Another cold, wet and bleary night.

Any sane person would be inside, trying to beat the frost, though very few Gothamites fell within the ‘sane’ category these days.

It would only be a matter of seconds before some form of violence, some flavour of tragedy struck the frozen streets, and the Bat would be there.

Bruce felt particularly inclined to the phrase “no rest for the wicked” these days.

Perched atop the first suitable ledge he laid eyes on this evening, Bruce surveyed the ever screaming streets in total silence, awaiting his queue, his signal to intervene, to play Johnny Law and convince himself he did it for any reason other than selfish self-battery.

“Come in, B. I've got a big one for you.” Oracle's voice crackled in his ear.

“Go on.” He was already standing, prepared to make his move.