Hello my lovely darlings! I've been obsessing with this idea for nearly three weeks now and just got a chance to do something with it O.o I hope you all like it! :D

I own nothing =/

Mike pedaled slowly, weaving his way along the nearly empty sidewalk into the familiar streets that lined his neighborhood. It was late, nearly 9:30, when he'd finally left Pearson Hardmen, deciding to leave the rest of his paperwork to finish in the morning. They had a huge case coming up, one of the biggest ones Mike had ever worked on at the firm, and he was determined to do everything flawlessly. That meant taking his time on the files and being careful not to miss any mistakes or inconsistencies that could be brought up during the trial. He was tired and had started to lose focus on the things he was reading so it seemed like a logical place to call it a night. The paperwork would still be there in the morning.

He turned a corner carefully, coasting along the slightly sloped sidewalk and thinking back on the case. His mind had been preoccupied ever since he left the building and he wasn't necessarily paying attention to the streets surrounding him. Which made it that much easier for someone to knock him off his bike and drag him into an alley.

The hit came fast and hard, like a freight train slamming into his side, and he toppled over the edge of his bike. He landed hard on the ground with a started grunt and was immediately grabbed by the lapels of his suit and dragged to his feet. No sooner had he gotten upright though, did the assailant haul him into an alley and throw him into a pile of trash cans sitting next to the wall.

Mike's mind was racing, his heart pounding painfully against the insides of his ribs. There were two men, both dressed in dark, plain clothing, and they were looking at him maliciously. One of them grabbed his bike, keeping it far away from him, and both of them used their bodies to block the mouth of the alley. It was dark, the building casting long, inky shadows between the crevices, and unless he made some kind of noise, no one was going to see anything that happened in the alley. Even worse, both buildings served as office buildings during the day so that meant there was abaolutely no one inside to hear him even if he did call for help.

"Well, well," one of the men drawled, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "Looks like we caught ourselves a suit."

His partner grinned nastily and Mike felt his stomach do a slow, oily flip. "That's a nice jacket you're wearing, pretty boy. Probably cost a good deal of money, too." His hand was tucked into the pocket of his jeans and Mike couldn't suppress the gasp that escaped him when he pulled out a switch blade and flicked it open menacingly.

"L-Look..." Mike started, trying his best to contain the trembling in his voice. "You can have my wallet, my bike, whatever you want. I don't have much but you can take it. Its yours." He reached into his own pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing it onto the filthy ground in front of him. He'd never been mugged before, pick-pocketed a few times, yes, but never a face-to-face mugging. They had weapons and he wasn't about to delude himself into thinking they wouldn't use them.

The men looked at each other and laughed, a sound that made Mike's skin crawl. "Your wallet, huh?" One of them asked, taking a step forward and snatching the wallet off the ground, flipping it open carelessly. He took out the few credit cards Mike owned, along with the small amount of cash he had on him, and fanned them out in his hand. He looked at the contents of the wallet and then glared at Mike. "You know, for a suit you don't have a lot to offer." He looked at his partner, the man holding the knife, casually. "I think he's holding out on us."

Before Mike could blink, the other man had crossed the alley toward him and grabbed him by the fronts of his jacket again, slamming him violently into the brick wall behind him. Mike's head bounced against the unforgiving bricks painfully and he could feel concrete digging into his scalp. He gasped when he felt cold, solid steel pressing into the underside of his jaw.

"You know, we've gone through this scenario a few times before," the man said, his voice lazy and bored like he was reporting the weather. "We take your cards, you go to the police, and then to the bank to close your account. It sort of defeats the purpose of taking anything from you in the first place if we can't use it in the end, you know?" The blade pressed a bit harder into his throat and Mike tried not to whimper.

"We wouldn't have to worry about any of that if there was no victim to run off to the police," the man behind him chimed in helpfully, a twisted smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. You wouldn't have to worry about any of this if you didn't make a victim in the first place, Mike thought uselessly as the blade continued to dig into his throat. He winced when it pressed a bit too deep and something warm and sticky began to trickle down the side of his neck and into top of his shirt.

"But you know, it would be really hard for you to make a witness statement if you didn't have, say, your tongue..." The blade moved so suddenly Mike would have missed it had it not been for the cold sharpness suddenly pressed against his bottom lip. "Or, we could simply poke out your eyes so you couldn't pick us out in a line up." The blade moved up, caressing his cheek almost teasingly as it came to rest just above his eyebrow.

Mike could feel his legs shaking, threatening to drop him at any minute. His throat was dry, a sick, cold feeling churning in the pit of his stomach. "Please..." He whispered, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

"Please what?" The man demanded, suddenly moving his hand to grip Mike's jaw tightly in one hand, still teasingly running the knife over his face with the other. "Please let you go? Please leave you alone?"

"I think he means 'please make it quick,'" the other man said, taking a quick step forward and pulling a gun from his pocket. There was an ominous click and the barrel was pressed firmly into the side of Mike's head.

Mike blinked rapidly, fighting the tears that burned the backs of his eyes. He was going to die alone in this alley and no one would ever know what happened to him. He vaguely wondered where his life had gone so terribly wrong that he was about to get both shot and stabbed to death at the same time but didn't have much time to contemplate that fact as the gun pressed harder into his head. It hurt, cold metal digging into his scalp along with the constant poking and sliding of the knife across his face.

"Take off the jacket," one of the men, Mike couldn't be sure which, said and the grip on his jaw tightened slightly. Mike complied, carefully slipped the jacket off without ever moving his head and dropping it onto the ground. The man holding the gun moved away just long enough to grab it and toss it over one shoulder, pocketing the contents of Mike's wallet as well.

"So what should we do now?" The one with the knife asked innocently, dragging the blade of the knife down the side of Mike's face once more and tucking it under his jaw again. "Should we tie up the loose ends? Make sure that this little piggy doesn't go squealing wee wee wee all the way to the police station?"

Mike hadn't prayed in a long time, not since his parents had died, but he figured now would be a good time to start. The hand tightened on his jaw once more, tight enough to bruise, and he closed his eyes.

There was a sudden jerk of movement and Mike felt himself being thrown backwards into the trash cans again, landing painfully on the already dented sides. He tumbled to the ground, landing in a puddle of something that had leaked out of the bottom of one of the cans. The gun was pointed at him, the barrel dark and menacing in the dim light, and Mike prayed.

There was a shot, loud and startling, and then nothing. Mike was cringing, waiting for the inevitable burn of the bullet tearing into his body, but it never came. Nothing did. He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and looked to where the two men had been standing. They were both gone, fled to the streets, and Mike was alone in the alley. His bike was gone, as was his messenger bag, and all he was left with were the clothes on his back.

Mike was breathing raggedly, tears burning the corners of his eyes and threatening to fall without his consent. He felt sick and dirty and cold. The collar of his shirt was tacky with blood and he brought one had to his throat to touch the wound. It was tiny, a nick of a cut at best, but he could feel his pulse racing against his fingertips, the blood oozing out quickly in response.

He needed to call someone...the police, Harvey, Batman, somebody, but he realized with a sick, sinking feeling that his phone was in the pocket of the jacket he didn't have anymore. No one came running to see if he needed help, no one showed up to offer assistance. The men had planned it so they could attack him in an area where no one would see or hear what was going on.

Mike wanted to stand up. He wanted to get off the ground and run like hell to his apartment. He wanted to shower off the blood that was still sticking to his neck and the sludge that had leaked out of the trash cans and soaked his clothes. He wanted to get off the ground and get away from this alley. His body had other ideas though and he let out a strangled sob just before he turned to the side and vomitted. He stayed on his hands and knees, trembling and unable to move, for a long time.

Poor Mike...I'm so sorry! ;_;