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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:47:47 GMT -5
Picking Up the Pieces
Written by Ellen Fleischer
Cover by Ramon Villalobos
Editor: Ellen Fleischer
Proofreaders: Charlene Edwards, Jrfan, Debbie Reed |
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:48:16 GMT -5
First you gotta fall apart to pick up all the pieces,
If you don't learn to let it go,
the pain inside increases,
It takes more strength to hold it in then to give in and surrender
Amanda HoMon, “It’s Okay to Cry”
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:51:03 GMT -5
Picking Up the Pieces As Robin crept silently down the corridor on the upper level of the art supply store, he mentally reviewed his files on Jonathan Crane. I know I beat him once, when I was barely thirteen, but I was lucky. I can’t count on that. Scarecrow’s smart… but then so am I. He’s educated--a psychiatrist, a professor, and a scientist. Under Batman, I’ve studied psychology. And, while I might not know enough chemistry to be able to counter his fear-toxin in five minutes, between the information Batman fed into the computers in the satellite caves, the fact that I’ve got a friend who once speed-read the entire inventory of the San Francisco Public Library--in about forty-five minutes--and still remembers it all, the contacts another friend has with S.T.A.R. Labs, and Oracle’s help, it shouldn’t be that hard to come up with an antidote. Relatively speaking, anyway…With an efficiency born of repeated drilling, the teen fished a breathing mask and nose filters from his utility belt and donned them, almost as a reflex. If Crane was going to be using his fear gas, Robin was prepared. “Noooooooo!” He froze. The scream had come from the level below him. His skin was prickling. Was that Huntress? It was impossible to be certain. Screaming voices sounded all too similar. What did it matter, anyway? Whoever was downstairs, she (he was nearly sure that it was a woman, at least) was in trouble. He had to help. Robin looked around quickly, and saw a red sign with the word ‘Exit’ illuminated in glowing white letters. Approaching it, he saw that it hung directly over a stairwell. He drew a deep breath, and tried to ignore the fact that his face was itching as he placed one foot on the first step. |
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:54:03 GMT -5
In the dim light, he saw a woman kneeling over a prone body, weeping.
Hesitantly, he approached her. “Ma’am?”
The woman turned to face him, shoulder-length brown hair swinging as she did. “I-I did this,” she whispered. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean…” Her expression hardened. “Of course,” she continued in a totally different tone of voice, “we always hurt the ones we care for the most. Isn’t that so, Tim?”
Robin froze. Dana? Here? How was such a thing possible? His mind reeled. Why was she calling him ‘Tim’? Had his father told…?
“You were always so eager to learn, weren’t you, Tim?” The hateful words continued to spill from her lips. “Everything Batman ever taught you. How to lie, how to keep secrets, how to lead a double life… How to betray.”
Tim followed her downcast gaze and realised that Dana was cradling the still figure of a man he recognised instantly.
“D-dad?”
“And now, you’re living in the past. Just like he does.”
Tim shook his head. “Captain Boomerang killed my Dad. I had nothing to do with that.”
“If you didn’t wear that costume, your father would never have become a target. If Martha Wayne hadn’t worn her pearls that night, she would never have come to the attention of some random mugger. Neither one of you planned the outcome, true. But you’re both accountable.”
Tim’s mind was spinning. How did Dana know these things?
“Following in his footsteps, aren’t you? You can’t let yourself get close to anybody who isn’t part of your double life. Even with them, you keep a part of yourself locked away. And when they’re in trouble, you’d rather honour what they stand for than do something concrete to ease their suffering.”
“Look,” Tim said, “I don’t need to hear this.” There was more supplication than defiance in his voice. Although he knew it was childish, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against his ears. It didn’t help. If anything, Dana’s words grew louder.
“Tell me, Tim. Do you honestly think that fighting crime in that suit in any way atones for your being too much of a coward to visit him? Of course, you’ve got the perfect excuse if anybody calls you on it: you have to get a few more lowlifes off the streets. That’s more important than taking time out of your schedule to be there for someone who needs you, isn’t it? Oh, but then,” the voice continued mockingly, “I forget. You didn’t learn that from your mentor, did you?”
In his mind’s eye, he saw Dana drop his father’s body roughly to the ground. “You learned it from your father.” She laughed then, mirthlessly. “You’re perfect, aren’t you Tim. Perfect son, perfect pupil… you learn your lessons so wonderfully well, don’t you?”
With an inarticulate cry, Tim launched himself at Dana, everything forgotten but his need to silence that smug, self-satisfied voice that knew far too many truths for the youth not to fear it.
It gave him no small satisfaction when he saw her raise her arms, and sit there, seemingly frozen.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:55:57 GMT -5
“Freeze! GCPD!”
Huntress lowered the body immediately and raised her hands. Was this what it was like for Batman? Knowing that it was the end of the line and not really caring? She looked down, and discovered that she was wearing not her purple costume, but prison greys. And the person charging her… it wasn’t a Gotham police officer. It was Santo Cassamento, her biological father. The man who had given the order to murder her brother, her father—or at least the person she had grown up believing to be her father—and Helena herself. Due to a mix-up in the instructions, eight-year-old Helena had been spared, and her mother killed in her place. Now, Cassamento seemed bent on finishing the job.
Something was wrong, though. Cassamento was dead. She’d arranged that. You never checked if there was a body, though. What makes you so certain that Tomasso didn’t double cross you? He was my uncle. But he was also part of Omerta. And if Santo told him about my double life…
Well, if she was already in prison—and just how had that happened, anyway? She frowned, trying to focus her thoughts, but her concentration slipped away. No matter. If her life was being threatened…then she was damned well going to defend herself!
She leaped to her feet and charged the elderly don she had once thought of as an uncle, but never as a father.
Something hit the ground with a metallic clank. She heard it roll nearby. Automatically she spun in the direction of the sound. A plume of vapour rose from a small mottled sphere, quickly billowing and spreading upwards. It coated her exposed skin, seeped into her costume, burning her. Before her lenses, she could see nothing but a white blur.
She pulled her mask forward to wipe the eyepieces, realising an instant too late how stupid a move that was, as her eyes began to sting and fill with tears.
That was when Huntress felt a hand seize hold of a large hank of her hair and yank her head back. Whoever her assailant was, she had extremely sharp fingernails, which dug painfully into her scalp. At least, Huntress surmised, between the sharpened nails, and the fact that women were more likely than men to go for the hair when attacking, her opponent was probably female. She let loose a yell of mingled pain and rage, and tried to elbow her attacker only to connect with empty air.
A feminine voice suddenly said, “Sorry about this, but you’ll thank me later.” Then Huntress’ captor shoved her head forward. Later, Helena would swear that she not only felt, but heard, a loud crack. She fell, stunned, to the floor.
Catwoman surveyed the fallen vigilantes. Absently, she bent and picked up a large, featureless rag doll that the other woman had been holding. Selina Kyle wondered how she was supposed to get the two heroes out of Scarecrow’s booby trap. The woman probably weighed as much as she herself did. With a sigh, Catwoman removed a small canister of knockout spray. She hated to use it. It was a gift from someone she hadn’t seen in over a year. But if either of those two came around before she could get them away from the effects of Scarecrow’s chemistry experiments… She squirted a short spray into each of their faces. Then, she bent and hoisted Huntress onto her shoulders. She staggered under the other vigilante’s weight, but hours of strength training were paying off. She had to get the two of them away from Crane’s chemicals and into the fresh air. Catwoman groaned as she saw the stairway to the upper level. Don’t think about how many steps. One foot in front of the other and just keep going until you’re back on the roof.
At the top of the stairs she paused. A slow smile spread her lips. She lurched over to one of the large windows. It was barred, true, but it was also screened. Working up here had to get stuffy in the heat of the day. Catwoman examined the frame carefully. An alarm would sound if someone attempted to remove the bars, but not if she cranked open the window and let some air in.
She set Huntress down against a stack of cartons, directly facing one of the windows. Once she got it open, Catwoman moved carefully back down the stairs to retrieve Robin.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 19:58:51 GMT -5
Robin awoke with a gasp, as he inhaled a sharp, pungent odour. “Get that away from me,” he muttered, as he twisted aside. His eyes narrowed. “Catwoman? What are you doing here?”
Selina chuckled. “I needed a pair of tigers.”
“Pardon?”
The chill in his voice seemingly had no effect on the woman before him. She laughed again. “They’re paint brushes, Little Birdie.”
Tim glowered.
She raised her hands, in mock surrender. “Fine. I saw the two of you go in, and I didn’t see you come out. This place might be just outside the East End boundary, but I figured I’d push my limits a little, see if you needed help.”
Pushing the limits. His earlier talk with Dick came flooding back. He winced. Of course she noticed.
“You okay?” She asked as she pushed the handkerchief forward.
“Aaagh!” He protested. “What is that stuff? Catnip?”
She sniffed. “Of course not. Catnip’s useless for smelling salts. It’s eucalyptus.”
A groan from Huntress drew their attention.
“Wha--? No! Codeeee…”
Selina was on her feet instantly. “Huntress?”
“Cody!” She cried again. “I killed him. Shot him… no… he’s a kid he…”
Robin frowned. “Huntress? What are you talking about?”
“I think I know,” Catwoman said. “Wait there. The pair of you.”
Robin tried to leap after her, but a wave of dizziness held him back. “Catwoman!” He shouted to make himself heard over Huntress’ low sobs. “Wait! Scarecrow’s fear toxins—”
“Can’t penetrate the suit,” she called back. “I’ll be fine!”
Robin watched her go, realising for the first time that a breathing mask covered the lower portion of her face, while a close-fitting mask and hood covered the rest of it. He remembered the prickling sensation he’d felt right before he’d begun hallucinating. If Scarecrow’s fear toxins were absorbed through the skin, rather than inhaled, that explained both why he and Huntress had succumbed, and why Catwoman hadn’t.
When Catwoman returned moments later, she was carrying something vaguely humanoid. As she set it down, Robin realised that it was a large featureless rag doll, perhaps five feet in length. He supposed that the idea was to sew—or draw—hair and facial features onto the thing. Embedded in the torso was a four-inch dart.
“Huntress?” Selina asked. “Is this what you meant?”
The shaking vigilante blinked. “Cody? I… oh my G-I’m going to have to—how am I going to tell his parents I—”
“HUNTRESS!”
Helena froze.
“Look at it!” She used the pronoun deliberately. “This isn’t Cody. This is a doll. It has a dart—not a crossbow bolt in its chest.”
“But—”
“Who did you come here to find?” She hurled the doll to the floor before Huntress’ feet. “Answer me!”
Huntress drew a shaky breath. “Scarecrow. We came looking for Scarecrow. We were expecting a trap…”
“Good thought. Next time, think about how to avoid it.”
Tim’s eyes widened. They’d both been hallucinating. If Huntress had been cradling that doll when he’d run downstairs, then when he’d thought he was seeing Dana… “Huntress? Did someone attack you while you were holding…”
“The man who ordered the hit on my family,” she admitted.
Tim shook his head and pointed to himself. “Gas got to me too. I thought you were someone else.”
Huntress processed that. “We could have killed each other.”
He nodded.
She looked down at her hands. They were no longer trembling. “When we find Scarecrow,” she said levelly, “don’t try to stop me. Don’t hold me back. I really don’t want you to get hurt.”
A black-gloved hand placed itself firmly on her shoulder in a manner that was both reassuring and cautionary. “Uh-uh, Sister,” Catwoman said. “Not that way.”
“Stay out of this, Catwoman. It doesn’t concern you.”
The other woman’s response was crude and to the point. “You do it that way, it’s over too quick,” she added. “At heart, Crane’s a bully. What do you think it’ll do to him, knowing he got taken down by—no offence—a skirt and a kid?”
Huntress’ eyes narrowed. “Why do you care whether Crane lives or dies?”
“I don’t.”
“Then…”
Selina sighed. “I hate seeing smart people make stupid mistakes that ruin their lives. Cross that line, and they won’t let you slide.”
She sniffed. “You really think the cops are going to bother hunting down the person who does them a favour and stops Scarecrow permanently?”
“It’s not the police you’re going to have to worry about.”
Huntress was silent. Catwoman had a point. None of them would back her on this one. Neither the current Batman, nor Robin, nor—she winced—Oracle. It was all well and good to say that she didn’t need any of them, but she didn’t need them ranged against her either.
“He deserves it,” she whispered.
“I can’t argue with that one.”
“But you’ll still try to talk me out of it.”
“Damn right.”
Huntress sighed. “I must be getting soft.”
Selina grinned. “Nah. You’re wising up. Both of you meet me here on the roof tomorrow. Tell me what you’ve got and I’ll see what I can turn up. Heck, you can even bring Bats Junior.”
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:04:01 GMT -5
Dick made sure that he had all of his files, disc and hardcopy, safely stowed in his briefcase before he sat down to the table.
“Will you just say it already?” Tim demanded.
Dick blinked at him. “What for? Scarecrow’s tricky. He set a trap. It worked. We’ll get him tonight. End of story.”
He grinned as Tim gaped at him. “Look. You’ve been at this long enough to know that one thing we try to do is predict the unpredictable. You had your nose plugs. You had your breathing mask. You both did. If Scarecrow had been using an inhalant like he normally does, you’d have been fine. Unless he sent you a memo saying ‘by the way, I changed my formula; now it takes effect when it’s absorbed into the skin’ and you forgot about it, I don’t see how you can be held accountable.”
“Bruce would have found a way.” Tim winced as a slogan he’d once read on a bumper sticker flashed into his mind: Caution. Be sure brain is engaged before putting mouth into gear.
Dick nodded. “Yes. He would have. Right after he’d taken a faceful of the stuff.” He sighed. “There’s something you’ve got to learn, Tim. Something Bruce hasn’t yet. And truth? I think it’s the main reason why he’s in Arkham right now.”
Tim cocked his head, half-dreading the answer.
“Cut yourself a little slack.” He clapped the youth on the shoulder and grabbed his briefcase. “I’ll see you on the roof at Aurelius.”
The boy smiled and swatted the hand away. “See you later, Bro.”
Dick nodded. “Did you want to come with me tonight, when I pop in on Bruce?”
Tim looked away. “I know I should. But…” he let his voice trail off.
“Alright.” Dick tried to keep from sounding disappointed.
“Before I go to ‘Frisco. Honest.” Tim looked down. “I just hate seeing him like that. And the thing is, he knows it. I… he doesn’t need me sitting there and crying like some—”
“Like some kid who’s lost his father? Maybe that would help. Bruce always puts others first, you know that. If he won’t pull himself out of his funk for himself, then maybe he will for—”
“Yeah?” Tim demanded. “Then why haven’t you tried it?”
“Because as much as it hurts me to see him like that, I can put him first and suppress it. And maybe, in this one instance, I can’t break character and—”
“So, what? You’re not selfish enough to try letting him know how you feel, but you’ll push me into doing it? Thanks a lot, Bro!”
Dick blinked, trying to pinpoint exactly how the conversation had degenerated to this point. “All I meant,” he said, trying to modulate his tone, “is that maybe something you say to him might get through. G-d knows I’ve been trying.” He thought for a moment. “Listen. Bruce knows me. Maybe too well. When I go there, he’s got a pretty good idea what I’m going to say or do. You’re more unpredictable to him. I think that might be an advantage.”
“Yeah, but he cares more about you.” Tim shot back.
Dick’s eyes widened. “Is that—” He stopped himself. He wasn’t trying to accuse the younger man of jealousy, exactly. The truth was, though, that despite having lost his parents early on, and despite his later quarrels with Bruce, Dick had to admit that he’d seldom lacked for stability, or, as he had long ago told Bruce, ‘the L-word’. Tim, in contrast, had been shunted from boarding school to boarding school. He’d never been neglected per se, but his parents had never really taken an interest in his life either. When Bruce kept him off to the sidelines or… Tim’s sixteenth birthday ‘present’ put him through the wringer making him believe that one of us, in the future, was going to turn traitor… Dick grimaced at the memory. When Bruce had finally told him what he’d concocted for Tim, Dick had let him know, in no uncertain terms, how reprehensible that particular test had been.
He shook his head. When Bruce had taken him in years ago, he’d promised Dick that he would never try to replace the boy’s father. He had kept his word. He’d never tried. But it had happened all the same.
And it hadn’t happened with Tim. Dick realised that. Bruce had never presumed to make Dick choose between father and mentor—Jack had forced that choice all by himself. Had Tim somehow seen Bruce’s lack of interference as a lack of interest?
Dick sighed. “That isn’t true, Tim,” he said wearily. “He’s just had longer to learn how to let his guard down around me.”
“Look,” he added, “you don’t want to go, don’t go. I’ll stop bothering you about it.” He saw the younger man flinch and immediately banished the slight sense of satisfaction that he got from the knowledge that the boy felt at least some guilt over his reluctance to visit. “I’ll meet you and the others on the roof of Aurelius at about ten. Meanwhile, you head off to one of the satellite caves and see if the crays can turn up any clues about where Scarecrow might be holed up or what he’s got planned.”
Tim nodded, relieved at the change of subject. “You got it.”
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:07:55 GMT -5
“So that’s where we are, now.” Montoya concluded. “Scarecrow’s at large, and the deadline is currently at around fifty-nine hours and falling. We’re watching the art shop in case he comes back, but it looks like he set his booby-trap and moved on.” She sighed. “Detective Driver’s sure he’s going to issue another ultimatum. Or drop us another clue. I hope he’s right. I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas, Batman?”
She didn’t expect a reply. Sometimes, though, it helped her see things more clearly if she articulated them. And at least this way, she wasn’t talking to herself. That could get embarrassing. Particularly, she thought, considering that there were a significant number of people on the force who resented her promotion to shift commander. She’d heard the whispers about affirmative action policies catapulting her over the shoulders of wiser, more experienced officers. She pretended not to be aware of them. It was harder to ignore the gossip that claimed that she’d slept her way into her captaincy. Nothing she couldn’t deal with, though.
It took her a moment to realise that Bruce had shifted position on the cot, half-turning to face her.
Montoya nearly dropped the pen that she’d been fiddling with. In nearly a year, this was the first indication he’d given that he was even aware of her presence.
“What,” Batman frowned, “was the name of the art supply shop?”
“Aurelius Arts,” she said after a pause. “Does that mean anything?”
He nodded slowly. “If Crane is fixated on the number ‘74’, yes.” He closed his eyes, thinking. “In the year 174 CE,” he said, “Marcus Aurelius wrote his Meditations.”
“Aurelius as in Aurelius Arts,” Montoya breathed. “But what does that have to do with fear?”
“I don’t know,” Batman admitted. “I read it once. But that was long ago. I…” He looked away.
Montoya placed a hand against the mesh. “Thanks. I’ll see if we can find a copy.” She hesitated. Should she mention anything about his finally breaking whatever ‘vow of silence’ he’d seemed to have taken upon himself? She decided against it. If he was going speak to her without making a fuss, she could do the same. Still…
“One conversation with you, and suddenly we’re light-years ahead of where we were last night.”
Bruce’s lips twisted. “I wouldn’t be quite so effusive, Detective. The information may be useless to your investigation.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But I’ve worked in Major Crimes long enough to have developed a few instincts. And right now, they’re telling me you could be on to something.”
The smile died. “Don’t confuse instincts with wishful thinking, Detective. I haven’t been doing much in the way of crime-solving in a very long time. My speculations might be—”
“Right on the money,” and as Bruce opened his mouth to speak, she raised a hand. The irony wasn’t lost on her. He’s started talking for the first time in I don’t know how long, and all I’m trying to do is shut him up.
“Look,” she cut him off, “I know that you’re speculating. You might be wrong. It’s okay. I get it. I’m still going to follow up on it, alright?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I just thought of something else. If I can get the necessary approvals, would you mind if I brought you a few cases we’re currently stuck on? No pressure,” she added. “We haven’t got the manpower to expend on investigations that aren’t going anywhere. If you can crack any of them, great. If not, we’re no worse off than we would be if I’d saved myself the hernia.” Her eyes crinkled up at the corners. “We’ve got quite a bunch, now I think about it. And something tells me I’ll only be able to get you hard copies. If you want them,” she said.
The moment seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, Bruce spoke again. “If you can arrange that, Detective, I’ll read over the files. I can’t promise more than that.”
Montoya got up. “I’ll see what I can do, then.”
She was gone before it occurred to him that he ought to have thanked her.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:10:02 GMT -5
Tim sat hunched over one of the computers in a ‘Bat-cave’ not far from the East End. In point of fact, it was an underground bunker, which Patrick Morgan Wayne had built for use as a fallout shelter during the height of the Cold War. Bruce had discovered it when going over the blueprints of some of his grandfather’s office buildings, decades later. He’d refurbished it, added extra security, and stocked it with food, medical supplies, hi-tech gadgets, and a computer set-up that rivalled anything S.T.A.R. Labs could offer.
A soft ping drew his attention to one of the displays. He frowned as he read off the analysis of the fear toxin. It was mostly Crane’s usual formula. Mostly. He’d made a few alterations to it though, and the preliminary data seemed to indicate that their regular antidotes would take longer to work. In a contained environment, such as Arkham, an extra hour or so of panic wasn’t as serious—as long as the patients remained under lock and key, and the staff followed whatever protocols they had in place—it might not be especially pleasant, but it wasn’t exactly dangerous. A frenzied mob, on the other hand… Tim chewed his lower lip, as he typed instructions. Crane was no more immune to his concoctions than anybody else. Which meant that there had to be a way to neutralise the stuff; Crane wouldn’t dream of using it otherwise. It was just a question of finding out how.
Bart Allen was still offline. Tim knew that his former team mate was still struggling to fill a pair of fairly large boots. Although he was scarcely a recluse, nowadays the new Flash wasn’t the easiest person to reach. The youth stifled a sigh. He’d already emailed Bart stressing the urgency of the situation. While his friend might just currently be the fastest man on Earth, when it came to returning messages, his speed left a lot to be desired.
He debated interrupting Barbara’s away time. She so rarely took a vacation. Finally he settled for encrypting a summary of his encounter with Scarecrow from the night before, attaching his research files, and emailing the entire report to Barbara with a note that he’d appreciate another pair of eyes. If she was checking her messages, she’d pick this one up. And if she thought he needed her help, she’d contact him.
Tim thought for a moment. There were two avenues he could try while he was waiting: continue to experiment with various chemicals, and hope he could come up with a more effective antidote, or figure out where Scarecrow was and stop him. He had the computer working blithely on plan A. As for plan B…
Tim moved over to a second console, and began another search program. This time, he asked the computer to locate and attempt to correlate several keywords: fear, Aurelius, and seventy-four. It would take some time, but Tim could wait.
He thought about what ‘Dana’ had said to him the night before. Was he really that close to becoming like Bruce? He hoped not. And yet… and yet he remembered meeting a futuristic version of himself wearing the Bat-suit. And that individual had been harsher than Tim had dreamed possible. Was this what he had to look forward to if he remained in Gotham? Or… would coldly abandoning Bruce be the first step on the path to becoming that person? Had he already taken that step?
It was with some measure of relief that he greeted the computer’s signal that it had completed the first round of tests for a new antidote.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:11:44 GMT -5
Bruce stretched out facedown on the cold concrete floor of his cell, legs together, hands flat beneath his shoulders, and slowly pushed himself up. One…two… he was badly out of practice, he discovered. He was perspiring heavily by the time he’d done twenty. Still, it felt good.
Something had changed over the last few days. In point of fact, a few ‘somethings’ had changed. Jeremiah’s ultimatum had forced Bruce to admit how important his family still was to him. His decision to at least make a show of cooperating with his new therapist had forced him to work out a strategy—a plan—the first one he’d attempted in over a year. Alex’s casual neutralisation of the need for said strategy had infuriated, rather than relieved him. Bruce felt as though he had spent too long in one of Victor Fries’ traps, and was only now beginning to thaw out.
He heard footsteps. Heavy boots stamped smartly on concrete. They stopped before his cell door. Bruce rose to his feet.
The door swung open, and the usual four guards trooped in, one of them pushing a wheelchair. “What’s it going to be today, Wayne?” One of them drawled. “You going to sit down, or do we have to seat you?
Bruce shook his head. That was something else that he was going to change starting right now. “I’ll walk,” he stated. “You won’t need to bring that again.”
His ‘entourage’ exchanged glances. Dubiously, one pushed the chair out. Bruce followed him as the other three brought up the rear.
“Wait,” ordered the one with the chair. “I got to put this back.” He turned to the others. “Watch him.”
Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes. Did they really think that he was in any condition to attempt an escape? He frowned. From what he could overhear of the whispered consultation behind him, evidently, they did.
“…Safe with him…”
“If he makes a break…”
“Restraints, maybe?”
He shook his head. Didn’t these idiots know anything about basic psychology? They were supposed to positively reinforce the behaviour they wanted to encour… comprehension dawned. The guards didn’t want trouble. And in their eyes, his sudden assertiveness might spell ‘trouble’. He set his jaw firmly. That, he concluded, was their problem.
The first guard returned empty-handed, and one of the others beckoned him over. Bruce decided that enough was enough. He didn’t especially want another session with Alex, but standing out here in the corridor was beginning to annoy him. And the new doctor had been right about one thing: Bruce did appreciate being out of his cell.
He took a step forward. The guards continued to argue. Bruce shrugged and kept walking. He’d gone about fifteen feet down the corridor before they finally noticed.
“Hey. HEY!” Immediately one of them was running toward him. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Bruce stopped, and turned calmly to face his interrogator. “Third floor, office 309,” he replied. He’d noted the number automatically, yesterday.
The guard was not amused. He seized Bruce by the shoulders of his uniform and slammed his back against the wall. “You do not walk away from us, Wayne. You listening? When WE don’t move, YOU don’t move. You don’t take two steps outside your cell without us following you!”
Bruce regarded him stoically. “Noted,” he said.
Enraged at Bruce’s placid reply, the guard pressed him to the wall with one hand, while he drew the other one back. Bruce tensed, steeling himself for the blow.
“Haney, wait!” One of the other guards called frantically. “The cameras…”
Bruce’s captor, whose name appeared to be ‘Haney’, froze in place. He looked at Bruce, and then looked over his shoulder at his companion. Abruptly, he let go of Bruce’s shirt, and took hold of his arm.
“Let’s go, Wayne,” he snarled. “And no tricks.” The other guards came forward, then. Bruce noticed that two of them seemed to have got hold of tasers from somewhere. The third gripped Bruce’s other arm. The others took up position ahead and behind.
Bruce sighed inwardly, but resigned himself to his ‘retinue’.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:14:45 GMT -5
A second session passed, much as the first one had. Alex greeted Bruce, suggested he take a seat, indicated the bookcases, and proceeded to do his crossword puzzles.
Bruce watched him scrawling away. He didn’t seem to be much good at them, from the look of it. He kept turning to the back of the book, frowning, and, more often than not, reaching for the bottle of correction fluid.
“You should use a pencil,” Bruce said finally, as Alex waited for the Liquid Paper to dry.
“Probably,” Alex agreed. “It just makes me feel like I’m setting myself up for failure.” He sighed, and picked up the bottle of Liquid Paper again. “Not that feeling this grow progressively lighter is exactly filling me with confidence.” He returned to the puzzle.
“I need a seven-letter word,” he began. “It means ‘to amuse’, and it ends with a ‘t’.
“Disport.” Bruce said without meaning to.
Alex beamed. “It fits. Thanks!” His fingers flew as he filled in more boxes. A moment later, he looked up again. “That ‘p’ in the middle,” he said, “it’s the second letter of a seven-letter word meaning ‘to dispute the validity of’.
Bruce nodded. He knew that one too. “Try ‘oppugn’.”
Alex tilted his head. “Are you sure?” He asked. “Not that I mean to… oppugn… your suggestion, of course…”
Bruce turned away abruptly. He should have known better than to start. Give the man a couple of crossword clues and he was already trying to kid around, and acting as though they were friends. Stockholm Syndrome hasn’t quite kicked in for me yet. So sorry to disappoint you.
Alex shrugged and went back to his puzzle. After a moment, Bruce glanced back in his direction. The doctor was checking the answers again. Bruce ignored him.
“Well, our time’s about up,” Alex said a few minutes later.
Bruce rose to his feet.
“By the way, I’m approving Captain Montoya’s request to have you read through those case files.”
He walked to the door and opened it without waiting for Bruce’s reaction.
“All done, Doctor Morgenstern?”
Bruce squared his shoulders and headed for the exit. He stopped. The guard advancing toward him was brandishing a set of fabric restraints.
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Alex rapped out angrily.
“There was an incident on the way here,” Haney replied. “We don’t need a repeat.”
Bruce assessed the situation. He could probably fight if he had to, but he was out of practice. And the guards had tasers. He might be able to take them anyway. There were only four of them. But then, to what end? Leaving the asylum was not an option. Not after what he’d done. And if he fought back, sooner or later he’d have to stop. It would only be worse when he stopped. Resigned, he extended his hands.
“What kind of incident?” Alex demanded.
Oh, for the love of… am I asking for you to intervene? Go back to cheating on your crosswords, why don’t you?
The guards looked at each other, and then down at the floor. Finally, Haney spoke. “He tried to ditch us outside his cell. You know we’ve got to escort him.”
Alex nodded. “Yes, I’m not disputing that. But if one of you was holding onto the wheelchair at all times, like you’re supposed to,” he stopped. “Exactly where is the wheelchair?”
Haney swallowed. “He didn’t want it.”
“Really.” Alex said in disbelief. He looked at Bruce and then back at Haney. “So, as I understand it, Mr. Wayne,” he looked at Bruce again. “You chose to actively participate in a scheduled event, namely this session, and you,” he stared pointedly at Haney, “are looking to penalise him? On whose authority did you decide this?”
“We’re allowed to make a judgement call if we—”
Alex raised a hand to still the burly man’s protest. “No restraints, gentlemen. Not until you’re able to procure written authorisation from Dr. Arkham.”
“He’s gone for the day,” one of the other men protested.
Alex sighed. “How unfortunate for you. I suppose you’ll just have to forgo those… things,” he gestured distastefully at the straps, “until you’re able to contact him; unless Mr. Wayne does something to warrant them other than trying to be on time for our meetings, of course. That will be all, gentlemen,” he snapped.
“Mr. Wayne,” Alex added calmly, “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
Bruce ignored him.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:17:47 GMT -5
“You do fill the suit pretty well, Junior.” Catwoman kept her tone light to mask her discomfort. He definitely had the right ‘stuff’ to be Batman, but his moves, his stance, his mannerisms—all were ‘off’. The dissonance bothered her.
“Thanks. And thanks for last night.”
She smiled. “He wouldn’t have thanked me, you know. You need to work on that.”
“I’ll pass. Have you managed to find anything out?” He noted with approval that Huntress had chosen a different costume tonight, one that covered her completely from the neck down. Robin had done the same.
Catwoman sighed. “I’ve been out of the loop for a few months. A lot of my older sources have dried up. I’m still working on it.”
Robin cleared his throat. “I might have something. Bestine.”
Batman leaned forward. “What?”
“It’s a solvent,” Catwoman said. “It’s used to thin glue. And it’s extremely bad for the nervous system.”
“It’s also one of the components in Scarecrow’s new blend,” Robin said. “And Aurelius stocks it.”
Huntress frowned. “So do most hardware stores. Why come here?”
“Because,” Batman said with dawning comprehension, “once we analysed the chemical composition of the gas Scarecrow used as a diversion when he broke out of Arkham, the next logical step would be to put as many pharmacies and hardware stores as possible under surveillance. Art supply shops wouldn’t necessarily register on the radar.”
“And leaving us the message?” Huntress asked.
“He already got what he needed,” Robin answered. “The message was just to bait the trap.”
“Exactly,” Batman smiled. “Here’s something else: I swung by GCPD on the way over here. Montoya found something out.” He told them.
“The Meditations?” Robin said. “I don’t get it. How does that fit his MO?”
Huntress sighed. “I’m not sure about this. It’s been awhile.”
“You’ve read it?” Batman asked.
It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the vigilante appeared to be blushing. “I had a real chip on my shoulder when I was a kid. I always felt I had something to prove. So I forced myself to read the Meditations in Italian, because I didn’t think a translation could do it justice.” She sighed. “Then after I finished the thing, someone told me that the original was actually written in Greek.”
Catwoman laughed. “Lovely. So what’s in it?”
“Well,” Huntress said, “basically, his point is that the only way a person can be hurt is if he lets his reactions overpower him.”
“Reaction as in fear gas,” Robin nodded.
“Lack of control,” Batman agreed, “lack of inhibitions, that could be it.” Definitely something that would get to Bruce. In fact, he realised as he remembered his visit the night after the break-out, it did. To the point where he had to have control of the situation, even if it meant telling me to leave earlier than I’d planned. “Alright,” he said. “If Crane’s got a fixation on the number 74, this time, and on Marcus Aurelius, we’ve got a very general idea of where to start looking for him. Let’s try to find addresses containing ‘74’ in them—”
“There’ve got to be thousands,” Huntress exclaimed. “Not to mention 74th Street, the number 74 bus-route… buildings that were constructed in 1974…” She waved her hands wildly in the air. “Buildings with seventy-four floors!”
“And a connection with Marcus Aurelius,” Batman finished. “Remember, if Scarecrow plans to release the fear toxin, he’s got to put it in the water, or let it loose in a stadium, or some other place where there’s a crowd. He needs a place to store it until he needs it. That’s going to narrow it down.”
The other three nodded. He continued. “Robin, you’re with me. We’ll check out the industrial area. Huntress,” he paused. “Have you got anything to protect your face?”
She held up the breathing mask that Robin had procured from the cave for her earlier. It wasn’t much different from Selina’s. Dick nodded approval.
“Good. You and Catwoman, check around the reservoir. Meet back here about an hour before dawn. Let’s go.”
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:18:53 GMT -5
“This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Huntress muttered. “What if he moves his hideout every hour as the countdown falls?”
Catwoman sniffed. “Even he isn’t that crazy. I… wait! Look down there!”
Huntress followed her pointing finger. A man wearing a rough burlap tunic, orange leggings, and a battered straw hat was moving stealthily down a narrow alley. “It’s not Crane,” she whispered. “Too muscular.”
Catwoman nodded agreement. “Looks like he’s got himself a henchman. So, let’s stalk him.” A feral grin spread her lips. “Wish I knew if he was going to or coming from his boss.”
“We can find out,” Huntress said. “You follow him, and I’ll check out the alley. If we maintain radio contact, we’ll be fine.”
Catwoman considered. “Remember to put the mask on before you step indoors. And turn your com-link on now.”
The younger woman spun angrily. “I’m not some amateur, you know.”
“That’s why you can recognise good advice when you hear it.” She sighed. “You don’t have anything to prove to anybody. Just catch him if you see him.” She took a running start and leaped from the edge of the building. A split-second later, her whip uncoiled, snaked upward, and wrapped itself twice around a horizontal flagpole protruding from an adjacent building several stories higher.
Huntress grimaced. But she pulled out the mask, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the fastenings.
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:19:32 GMT -5
The door was unlocked. Huntress checked over her costume to make sure that she was completely covered. Satisfied, she loaded her crossbow and advanced stealthily down the dark corridor. Night-vision lenses stood her in good stead.
She rounded the corner and saw light emanating from a crack under a door directly in front of her.
“I think I found him,” she whispered into the com-link.
Catwoman’s reply wasn’t long in coming. “Get out of there. I’m on my way.”
Half of her wanted to protest. The sensible half, however, reminded her that a little backup wasn’t a bad idea. She spun on her heel. A light flickered on.
She froze. A spindly figure in ragged burlap barred her path.
“You weren’t leaving just yet, were you, Huntress?”
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Post by dragonbat on Mar 13, 2007 20:20:24 GMT -5
To be continued!!!!!
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