokes! Where is Robin?”
“I told you already, lady. Harley Quinn took him. Where, I don’t know? Now,” his eyes flitted to a few men in the bar who were sitting on the edge of their seats as if they were waiting for the right opportunity to spring on her, “you better get out of here before we forget about your gun and show you why your kind doesn’t come down here.”
Clenching her jaw, she backed away, keeping her gun trained on the bartender while her gaze took in the glares that were given to her by everyone in the bar. As she passed through the bar’s threshold she turned and sprinted toward her car. Behind her, the noise of tables being turned over and chairs sliding mingled with the grunts and shouts of the bar’s inhabitants followed after her.
She hurried into her car as a rowdy crowd of gun-toting criminals poured from the bar prepared to kill her for entering the premises of their establishment. She pressed hard on the gas, sending the vehicle jolting forward with a squeak of the tires as they pelted her car with bullets. She ducked as the two right windows were shattered and yelped as a stray bullet caught her in the shoulder. Despite the pain she kept on driving, hurrying away from the bar and turning on a street that would lead her out of the criminal underworld.
She reached for the communications device in her car, wincing as a white-hot lance of pain coursed down the length of her arm.
“All police units, this is Lieutenant Lynx speaking. We need immediate search and rescue for Robin. I repeat, immediate search and rescue for Robin. He’s in trouble!”