Starting With Batman

There's an old saying: when the truth is within range, and the firepower is properly directed, even the most formidable beings will be reduced to nothing. No matter how monstrous or invincible they may seem, the power of a relentless barrage will inevitably bring them to their knees.

[TL Note - I've never heard of that saying]

Taking advantage of the Bat Fighter's overwhelming firepower, Charlie deftly manipulates Batman to swoop in and retrieve Ivan. Ivon, who was being relentlessly pummeled by gunfire, was far too occupied to interfere. Batman moved like a shadow, easily cutting through the chaos to grab Ivan and leap out of the old, crumbling warehouse through a shattered window.

Any hesitation about deploying the Bat Fighter's heavy weapons in such a confined space was long gone. It seemed as if Ivon, who prided himself on meticulous planning, had chosen this dilapidated warehouse precisely because it was isolated—no civilians, no witnesses, nothing to hold back the full might of Batman's arsenal. It was as if Ivon had unwittingly set the perfect trap for himself, much like a cartoon villain preparing their own downfall.

After thoroughly surveying the terrain, Charlie made the decision without a second thought. He remotely positioned the Batmobile Fighter in the most advantageous spot. Given the careful layout of the site and the deliberate choice of location, Charlie felt it would be almost disrespectful not to unleash the full arsenal at his disposal.

All kinds of weapons fired in unison, and in an instant, the decrepit warehouse was torn to shreds by the overwhelming barrage. The air was filled with the deafening roar of explosions, and high-temperature flames surged into the sky, transforming the entire area into a raging inferno.

Even though Batman and Ivan had retreated to what seemed like a safe distance, they were still caught in the aftermath of the blast. A wave of heat and flames rushed toward them, sweeping over the area with deadly force.

However, Batman's armor—backed by the virtually limitless resources of his vast fortune—was more than up to the task. The armored suit absorbed the brunt of the blast, while his high-tech cape shielded them from the worst of the impact. At such a distance, the flames were nothing more than a brief, harmless flare.

When the two turned to look back, they found the warehouse had been utterly obliterated, reduced to little more than a smoldering wreckage.

It was difficult to imagine anything surviving such a merciless onslaught.

But Ivon did.

The Bat Fighter's bombardment had torn Ivon's mutated body to pieces. One of his arms had been blown clean off, and a massive chunk of his torso had been hollowed out, leaving a gaping wound that extended from his shoulder to his stomach.

Yet, despite the carnage, Ivon had managed to survive, thanks to a hidden escape route he had prepared in advance.

Though he reveled in his maniacal laughter, Ivon was not without a plan. Fully aware of the possibility of being ambushed, he had installed a secret escape route beneath the warehouse, a contingency plan for just such an occasion.

This secret passage led to an underground pipe, allowing him to slip away from the warehouse and into the labyrinthine sewer system below. It was this foresight that had saved him from being obliterated in the warehouse's destruction.

Even so, as Ivon plunged into the murky, stagnant water of the sewer, his entire body was ablaze, resembling a human torch. His tattered clothes and the remnants of his flesh smoldered and smoked as he rolled into the narrow passageway. One of his legs had been completely severed, forcing him to roll into the tunnel like a helpless, broken toy.

And despite the agonizing pain, despite the dire situation, Ivon's twisted sense of humor never faltered. Even as his limbs were shattered and his body torn apart, he continued to laugh—a horrible, grating sound that echoed through the tunnels. The laughter was only interrupted when he choked on the foul, muddy water, forcing him to sputter and cough in between gasps for air.

But he had escaped.

The rushing currents of the sewer system carried him away like a piece of debris, propelling him through the pipes until he was finally spat out into the river that ran along the coast.

Ivon surfaced in the cold, dark water, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. He spat out a mouthful of water mixed with blood and began to laugh once more, a ragged, wheezing sound that echoed across the water. His laughter was laced with a perverse sense of triumph, as if mocking the very idea that Batman could have outsmarted him. He had escaped while the so-called Dark Knight was likely standing over the ruins of the warehouse, believing he had won.

Just as he was about to bask in the glow of his supposed victory, something caught his attention. A faint, unsettling light began to glow beneath the surface of the water, just a few meters away. It was as if something was stirring in the depths, something dangerous and predatory.

The water began to churn, and the waves parted to reveal a sleek, steel-black shape emerging from the depths. It rose slowly, deliberately, like a shark surfacing for the kill.

The Bat Submarine.

Ivon's triumphant smile froze on his face, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest.

Before he could react, a sea mine detonated almost directly beneath him.

The violent blast sent him flying through the air, his body cartwheeling through the water before being sucked into the swirling vortex created by the explosion. The force of the blast was so great that it nearly tore him apart, but he clung to life with a stubborn, almost inhuman resilience.

Panicking, Ivon turned and began to swim as fast as his broken body would allow, his remaining hand morphing into a grotesque weapon to fight back. But the turbulent water made it nearly impossible to aim, and his bullets were ineffective, bouncing harmlessly off the Bat Submarine's reinforced hull. The sleek, deadly machine pursued him relentlessly, like an underwater predator, its torpedoes exploding all around him.

Ivon was barely holding on, his body battered and torn by the relentless assault. His thoughts raced as he struggled to escape, but he knew he was running out of time. The Bat Submarine was a relentless force, a hunter that would not stop until its prey was utterly destroyed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ivon managed to drag himself onto the shore. He was a pitiful sight, his once-powerful body now reduced to a broken, bleeding mess. Half of his limbs were missing, and what remained of his flesh was scorched and blackened. He was barely more than a crawling, writhing mass of pain and desperation.

The Bat Submarine, at least, respected its aquatic nature and did not pursue him onto land. But Ivon knew that he wasn't safe yet. Batman was nothing if not relentless, and Ivon's escape had only bought him a few precious moments of respite.

Ivon staggered into a nearby dark alley, seeking refuge from the relentless pursuit. He collapsed against a broken dumpster, his body trembling with pain as it slowly began to heal itself. Despite everything, a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

He cursed Batman's lack of creativity. If the Bat had been just a bit smarter, he would have realized that Ivon was too injured to run far. A little patience, and Batman could have ended him right there...

Ivon suddenly froze.

A cold, primal fear gripped him as he sensed something behind him. He turned his head ever so slowly, his breath catching in his throat, only to see the silhouette of the Dark Knight standing there, shrouded in shadow. Batman's presence was so silent, so utterly still, that it was as if he had materialized out of thin air, a ghostly wraith of vengeance.

Panic surged through Ivon. He reacted instantly, his intact arm morphing into a massive axe as he swung it wildly at Batman. But Batman was faster, effortlessly sidestepping the attack with a graceful, fluid motion. In one swift move, Batman closed the distance and delivered a powerful punch directly to Ivon's forehead, the shock gloves discharging a burst of electricity that sent sparks flying from Ivon's twisted, mutated head.

Ivon staggered backward, disoriented and in agony. He tried to retaliate, but before he could react, he felt a sharp pain in his arm. He glanced down to see a Batarang embedded in the joint of his axe-arm, the red indicator light blinking ominously. There was a brief, terrifying moment of realization before the explosives in the Batarang detonated.

The explosion was devastating. Ivon's arm was blown off at the joint, the force of the blast sending the axe spiraling through the air before it clattered to the ground a dozen feet away.

Ivon was hurled to the ground, his body reduced to little more than a shattered wreck. Three of his limbs were now missing, and his once-fearsome form was nothing more than a broken, gasping shell. He lay there, writhing and twitching, trying to crawl away with what little strength he had left.

But there was no escape.

A shadow loomed over him, blocking out what little light there was in the dark alley.

Ivon lifted his head slowly, his vision blurred by pain and exhaustion, and found himself staring up at Ivan. Ivan stood over him, his expression unreadable, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he stared down at the wretched figure before him.

Without a word, Ivan extended his right hand. Ivon watched in horror as Ivan's arm began to deform, metal condensing into a massive gun barrel. The cold, black barrel of the weapon was aimed directly at Ivon's head, its dark maw promising a swift and brutal end. Ivon's one remaining eye widened in terror, his mind racing as he searched for any possible way out of this nightmare. But his body was too broken, his energy too depleted. He was utterly at Ivan's mercy, and he knew it.

For a fleeting moment, Ivon tried to muster a laugh, that deranged, mocking laughter that had carried him through so many close calls. But this time, the sound was hollow, a weak, sputtering wheeze that barely escaped his cracked lips. He wanted to taunt, to make one last jibe at Ivan, but the words died in his throat.

Instead, he could only stare up at the looming figure, the icy barrel of the gun now inches from his face. The reflection in the weapon's polished surface showed a grotesque, twisted version of what he once was—a shadow of the monster he had become.

"Hahaha… good joke, Ivan," Ivon rasped, the words forced out through gritted teeth. "But… whatever, it’s all the same… in the end…"

His voice trailed off, the last vestiges of his bravado crumbling in the face of his impending demise.

Ivan remained silent, his expression as cold and unyielding as the steel that formed his weapon. There was no hesitation, no doubt in his eyes as he exerted force on his gun-turned arm. To him, this was not an act of vengeance, not a moment of triumph—it was simply the final, necessary step in ending the threat that Ivon posed.

With a sudden, deafening roar, the gun discharged. The flash of the muzzle lit up the dark alley for an instant, casting harsh shadows that danced and flickered like flames.

The first shot obliterated Ivon's face, reducing the grotesque visage to a bloody mess. The twisted features, the single, malevolent eye, were all but vaporized in the blast. Blood and bits of flesh spattered across the walls, leaving a gruesome trail in their wake.

But Ivan wasn't done. He fired again, and again, each shot a thunderous declaration that this was the end. The second and third rounds hammered home the point, pulverizing what remained of Ivon's head until there was nothing left but a splattered, indistinguishable mass of gore.

The alley fell silent once more, the echoes of the gunfire slowly fading into the night. Ivan stood over the lifeless, shattered remains of Ivon, the smoking gun barrel still aimed at the spot where his enemy's head had once been.

With a calm, steady breath, Ivan exhaled a cloud of smoke, the remnants of his cigarette glowing faintly in the darkness. The gun barrel on his arm began to shift, the metallic structure melting away and retracting into his body until his arm was whole again. He flexed his fingers, feeling the cool air brush against his skin.

Ivan let out a long sigh, the tension draining from his body. The adrenaline that had kept him going through the night was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a strange, hollow feeling. He glanced down at the wreckage of what had once been Ivon and shook his head slightly, as if trying to make sense of it all.

"I didn't even know… I could do that…" Ivan murmured to himself, his voice quiet and introspective. There was no satisfaction in his tone, no sense of accomplishment—only a deep, weary fatigue that seemed to settle into his very bones.

He turned away from the corpse, his gaze shifting to the distant horizon where the first faint light of dawn was beginning to creep over the city. The night had been long, and the battle hard-fought, but there was still so much more to do.

Ivan Lit another Cigarette, letting out a tired sigh.

There was no rest for the weary.

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