#27: A Mirror Darkly, Pt 1 (LaFleche / Villalobos)

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” Tim Drake was frantic, inadvertently climbing over Alfred to get a closer view of the action on the cave’s monitor. “Did that guy with the wings shot fire at Batman? Fire? Who is that? What’s going? Oh my god!”

“Master Timothy, please!” Alfred said, gently pushing the boy aside and back into his chair with one arm. “Do sit down and calm yourself! You aren’t helping!”

The monitor from Batman’s cowl-cam showed the impossible. A man in a thick nomex suit, gliding through the air on broad metal wings. His head was covered in oblong shaped shell with large, bulbous lenses over his heads. In his hands was a fearsome flamethrower that appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of fuel.

It was Gotham’s most famous arsonist. Firefly.

On the rooftop of the Gotham University communications and telecom lab building, Batman snarled as he flipped backward away from another incoming wall of searing plasma. He threw a batarang into Firefly’s fuel line, slicing it open. The naked fuel splashed onto Firefly’s suit, erupting into flame. The winged villain cackled and climbed upward away from Batman’s reach.

“I just can’t catch a break these days,” he said into the mic in his cowl.

“I am equally dismayed, B,” came Alfred’s voice. “This makes Gotham’s third Firefly.”

“I don’t think so, A,” Batman said, pulled a zip line from a pouch on his belt. “This is the original loser back in action.”

“Original? Uh, sir isn’t Mr. Lyons…well, dead, sir?”

“No doubt about it.”

“And yet you are sure he is…”

“Pretty sure,” Batman said, fixing the zip line to a weighted batarang. “Fighting styles are like fingerprints. Firefly is back and he's protecting the Jokerz theft of electronics from this building. And I don’t like it. What’s Nightwing’s ETA?”

“No way he’s getting there fast enough, sir.”

In the cave, Tim Drake was doing all he could to stay in his chair. “Nightwing? He’s coming too? Cool!”

Alfred rolled his eyes but could not suppress a grin. Tim was different than either Jason or Dick. Despite recent tragedies, the serious and darkness that hovered over those two wasn’t clinging to Tim in the same way. Murder had turned Jason Todd and Dick Grayson into old souls. But Tim, despite his grief and anger, still had a boy’s spirit. Containing it was obviously going to take a lot of work.

“Please, Master Tim. Keep your teeth together and watch,” Alfred said.

Firefly, his fuel line repaired, swooped down from the sky with the fury of a dragon. Streams of flame and clouds swirled around his body as it nose dived toward his target.

“Gonna kill him! Kill him! Roast him! Cook him! BWAHAHAHAH!” Firefly shouted, letting rip a wall of flame that began to burn the building’s rooftop. “Good is bad! Bad is good! Gotta set the night on fire! Boom baby! Roooooast him!”

Batman dove and rolled away from Firefly’s blast. The villain swooped low, but missed his target and began to climb into the clouds again. Batman was having none of it. He let the line fly. It caught Firefly around the neck. The villain made a sickening, wet gurgle as Batman pulled back hard on the line. Firefly’s body slammed into the roof, crushing his wings and snapping his helmet off.

“My word,” Alfred said. “What on earth….”

“I don’t know,” Batman hissed. “I’m going to finish this now. There will be time to figure it out afterward.”

Garfield Lyons struggled to his feet, coughing up phlegm and blood while tearing at the line around his throat with his fingers. His eyes are dark and bloodshot. His pupils dilated to such a degree he appeared to be on drugs, perhaps a powerful hallucinogenic substance. His hair was long and ragged with a thick band of white running from his left temple down the back of his neck.

“Kaff….gotta burn him. Burn him. Gotta…kack….cough…burn baby, burn...” he muttered.

Batman cracked his knuckles and pounced forward. Deep down inside him, in places he never tells Alfred about, something laughed. He was going to enjoy this.

His legs went instantly numb, Batman’s body jerked involuntarily to the left. He rolled clumsily at the same time his chest and arms froze over.

With ice.

Batman heard the heavy fall of hydraulically powered boots stomping across the rooftop. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who was coming up behind him.

“Freeze,” Batman said, struggling to take a deep breath. “It’s n-n-not like you to work with s-someone like Fire f-f-fly.”

“True, enough,” Freeze said, stepping over Batman’s body and walking toward the still struggling Firefly. “But Mr. Lyons is having some…difficulty adjusting to life among the breathing. He’s needs a chaperone.”

Freeze grabbed the line around Firefly’s neck. The smaller man dropped to the ground, spitting and shouting to no one in particular.

The ice around Batman’s wrist cracked under the heat of a miniature laser. But before he could get any further, Freeze blasted him with another shot from his cryogenic gun, encasing the detective in a solid block of ice from his neck to this feet.

“Enough of that, thank you Batman,” Freeze said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “This is going far too easy. I will have to talk to the Joker about why he has had such trouble killing you…”

Batman tried to speak, but the ice was crushing his lungs making it impossible to breath. He felt his suit beginning to heat up. Alfred must be activating my Mr. Freeze counter-measures remotely, he thought.But it’s not going to work fast enough.

“Normally, I might gloat for a while, Batman. But I’ve learned folly of monologuing around you,” Freeze said, cocking his gun. “This will fill your throat and lungs with ice. I’m afraid it will hurt. Goodbye Ba….”

A high-pitched whistle from the street bellow cut the night air. A voice that made Batman’s blood run cold shouted up.

“Yo! Fire and ice! Show’s over! Time to make like a tree and get out of here!”

“Joker! That insufferable…”, Freeze said, activating a loud speaker on his suit. “I have Batman pinned. I will ensure his death and we’ll join you afterward.”

“Oh that’s a big negative, Mr. White Christmas. That’s a N-O, no Mr. Snow, Mr. Ten Below!” the Joker shouted. “Grab fly-boy and get your tin-can ass back to the you-know- where! There will be plenty of time but put Batboy on ice! Ha! On ice! I kill me!”

Without another word, Freeze picked up the sputtering Firefly and threw him over this shoulder. He turned his head toward Batman and did not move for a long moment. Then Freeze made a slashing motion across this throat with his hand, before jumping off the side of the building.

Batman could not see Freeze’s face behind the thick plate glass visor of his helmet, but could have sworn his old foe was grinning.

“Sir!” came Alfred’s voice.

“I’m alright. The suit’s thermals are m-melting the ice. I’ll be free in a few minutes,” Batman said.

“That was a close call, sir,” Alfred said. “I know you are not a religious man, B, but someone was watching out for you today.”

Batman flexed his arms, cracking some of the thinning ice around his chest allowing him to finally take a full breath. “Oh someone was, A. But I’m not sure I am going to like the answer when we find out who. Once I’m free I am going to collect forensic samples. Get the lab ready. Batman out.”

Alfred turned to look at Tim. The boy was sitting in a ball on his chair, hugging his legs to this chest. His eyes were big as the moon and he looked as though he was about to explode.

Alfred sighed. “Very well, Master Drake. Let it out…”

“OH MY GOD! That was unbelievable! Did you see that?” Tim said, bursting from his chair. “That ice guy almost got Batman and then just walked away! Does this happen all the time? Batman should have a heat gun or something! Oh, oh! Did you see Batman take down that fly guy? That was so wicked! He just threw that boomerang out and ZAM! Got him right around neck….”

Alfred sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes. “This is going to take a lot of work,” he muttered.

There are few places more revolting that the old Gotham underground. Long ago flooded by burst sewer pipes, it’s fester pool of human refuse and rodents.

“Boss? Boss,” Jacko-Boy Basilone said, trying to hold back yesterday’s lunch. There is no getting used to this smell. It’s so thick you can see it. “Boss? Why are you hanging them steaks from that *ulp* pipe?”

“It’s gonna be feeding time soon, Jacko-Boy,” the man in the trench coat and wide brimmed hat said. “Gotta make sure the big fella is fed.”

“Big fella who?” Jacko-Boy said, cringing as his foot oozed into something soft and sticky in the knee-deep swill that ran through this part of the old rail lines.

“Killer Croc.”

Jacko-Boy spun in 180-degree circle and pulled his piece. “Frack.”

“Ya, see, Jacko, if Croc is full he ain’t gonna bother eatin' us,” the man in the hat said. “And I gotta stay underground for a spell more.”

“Yo! Jacko!” shouted Two-Gun Tony.

“Tony, shut the hell up!”

“What? What’s goin’ on?

“Boss says Waylon is down here…”

“Croc? Frack!”

“That’s what I said.”

The man in the hat hung another slab of meat and began to walk through the water and muck in a circle.

“No you shut up!” he said to no one in particular. “No! No! I know I what I’m doing! I’m not listening to you anymore. Shh!”

“Uh, Jacko,” Tony said, keep a close eye on any ripples in the water. “Who’s he talkin’ to?”

“I dunno, man. He’s been doin’ that for a while and its gettin’ worse.”

“Well that’s just great. Some mystery man shuts down business, the Joker takes over half the False Face gang, and we’re stuck in Killer Croc’s lair with an off his rocker Black Mask. We’re pretty much screwed aren’t we?”

“Pretty much…what, what was that?”

“Where?”

“There! There! Under the water! Mask look…”

Tony never got the rest of the sentence out.

For years Batman’s mask has hid his true face, true heart, from those around him. It protects him and those in his inner circle, allowing him the freedom to pursue his life’s work. Few have every seen beneath it.

That mask has a name. It’s called Bruce Wayne, and today he has little patience for it.

After last night’s run in with Freeze and Firefly, having to pretend to be a foppish playboy was grating. Nails on a chalkboard. He should be in the cave, running the forensics with Alfred, planning for tonight. Something was changing in Gotham. Something fundamental. Seismic. And in this city that usually meant only one thing…

Blood shed.

So wrapped up in his own world, Bruce stumbled blindly into Tess Hartigan, his assistant.

“Sir!” she said, waving papers in his face. “These are the forms Mr. Fox sent up for you to sign about the European projects ….”

“Yes, thank you,” Bruce said, mindlessly signing the documents, his mind elsewhere.

“…and last month’s payroll audit…’

“Yes, thank you.”

“…and this quarter’s variance reports…”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Oh, and a Dr. Thomas Elliott from Dinjin Enterprises is waiting for you in you office.”

“Yes, thank…what?” Bruce’s snapped to attention.

“I know, I told him to wait in the lobby but he was very insistent. He said you two were old friends.”

Bruce felt lost for a moment. This was obviously a trap. Elliott had vanished months ago, his whole life in Central City erased. Someone had used Clayface to imitate him during the last confrontation with the Wrath. No trace of his childhood friend could be found anywhere. Dick didn’t miss anything when he went looking. This could be a trap. This confirmed something he’d feared. That whoever or whatever was turning Gotham on its head knew who he was.

But there was no getting around it. Someone calling themselves Elliott was in his office. Could be Clayface. And Bruce was unarmed.

But there was no getting around it.

“Thank you Tess,” Bruce said, striding to his office doors. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off.”

He pushed the heavy oaken doors open and braced himself. Elliott would no doubt be standing there smiling that cocky grin of his under that mop of red hair. He’d make some stupid inside joke only they knew. “Stick a needle. Bruce.” And then the real chess match would start.

But the man sitting behind Bruce’s desk did not have red hair. He did not have a cocky grin or Thomas’ green eyes. This man had a neatly trimmed beard, pointed in Spartan style. A thick mane of black hair spilled over his shoulders with a long streak of white that ran from his forehead to the back of his neck. His eyes were dark, almost black and it appeared as though light did not reflect off of them, but was being absorbed. A primitive, tribal tattoo rolled up his neck, behind his ear and framed his left eye.

His dark green suit was made the finest Arabian silk and on the lapel was a golden broach in the shape of a scimitar over a blazing sun.

This was not Thomas Elliott.

“You appear less battle worn that I should have expected, Bruce,” the man said. “Given your current…occupation, after all.”

“You’re in my chair,” Bruce said, his leg muscles tight and shoulders loose and ready. Everything was making sense now. The appearance of this one man was causing the pieces to fall together easily.

This one man. The head of the demon. Master of the League of Asassins.

Ra’s Al Ghul.

“I see it’s all taking shape now for you,” Ra’s said stepping out from behind Bruce’s desk. Bruce merely nodded and took his seat.

“I can spare you five minutes Ra’s, if you have anything to say.”

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. Anything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

“And my responses have already crossed yours.”

Ra’s paced slowly toward the center of Bruce’s desk, careful to stay far enough away as not to trigger a physical conflict.

“You stand firm then?” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“You do realize what is being offered to you, Bruce?”

“I do.”

“And yet you will not be moved.”

“I will not be moved.”

Ra’s pulled his mane of hair into a ponytail and then slowly reached his hand into the breast pocket of his suit. Bruce pushed himself to his feet while grabbing a batarang fastened to the bottom of the desk as he rose. Ra’s merely smiled and pulled out a small date book.

“Well I see your paranoia hasn’t changed, Bruce,” he said, flipping the pages. “You first interfered in my Gotham operations nine months ago, cutting off a shipment of experimental weapons.”

“So you were the one trying to equip that Intergang cell…”

“Four months ago, you shut down three drug labs. The month after that another arms shipment. Nine weeks after your encounter with the Wrath you managed to prevent an attempt to wipe out the GCPD data base,” Ra’s continued. “And now with your recent interference with the attempted theft of communications equipment you are starting to pose a significant threat to my agenda, Bruce.”

“Well,” said Bruce sitting down. “I’m glad I can make an impression.”

“Do not be too sure of yourself. This is not the case of a former student defeating his master. The circle will not be complete for you down that path, Bruce, I assure you,” he said. “If you continue down your current road I will have no choice but to press the league into direct action and take extreme measures.”

Bruce smiled and rose from his seat. He walked over to the bar in his office and opened a bottle of obscenely expensive brandy. He poured two glasses. Neat. And then handed one to Ra’s before walking causally to a leather sofa in the office and sitting back.

“Danger is part of my mission, Ra’s.”

Ra’s took a sip from the brandy, nodded in approval, and then sat in an adjoining black leather chair.

“Your son said the same thing when I granted him the courtesy of a warning,” Ra’s said.

“Jason…”

“Indeed. And like you he turned away from the grand offer I make,” Ra’s said. “He was far too angry to be as a brilliant an apprentice as you were Bruce, but he is not without his skills. Actually, he is far more like you than he wants to accept, and so hates himself even more than he hates you.”

“Whatever else he is, he isn’t going to be anyone’s puppet.”

“Quite so. But like you he poses a potential threat to the agenda and will be dealt with in due course,” Ra’s said. “In any case, Bruce, you know this is not mere danger. You will face the full fury of the league. You do not face one of those pathetic madmen you keep stored in Arkham. You face utter annihilation.”

“Three minutes, Ra’s,” Bruce said.

Ra’s gaze turned cold. “Do not be foolish, Bruce. Please! You have only touched the tip of the iceberg. You and your allies face an organization with a reach and power that you, despite your little victories and cleverness, do not yet fully realize. Accept my offer. Stand by my side as you once did, son. Take your mission beyond this crumbling city.”

Bruce sat unmoved and silent sipped his drink. Ra’s held his gaze for a long, silent moment, as though he could divine what Bruce was thinking through his eyes.

“You know, son, I happen to know that Talia would be pleased to see you again, safe, back in the fold.”

Bruce took a deep breath, and finished his drink. He and Ra’s stared at each other for another long moment. Ra’s had played his hand well; dredging up better days, old alliances and past loves. Grand loves. Epic victories. Perhaps, Bruce thought. Perhaps…

Bruce rose to his feet, setting his glass aside.

“I am afraid in the pleasure of our conversation I am neglecting important business elsewhere,” he said, motioning to the door with is eyes.

Ra’s, unable to contain his anger, ground his teeth as he stood up, flinging his glass against the wall.

“You have only two choices, Mr. Wayne! Either step back into the fold and keep your blood oath to me, or, while it would pain me deeply my old student, you will be trampled and left for dead. You, your allies and this rotten corpse of a city,” he said, walking to the door. “And do not be under any illusions, detective. If the Batman is clever enough to bring destruction upon me, I will surely do the same to him.”

“Your presence here today speaks volumes, old friend, and you have paid me many complements,” Bruce said. “For that I am grateful. So let me grant you one in return and say that if I was assured the former circumstance I would, to protect this city, happily accept the latter.”

“I can promise you the one,” Ra’s said, his fists shaking in anger and he stormed from the office. “But not the other!”

For a long moment Bruce stood in his office alone. Unmoving. Listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears. There was an odd, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something he didn’t quiet recognize at first. He had only felt this once. A long time ago in grimy patch of alley, frantically pressing his hands over his mother’s breast, trying to stop the bleeding. Each time he pushed down to keep it from gushing out, it squirted up through his fingers and ran down his arm.

It was just that night he felt it. Just that one time. Until now. He swallowed hard and waiting for the feeling to pass, but pieces of it clung to him for hours afterward.

A cold, dread terror.

He took his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a code to access a communications relay in the cave. A few moments later, an encrypted single reached its destination.

“Arthur?” Bruce said. “It’s me. Can me you met at Gotham General? Eight hours? Good. Room 716.”

How many more, Bruce thought. How many more ghosts from my past will come crawling back into my life?

By the time Bruce returned to the cave, Alfred was asleep in one of the leather chairs before the communications center.

“Alfred?”

“Mmm? Oh, sorry, sir,” Alfred said. “That boy has more energy…what is it?”

“Ra’s Al Ghul.”

“Surely not….”

“It is. And he might be behind everything that has been happening lately. Call Nightwing. Call Gordon. Set up a meeting.”

“Yes sir.”

Bruce pulled off his jacket, and headed into the cave’s armory.

“Alfred, as of this moment, we are at war.”