The moon gave off a full pale glow from its position high in the sky. Here and there a small cloud skirted across it, but for the most part the light reflecting off of its craterous surface remained uninterrupted.
Lunette looked up at it and took a drag of her cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of her stiletto. It was getting near 3am and she'd had only one client all night. If things didn't pick up, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to afford to pay her rent in full this week. She snorted at the thought. The shithole she lived in wasn't worth the $1850 she paid per month, but it was a steal compared to the ever-rising rent prices in the rest of Gotham.
(TW: depictions of violence, mentions of blood, allusions to sex and sex work)
Two headlights swept over the street corner as a car went past and Lunette put her mind back on the task at hand. She wasn't normally on the street like this; she preferred to make appointments by text. But desperate times called for desperate measures. She pulled her skirt up just a touch higher and conversely pulled her coat around her a little tighter. It was a chilly night, but she couldn't afford to be demure. Another car came around the corner, and this one slowed to a stop before her. The driver rolled down the window and Lunette leaned on the door.
“Hey there, handsome. Looking for something?”
“Just wondering if you needed a ride,” he said smoothly, smiling. “Maybe to somewhere warm, like a motel?”
“Well aren't you a gentleman?” She heard the click of the door unlocking and opened it, leaning in where their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
“No pay, no play.”
“What's your rate?”
“$85 an hour.”
“Little high for a streetwalker, aren't you?” He chuckled.
“You could always call an escort service, doll.” She fluttered her eyelashes, knowing damn well she charged less than half the rate of the cheapest escort in the city.
His smile didn't waver, which she found odd. “I can pay.”
Lunette slid comfortably into the passenger seat and closed the door. She buckled the seatbelt and fiddled with the buttons on the door a moment before rolling the window back up.
The motel was not especially far from where he'd picked her up. This was good; she wouldn't have a long walk back. He tried to make friendly conversation as they went, but she politely but firmly brushed him off.
“No offense,” she said, “but this is business. And I like to keep it professional.”
“None taken,” he chuckled. “I admire it, even. A woman who knows what her time is worth.”
She hung back a bit from the counter while he checked in, but stayed close enough to hear the desk clerk call him “Mr. Maduro.” Lunette wondered if that was his real name. Most Johns gave them fake names the same way she did, for privacy as much as for safety. He turned back to her and put the room key in her hand. His fingers were warm.
In the room, she laid out her ground rules. Like she’d said, $85 an hour, kinky stuff was a premium, etc. He nodded readily to her instructions and took a crisp one hundred dollar bill from his wallet.
“Maduro” held it out to her. “If you're good, you can keep the change,” he said.
“In that case, you'll be throwing money at my feet, darling,” she said, tucking the money away.
The sex was not remarkable; she'd found after a few years in the profession that it rarely was. What was of note was that half an hour in, he reached up and put a hand around her throat. This wasn't immediately alarming. Plenty of men liked to hold her down this way when they fucked. But as she laid there, the pressure increased, and Lunette found herself short of breath. She reached a hand up and grabbed his bicep, signaling for him to release her. Instead, he added his other hand, and squeezed in earnest. His eyes were no longer warm or friendly.
Lunette choked, first pulling at his wrists and then clawing at his face. He turned his face away, denying her hands purchase. She wanted to kick him, but the weight of his body on her legs kept her from moving them. Vision beginning to go black, she groped blindly for the nightstand, and her fingers found the smooth enameled surface of the lamp. She grabbed it by the neck and brought it to bear against the side of his skull. The cheap ceramic shattered into pieces, and Maduro fell to the side of the bed, dazed.
Free from his grip, Lunette rolled herself off the opposite side of the bed, gasping for air. The rush of oxygen to her brain was messing with her eyes and burning her lungs. On hand and knees, she crawled towards the door. A hand clamped over her ankle, and Maduro dragged her back towards him. Lunette screamed, her voice broken by coughs, and kicked frantically at him, but he seemed undeterred by her struggle. He put his big meaty fingers into her thigh, then her waist, trying to crawl up the length of her body like some sort of hellish worm.
Lunette hit him in the face as hard as she could, breaking his nose. Blood smeared across her palm and ran down his face. He growled angrily and grabbed at her wrists.
“You stupid whore,” he hissed, forcing her arms down to the floor. She screamed for help again, and he punched her so hard it made her ears ring. Vision unfocused, but with one hand free, she jammed her thumbnail into his eye. He recoiled, and she crawled out from under him, back towards the door, yelling for someone, anyone, to help her.
Then the door was kicked in, and there he stood: a tall figure swathed in black, with bright, glowing eyes. Lunette fell back on her ass. The figure held out his hand. Hesitantly, she took it, and with a strong grip he pulled her up from the floor.
“Get yourself to a hospital,” he said, in a voice at once soft but gruff. Gentle gloved hands pushed her outside. Everything in her should have been telling her to run, but Lunette was transfixed.
She watched as the man in all black stepped slowly into the room, and Maduro shrank back against the wall. People were spilling out into the open corridor now, some of them with phones to their ears, others holding their devices up in a bid to get the incident caught on video.
“Does targeting women make you feel like a big man?” growled the spectre. Lunette heard, rather than saw, the snapping of bone. Maduro whimpered pitifully, begging for his life, and she heard another snap and a howl of pain. The dark figure swept back out of the room, stopping in front of her. He looked genuinely surprised to see her there.
“You need medical attention,” he said firmly.
Lunette’s mouth hung open. The sounds of police sirens drifted through the air. He turned to leave, and she quickly regained her senses and grabbed at his cape.
“Thank you,” she stammered breathlessly. “Thank you!”
Moving slowly, which she imagined was for her benefit in particular, he took her hands in his. He looked her in her eyes, and she was lost in the ghostly glow.
“If you're not going to the hospital…get home safe ok?”
He let her go, and with a swirl of his cape, vaulted onto the railing, up onto the roof, and disappeared into the night.
A bystander approached Lunette, still holding up her phone. “Are you all right, sweetie?”
“I…mostly. Yes. I'm fine.”
“We called the police but–”
“Who was that?”
“Who? You mean the Batman?”
“The Batman,” she echoed, sinking to her knees on the concrete floor of the corridor. “Batman…”
