Date: Mon, 3 Jan 2011 03:57:08 -0800 (PST) From: J M <nycherolover@yahoo.com> Subject: A Necessary Evil - Intro and Part 1 A Necessary Evil by nycherolover@yahoo.com DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fiction. All the characters depicted in the story belong to and are copyrighted by DC Comics and/or its subsidiaries. I am in no way related to the company and have no ownership over the characters. This is fan fiction. This story depicts males in sexual situations - if that offends you, please stop reading now. Thanks. And thank you to all the great writers out there who inspired this work. This is my first fiction attempt, so feedback is greatly appreciated and welcome, at nycherolover@yahoo.com -------------------- He refused to turn around and acknowledge the voice behind him. He walked quickly, if stiffly, toward the sleek motorcycle in the distance, parked where he had left it a mere two hours ago. Only two hours ? but already a lifetime away. Everything was different now. "Nightwing!" the voice called again. The younger hero stopped, finally. His powerful legs planted on the pavement, left fist clenched. He glanced down at himself. Another fucking stain, there in the front, right under? his gloved right hand brushed at it nervously. He turned his torso and head, glancing back at his former mentor. After a long silence, Batman tried again. "Tomorrow, same time." "Fuck you, Bruce." It came out exactly as he had intended. Nightwing turned back toward where he knew his bike to be, found his stride, disengaged the cloaking device with a quick tap on his wristband, and leapt for the cycle, straddling it and powering it up in one smooth motion. The rear tire squealed as he left the vast parking lot, leaving Batman and the entire sick afternoon behind. The engine throbbed under his thighs, and his tired manhood thickened. Again. "Fuck." Batman watched Nightwing disappear in a cloud of exhaust and burned rubber, weaving his way between the two warehouses at the far end of the lot. A sudden wind swept the now empty expanse and swirled around the man's boots, rising up and around one massive thigh, a bit too close to his groin. His cock thickened. Again. "Fuck." It had been weeks since Nightwing had received a call from the Batman. Another argument, another turf battle between Gotham and Bludhaven, and another promise by the billionaire crime fighter to keep away, to let his former ward manage things as he saw fit. Keep out. He had made the message clear, and Batman had obliged him. For a while. Until the next time he felt the need to "assist." But this time the call came late, much too late in the night for Bruce, he thought. By this time the man was usually at the mansion, sprawled under silk sheets, nursing his battle scars or pedantically going over his plans for the next board meeting, or whatever he did in his enormous study these days. "I need to talk with you. It's important. Eastern dock lab. You know where. Tomorrow. Noon." There was no opportunity given to refuse. He hated that. Presumptuous as always. Always his emergency more important that his own. And yet ? there was an urgency in the other man's voice that Nightwing knew he could not deny, or refuse. Batman was many things, but unnecessarily dramatic was not one of them. The morning workout was hard, followed by 100 laps in the pool behind the university where Dick Grayson now spent his time finishing his Master's Degree in criminal law. His body rewarded him for it, powerfully taught and alert as he guided his motorcycle through the narrow alleyways of Gotham Harbor's warehouse district, dodging empty crates and torn trash bags, before entering the vast space that was the main loading area parking lot. Sunday noon, and the entire dock was empty. The time was chosen on purpose, clearly, he thought. Still, he parked the black and chrome cycle further from the door he now saw off to the left. No need to draw attention. The powerful motor stopped, and all was quiet again. Not a trace of the Batmobile, but then the cloaking technology they both shared and had developed together years ago made it easy to hide in plain sight. He reached for the black wristband on his left arm, pressed the center button, and his motorcycle vanished, blending into the grayness of the enormous warehouse wall behind it. He paused for one second before moving toward the door. Something held him back. He stood, silently, in the empty lot, only the wind moving through his dark hair. Strong, muscled, panther-like ? the fruit of years of gymnastics and acrobatics, and then his time in the service of the Batman, as he now recalled his initiation into crime fighting. His instincts were now as good, if not better, than his former teacher's, and he knew that something in that lab upstairs was going to change things, permanently. Inhale. Be present. Trust the training. He moved silently for the door, opened it, and began climbing the staircase. Awkward silences. Nightwing was used to them by now. Every time he and Batman met on the field of some new battle, these moments of uncomfortable silence would descend on them. But this time it was different. Nightwing hadn't been to Batman's secret lab in more than a year. An overly cautious hero had decided to spread his facilities around Gotham, fearing a single discovery of the Batcave would cripple his crime-fighting empire. This lab, complete with testing rooms, storage vaults and a vast array of tools and instruments, was state-of-the-art, but you would never know that from the outside of what appeared to be just another massive holding hanger for Wayne Industries. Somebody say something, he thought to himself. After his full-body security scan, Nightwing had entered the main lab office, finding Batman standing by the only window, his back to the door. Off to the man's right, a young doctor, a stranger to Nightwing, stood in his standard-issue white lab coat, arms crossed, staring at the younger hero as he entered. Batman made no attempt at eye contact. You could at least turn the fuck around, thought Nightwing. "Ok, I'll bite. Care to tell me why I'm here?" Nightwing's voice shattered the silence. The doctor seemed to snap out of his trance, and advanced toward him, right hand extended. "Nightwing, I'm Dr. Tanner. Thank you for coming." His hand was firm, his grip strong. "I apologize for the short notice, but Batman thought it best we get to this without delay." Nightwing raised an eyebrow before turning back to Batman. "Right. Seems like he's lost his ability to speak. Is that what you need me for?" With that, Batman turned on one powerful leg, and crossed his arms. Still no eye contact, what is that about? He spoke in a low, deliberate voice. "Thank you for responding. I ? we ? have something that you need to know about. The sooner, the better. It will not take long. But you can't leave until we've finished, alright?" His eyes fixed on a point just in front of Nightwing's boots. Can't leave. Still giving orders, Nightwing thought. "I'll decide if this is worth my time ? so why don't we stop acting like schoolgirls and get to the point." Another stupidly long silence. Then Dr. Tanner spoke, and Batman turned away again, staring out the window. "Very well. Perhaps you should see these first. This may put things in perspective." He reached for a large manila envelope on small medical cart, and passed it to Nightwing. "Photographs. Recent." Nightwing locked eyes with the doctor as he opened the envelope clasp, and pulled out a small stack of 5x7 photos. He looked down at the first photo, and tried to understand what he was seeing. A man in a business suit ? or what used to be a suit, anyway. He was slumped over a heap of garbage, face down, his legs spread wide, face buried in the trash. The man's pants were pulled down to his ankles, one Italian shoe still on, the other missing from his left foot. I guess that's what "bare-assed naked" looks like, the thought came to Nightwing suddenly. Indeed, the man's full, muscular glutes were fully exposed, with what appeared to be marks on each cheek. Another photo. An athlete. No ? two athletes. Intertwined, arms and legs wrapped around each other, inside of a dumpster. There track suits torn, exposing chests, muscled arms and ? oh shit. Both men's genitals on full display, still ? very hard. One pressed against the other. Photo after photo. Men, partially dressed. All with their manhood fully erect, some face down, plump asses to the camera, others ? face up, with a strange smile fixed on their unconscious faces. Some young, some older, but all in their own prime. Powerful, athletic, respected icons of their various communities. "What is this?" Nightwing finally asked, holding the photos tightly in his hand. He glanced first at Batman, then the doctor. "The disappearances have been kept out of the papers, at the request of the police commissioner," Dr. Tanner explained. "Businessmen, college athletes, prominent Gotham leaders ? all men, all disappearing in the last month. All found, eventually, in various stages of delusion. Two of them ? dead, from what appears to be massive coronaries." "Why didn't you ask for some help with this?" asked Nightwing, directing that clearly at Batman. "Are you worried you can't handle the work load?" He was still cocky, still unaware of the depth of the danger Gotham was facing. Dr. Tanner continued. "We haven't told you, or anyone, because we didn't know what to make of this. Until two weeks ago." He turned back to the medical cart, and pulled out a small vial from one of the drawers. "This was found in the pocket of Mitch Brannigan, the venture capitalist. And a message. Written -- well -- tattooed on the man's left buttocks." Nightwing paused, his eyes still locked on the back of Batman's head. "Saying?" This time his former mentor spoke. "Drink me."