THE RESCUER 2: RETURN OF THE ROGUE

By Batfan60

 

DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters belong to a giant corporation, not me. This is a work of fan fiction; no infringement intended.

 

1.

Bruce Wayne was bored. The Gotham City Police Benevolent Association Charity Ball was proving to be just as dry an affair as ever: an endless parade of wealthy cads, overrated pseudocelebrities, and trendy hors d'ouerves.. Wayne looked dapper as ever in his tuxedo, but with all the hours he'd been logging lately as a masked manhunter, the formal wear felt utterly foreign to him. He was well aware he caught the eye of women and men alike, even with the intentional adjustments to his posture (a slight slouch to camoflage his world-class physique) and personality (a touch of eccentricity to explain his occasional disappearances) which were a subtle but necessary part of his double life.

 

Never a man to take a night off, Bruce looked upon the ball as a chance to build important ties within the police force -- ties he might one day need to call upon. The official line at the GCPD was that vigilantes were outlaws who posed a threat both to themselves and to the population at large, but off the books, Batman had many friends on the force, not least of which was Commissioner Gordon, and he was forever trying to cultivate further contacts sympathetic to his mission. Yet this evening he was continually distracted from networking by his efforts to avoid a certain development director of a certain environmental group desperate to enlist his financial assistance at their upcoming banquet. Then there was the handsome but thoroughly uninteresting bank VP who wouldn't take no for an answer…

 

All of this tedium was cut short by a gentle throbbing sensation near his crotch: the silent vibration of Wayne's slender cell phone in his front pants pocket. It was a number known only by a few close friends and key business associates, mostly reserved for official Wayne Foundation business, and as an extra precaution, it changed every three weeks.

 

"BLOCKED," read the caller ID. Bruce was on guard. "Wayne here," he spoke into the mouthpiece. What he heard in response sent a shockwave through his nervous system.

 

"Remember me, Batman? I'm back."

 

***

2.

 

The voice on the other end of the phone was instantly recognizable. "Officer Moretti," Bruce said. A deep, mocking chuckle was the only reply he received.

 

"How did you get this number?" Wayne snapped, moving to the most private corner of the ballroom he could find in a hurry.

 

"I have my ways, detective," Marco Moretti answered after a moment. "Once a cop, always a cop. But we can talk about this in person. Meet me in one hour in the alley outside the Prescott Building. And bring your little boytoy with you. It's time to finish what we started."

 

There was no need for an added threat. Wayne knew all too well that failure to comply might provoke the caller to go public with a secret which would unquestionably end Batman's career.

 

"I'll come, but Dick can't make it," Bruce said, careful to keep his end of the conversation as vague as possible out of concern for eavesdroppers. "He's working on his own tonight while I'm taking care of business." It would be all too easy to contact Robin from his wristwatch communicator, but Moretti didn't need to know that just yet.

 

"We'll collect him later," said Marco. "His lilywhite ass is gonna need some working over. But yours will take me plenty of time in the meanwhile. Now get the fuck over here." The call ended as abruptly as it had begun.

 

Bruce bid goodnight to the appropriate movers and shakers, politely excused himself from the charity ball, and headed back to the Batcave to suit up. He'd been dreading -- or was it simply anticipating? -- this call for months, ever since his last encounter with the rogue ex-cop who had trapped, tortured, and unmasked him before vanishing into the night.

 

Once he was properly attired, Batman leapt into the open driver's seat of the convertible dubbed "the Batmobile" and sped to the specified location. The legendary detective had no clue what he was in for, but he knew it was likely to be an encounter which would change his life. That thought left his throat dry and his cock as hard as a log.

 

***

3.

Batman arrived fifteen minutes early. It was well after two in the morning and the alley was pitch black. A light rain started to fall, soaking the crimefighter's cape and cowl as he searched the area.

 

The telltale sound of Dehner boots against concrete signalled the fact that Marco had arrived. The former cop stood stock-still in the darkness about twenty feet away, a nearby streelight casting him into silhouette. Batman could make out the cop's gloved hands resting on his duty belt. He was the picture of self-confidence, decked out in his uniform and fully aware that he had the upper hand in this situation.

 

"We meet again," he said, pulling the foot-long MagLite out of his belt and shining it directly into Batman's eyes. The Caped Crusader was blinded only for a moment before he produced his own flashlight and reciprocated.

 

The two vigilantes sized each other up in silence. Both men cut an imposing figure: rippling muscles straining against skin-tight clothing of a sort the average civilian would never know. Boots, gloves, and belts constituing highly specialized armor designed for situations beyond the wildest nightmares of the man in the street. One wore a helmet, the other a mask. In most other respects, though, they looked much the same.

 

"Drop the light. Clasp your hands behind your head and walk over here," the cop instructed. Batman complied. His combat training in full evidence, Marco manipulated each of the masked man's arms so that they landed behind his back with a brashness that inflicted more than a little pain. "You're coming with me," Marco said, snapping the handcuffs from his duty belt around Batman's wrists. The officer scooped up the bottom of his captive's cape and quickly wrapped several feet of it around his prey's arms and cuffed hands, further further preventing any false moves.

 

A grey blindfold came next, secured tightly over the mask. "Is all of this necessary, Marco?" Batman asked, doing his best to sound nonchalant. "You have my word I'll do what you say."

 

"Shut up," Marco snapped. He pulled his nightstick from his belt and smacked it hard against the back of Batman's skull. The dark knight fell to the ground unconscious.

 

****

4.

 

Marco's undergound dungeon was faintly reminiscent of the Batcave: damp, dark, and filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Only instead of computers and crime detection instruments, it was stocked with torture devices of bewildering variety. Hoods, whips, crops, gags, shackles, cuffs, blindfolds, and countless other sinister-looking implements lined the walls, while the floor was filled with all manner of tables, chairs, platforms, gallows, and other contraptions intended to restrain and torment. Dead center of the largest wall was a St. Andrew's cross -- bound to which, his costume entirely intact, was the Batman, just now returning to consciousness.

 

He was still blindfolded and groaned involuntarily as he slowly woke up. In the darkness, he could feel ropes wrapped tightly around his wrists, ankles and waist, holding him in place on the x-shaped wooden frame. Once he was aware of his enforced immobility, his dick began to harden and bolt straight up, poking against the fabric of his batsuit. He had walked straight into a trap, well aware of what he was doing, and aware too that if he had resisted, his secret identity would be revealed to the world. He began imagining all the things Marco might have in store for him in the hours ahead, and the dark fantasies only made him more and more aroused.

 

The lure of the commandeering ex-cop was a mystery. As far as Batman knew, he hadn't been drugged or brainwashed or manipulated in any way; he'd simply surrendered himself, fully and completely, to the man in the motorcycle breeches who had captured and unmasked him a few short months earlier. Captured… unmasked … the memories came flooding back, and Batman wanted more than anything to free one of his hands -- not so he could escape, but so he could give his blood-engorged cock a little relief.

 

To do so would surely be to disobey the Master, however, and Batman did not want to risk the punishment of rejection, so he did nothing. Nothing but stand, bound, and feel time passing. Feel what it was like to be a prisoner. Feel the sweat building up beneath his tights and under his mask. Feel the weight of his body in space. Feel a body approach him, a hand reaching for his face, fingers grasping an edge of the blindfold and lifting it up, allowing him at last to see where he was and what had been done to him.

 

All the light in the room was red, rendering everything particularly surreal and dreamlike. Mere inches away from the Batman, so close the heat of his breath could be felt, stood Marco, clad entirely in the black garb of a man of the law. He was every bit as magnificent as Bruce remembered, and the bound man's urge to come was nearly insatiable. He resolved then and there to put up no resistance whatsoever. Against his better judgment, in a voice no louder than a whisper, Batman blurted out, "Take me … Sir."

 

Marco slapped his cheek with a gloved hand. "You'll speak when I tell you to," he barked. Batman at once felt humbled. Here was the man some called The World's Greatest Detective, allowing himself to be knocked around by a brute in a cop uniform and enjoying every moment of it. The thought that the masked man's life's work -- indeed, his very existence -- was in serious jeopardy simply fed the fire currently warming his loins.

 

Marco noticed the bulge growing in the batbriefs -- it was impossible to ignore -- and wrapped one of his burly hands around it. "You want to let this thing out, don't you, boy? You want to shoot now, boy, don't you? ANSWER ME!"

 

"Sir, yes Sir," Batman snapped, taken aback by how easily he found himself slipping into the subservient role the scene demanded. Was this torture or seduction? Were they merely playing, or was this really a life-or-death situation? Impossible to say. All he knew for certain was that he had fallen -- or jumped? -- under the spell of this mysterious stranger.

 

"All things in time," Marco said after a tantalizing pause. "For now you'll just have to wait." With that, he turned and walked away.

 

Batman watched as the cop abandoned him. He studied every inch of his Master's backside: his short-cropped hair; the pleats in the crisp black uniform shirt; the pouches, cuffs, and keepers affixed to the duty belt; the taut ass just barely concealed by the padded breeches; the muscular thighs; the shiny boots which clung to his calves like gloves. The man was gone. And Batman would count the hours until his return.

 

****

5.

 

In the crimson darkness of the windowless room, there was no accurate way to gauge how much time was passing. Every few minutes the silence was punctured by a blast of static and speech which Batman recognized as emissions from a police band radio. A 5-11 in progress on the corner of Grove and Chambers. An unarmed white male, 6 foot 1, running south on Sweeney Street. Domestic dispute in the Ashby Projects. A steady stream of criminal activity, and Batman was unable to do a thing about any of it. His inability to intervene ate at his conscience. Worse still was the awareness that he really didn't want to be out there catching crooks. Not now, anyway. What he wanted now, more than anything else in the world, was for Marco to return.

 

He'd been in tight spots before. He'd suffered at the hands of some of the best-- the Joker, the Riddler, a veritable Rogue's Gallery of supervillains--and always before he'd managed to pull out of it at the last minute. But something about his current state was different.  For one thing, a very big part of him didn't want to escape. He didn't want to save the day. The day had already been lost, all those months ago, when Marco first came into his life and with one swift gesture stripped away the masked vigilante's last hiding place. He remembered what it felt like to kneel before the boots of his captor, no longer disguised as the legendary Batman but revealed at last as the all-too-mortal Bruce Wayne. He remembered the life-changing surge of excitement he'd felt that day, and he longed to feel it again.

 

****

6.

 

Eventually, he would get his wish. But for now, there was nothing but red light and harsh, intermittent sound and the all-consuming urge to do something about his raging hard-on. Batman stared down at it -- and noticed, for the first time in what might well be many hours -- that Marco's gloved hands had returned.

 

How long had the cop been standing here? How had Batman managed to miss his return? Could this all be a matter of wishful thinking, the mind inventing what the physical world would not provide?

 

But Marco was no mirage. He reached into a pouch on his duty belt and produced a large black silk handkerchief, which he used to gag his victim. Batman thrilled at its dusty, slightly leathery taste and let out an audible, if muffled, sigh. He watched as Marco knealt before him -- a Master, at the feet of his slave! -- and slid his two large black-gloved hands under the yellow utility belt.

 

In a single sweeping motion, Marco grabbed the waistband of Batman's blue satin briefs and pulled them down. He then returned for the grey tights beneath. The long, stiff batcock jutted straight out, perpendicular to the belt buckle which still guarded it from above.

 

Marco released a small stream of his own spit onto the cock and then began working it over with his gloved hands. He knew Batman would be even more excited by the caress of black leather over the sensitive skin, and he teased the bound man for a very long time. Each time Batman showed signs of shooting his load, Marco would pull back and wait for the cock to droop slightly, then begin again.

 

For his part, Batman was nearly insane with frustration. He tried pleading with his seducer, but the gag silenced him. At one particularly charged moment, Marco pretended to rise to his feet, as if he were about to end the scene prematurely. This brought a howl from Batman which even the gag could not eliminate entirely. His eyes, which were the only part of his face not shrouded by a mask or the handkerchief, were open as wide as they could possibly open. Marco laughed wickedly and returned to his devilish labors.

 

And then the hands stopped again. No movement whatsoever, for a brief but agonizing moment. Marco rested them on the floor so that he was spread out on all fours -- then lifted his head and opened his mouth. He wrapped his lips around Batman's cock and began moving them slowly forward and backward along the length of the shaft.

 

It took mere seconds for the Dark Knight to let loose an oceanic flood of milky white jism into Marco's mouth. The captive felt a wave of sheer indescribable bliss sweep throughout his entire body; if he'd been able to stand on his own two feet right now, he'd have fallen over. As it was, he hung limp and exhausted on the wooden X to which he'd been lashed.

 

Marco still knelt before him, his mouth filled with batcome. Stray strands of jism stained his mustache and uniform shirt. This was not the typical position of a Top, but then again nothing about Officer Moretti was typical. In due time the cop rose to his feet, pulled the gag down toward Batman's chin, and pressed his two hands against the detective's stubbled cheeks, forcing his lips to open. Marco leaned in and kissed him, allowing the cum to slide back into the mouth of the man who had produced it. He returned the gag and left the room in silence.

 

****

7.

 

At some point in the hours which followed -- impossible to say whether it was day or night now -- Marco returned, produced a knife from his belt, and proceeded to slice through the ropes which held his prisoner to the wooden apparatus. Once he was free, Batman flexed his wrists and ankles, grown numb during their confinement. He had trouble standing on his own and held onto the cross for support.

 

"Fix your outfit," Marco demanded. "You look like a fucking wreck."

 

Batman pulled his tights back up to his waist and then retrieved his outer briefs.

 

"Now give me your belt," Marco ordered. Batman unbuckled it and handed it over. He knew he'd been allowed to keep it thus far primarily for show; with his hands and feet bound, he couldn't have used it anyway. Now, he sensed, he was being relocated.

 

His hunch proved correct. Marco directed him into a small barred cell at one corner of the dungeon. Inside the makeshift jail was a twin-sized cot and a primitive toilet; nothing else. Marco motioned for the prisoner to lie face down on the pillowless cot. Batman felt his briefs and tights being pulled down once more, followed by several sharp smacks on his buttocks.While he couldn't tell for sure, it felt like a paddle. His ass cheeks soon stung from the pain.

 

Without pausing to offer his victim a chance to catch his breath, Marco next plunged one of his gloved fingers into Batman's sphincter. Then a second. He thrust them as far as they would go, exploring the hollowness of the captive's rectum. The fingers came out, and the barrel of Marco's gun soon replaced them.

 

Batman lay perfectly still. He had no idea whether or not the weapon was loaded, and he wasn't about to risk any sudden moves to find out. He abhorred guns, but something about having one shoved up his ass by this man was proving oddly exciting. His cock stiffened once again, and it took every ounce of his willpower to stop himself from jerking off.

 

In due time, Marco removed the gun. "Next time it'll be my dick, boy," he grunted. The cop removed the shit-stained glove from his right hand and threw it on the bed next to Batman's face. "Something to remember me by." With that he left and locked the cell, turned off the red lights throughout the dungeon, and slammed the basement door shut behind him.

 

****

8.

 

Batman was alone once more in the darkness with nothing but his thoughts and the intermittent dispatches from the police radio to keep him company while he waited for whatever was coming next. He could focus on only one subject: Marco. Marco's cock, his face, his chest, his boots, gloves, his absolute power. No man -- villain or lover or anyone in between -- had ever treated Batman quite like this before. All these years of playing the strong, silent superhero now seemed like one long, embarrassing joke at his own expense. He knew full well he had the means to escape from this flimsy cell in this makeshift dungeon if he really wanted -- he could do so in his sleep, if that was what he wanted -- but something kept him here, humbled and humiliated and reduced to mere mortality. That something was a game, it was a spiritual quest, it was a walk into the darkest side of himself. It was Marco.

 

No one -- no man, no woman, no sidekick, no partner of any kind -- had ever stirred in him a feeling this intense. He knew all about the Stockholm Syndrome and had trained for years to resist and overcome it, but all that training seemed nothing more than a nuisance now. If I am falling, he told himself, let me fall hard. Come what may. I am heading somewhere I've never been before.

 

****

9.

 

The red light returned. Marco brought him a tray of food.Nothing easily identifiable as breakfast, lunch, or dinner, just enough nourishment to keep his energy level up.

 

"Tell me-- why did you leave the force, Marco?" Batman asked as he ate with his hands, staining his gloves with the gruel. A part of him was scared to speak out of turn, but he sensed that it was okay now.

 

"I never left," the ex-officer replied from the other side of the cell's bars. "The force left me. Too much corruption on the inside. Management was more concerned with saving their own asses than with doing anything to catch the bad guys. I figured I could do more good on my own."

 

"How do you mean?" Batman asked, puzzled at the notion that the brute standing before him had anything on his mind but sex and sadism.

 

Marco pointed at the nearby radio, whose transmissions Batman had long ago begun to tune out. "I intercept calls and respond before a black-and-white can get there. I deal with situations as they arise. I'm a lot like you. If some guy's asking for it, I beat the crap out of him, and I'm gone. I leave it to the pencil-pushers to do the paperwork."

 

One thought echoed in Batman's mind: "I'm a lot like you." There was so much to be said in response to that, a whole night's worth of discussion -- but not this night. Marco glared at him. "Finish eating. You're coming with me."

 

****

10.

 

Marco unlocked the cell and motioned for Batman to step out into the main part of the dungeon. The prisoner took note of his utility belt a good twenty feet away, but did not presume to retrieve it unless instructed to do so.

 

"Take off your cape," he said. Batman obeyed this and each subsequent order. "Now spread it out on the ground in front of you. … Bend down. On your hands and knees. Smooth out the cape.  Good boy. Get every wrinkle. Yes. Now I want you to crawl out into the center of the cape. That's it. Stay there. Kneel before me….  Right. Good. And now for the mask. It's useless to you. Take it off. Unsnap the clasp at the bottom -- yes -- slowly now. Grab it by the ears. That's it. Now lift it up. You know how to do it, boy. Excellent. Turn it inside out. That's right. Now put it on the floor in front of you. Right there."

 

Batman felt something indescribable yet oddly familiar in the pit of his stomach. Here he was, revealing himself as Bruce Wayne once more to this man who towered over him. How he'd longed to find himself in this state of supreme vulnerability again -- and now that he'd been brought there once more, he vowed to stay there this time, to linger in his powerlessness.

 

Bruce began to remove his left glove. Marco slapped him. "NO! You do nothing until I tell you, do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?"

 

Bruce nodded. His cock was screaming for attention once more.

 

"Start jerking off," Marco said. Bruce pulled the waistband of his costume down again and began stroking himself with measured speed. He looked up to watch the cop removing his shirt and thowing it across the room. The combination of hair and muscle composing his chest was every bit as magnificent as Wayne remembered, and the pace of his cock massage quickened.

 

The bare-chested officer joined Batman in kneeling on the cape spread over the floor. Positioning himself on the opposite side of the discarded mask, he stared directly into his slave's eyes with a frightening intensity. Marco unzipped his pants, pulled out his own cock, and joined Batman in a two-man circle jerk.

 

It didn't take long for jism to fly out of both men. The vast majority of it landed on the exposed inside of the cowl. The moment he had regained his composure, Marco lifted the mask, reversed it once more, and placed it back on Batman's head so that the milky white fluid mixed with Wayne's sweat and dripped all over his face and hair. The cop then snapped the clasp which held the cowl in place, then rose to a standing position. He left the perimeter of the outstretched cape and walked to a work table, returning seconds later with a black leather dog collar which he dropped by Batman's knees.

 

"Put it on,"he commanded. Bruce did so. A chain leash followed, one end hooked into the collar and the other resting in Marco's gloved hand. The cop stood next to the subservient detective.

 

"Your biggest secret isn't that you're Bruce Wayne under that mask," Marco said. "Your biggest secret is that, no matter what name you call yourself, you're nothing but a cocksucking bottom boy waiting for somebody like me to put you in your place. That's why you wear that outfit with the target on your chest. That's why you keep getting yourself into dangerous situations, why you keep deliberately walking into traps. You long to be punished. And I'm here to do just that."

 

Bruce took every word of this to heart. He knew that it was true. What he did not know, not at first, was that his eyes were beginning to moisten. The mighty manhunter soon began weeping uncontrollably. He'd turned a corner.

 

The bat was broken.

 

***

11.

 

Marco lowered himself to join Batman on the cape again. He held his sobbing slave in his hands and they sat together without speaking for a long time. This was a side of the cop Batman had not previously witnessed: comforter, protector, nurturer, friend. Stern, yet forgiving. Could it be that this man was the father Bruce had never had?

 

The thought was crazy. His psyche in pieces, Batman fought the temptation to simply wallow in his collapse. He struggled to snap himself out of whatever spell Marco had woven. Until now he'd told himself he was taking this leap out of free will, but now he began to suspect that the cop was playing dirty. The food -- had it been drugged? The police radio -- could there be subliminal messages buried in the broadcasts? He searched his memory for any evidence of hypnotic suggestion: the red light, the original phone call, or perhaps something much, much earlier …

 

Paranoia. Sheer paranoia. Why was he resisting the warm embrace of this strong, trusting companion? Marco was his master now, his mentor. Everything would be just fine if he'd relax and allow himself to be led wherever Officer Moretti took him.

 

For the moment, that was back to the cell. Bruce walked slowly, waiting every now and then for a nudge from his captor, who still held the leash in his right hand. There was a thrill in not knowing at any given moment whether Marco would be gentle with him or shove him to the ground.  When they reached the cot, Moretti motioned for Bruce to sit upright.

 

"Stay!" Marco commanded, as if addressing a dog. Batman sat in silence and stared up at the cop, who left the cell for just a moment before returning with the utility belt. Marco threw the belt next to him, and Bruce slowly picked it up and repositioned it around his waist. This was surely Moretti's way of reminding him who had the upper hand, and Batman remembered once again that beneath his cowl, his face and hair were still soaked with cum. Marco's cum, and his own. He was a little man now, not a hero but a tiny little speck of insignificance. He felt ashamed, and the shame fueled yet another hard-on. Timidly, he looked up at his superior like a child turning to his parent for permission to visit the candy store.

 

Marco spotted the protrusion beneath Bruce's tights immediately. "Later," he said. "For now, you sleep." He produced a small aerosol container of batsleep he'd removed from Batman's utility belt and sprayed a blast directly into the masked man's face. Bruce slumped backward, out cold. Marco knelt down and scooped up Bruce's booted feet in his hands, and dragged him by the boots into a more comfortable position on the cot. The rogue cop then walked out into the main space of the dungeon, retrieved Batman's cape, and draped it over the sleeping man like a daddy tucking in his boy.

 

It had all gone exactly as planned. Marco closed and locked the cell, turned out the dungeon lights, and left. There was so much left to be done, but it would all have to wait until the two men had had their rest.

 

***

12.

 

Bruce slept for hours, his dreams as dominated by Marco as his recent waking life had been. In his mind's eye he was naked and making love to his protector one moment, then garbed as Batman and bound to a rack the next. He envisioned giant hypodermics, spinning spiral hypno-wheels, immense latex dildoes, the whole arsenal of devices in the dungeon. Mighty foes like the Joker, the Riddler, and Mr. Freeze entered his nightmares and he'd chase them for miles upon miles, or they would chase him, and each pursuit ended with the revelation that under the clown makeup or the domino mask or the coldsuit helmet lay one man: Officer Moretti. The fantasy man would hit him or kiss him or strap him to a deathtrap -- it was all the same thing.

 

It was in the midst of one of these imagined situations -- Bruce and Marco both naked in a net suspended from the ceiling over a kettle of boiling water -- that the reverie came to an abrupt end.

 

"WAKE UP! Bruce! Batman! WAKE UP!"

Bruce opened his eyes to find Moretti's gloved hands slapping his face. For a moment he thought the whole thing -- every bit of the previous day's ordeal -- was all part of the dream. His mask was still in place: a good sign. Or was it? The thin layer of crust over his cheeks reminded him of what he'd been through not so long ago. And that memory, in turn, led to another: the image of a shirtless Marco producing half the jism which now caked his face. He closed his eyes and started to smile…

 

"BRUCE! Goddamit, wake the fuck UP!"

 

"Huh?" Bruce rolled his head lazily. "Wha…"

 

"They've got him," Marco said through gritted teeth. His tone of voice was nothing like the one he'd been using up until now. That voice now seemed like an affectation. This one sounded real.

 

Bruce was still confused. "Wuh… got who?"

 

"Robin."

 

***

13.

 

The harrowing phrase jarred him back to alertness. "What did you say? Who's got him? What's going on? How do you know?"

 

"I heard it on the police radio just now. Three witnesses spotted Dick fighting with some thugs who overpowered him. The cops don't have any more information that that, but I know exactly who's behind it."

 

"You do?" Batman wasn't used to playing Watson to somebody else's Holmes, with or without a collar around his neck. Gradually broadening his field of vision, Bruce noted that Marco was back in a full, clean uniform.

 

"The report said the thugs were wearing saffron robes. That tells me they were working with --"

 

"The Preacher!" Batman caught up fast.

 

"So you know about Jeremiah?" Marco asked, referring to the mysterious new cult leader by his alternate name.

 

"A little. Robin and I have been investigating his 'congregation' for the last three weeks. It's damned hard to find anything illegal about their operation, but I'm sure there's something. We've already tangled with them on more than one occasion. I take it you've crossed paths with him, too."

 

"Not directly. I know much more than the regular cops do, though. Been putting the pieces together from what I've read and heard. This guy 'Jeremiah' fits the classic profile of a cult leader. He's been attracting followers for at least three years. I'm pretty sure they've been building up a storehouse of weapons, too. I just don't know where they're based, or what they have in mind."

 

Bruce stroked his stubbled chin. "Robin must have gotten too close. I gave him strict orders to hang back; no direct confrontations when he's solo. He knows better than that."

 

"Any way to find out where they've taken him?" Marco asked.

 

Batman was too caught up in the crisis to think much about how drastically his relationship to the rogue cop had changed in the blink of an eye. The man who'd made himself his Master was now acting more like a partner. "There's a tracking device on his utility belt," Bruce announced, forgetting his earlier ruse that Robin was unreachable. "Assuming they haven't destroyed the belt, we should be able to locate him from the Batmobile. You've got to take me back there immediately."

 

Marco's response reminded both men who had the upper hand. "I don't 'HAVE' to do jack shit, boy," he snarled. "You watch that fuckin' lip of yours or I'll tear it off your goddam mask, son. Now get on your feet. Put your cape back on." Bruce did as he was told, waiting silently while Marco opened the cell door and led him out of it. The man who held the leash directed his captive to the basement stairs and prodded him up them.

 

Once out of the dungeon, Batman found himself in what appeared to be a completely conventional suburban home. It was hard to make anything out, though, since his eyes had been subjected to nothing but red light for so long. With leash in hand, Marco led him through what was probably the kitchen and into the garage, where the cop's motorcycle lay waiting. Marco removed the collar from Batman's neck and draped it over a doorknob for future use. The grey blindfold lay waiting nearby, and the cop secured it over his captive's eyes before mounting the bike and directing Batman to sit behind him, arms wrapped tightly around Marco's chest.

 

The journey took no more than ten minutes, during which Bruce's attention was divided between trying to absorb clues as to his whereabouts, worrying about Robin's fate, and savoring his dick's closeness to Marco's ass. When the ride came to an end, Marco dismounted and removed the blindfold. Bruce found himself back in the alley, the Batmobile right where he'd left it. It was night again, but there was still no way to know how long he'd been indoors.

 

As predicted, it took very little time at all to hone in on Robin's whereabouts, and the two men were already roaring down Old Home Road before either one spoke.

 

"You're a mess," Marco said at last in a teasing tone more suited to a lover than a villain.

 

"No time to change," Batman said. "I'll just have to go there like this." The jism beneath his cowl had mostly dried, leaving his work clothes reeking of the previous night's adventures. Telltale stains dotted his cape and tights, too, but Robin's safety was more important now than comfort or appearance.

 

They turned onto a dirt road twenty miles outside town. As they approached a high wooden gate whose uppermost edge was strung with barbed wire, the tracking device emitted a series of shrill tones. Batman turned it down immediately so as not to attract further attention, then parked the Batmobile by the side of the road.

 

"This must be the place," he said.

 

***

14.

 

Exiting the vehicle, Batman sized up the situation. "The fence is likely to be boobytrapped. I'll defuse any possible electrical lines and then we'll scale it. From there we'll --"

 

"Listen, son," Marco snapped. "I give the orders from now on. And I say we split up. You take the high road, I take the low road. There's bound to be an entrance somewhere down there."

 

Batman bristled at the notion of being told what to do. Obeying orders in a dungeon was one thing, but this sort of situation was something altogether different. "They may be expecting us. If we separate, we'll be that much easier to capture."

 

"You forget one thing, Batman -- they're only expecting one of us. As far as they know, they've already got your partner. They don't even know I exist."

 

Bruce hated to admit it, but Marco had a point. The cop had something else to say, too, and he looked Batman straight in the eye to say it: "I want to be very clear about one thing. We're here for Robin. He's my property now, and I want him back. I don't give a shit right now about this Preacher guy. For all we know, this could be another Waco, and I have better things to do than play hero -- like fucking you and your boyfriend until your asses melt. The minute we find Dick, we're outta here. Let the feds deal with the rest of this."

 

Batman was already busy preparing the equipment he'd need for a batclimb. He started to say something in reply, but Marco was gone.

 

***

15.

 

Scaling the wall and snipping through the barbed wire was easy enough. Bruce leapt to the ground and surveyed the compound through his infrared binoculars: it sprawled for miles and housed enough buildings to sustain a sizable community. From the looks of things, there was a one-room schoolhouse, a makeshift hospital, a chapel, a commons, and a rather well-appointed television station flanked by two enormous tower-mounted satellite dishes.

 

Working strictly by intuition, Batman headed for the chapel to begin his search. Fortunately, he'd only have to negotiate a small stretch of bare grass before he could hide himself among trees and buildings. He hadn't detected any guards yet, but they were bound to be here, somewhere.

 

It was a dangerous thing to acknowlege, but Bruce had to admit he could complete a mission like this in his sleep. On some level, he resented the fact that he'd had to leave the comfort of his cell to rescue Robin once again. It was all the kid's fault: if he hadn't disobeyed orders, Bruce would still be locked tight in Marco's dungeon, tasting ever more flavors of excitement at the hands of that dangerous, beautiful man.

 

Moretti was right: they'd be out of here as fast as they'd arrived. And on the bright side, there was the tantalizing prospect of bringing Dick into the basement games. The very thought of Marco teaching Robin some new tricks -- or forcing Bruce and Dick to perform degrading acts for their Master -- or god knows what else -- was making him horny even at this inappropriate moment. He remembered the end of their last encounter: Robin unmasked and naked under Marco's boot, before Gordon and the boys in blue had to ruin the whole thing.

 

Wait a second: what was going on here? This wasn't Bruce talking, or Batman, or any other once-sane person. Bruce, or Batman, or whatever he called himself, still had a strict moral code. He'd devoted his life to confronting crime in all its forms. Marco was wrong: they weren't cut from the same cloth at all. He couldn't just snatch the boy and take off for more sex play, leaving the Preacher to hatch whatever nefarious plan he had in mind. That wouldn't be right …

 

The line between right and wrong seemed blurrier than ever before.There would be time to work all this out later. For now, there was a chapel to explore.

 

He tested a side door. It opened easily. Too easily, perhaps, but Batman entered all the same. He tried to flick on the night-vision lenses in his cowl, but the dried jism had gummed the mechanism. Instead he pulled out his flashlight -- a foolhardy move if he'd been paying closer attention -- and searched the chapel. The interior was a mockery of a conventional church: the imagery in the pews, on banners near the altar, and even on the stained glass windows, was all derived from Jeremiah's face.

 

He heard a muffled knocking sound to the left of the altar. He turned off his flashlight and crept closer. His glove touched a doorknob, and he turned it, finding himself in what at first appeared to be an office or a supply room. Whatever it was, it reeked of incense. The noise grew louder. When Batman was certain he was alone -- or at least alone with whatever was causing the sound --  he flicked the flashlight back on.

 

He was able to make out a small screened chamber in the center of the room. A confessional, as best he could tell. Through the pattern in the screen, he could make out Robin, bound to a chair and gagged with a saffron-colored belt sash. The young man was trying to speak, but the gag prevented him from making any sense. His eyes were wide beneath his mask.

 

Batman started for the locked handle to the chamber, but just as he was about to touch it, he caught himself. Extracting a thin wire from his utility belt, he dropped it on the lock -- and watched it spark into flame. He'd almost made a mistake that might have cost him his life -- and he couldn't afford to make another.

 

The screen seemed a safer means of entrance. From the belt came a blade, which sliced cleanly through the mesh. Robin was gesticulating wildly, but Batman was focussed on the task at hand. As a result, he never even saw the golden candlestick coming as its bearer whacked him from behind.

 

***

16.

 

Harsh fluourescent lights flickered on, then off, then back on for good. The Batman lay sprawled out unconscious on the floor, mere inches from Robin's bound and struggling form.

 

The sound of two hands clapping broke the silence. "Excellent work, my son. A blessing upon you."

 

Robin looked up and noticed three men standing together in the room. Two wore the familiar saffron robes of his earlier attackers, while the third -- the one who'd just spoken -- was decked out in multi-colored vestments.  This was Jeremiah, of course -- Robin recognized him from their skirmishes in recent weeks, but each time the Preacher seemed to be wearing a different outfit.

 

Jeremiah smiled and looked his younger prisoner right in the eye. "Greetings, Robin Wonder Boy. You have served me well. What splendid bait to catch a bothersome Bat. Bats are evil creatures, you know; the prophets speak of them as minions of darkness. And I find it fitting that your companion chose to visit you in the shadows, as well. Had he nothing to hide, he would surely walk in the light. But he is a coward, and a scoundrel, and he must be done away with before the night is up. As must you."

 

Robin strained with all his might against the ropes which held him to the chair, but it was no use. He tried shouting at the Preacher, but nothing coherent emerged from his lips. He'd always hated that "Boy Wonder" nickname, even back in the days when it technically applied, but now that he was a young man, it really pissed him off. As obnoxious as "Boy Wonder" struck him, this "Robin Wonder Boy" crap made him want to puke.

 

Jeremiah walked closer to the booth and reached one of his hands through the freshly cut screen to stroke the youth's hair. "Little bird, has your time in the cage taught you nothing? I thought perhaps the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts might bring enlightenment, but clearly that is not the case. Must I spell it out for you? Do you not see how the fabled Batman fell so easily, how he grovels here now at my feet? This is the man to whom you pledge your life: this fragile fool? You are helpless, Robin Wonder Boy. You and your master have interfered one too many times with my divine plan. I offer salvation, but you turn your back. I offer wisdom, but you cannot accept it. And so I find I must offer the two of YOU as a sacrifice; your demise shall be an illustration of my power and glory."

 

Two more robed men entered, dragging someone with them by the ankles. More commotion could be heard in the main room of the chapel. Robin tried to make out what was going on.

 

"Let go of me, you fucking sons of bitches!" he heard someone yell. The side room began to fill with cultists. Robin could see now that it took four of them to hold the yelling man, who appeared to be a police officer. A fifth devotee held the cop's gun and duty belt and presented them to Jeremiah as if they were sacred objects.

 

One of the robed men said, "Almighty Father, we found this man prowling on the grounds. He put up quite a struggle, but through the power of Your holy Word he was subdued. He seems to be alone, but Brother Ezekiel fears this may the beginning of the promised Deluge."

 

Jeremiah smiled again. "We have had so many visitors this evening! I say unto you, my word is like unto a magnet, bringing both good and evil into its path. The police officer's unexpected arrival poses a mystery. We can unlock it with ease. If he is indeed alone, he may well prove useful in the future. Despite the resistance he offers now, he strikes me as an excellent candidate for conversion. Bring the gurney from the hospital and strap him to it. Bind him tightly, then load him into the Glory Wagon.

 

"As for these two sinners" -- Jeremiah pointed at the still-unconscious Batman and the still-helpless Robin -- "Drag them to the studio as planned and prepare them for broadcast."

 

Marco shot a quick glance at Dick. In that instant, the younger man recognized the older one as the cop who had subdued Bruce a few months earlier. Robin himself had fallen into his clutches, been unmasked, and very nearly brutalized. What was he doing here, now?

 

At the moment, he was trying to escape. Marco threw his full weight into a sideways swing, trying to knock off balance the four robed initiates who held him by his elbows and ankles. Robin took the resulting confusion as a last-ditch attempt to free himself from the confessional.

 

Neither man succeeded. Instead, a cult member produced a small brick of foul-smelling incense, broke it in two, and passed it to a pair of his colleagues, who promptly employed the fumes to subdue the two captives. Robin passed out first, followed seconds later by Officer Moretti.

 

Jeremiah smiled again and nodded to his adoring congregation as he pointed at the sleeping bodies on the floor. He now had three unconscious opponents under his control -- and the night was young.

 

***

17.

 

It was the first rays of sunrise that woke Batman from still more dreams of Marco. He now had a splitting headache to match his bruised butt cheeks and chafed cock.

 

Those were the least of his worries. His wrists and ankles were stretched as far apart as they could reach, held in place by long, taut ropes. Looking around, he realized he was suspended directly over the center of one of the huge satellite dishes he'd noticed earlier. The dish itself was at least seven stories high, if he recalled correctly. And logic -- to say nothing of demonic symmetry -- suggested that Robin could probably be found atop the other tower.

 

Music -- something reminiscent of Gregorian chants -- blasted throughout the compound at ear-shattering volume. The Preacher and his men were nowhere to be seen.

 

Not that Batman could see much of anything in his current state: he had only his intuition to tell him that Robin was in similar condition, and no clue at all what had happened to Marco.The morning sun was growing hot, and the more he sweated in his costume, the more he remembered what it had been through in the uncountable days since he'd first put it on.

 

So what was the trap this time? A variation on Catwoman's classic magnifying-glass torture from years past? Surely the sound alone wasn't intended to do him in--it was loud, but hardly maddening. Maybe something to do with fire, or electricity … or maybe the Preacher was relying on nothing more than the passage of time to do him in.

 

Batman couldn't help thinking that Marco would have cooked up something ingenious if he'd been the villain in this situation.

 

Marco: where was he? Was there any chance he was in cahoots with Jeremiah? That might explain his insistence on heading off in a different direction when they first hit the compound. Or had he, too, been captured? Could he possibly have escaped -- and if so, was he out there somewhere right now, plotting a rescue? Surely he'd think to alert the cops, who would send in the feds, and in no time the place would be crawling with SWAT teams, FBI, and a legion of others, armed as they had been in earlier confrontations with maniacal cult leaders.

 

Good lord -- what if that was the Preacher's plan: to trick the good guys into firebombing the place, which they'd already vacated, leaving only -- could it be? -- Batman himself and presumably Robin to perish in the maelstrom.

 

In his earlier dealings with Jeremiah, he'd heard the madman speak of a "Deluge" in which society itself would be transformed, starting with a single all-consuming fire. What if, in his insanity, The Preacher had decided to provoke the Deluge himself, using Batman and Robin as kindling?

 

His thoughts were racing. Sweat poured off his forehead and dripped onto the hot surface of the satellite dish. The droplets landed with a sizzle.

 

***

18.

 

He was beginning to lose whatever feeling remained in his wrists and ankles. There was no telling how much time he could hold on before simply passing out from the heat and the strain. And what of Dick?

 

Batman tried yelling at the top of his lungs: "ROBIN! ARE YOU OUT THERE? CAN YOU HEAR ME?" But the amplified sound of chanting was far too difficult to compete against, and rather than destroy his already parched throat, he turned his thoughts to other matters. He still had his utility belt, but there was no way to access anything in it. The additional blades and other implements concealed in his gauntlets and boots would require more agility to access than his numb limbs could now accomodate.

 

Batman looked up. In the sky overhead he saw a helicopter. It was too far away, and the sun was shining too brightly, for him to make out anything beyond the basic shape. In a cruel irony, he found himself praying it didn't belong to any form of law enforcement -- if so, they might mistake him for a sniper and open fire. Trapped like a fly in a web, there was no way for him to communicate with the pilot --

 

--or was there? The shiny buckle on his belt might serve him, as it had on at least one earlier occasion, as a signaling device. If he could just swivel his hips the tiniest bit to the left and back to the right, he might be able to --

 

flash a warning --

 

-- in Morse code: D-I-S-T-R-E-S-S.

 

But it was no use.

 

***

19.

 

The captive hero resolved to try again: D-I-S-T-R…

 

The copter tipped a wing. In so doing, Batman could see now that it was being used by the Forestry Service. He'd have to hope against hope that the pilot could make out his code: E-S-S… and again…

 

It must have worked, or else the sheer presence of bright light flashing from the center of the dish antenna had done the trick, because soon the aircraft began its descent, hovering not far from the tower where Batman was suspended.

 

Between the roar of the copter's blades and the blare of the music, communication was still difficult, but in due time the pilot and his passenger, a fellow ranger, were able to free Batman and locate Robin, who was, as expected, in exactly the same position on the opposite tower.

 

Commissioner Gordon arrived along with fifteen squad cars right around the time Batman and Robin were finally cut loose. "Thank god you're alright, Caped Crusaders," Gordon said. "And thanks to you, the Preacher's out of business; we were able to locate his hidden compound and shut it down before things got out of hand. I don't know how you two manage to find out about things like this so much sooner than we do; you really make us look bad. Mind you, I'm not complaining -- anytime a case can be wrapped up this easily, I'm not about to complain."

 

Batman shook his head. "Now Jim, you know as well as I do that this thing isn't over. Robin and I are free, but the Preacher is still on the loose. And something tells me we've only just begun to figure out what he's up to. Besides, he's still probably got …"

 

The masked detective caught himself midsentence. "… a sizable arsenal of weapons." To mention Marco would open a whole can of critters best left shut for the time being. Whether Officer Moretti was working with the Preacher or had fallen into his clutches, the rogue cop possessed a secret which could shatter years of Bruce and Dick's hard work. Scarier still, Batman was hardly sure he wanted to see Marco apprehended. Best to leave him out of it for now.

 

The dark knight continued: "The Preacher is bound to be back, sooner or later. And when he returns, you have my word: Robin and I will be ready for him." With that, the dynamic duo limped over to the Batmobile, their limbs still numb and smarting from the ropes, and the two costumed crimefighters sped out of sight.

 

"Glory be," Gordon said, shaking his head as they roared away. "Glory be."

 

***

LOOKS LIKE THIS ADVENTURE IS OVER, BATFANS, BUT A THOUSAND QUESTIONS LINGER. THERE'S MUCH MORE TO BE SAID ABOUT THE DYNAMIC DUO, THE PREACHER AND THE ROGUE COP IN PART 3 OF THE "RESCUER" TRILOGY -- AND IT'S A SHOCKER! SO SIT TIGHT AND SWEAT IT OUT … IF YOUR HEART CAN STAND THE SUSPENSE.