Starting With Batman

Step one: secure the lighting.

This was a lesson learned after countless encounters while playing as Batman. Darkness had always been an invaluable ally for heroes like them—those who preferred the shadows, who thrived in the night, and who left their enemies guessing. Charlie operated Green Arrow with precision, cutting off the light source in the underground club just moments before the action began. The abrupt plunge into darkness sent the gangsters into immediate disarray, their bravado crumbling in an instant.

In the old days, a blackout would have been shrugged off as a power outage, nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. The most it would provoke was some grumbling about the city's unreliable power grid. But that was before a certain sharp-eared vigilante started making appearances, his arrival heralded by the sudden loss of light. Now, to these criminals, a blackout meant something entirely different—it meant trouble, the kind of trouble you couldn't outrun or hide from.

Once upon a time, the advice to "learn to protect yourself" was given to young women venturing out alone at night. Later, that advice extended to young men as well, who needed to be just as cautious. But now? Now, even hardened gangsters, the self-proclaimed tough guys of society, had to learn to protect themselves when they ventured into the night. Whether this shift was progress or regression was up for debate, but one thing was clear: fear had evolved.

A large group of gangsters, men who once swaggered through the streets, now avoided the night altogether. The mere flicker of a streetlamp could send them into a panic. They had grown so jumpy that even a cat rummaging through trash under a streetlight could make their hearts race. If that cat's ears happened to be pointed, the gangsters would scream, certain that the bat had come for them. Batman had done his job well—too well, perhaps.

But this time, it wasn't Batman they were dealing with.

An arrow whistled through the air, slicing through the darkness with a deadly precision. The target, a gangster standing on edge, searching the shadows for threats, didn't even have time to react before the arrow pierced his chest. The man's scream was a raw, primal sound, tearing through the tense silence and sending a wave of panic through his comrades.

"Is that you, Yamada? Is that the bat?" one of the gangsters shouted, his voice trembling.

"Where is he!?" another demanded, his flashlight trembling in his hand.

Panic spread like wildfire. The gangsters, who had been trying to maintain their composure, now fumbled with their phones, turning on flashlights in a desperate attempt to pierce the suffocating darkness. Beams of light flickered erratically, cutting through the blackness but revealing nothing of their hidden assailant.

A second arrow flew, its green shaft barely visible as it darted between the scattered light. Another scream followed as a second gangster fell, clutching at the arrow embedded in his side.

The gangsters were in full-blown terror now. Those near the door made a mad dash for it, but as they fumbled with the handle, they found it locked—securely sealed as if welded shut. Panic turned to dread as the realization set in: they were trapped, locked in their own club with a ghostly shooter who was systematically picking them off.

He was nowhere, and yet everywhere. The darkness was his ally, and every shadow held the potential of his next strike. To him, every gangster in that room was a target.

Charlie had initially had low expectations for Green Arrow, but once he got the hang of it, he found it surprisingly enjoyable. He'd spent years playing melee units—characters that charged in recklessly or soaked up damage like tanks. This was his first experience playing a true shooter.

In the past, his strategies had revolved around closing the distance, figuring out how to sneak up on enemies, and getting within striking range before they could even draw their weapons. But now, with Green Arrow, everything was different. His range was his advantage, and the game had shifted from closing in to finding the right angle, constantly moving, and picking off targets from a distance.

It was a refreshing change. Charlie realized that he could play Arrow as a marksman, utilizing the character's skills to their full potential. Yet, as the saying goes, an archer who can't handle close combat isn't a true fighter.

Once the significant threats were neutralized and Charlie felt he had tested Oliver's archery skills enough, he decided to take things up a notch. He manipulated Green Arrow to leap down from his vantage point, landing squarely in the midst of the remaining gangsters.

"There he is... ugh!" One of the gangsters managed to shout, but his words were cut short as Green Arrow's alloy compound bow slammed into his mouth, knocking him out cold.

The gangsters who hadn't been hit by arrows recoiled in shock, quickly closing ranks. Though Green Arrow was no Batman, he was still a master in his own right, more than capable of handling the likes of these low-level thugs.

Some of the gang wielded knives, others picked up anything they could find to defend themselves, but none of them stood a chance against Green Arrow. He wielded the compound bow like a seasoned melee weapon, striking with such precision and force that the men were sent sprawling. Some rolled on the ground, clutching their wounds, others groaned in pain, and a few simply lay there, playing dead, hoping to avoid further punishment.

Their leader, who had been hiding behind a desk, now cowered, his arms wrapped around his head in a desperate attempt to make himself as small as possible. He prayed that Green Arrow wouldn't notice him, but fate was not on his side. After dispatching the last of the gangsters, Green Arrow strode purposefully through the wreckage, his boots crunching on the debris, and yanked the leader out from behind the table.

"You have failed this city!"

The words, cold and mechanical, were spoken with chilling finality.

The leader, now trembling uncontrollably, scrambled to beg for mercy. "Wait a minute... It's all a misunderstanding! I'm just a regular businessman, honest and hardworking, never involved in anything illegal. You must be mistaken... Ahhh!!"

Green Arrow said nothing, letting the leader's pitiful words hang in the air. With calculated precision, he nocked an arrow and drove it into the man's knee. The scream that followed was one of pure agony, echoing off the club's walls.

"Calm down," the leader stammered, tears of pain and fear streaming down his face. "No matter what you've heard, it's all rumors! There's no basis, no evidence, you can't..."

"It's the sheriff who needs evidence."

The modulated voice from under the hood was devoid of any sympathy, only cold, hard truth.

"Do I look like a sheriff?"

The leader froze, the question hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Yes, this was the real terror for people like him.

Cops, courts, judges—they all had to follow the rules. And people like him, who thrived on the streets, had long since figured out how to play the game. They knew the loopholes, the bribery, the tricks to get out of legal trouble. The law could be bent, manipulated to work in their favor.

But these vigilantes? These lunatics dressed in costumes? They didn't play by the rules.

Like the man in front of him—he didn't need proof, he didn't need evidence. Maybe he didn't even know what their club was involved in. Maybe he was just out on a stroll, looking for something to do, and their club was unlucky enough to be in his path.

"Your gang, other strongholds," the hooded man demanded, his voice like a death sentence. "I want the addresses."

After days of vigilante work, Charlie had started piecing together the underground network of the city. He had a rough idea of which gangs controlled which areas. In most neighborhoods, the strongholds belonged to specific gangs, and they respected each other's territories. Crossing into someone else's domain was considered an act of war.

This was insider knowledge, something ordinary citizens wouldn't have a clue about.

So when Charlie found a stronghold, he could make an educated guess about which gang it belonged to. Beating up a group like this was satisfying, but he wanted more—he needed more. These guys looked tough on the surface, but in a fight, they crumpled like paper. There was no challenge, no thrill.

And he had only tested Green Arrow so far—there were two more heroes waiting in line for a test. There simply weren't enough thugs to go around.

Waiting for targets to appear on the street was too slow. Charlie needed to speed things up. He figured he could extract a few addresses from this sorry excuse for a leader and hit the strongholds one by one.

The leader's face turned ashen as he realized the implications of Charlie's question. Desperation overtook him, and he stammered out a response: "Our organization is compartmentalized. I don't know the location of the other strongholds. Ugh!!"

Green Arrow didn't hesitate. He ripped the arrow from the leader's knee, only to drive it back in with brutal force.

"Wrong answer," Green Arrow said coldly. "Think again."

The leader, now in unimaginable pain, broke down completely. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed, his resistance shattered by the relentless torment. Finally, with nothing left to lose, he spat out the addresses, his voice barely a whisper.

He knew what this meant. The lunatic would go door to door, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. And when his fellow gang members found out who had given up the locations, they'd make sure he paid dearly for it.

But just as the leader thought his nightmare was over, that the worst had passed, he saw Green Arrow pause mid-step, turning back toward him.

"Oh, right," the vigilante said, his tone almost casual, as if remembering something trivial. "Call more people tomorrow. I'll be back."

The leader's expression froze, horror washing over him anew as he realized that tonight's terror was just the beginning.

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