**January 31, 1989. 3 AM, the dead of night.**
In West Gotham tonight, the regular gathering of the city's most influential people was taking place. Usually, such meetings draw crowds of journalists so thick the rooms run out of air, but this night was different, as almost no one knew about it except those present.
In the hall on the top floor of a Gotham skyscraper, whose opulence could make even the city's most expensive restaurants envious, sat countless guests, all, of course, in the most expensive suits and dresses, with waiters moving from table to table, carrying trays of the finest wines and champagnes.
Carmine Falcone: "You see, Gillian. This is what 'high society' looks like. I wouldn't wish it on you to get used to it. You get accustomed, there's no going back," he says, taking a small sip from his glass. His voice was naturally rather coarse, but it still carried the weight of high status.
Gillian Loeb: "I'm no novice to this, Carmine. I've been bringing you money for fifteen years, already got used to your 'high society.' Ask the reporters about it, they'll tell you."
Carmine Falcone: "I don't like newspapermen. Don't like people who stick their noses where they don't belong. Newsmen have nothing of their own in life, so they steal from others. You know, if there ever was a pitiful sight, it would be pitying all those paparazzi," he says with a slightly mocking tone.
Gillian Loeb: "Mm-hmm. If they weren't carrying my police department's approval from the people into the treasury, I'd lock them all up for spreading false information."
Carmine Falcone: "Let them write what they want as long as their desires are on our side. Speaking of newspapers," he says, lightly patting Loeb on the back. "You clever bastard. A big bat, hunting criminals. Couldn't have thought of a better one."
Gillian Loeb: "Hmm, and I even appointed that poor sap Gordon to hunt it. Just for show."
Carmine Falcone: "You know, I like people who do their job well and diligently. And even more, I like those who'll do anything to avoid work, but end up doing it even better. To the courage and resourcefulness of the Gotham City Police," he says, after which he and Loeb clink glasses and drink their contents.
Suddenly, the electricity on the entire floor cuts out; the light music playing from the speakers stops. In the same second, "oh!" and "what happened?" pour from the mouths of guests throughout the hall.
Carmine Falcone: "Must be a short in the wiring somewhere," he says, then turns toward two waiters standing nearby. "Joey, Rupert. Go, check what's going on."
Suddenly, somewhere in the hall, roughly in its center, a strange series of sounds rings out, all within two seconds. First, a sound like a flag flapping in the wind. This was followed by the sound of something not particularly heavy landing, and simultaneously the sound of a man groaning in pain. The next moment, a pair of breaking glasses sounds. Abruptly, the center of the hall began to feel denser than before, and then in that spot, as if emerging directly from the darkness formed after the lights went out, two white, luminescent dots appear, shaped like eyes, after which a voice comes from behind the eyes themselves: "Ladies, gentlemen. I hope you've dined well."
In the very next moment, the entire atmosphere in the room changed beyond recognition. Even without waiting for Falcone's orders, his waiters, who also doubled as bodyguards, drew compact Uzis from under their jackets and opened fire on the black figure in the center. True chaos erupted among the guests—some hid under tables, others bolted out of the building, their screams and shrieks easily drowning out even the sounds of gunfire.
Falcone immediately ducked under the table, drawing a pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket and sitting quietly beneath it. Watching as none of Falcone's bodyguards could hit the dark, bat-like figure, which was sending them into knockout with single kicks or punches to the chest or jaw, all while creating the appearance that the bat was truly flying around the hall, Loeb decided to join Falcone under their table, then pulled out his police radio.
Gillian Loeb, into the radio: "Dispatch, dispatch! This is Commissioner Gillian Loeb. I'm ordering—... demanding a squad to the Central District, the Gotham Renewal Program building. We are under attack. This is a top-priority order!"
Dispatcher, from the radio: "Copy that, sending units now. How many assailants?"
Gillian Loeb, into the radio, slightly surprised by his own words: "One," he says, putting away the radio and also drawing his pistol.
Carmine Falcone, hearing the sounds of his men being taken down one by one: "Don't just sit here. He'll run out of steam soon. Let's just step out and drop him," he says, crawling out from under the table and trying to land even a single bullet on the bat (obviously failing to hit it with any of them).
By that time, the first police cars and vans were already pulling up to the building. Within a couple more seconds, an armed SWAT team began making its way to the top floor where the one-sided firefight continued. The situation in the hall had hardly changed. Only the number of people lying on the floor from just a couple of single blows from the bat had increased. By then, there were about fifteen bodyguards on the floor, with roughly the same number still firmly on their feet, this considering about ten more had arrived after the shooting started.
For a second, it might have seemed that in the room, the bullets flying lengthwise and crosswise occupied more space than the air, which didn't make the bat an easier target. Although not a single bullet could touch the figure darting around the hall, there were still more than enough bullets inside, and there was no guarantee that none of them would be delivered to the wrong address. Which happened. The bat, as is its nature, continued to practically fly around the room, and two bullets, intended for it, flew past their original target. With nothing on their path to stop them, they continued their journey through empty, free air. Obviously, those two couldn't fly forever, and something had to impede their path. Usually, these were walls, or the large panoramic windows, but a different target fell into the bullets' path. One entered right into the stomach, the second right above the heart. Those two impacts were already enough for the man to be on the floor, and it would have been luck if he had still remained conscious. Blood began to spread beneath his body, flowing out; his eyes lacked even the strength to close. The sound of the firefight gradually faded in his ears, his vision grew darker, though it seemed it couldn't get any darker. His breathing slowed, and under the sounds of the firefight, the sound of his breath became like that of an ant in the middle of a tank battle, until it stopped completely. Gotham Police Commissioner Gillian Loeb was officially dead.