In the shadow-draped alleys of Gotham City, where the line between savior and villain blurs, a new anthology emerges: "Tales of Gotham City." This gripping collection of fan fiction delves into the darkest corners of the metropolis, where vigilante...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
In the heart of Gotham City, under the towering skyscrapers that stood as monuments to power and greed, the night was quiet. Too quiet for Gotham. The usual sounds of sirens and shouting that gave the city its chaotic rhythm were absent. In their place, an unnatural silence lay thick in the air, like the held breath before a coming storm.
In an alley tucked between an abandoned warehouse and a shuttered bodega, a dark figure emerged from the shadows. The hem of her cape made the barest whisper against the grimy pavement as she raised her eyes to the rooftops overhead. The bat signal, normally emblazoned defiantly across the low-hanging clouds, was conspicuously dark. Its guardian and sole responder nowhere to be found.
Something was wrong in Gotham tonight. She could feel it in her bones.
Her name was Nightingale. A mysterious new vigilante who had recently begun making a name for herself in Gotham's streets. She bore no insignia or identifying badge other than her black domino mask and flowing cape, but the emblem of a small canary embroidered over her heart marked her allegiance. She was a protector of this city, its people, and the ideals it had forgotten. Ideals the Batman embodied. In his unexpected absence this night, it now fell to her to take up his mantle.
Nightingale grappled to a nearby roof and stood at its ledge, her cape alive in the wind like a pair of spread wings behind her. She closed her eyes and stilled her mind, heightening her awareness of the city around her. Listening for the clues that would reveal where she was needed most tonight. Straining to hear beyond the non-sounds of Gotham's temporary peace.
There. Barely detectable over the distance. The echoes of a disturbance. Shouting voices. A crash. The unmistakable report of gunshots cracking through stagnant air. She had her heading. Nightingale fired another grappler and began swift rooftop transit toward the developing crime scene, determination steeling her eyes beneath her mask. Gotham needed its protectors tonight whether it knew it or not. And Nightingale would answer that call.
She traveled halfway across the city using her grappling hook to swing from buildings in near flight. She wore no cape nor cowl as the Batman did, her sleek black uniform built for function over form. Her movements were silent, precise, like a bird of prey cutting through the darkness on outstretched wings, invisible as shadow until she chose to strike.
Five minutes later, Nightingale silently touched down on the edge of a reduced rooftop overlooking what appeared to be an old warehouse near the east end docks. Voices carried from inside its crumbling walls along with the telltale hints of criminal activity. Several black vans were parked outside, their open backs revealing heavy arsenals and tools no ordinary workmen would possess.
Nightingale narrowed her gaze, assessing the situation. She couldn’t see much through the dingy skylights, but at least twenty armed men moved about below. A small army. The scale of the operation suggested someone powerful was behind this gathering. Someone with deep pockets and high ambitions. She needed to get closer. Discover what they were planning so she could halt it before innocents were caught in the crossfire. Gotham had seen enough madness tear through its streets.
