The Barbican

Really, the assholes beating on that poor old guy in the alley should have known better. Not many things get the attention of the Dark Knight faster than three gangbangers robbing and waling on some defenseless guy doing nothing more than heading home from his 16-hour-day.

The first guy downed is the one holding the old man in place. 'Rang to the temple, drop like a rock. That gives the other two assailants cause to pause, of course. They look around frenetically, but, of course, they see nothing. Even their victim looks a little wide-eyed, at least out of the one eye that can still see clearly. The other is puffed shut.

"Wha--?" says thug number one, the guy on the left.

His partner in crime nudges the downed assailant with his foot. "Geddup."

The guy on the left drops to the ground, too. And this time the last man standing sees the distinctive shape of a heavy batarang on the ground, stained a bit with blood. With a cry, he abandons the old man and takes off down the alley, getting...oh, about five feet before bolas wrap around his ankles and he tumbles to the ground.

Sagging against a trash can, the old man whimpers, because seeing the black-caped figure of Batman descending from darkness is not the most comforting thing. The vigilante reaches into the jacket of the just-tackled-by-Batbola baddie, retrieving what looks to be a bank deposit bag. He tosses it to the old man, where it lands at his feet.

"Th-th-th-th-thank...."

"Ambulance is on the way." As he recovers the two Batarangs, Batman levels his cowled stare at the victim. "This gang won't shake you down again, but don't walk around with that kind of cash again."

"Y-y-y...."

Sirens indicate more official help is closer. As for the vigilante, Batman raises a hand, fires a grappling hook skyward, and off he zips into the blackness again. He has the rest of that gang to take down too.