seriousfic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seriousfic) wrote2008-10-11 11:47 am
seriousfic) wrote2008-10-11 11:47 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Duality Chapter 14 (Batman + Superman)
Title: Duality
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,302
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Babs, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Chloe Sullivan, the Joker
Acknowledgments: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damo_in_japan for betaing this.
Previous Part: Chapter 13
Next Part: Chapter 15
Summary: Gotham starts to scab over from the Joker’s attacks. It could take a while.
1 A.M.
Barbara had never been so embarrassed in her life. First, she’d had to hitchhike back home, taking off her cowl and turning her cape into a kind of poncho-shawl-thing. She probably looked like a Rocky-Horror-themed hooker. Then she’d walked the last few blocks. As lucky as she’d been to find the only trucker in the state with a love of show tunes (literally, he had the original cast recording of Sweeney Todd on his radio), that walk was harrowing. Even though they lived in a nice neighborhood, in Gotham, nice was relative.
Getting home she’d had to climb in through her window to evade Mom. She stripped off her costume and hid it in the closet, then, too tired to even shower, she’d collapsed into bed.
There was a knock at the window.
Barbara got up, then instinctively covered her already-bra-covered chest. Dick was outside her window, balanced on the windowsill like a bird on a wire. With a rather churlish impatience he pointed to the clasp on the window, which Barbara undid. In short order, Dick had the window open and his head shoved inside the room, although Barbara stood in front of the window to prevent him from getting any further in.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I heard about what happened at the costume party. Are you okay?”
Yes. I went there dressed as Batman and kinda managed to be a superhero there, helping to foil a hostage situation before I wrecked my best friend’s bike. “I didn’t go.”
“Thank God.” He hugged her. “Babs, you know I love you, but damnit if you don’t have the worst luck.”
“You love me?”
He backed away, his grin a tad lessened. “Well, you know…”
She let him off the hook. “I know. Listen, you need to get out of here. If my dad…”
Before she could say another word, Dick grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. It came as something of a shock, but all the emotion bubbled up within her and she was left dangling in his embrace, letting him rub her back comfortingly.
“Dick, it’s really late.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.” He patted her. “See you at school?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“First time I’ve ever looked forward to the weekend being over.” He went out the window again. “Nice bra, by the way.”
Barbara blushed furiously.
3 A.M.
The last cop car pulled away, taking Harvey home, its lights flashing silently, spilling jeweled light on the lawn and gate of the Wayne property. Bruce watched it go, his hands in his pockets. He had changed into a simple, dignified suit. No jacket or coat, just an untucked buttondown and belted slacks. His shoes were on and neatly tied, which was a minor discrepancy, but in every way he was the traumatized homeowner, offering coffee and other refreshments to the men investigating the crime. It galled him to have to maintain the fiction while the Joker was running free, to not slip out into the comforting second skin of the Batman and hunt that murderer down, but maintaining the Bruce Wayne identity was important. To his father, to Alfred, to the mission.
To him, too, though less and less as years went by.
“Master Wayne?” Alfred said. He was standing in the doorway of the room, a housecoat pulled around him for warmth. The old man should be in bed by now. Bruce knew Alfred didn’t sleep well while the Batman was out. But he did sleep.
“Bruce Wayne can’t be seen throwing bad guys around. Think up some embarrassing social gaffe for me to make.”
“I’ll call the rehab clinic to see if there are any young celebrities of dubious chastity for you to be seen with.“
“Try to find one wearing underwear this time.” He turned around, slicking back his hair with his fingers. “There was a woman at the party, Talia. Find out what hospital she was taken to. Send some flowers.”
“Right away. I have some tea brewing in the kitchen, if you’d like.”
Bruce nodded. “I would, thank you.”
They walked to the kitchen, and as they walked Alfred held out a burnt, crumpled license plate.
“I took the liberty of retrieving this from the motorbike wreckage. It could be a clue to your sidekick’s identity.”
“I work alone,” Bruce said firmly. “Whoever this woman is, I’ll have to disabuse her of this nonsense before she gets hurt.”
“Yes, I imagine the last thing Gotham needs is a lawless vigilante running around, righting wrongs and…”
Bruce shot him a nasty look. “Set out the suit. I can’t imagine tonight will be very productive, but I can set the wheels in motion.”
“Very good, sir.”
4 A.M.
Justin Thomas slept in a simple, spartan space. He imagined it was where Batman would sleep, if Batman didn’t have his god-given resources. He moved around a lot to avoid his enemies, sleeping wherever his people would put him up, but the room above the mechanic’s garage was his favorite. There were no rats in the walls.
“Justin Thomas,” a voice said. The voice said.
Justin sat bolt-upright.
“We need to talk,” the Batman said. He was crouched on the fire escape like a living gargoyle, the cool night air brushing his cape like it was gossamer.
Justin’s fingers twitched. This must be what Catholics feel when they cross themselves.
“Anything.”
“I need you to get your boys out on the street. Find out anything you can about the Joker. I’ll come back in the evening to find out what you’ve learned.”
Justin’s heart leapt in his chest. Another visitation! “Can I ask a question?”
The shape nodded. “You may.”
“When will it happen?”
“When will what happen?”
A test! “The day when you sweep away all the scum, the trash, the pushers, the dopers, the junkies, the sick, the venal, the perverts. When will you cleanse Gotham?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” the Batman said before he disappeared.
5 A.M.
Dawn. He should be getting back. But there was still grist for the Batman’s mill. A mugging nearby. He swooped down to stop it. There was at least one more evil he could set right before morning came, one more casualty he could inflict on the forces that infested his home.
Batman’s fists shot out, cuffing the mugger about the head. His gun was fumbled, his retaliations were ineffectual. His victim ran. The Batman had him. The mugger pulled a knife. He was a fool, thinking a simple length of steel gave him power. A boy taunting a bear with a stick.
There were seven working defenses from the Batman’s current position. Three of them disarmed with minimal contact. Three of them killed. The other just hurt.
Necessary evil, Bruce thought, as the mugger screamed and pissed himself and swore. Lot of that going around these days. Like Justin Thomas, the Wiggins of his Baker Street Irregulars. Unbalanced, certainly, but useful. His delusions were no worse than Bruce’s own. Gotham couldn’t be brought back. It was too far gone, its descent started before Bruce was ever born. But its plunge could be held back, stalled, its people spared for the moment. The war went on… a never-ending battle, as Harvey said.
He kept hitting him, bruising the meat. Men like him thought they could reign over Gotham with impunity, just because they had guns. They thought they were above the law. They thought they could hurt people and they wouldn’t be punished.
Hurt Talia…
The Batman cuffed the mugger and did a spiel. When the police came for him, he would confess everything. It was as Falcone had said, all those years ago. Fear had power.
8 A.M.
Tim didn’t have nightmares. He just had a big, black awareness of time passing. Every muscle in his body felt loose and sore when he woke up. His clock radio had switched on, Art Bell blabbing about the Joker. AM radio always went crazy when a new supervillain turned up. Tim hadn’t thought about how exploitative it was until he’d been a part of it. He switched the radio off, showered, dressed.
Came downstairs with his tie hanging limp around his neck and his blazer slung over his shoulder. The scent of coffee was thick in the air and he also detected a hint of blueberry. Just as he thought, the latest in a stack of pancakes was sizzling on the skillet.
“Blueberry pancakes; your favorite, right?” Dana asked as she flipped a pancake.
Stunned by this surrealism, Tim just mutely nodded. Dana was in a morning gown and slippers, while Jack wore a gray sweatsuit. An open newspaper concealed his unshaven face. Tim’s eyes widened in surprise to see Chloe Sullivan at the breakfast table with Jack, wearing her Jackie Kennedy 2000 blouse-jacket-skirt combo, with a vintage derby hat to complete the ensemble. She was dressed to impress… Tim’s parents.
“Blueberry, huh? You’re a man of good taste, small-fry.”
Dana sat Tim down by Chloe, setting down a plate of pancakes in front of him. Tim numbly poured maple syrup all over them.
“Miss Sullivan’s been telling us what a help you’ve been to her,” Jack said, flapping his newspaper.
“Yes, I think it’s safe to say Tim has a bright future in journalism,” Chloe said brightly.
“Thanks,” Tim said.
Tim kept quiet after that, automatically deferring to the adult conversation. He always got so self-conscious at times like these. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his parents, he just… well, Chloe was nice and she seemed to like him, and it would suck hard if she found out he was just some kid instead of…
“Mr. Alfred has offered to take you to school,” his stepmom was saying. “Your father and I have to go over some papers, so you’ll have to either find your own ride home or call a taxi.”
“I could drive him, Mrs. Drake,” Chloe said.
“Oh, I’d hate to inconvenience you…”
“It’s on the way back to Gotham, right? I’m headed that way myself, obviously. Besides, better I go a little out of my way than poor Alfred makes a whole trip.”
“Can I? Please?” Tim asked, although he tried hard to make it sound like an assertion instead of a question.
“Let the boy go,” Jack said. “I don’t trust those people over at Wayne manor…”
“Jack!”
“I just don’t… always coming and going at strange hours, those weird excavations.”
“Excavations?” Chloe asked with an eyebrow raised. She surreptitiously reached into her purse for her recorder.
“Mr. Wayne is just shoring up the foundations of his house,” Dana said, smiling sweetly. “As I’ve told Jack…”
“We should get going.” Tim hopped from the table before his parents could further parent him. “Can’t wait for that education, and all.”
Jack and Dana looked suspicious.
“Plus, we don’t wanna keep Chloe.”
Chloe smiled as she jangled her keys. “He’s right, we wouldn’t want to get caught in traffic.” She patted Tim’s shoulder. “Would it be alright if I bring him home too? You know how cabs are in this city.”
An awkward moment passed as the Drakes’ looks confirmed they’d long since forgotten how Gotham cabs were.
“I don’t see why Tim can’t just get a ride from one of his friends,” Jack said.
Tim looked down at his shoes.
“Most kids his age can’t afford to make the trip out here, with gas costing what it does.”
“And you?”
“I own a hybrid car. And I’d love to talk some more about those weird excavations when there’s more time.”
“I could set an extra place at the table, if you don’t mind eating dinner early,” Dana offered.
“And finally get to taste some of that home cooking your son’s always bragging about? Count me in.”
Tim tapped his foot.
“Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Drake,” Chloe said as she hustled out of there with Tim.
***
“Nice folks, your parents,” Chloe said as they walked down the long driveway.
“Sometimes when I see Mr. Wayne, he winces. Like he’s in pain, or strained himself. He carries himself like that all the time.” Tim’s intensity was like a lightswitch being flicked. And, just as abruptly, it flicked off. “And Dana’s not my mom, she’s my dad’s wife.”
“Oh.” Chloe bit her lip.
“Car jacking,” Tim said. “He had a gun, she saw his face. That was before we moved out of the city. Out here.”
“I’m sorry.” Chloe got the car door for him. Passenger seat.
“S’okay.”
Tim climbed in, shucking off his backpack. Chloe apologetically elbowed some of the detritus aside in her VW Bug. Tim was short, not gangly as most his age, but he still resisted the urge to stretch out and possibly lay a foot into the ghosts of fast-food breakfast past.
“Seatbelt,” Chloe said as she got in the driver’s seat. Tim obediently buckled up. “So, when did it happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Last year.”
Chloe was startled. “Pretty quick for your dad to remarry, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Very carefully, Chloe started the engine, took the Volkswagen out of park, and backed out of the driveway. She could see Jack watching from the window, newspaper folded under his arm.
“Wave to your father,” Chloe said, and Tim did.
They drove off.
“You wanna listen to the radio?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Well, I do.” She flipped it on. Some old band started playing, sex and drugs and rock & roll. Tim didn’t figure Chloe for the type, but she banged her head pretty good for a half-second before turning serious. “I heard you were at Wayne’s place when it was attacked.”
Tim’s head was resting against the window, his eyes looking out at the countryside scrolling past.
“I can understand if you don’t want to talk about it. A lot of people are scared. Putting a rest to the rumors… letting them know the truth… it would help.”
Tim’s eyes slanted to look at her. “Promise not to share with the ‘rents? Tell them I need pills or a headshrinker or something?”
“Hand to God.”
“Okay then.” Tim sat up a little, slumping straighter against his seat. “What do you want, then?”
“I want you to write an eyewitness report of everything that happened. The Joker, Batgirl, everything. Is it true that DA Dent killed a man? Where was Bruce Wayne? You’ll make front page, guaranteed. With a start like that, you’d have a foot in the door of every newspaper in the country. Right place at the right time, that’s how great reporters are made.”
Tim’s eyes shut. “Right place, right time?”
“Making the best of a bad situation. People deserve to know. With folks like the Bat and the Joker running around, they need all the warning they can get…”
“Batman’s nothing like the Joker!” Tim said vehemently.
“Okay, okay, chill. See, that’s another reason. You can get the truth out there. Put people’s minds at ease.”
“But Batman wasn’t there.”
“And people are wondering why he wasn’t. It was pretty high-profile, and yet the Joker is still at large. They want to know that Batman can keep them safe.”
“Batman’ll kick that clown’s ass.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Tim bit his lip.
“I swear you can have the byline.”
“No, I want to share it…” Tim nodded to himself, a couple of successive bobs. “When can we start?”
“Grab the recorder out of my purse?”
Tim dug for it, nudging aside Chloe’s birth control pills to find it. Chloe set it on the dashboard and pressed record. Tim stared at it, the microcassette inside winding.
“What do I say?”
“Whatever you remember.”
Tim gulped. “Okay. Well, we were at the party… should I start there or go to the beginning of the evening, give some backstory on the whole thing?”
“Start wherever you’re comfortable, we’ll sort it out in edit later.”
“Okay.” He nodded once more, then leaned forward over the tape recorder.
8:30 A.M.
Bruce watched Talia wake up. Even pale, her skin so stony she was practically blue, and with tubes surrounding her like links in a web, she was beautiful. It was strange, having those urges outside his normal control. He felt them, he dealt with them, that was it. He didn’t keep… thinking about those things. Not since Rachel. It’d been a relief when she’d left for Bludhaven.
He didn’t keep thinking about them.
“Father?” Talia said, her mouth parting slightly.
Bruce stuck a straw in a glass of water and brought it to her. “Here. Drink something.”
She did, her eyes opening wider and wider as she came awake. Finally, she was able to lift her arms to push the water away.
“Bruce? Bruce Wayne? I must be dreaming…”
Bruce smiled his most charming smile and patted her hand. It wasn’t because he was infatuated with her. Infatuation was a immature emotional reaction to sexual stimulus. This was damage control. He was paying her hospital bills as well as those of his other guests.
“The museum… the Arabian exhibit is opening next week.”
This wasn’t him, this was Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy. And she was a newcomer to a hostile city, a stranger in a strange land… an orphan. He could be there for her, just a little bit. Until she stood on her own two feet. It wouldn’t compromise the mission.
He squeezed her fingers in his hand. “I’m sure in light of recent events, they’ll delay it.”
“We didn’t have these problems when I worked in the British Museum.”
His hands were treacherous. They wanted to hold her, touch her. He permitted himself a modicum of contact. Brushed some hair out of her face.
“Tell me about it.”
8:40 A.M.
“The Joker came in and looked at the paintings on the wall like he was an art critic. We thought he and the Stooges were an act Mr. Wayne had hired. Then the Joker defaced a painting of Thomas Wayne… Mr. Wayne’s father… and Mr. Wayne went to confront him… but the Joker had a gun… it, umm, there was a woman, she tried to step in… Talia Head, from the museum, she works with my dad… w-w-we thought the gun was a fake, because it just shot out a flag that said bang, but then he pointed it at the woman and… and there was all this blood, just everywhere, and people were screaming and… and I…”
Chloe pulled over to the side of the road. “Are you okay?” His head was bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Chloe turned off the recorder. “Tim?” She touched his shoulder.
Tim seemed to crumble at her touch, folding against Chloe, crying and speaking in a hiccupping gargle of mangled words. “And I was so scared, he was going to kill us, he…”
Chloe put her arms around him, holding him as close as she could while he sobbed.
9 A.M.
Bruce was not shocked. He was never shocked. He had suspicions, of everything conceivable, and these suspicions were either confirmed or disabused. There was a very select group of truths he considered incontrovertible, and those had never been overturned. His worldview was firmly set, as unlikely to be rattled as a block of granite.
He was prepared for alien invaders from another world, natural disasters of all stripes, even supernatural events. The only thing he didn’t expect was that he would find himself enjoying Talia’s company. She was good conversation, and the first thing he realized that was off was that he didn’t have to fake laughter. The things she said to him actually struck him as funny. And he didn’t think anything was all that funny, because they were all of the world and the world wasn’t a funny place.
The second thing that was off, the clincher, the shock to his system, was that he was happy being with her. He wasn’t a… happy person. He had satisfaction, of a case being broken, of helping someone, but actual joy was distant from him. It’d been a while since he’d felt it. There were times under Ducard’s tutelage that he’d been amused by Ducard’s… by Ra’s’s sly wit and rare deadpan humor, and there were times with Clark when he didn’t feel so alone… but compared to those occasions, this was tangible. Tactile, not fleeting. Under his skin.
He was getting so used to it that he excused himself and walked off. When the Joker showed his face on Good Morning Gotham, he was already long gone. There didn’t have to be anything suspicious about his timing. His good fortune.
10 A.M.
Usually at this point, Joker would be thinking of the funhouse ride he could install in his Ha-Ha-Hacienda with all the money he’d made. It’d be both a classy way to get around, and a good escape route in case the crowd turned ugly. Not that he had enough money to build one yet and not that it would fit in the Ha-Ha-Hacienda he had right now (it was a seller’s market for hide-outs, anyway), but…
But…
(Jack hated it when his mind wandered.)
Feeling a bout of inspiration, Joker grabbed some of the chemicals he’d procured and started experimenting. The toxic reaction he was looking for was very specific, which was why he always used laughing gas as a base. But aside from that, he couldn’t replicate the composition of the muck he’d been immersed in. His test subjects never laughed. At best, they gibbered. So very frustrating… he began mixing a new batch. No rush. He had all day before the sun went down and the whores came out, so lush and verdant and so vocal about exactly what they were experiencing… when they weren’t screaming.
He hadn’t made that much money. He hadn’t been expecting to; crashing the party had been all about crashing the party, just like killing that annoying host and his annoying guests. First impressions were so important, after all. What vexed him was losing his henchmen this early. After all, they were his to kill and nothing about their demises had been Stooge-like. Totally out of character. At least Curly’s death had been a joke played on that Wayne gazillionaire. Maybe for the next set of henchmen he’d go for a Marx Brothers motif.
But no, then one of them would be Groucho, and Groucho would upstage him. That wouldn’t do. Maybe it was time he quit with the homages. He’d paid his dues, now it was time for some fresh material. Yeaaah, that’s the ticket! Maybe some clown make-up, just to set them apart from the average goon…
Someone harrumphed behind him. There was only one person Joker knew who harrumphed.
“Three men,” the Penguin said, prodding the door open with his umbrella. A handkerchief hung from the doorknob, allowing him to emphatically not touch it. “I gave you three men. Was it too much to ask that you come back with one of them alive?”
“Moe didn’t even get to jail. He hitched a ride on a passing prison break. That’s the kind of go-getting I like to see in an employee, and what I love about this city. Every time I think it can’t sink any lower, it does. Restores my faith in inhumanity. The rest… just saves on overhead, Pengy.” Joker dug a batter into his mixture and stirred vigorously. The smell offended Cobblepot’s delicate nostrils.
“What is that?”
“Joker Juice! Just like mom used to make! A pinch of arsenic, a dash of mustard gas, a generous helping of cyanide, and a sprinkling of garlic – just for flavor.” Joker licked the batter. “That’s a spicy meatsa-ball!”
Again using his umbrella as a manipulator, Cobblepot picked up the lid of the crock pot Joker was cooking in and set it down atop the foul-smelling experiment. Joker wondered if his frown would turn upside-down when he drowned in it. But no. No. The juice wasn’t ready yet. Needed more experiments. Although he still hadn’t fed the old ones to the gators. An artist’s work was never done.
“I make more money rigging my casinos then you’ve done with your very public fiascoes. When does the Bat die?”
Joker pulled up a chair for the Penguin. “Patience, patience! Ozzie, my sweet little flightless bird, the Bat is bigger than the man… so far. But I know what makes him tick. He craves order. Worships it! Fetishizes it. It gets him hard, and I don’t just mean that in the crude sexual sense… although who knows, with a guy who runs around in that much black leather…”
“But what’s the point of killing a talk show?” Cobblepot interrupted, most rudely. Hecklers.
Joker frowned. Then he shoved Penguin back into the untaken chair. “I WAS GETTING TO THAT!” Then, his smile slowly regaining equilibrium, Joker walked around the Penguin, jauntily spinning him. “Batman has a thing for order. Confront him with a problem he can’t solve… namely, moi… and he’ll start to breakdown. It’s inevitable. The more I push, the further he’ll teeter. And when he falls… when he falls, he’ll suffer. But you have to tell the joke before you can get to the punchline. Just be patient, Ozzie… and send me more men! Oh, and a rocket launcher.”
11:00 A.M.
School was weird. The powers that be were in full trauma mode, just because some guy had dressed up like a clown and killed people. That was just, like, Gotham, you know. Sure, it was messed up that it happened to Bruce Wayne, but it wasn’t like anyone knew him. It was just that it could happen to anyone. What really got people talking was
“Batgirl.”
“—so hot—“
“such a ho”
“I heard she was Batman’s dark mistress”
“No way, Batgirl’s a dyke”
“the Batwiki said she was young, like our age”
“Is that Drake’s website? He’s a freak”
“He was there”
“He was Batgirl. Drake’s a cross-dresser. Totally Glen or Glenda, man”
“No, see, Batman needs a youthful sidekick to counteract the darkness in his soul,” a goth said in lunch period. She was instantly pelted with cafeteria food.
Barbara walked away from the lunch line, feeling very pleased with herself. People who wouldn’t give her the time of day as nerdy Barbara Gordon were electing Batgirl a sex symbol. This must’ve been what Benjamin Franklin felt like after writing one of his Silence Dogood letters. Only… with go-go boots.
Feeling particularly sexy, she found Dick’s lunch table and sat down in his lap. He one-upped her by kissing her neck in a very adult way. She felt like Grace Kelly with her leading man. Then she looked at who Dick was sitting with.
“Barbara, these are the boys. Boys, this is Babs.”
“Don’t call me Babs.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Dick added nonchalantly. “Barbara, this is Raven.” A pale-skinned goth girl with purple streaks in her hair nodded. She was wearing a dark hoodie and black jeans. “Donna, she’s a foreign exchange.” A woman who looked more WB than real teenager gave a cheerful wave. “Garth.” A nerdy-looking kid drank from a bottle of water. “And Roy.” A stoner with a peach-fuzz goatee coughed on his blunt.
“You know marijuana’s a gateway drug, right?” Barbara said to him, nervous.
He blew smoke in her face. “Where’d you dig her up, Dickie-boy?”
“Lay off her, she’s cool. Take my word for it.”
Everyone was staring at Barbara. She didn’t feel sexy anymore. She felt frumpy, dowdy… like a librarian or something.
“I don’t usually do that,” she assured the freaks and geeks.
“Kiss, you mean?”
Barbara nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Riiiight,” Dick drawled. “Well, unless anyone else would like to hear awkward personal information…”
Roy raised his hand.
“I got something cool,” Raven said, pulling a black-cased iPhone from her pocket. “Gar told me about it in third period. The Joker went on Good Morning Gotham and killed, like, everybody.”
“No way,” Garth said.
Raven played the video file. They watched in silence. Barbara felt sick to her stomach.
“Makes you wonder if he’s gonna call off the hit on the Gotham Parkers. I wouldn’t want to die with that on my karma.”
“Yep,” Dick said darkly. “Someone should do something.”
An idea occurred to Barbara. A dangerous, stupid, irresponsible idea. She loved it.
“Maybe… Batgirl will do something.”
3:40 PM
Tim waited on the curb, watching the car show. It happened every day at Brentwood. Students either took their own cars or were picked up in Rolls-Royces, sports cars, limos. Ives, the son of a software giant, sat next to him on a bench. Ives was a nerd, but it wasn’t like Tim had room to talk. It was just that Ives was more stereotypical than Tim.
“So, who do you think would win in a fight, Batman or Superman?”
“Batman.”
“Are you kidding me? Superman would toss him into the sun before Batman could blink.”
“Not if Batman had Kryptonite.”
“How would Batman get Kryptonite? The only chunk of it on Earth is under lock and key at STAR Labs.”
“It’s probably just some painted rock that Batman swapped for it during his preparation time.”
“And how would he do that?”
As if he were explaining that water was wet to a particularly dense fish, Tim said “He’s Batman. Duh.”
A honking horn. Ives’s dad, driving a convertible. Ives said goodbye and drove home with his father. Tim was left alone. He folded his fists in front of his face and tried to convince people he didn’t care.
With nothing left to tether his mind down, it was drawn back to last night. Tim opened his notebook and started writing. It wasn’t all bad. Batgirl… Batgirl was beautiful. It wasn’t just looks, because the mask covered up most of those (although that bodysuit was tight enough to showcase her figure, and it was that of a frickin’ goddess), but she had this grace. A rhythm of lithe motions that swung her around, electrified her from smoothly rounded thighs to swan-like neck. A mask that left her full lips exposed and her red hair cascade down her shoulders like eternally pouring wine. It was like coolness, as Tim understood it. She was hot because she didn’t try to be hot. The costume left her body as it was, well-formed and well-proportioned, and the curves spoke for themselves. And she had saved him. Him!
By the time the shadow fell over him, Tim was five pages in and showing no signs of stopping. By the time he noticed the person had sat down beside him, he was sweating like a cold drink on a hot day. “Chloe! What’re you doing here?”
“Come to pick you up. You wanna get lunch? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, sure. I skipped lunch, so I could go for a burger.”
“Cool. Whacha writing, anyway?”
“Your article.”
Chloe glanced at it. “Awesome. Think it’ll be ready for the evening edition?”
“No reason it can’t be”
Chloe nodded. “You put the finishing touches on in the car, I’ll edit over lunch, and by tomorrow morning you’ll be making Lois Lane look like the opera critic in the Springville Chronicler.”
It worked pretty much like Chloe called it. He wrote in the car (Chloe had a pretty nice stereo system, and good taste to go with it), they got lunch at one of those sit-down restaurants with the half-pound burgers and the steak fries the size of a thumb (the cook sent his regards to Chloe, who blushed and mumbled something about pulling some strings with the Gazette’s restaurant critic), and Chloe looked over the article as Tim made half-hearted conversation about his day at school.
“No, go on, tell me about your crush.”
“It’s nothing, she probably doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Easy fix for that,” Chloe said.
“You think I’m pathetic.”
“I think it’s cute.”
“That’s worse.”
Chloe set down what he’d written and took a bite out of her salad. “Okay, I think I’ll trim a bit of the prose on Batgirl… it gets a bit purplish… but aside from that and some spellcheck, it’s ready for publication.”
Something broke loose in Tim’s chest, flung itself onto its bed, and wept for four hours. “What do you mean, purplish?“
“You get all mushy when you describe her.“
“Well, yeah… she is.”
Chloe smiled and touched his hand, wrapping the fingers of it within his palm like a secret handshake.
“I know what it’s like. Someone amazing comes out of the blue. They save you and for just that second, in their arms, you get the feeling that you’re the most important person in the world to them. But it’s only because you’re their mission. Really, you come second. You want to believe you’re the one for them, disguised as… something else. But they never see through your mask. And eventually, you realize you are the mask. You’re nothing to them. And no matter how much you dream of the day he’ll come flying to you, he never does.”
“Wow,” Tim said. “Are you writing a book or something?”
“What? No. I was in high school once too.”
6:42 PM - After dark.
Jason swallowed his fear. His father had always mocked him when he was afraid, called him a fag and a scaredy-cat. But on the street, being afraid was a way of life. Fear kept you alive and free and sharp. And for as long as Jason could remember, fear of the Bat had put all the other fears to shame. Gangsters might work you over and policemen might arrest you (worse if you were a girl or they were horny), but Batman… who knew with that freak? Jason had heard about a wise guy who’d dropped thirty stories, landed without a drop of blood in his body. That just wasn’t right.
Only he didn’t have anything to be afraid of. Batman only went after criminals and Jason wasn’t a criminal. Not a real one, anyway. He didn’t hurt anyone.
He was in one of Justin’s hide-outs, an old theatre with strip shows in the other auditoriums. Mr. Thomas was leaning under the torn screen, tatters of it hanging down like curtains. He watched Jason pace up and down the aisles with small amusement.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“We’re all nervous when we first meet him. But only the sinners have cause to fear.”
Jason sprawled across a row of seats in a determined snit. “I ain’t never been a saint.”
“But you desire redemption. Your earthly transgressions are forgiven. You have nothing to fear so long as you are a part of my flock. And don’t be nervous either. The Batman is just a man. It’s the mission that’s holy.”
“Well-spoken,” came a voice from the burnt-out crater of the projection booth, victim of a bygone insurance scam. Jason had heard the voice in his nightmares. It was the voice of the avenger, the stalker, the night. The voice that had taken…
Jason was glad Mr. Thomas had never asked if this was his first time meeting the Dark Knight.
Mr. Thomas stepped forward, putting his hands on Jason’s shoulders like a proud parent. “This young man has some information for you. His name is—“
“Jason Todd.”
Jason felt like not only had someone walked over his grave, but that a marching band had followed him. The Batman knew his name! That could not be good.
“Your social worker is worried about you.”
The only thing Jason’s social worker had ever done for him was to take a cut of Jason’s profits in exchange for minding his own damn business. When Jason’d stopped paying, Mr. Thomas had stepped in to settle things. It involved three Wonder Boys and sports equipment.
Mr. Thomas’s fingers dug possessively into Jason’s shoulders. “Jason is under my care. He’s well-looked after.”
“See that he is. You have information for me?”
Mr. Thomas urged Jason forward. “Go on, boy. Tell him what you told me.”
Jason felt the Batman lower his omniscient stare onto him, like a scientist looking at bacteria under a microscope.
Mr. Thomas had given them stills from the Joker’s attacks on Good Morning Gotham, digitally enhanced and modified to give him a Caucasian skin tone. Aside from the smile, Joker could’ve passed for any old schlub off the streets. The smile… and the eyes.
Since early that morning, Jay and the rest of the Crime Alley Irregulars had been showing that picture to anyone with eyeballs. But Jason had been the one who’d gone to the underworld dives, the places where you bet on ponies or picked up some cheap companionship or just bought something a lot harder than booze.
And while Jason was speechless, Mr. Thomas was prodding him almost hard enough to hurt. Then Batman did a strange thing. He knelt down to eyelevel with Jason, seemingly to leave the shadows up there in the air. Jason could see his mask exposed to the life, his eyes no longer cruel slits but deeply human green. They blinked beneath the deep-set eyeholes. Weirdly, Jason wasn’t afraid.
“One of the dancers at the Pussycat Club recognized him. Said his name was Jack. Quiet guy, kept to himself… just your average schmoe.”
“And just how did you get into the Pussycat Club?”
Jason was feeling braver by the minute. He grinned as cocky as he felt, which was a lot. “I have my ways.”
“Did this dancer know anything else?”
“She said he was ‘melancholy’. Whuzzat mean?”
“Quiet desperation.”
“I suppose you don’t go to a place like the Pussycat Club when you’re happy,” Mr. Thomas said, intruding on what had been a private conversation.
Batman shot him a look, then returned to his appraisal of Jason. “What was the dancer’s name?”
“Kyle. Selina Kyle.”
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,302
Characters/Pairings: Dick/Babs, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake, Chloe Sullivan, the Joker
Acknowledgments: Thanks to
damo_in_japan for betaing this.Previous Part: Chapter 13
Next Part: Chapter 15
Summary: Gotham starts to scab over from the Joker’s attacks. It could take a while.
1 A.M.
Barbara had never been so embarrassed in her life. First, she’d had to hitchhike back home, taking off her cowl and turning her cape into a kind of poncho-shawl-thing. She probably looked like a Rocky-Horror-themed hooker. Then she’d walked the last few blocks. As lucky as she’d been to find the only trucker in the state with a love of show tunes (literally, he had the original cast recording of Sweeney Todd on his radio), that walk was harrowing. Even though they lived in a nice neighborhood, in Gotham, nice was relative.
Getting home she’d had to climb in through her window to evade Mom. She stripped off her costume and hid it in the closet, then, too tired to even shower, she’d collapsed into bed.
There was a knock at the window.
Barbara got up, then instinctively covered her already-bra-covered chest. Dick was outside her window, balanced on the windowsill like a bird on a wire. With a rather churlish impatience he pointed to the clasp on the window, which Barbara undid. In short order, Dick had the window open and his head shoved inside the room, although Barbara stood in front of the window to prevent him from getting any further in.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I heard about what happened at the costume party. Are you okay?”
Yes. I went there dressed as Batman and kinda managed to be a superhero there, helping to foil a hostage situation before I wrecked my best friend’s bike. “I didn’t go.”
“Thank God.” He hugged her. “Babs, you know I love you, but damnit if you don’t have the worst luck.”
“You love me?”
He backed away, his grin a tad lessened. “Well, you know…”
She let him off the hook. “I know. Listen, you need to get out of here. If my dad…”
Before she could say another word, Dick grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. It came as something of a shock, but all the emotion bubbled up within her and she was left dangling in his embrace, letting him rub her back comfortingly.
“Dick, it’s really late.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.” He patted her. “See you at school?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“First time I’ve ever looked forward to the weekend being over.” He went out the window again. “Nice bra, by the way.”
Barbara blushed furiously.
3 A.M.
The last cop car pulled away, taking Harvey home, its lights flashing silently, spilling jeweled light on the lawn and gate of the Wayne property. Bruce watched it go, his hands in his pockets. He had changed into a simple, dignified suit. No jacket or coat, just an untucked buttondown and belted slacks. His shoes were on and neatly tied, which was a minor discrepancy, but in every way he was the traumatized homeowner, offering coffee and other refreshments to the men investigating the crime. It galled him to have to maintain the fiction while the Joker was running free, to not slip out into the comforting second skin of the Batman and hunt that murderer down, but maintaining the Bruce Wayne identity was important. To his father, to Alfred, to the mission.
To him, too, though less and less as years went by.
“Master Wayne?” Alfred said. He was standing in the doorway of the room, a housecoat pulled around him for warmth. The old man should be in bed by now. Bruce knew Alfred didn’t sleep well while the Batman was out. But he did sleep.
“Bruce Wayne can’t be seen throwing bad guys around. Think up some embarrassing social gaffe for me to make.”
“I’ll call the rehab clinic to see if there are any young celebrities of dubious chastity for you to be seen with.“
“Try to find one wearing underwear this time.” He turned around, slicking back his hair with his fingers. “There was a woman at the party, Talia. Find out what hospital she was taken to. Send some flowers.”
“Right away. I have some tea brewing in the kitchen, if you’d like.”
Bruce nodded. “I would, thank you.”
They walked to the kitchen, and as they walked Alfred held out a burnt, crumpled license plate.
“I took the liberty of retrieving this from the motorbike wreckage. It could be a clue to your sidekick’s identity.”
“I work alone,” Bruce said firmly. “Whoever this woman is, I’ll have to disabuse her of this nonsense before she gets hurt.”
“Yes, I imagine the last thing Gotham needs is a lawless vigilante running around, righting wrongs and…”
Bruce shot him a nasty look. “Set out the suit. I can’t imagine tonight will be very productive, but I can set the wheels in motion.”
“Very good, sir.”
4 A.M.
Justin Thomas slept in a simple, spartan space. He imagined it was where Batman would sleep, if Batman didn’t have his god-given resources. He moved around a lot to avoid his enemies, sleeping wherever his people would put him up, but the room above the mechanic’s garage was his favorite. There were no rats in the walls.
“Justin Thomas,” a voice said. The voice said.
Justin sat bolt-upright.
“We need to talk,” the Batman said. He was crouched on the fire escape like a living gargoyle, the cool night air brushing his cape like it was gossamer.
Justin’s fingers twitched. This must be what Catholics feel when they cross themselves.
“Anything.”
“I need you to get your boys out on the street. Find out anything you can about the Joker. I’ll come back in the evening to find out what you’ve learned.”
Justin’s heart leapt in his chest. Another visitation! “Can I ask a question?”
The shape nodded. “You may.”
“When will it happen?”
“When will what happen?”
A test! “The day when you sweep away all the scum, the trash, the pushers, the dopers, the junkies, the sick, the venal, the perverts. When will you cleanse Gotham?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” the Batman said before he disappeared.
5 A.M.
Dawn. He should be getting back. But there was still grist for the Batman’s mill. A mugging nearby. He swooped down to stop it. There was at least one more evil he could set right before morning came, one more casualty he could inflict on the forces that infested his home.
Batman’s fists shot out, cuffing the mugger about the head. His gun was fumbled, his retaliations were ineffectual. His victim ran. The Batman had him. The mugger pulled a knife. He was a fool, thinking a simple length of steel gave him power. A boy taunting a bear with a stick.
There were seven working defenses from the Batman’s current position. Three of them disarmed with minimal contact. Three of them killed. The other just hurt.
Necessary evil, Bruce thought, as the mugger screamed and pissed himself and swore. Lot of that going around these days. Like Justin Thomas, the Wiggins of his Baker Street Irregulars. Unbalanced, certainly, but useful. His delusions were no worse than Bruce’s own. Gotham couldn’t be brought back. It was too far gone, its descent started before Bruce was ever born. But its plunge could be held back, stalled, its people spared for the moment. The war went on… a never-ending battle, as Harvey said.
He kept hitting him, bruising the meat. Men like him thought they could reign over Gotham with impunity, just because they had guns. They thought they were above the law. They thought they could hurt people and they wouldn’t be punished.
Hurt Talia…
The Batman cuffed the mugger and did a spiel. When the police came for him, he would confess everything. It was as Falcone had said, all those years ago. Fear had power.
8 A.M.
Tim didn’t have nightmares. He just had a big, black awareness of time passing. Every muscle in his body felt loose and sore when he woke up. His clock radio had switched on, Art Bell blabbing about the Joker. AM radio always went crazy when a new supervillain turned up. Tim hadn’t thought about how exploitative it was until he’d been a part of it. He switched the radio off, showered, dressed.
Came downstairs with his tie hanging limp around his neck and his blazer slung over his shoulder. The scent of coffee was thick in the air and he also detected a hint of blueberry. Just as he thought, the latest in a stack of pancakes was sizzling on the skillet.
“Blueberry pancakes; your favorite, right?” Dana asked as she flipped a pancake.
Stunned by this surrealism, Tim just mutely nodded. Dana was in a morning gown and slippers, while Jack wore a gray sweatsuit. An open newspaper concealed his unshaven face. Tim’s eyes widened in surprise to see Chloe Sullivan at the breakfast table with Jack, wearing her Jackie Kennedy 2000 blouse-jacket-skirt combo, with a vintage derby hat to complete the ensemble. She was dressed to impress… Tim’s parents.
“Blueberry, huh? You’re a man of good taste, small-fry.”
Dana sat Tim down by Chloe, setting down a plate of pancakes in front of him. Tim numbly poured maple syrup all over them.
“Miss Sullivan’s been telling us what a help you’ve been to her,” Jack said, flapping his newspaper.
“Yes, I think it’s safe to say Tim has a bright future in journalism,” Chloe said brightly.
“Thanks,” Tim said.
Tim kept quiet after that, automatically deferring to the adult conversation. He always got so self-conscious at times like these. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his parents, he just… well, Chloe was nice and she seemed to like him, and it would suck hard if she found out he was just some kid instead of…
“Mr. Alfred has offered to take you to school,” his stepmom was saying. “Your father and I have to go over some papers, so you’ll have to either find your own ride home or call a taxi.”
“I could drive him, Mrs. Drake,” Chloe said.
“Oh, I’d hate to inconvenience you…”
“It’s on the way back to Gotham, right? I’m headed that way myself, obviously. Besides, better I go a little out of my way than poor Alfred makes a whole trip.”
“Can I? Please?” Tim asked, although he tried hard to make it sound like an assertion instead of a question.
“Let the boy go,” Jack said. “I don’t trust those people over at Wayne manor…”
“Jack!”
“I just don’t… always coming and going at strange hours, those weird excavations.”
“Excavations?” Chloe asked with an eyebrow raised. She surreptitiously reached into her purse for her recorder.
“Mr. Wayne is just shoring up the foundations of his house,” Dana said, smiling sweetly. “As I’ve told Jack…”
“We should get going.” Tim hopped from the table before his parents could further parent him. “Can’t wait for that education, and all.”
Jack and Dana looked suspicious.
“Plus, we don’t wanna keep Chloe.”
Chloe smiled as she jangled her keys. “He’s right, we wouldn’t want to get caught in traffic.” She patted Tim’s shoulder. “Would it be alright if I bring him home too? You know how cabs are in this city.”
An awkward moment passed as the Drakes’ looks confirmed they’d long since forgotten how Gotham cabs were.
“I don’t see why Tim can’t just get a ride from one of his friends,” Jack said.
Tim looked down at his shoes.
“Most kids his age can’t afford to make the trip out here, with gas costing what it does.”
“And you?”
“I own a hybrid car. And I’d love to talk some more about those weird excavations when there’s more time.”
“I could set an extra place at the table, if you don’t mind eating dinner early,” Dana offered.
“And finally get to taste some of that home cooking your son’s always bragging about? Count me in.”
Tim tapped his foot.
“Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Drake,” Chloe said as she hustled out of there with Tim.
***
“Nice folks, your parents,” Chloe said as they walked down the long driveway.
“Sometimes when I see Mr. Wayne, he winces. Like he’s in pain, or strained himself. He carries himself like that all the time.” Tim’s intensity was like a lightswitch being flicked. And, just as abruptly, it flicked off. “And Dana’s not my mom, she’s my dad’s wife.”
“Oh.” Chloe bit her lip.
“Car jacking,” Tim said. “He had a gun, she saw his face. That was before we moved out of the city. Out here.”
“I’m sorry.” Chloe got the car door for him. Passenger seat.
“S’okay.”
Tim climbed in, shucking off his backpack. Chloe apologetically elbowed some of the detritus aside in her VW Bug. Tim was short, not gangly as most his age, but he still resisted the urge to stretch out and possibly lay a foot into the ghosts of fast-food breakfast past.
“Seatbelt,” Chloe said as she got in the driver’s seat. Tim obediently buckled up. “So, when did it happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Last year.”
Chloe was startled. “Pretty quick for your dad to remarry, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Very carefully, Chloe started the engine, took the Volkswagen out of park, and backed out of the driveway. She could see Jack watching from the window, newspaper folded under his arm.
“Wave to your father,” Chloe said, and Tim did.
They drove off.
“You wanna listen to the radio?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Well, I do.” She flipped it on. Some old band started playing, sex and drugs and rock & roll. Tim didn’t figure Chloe for the type, but she banged her head pretty good for a half-second before turning serious. “I heard you were at Wayne’s place when it was attacked.”
Tim’s head was resting against the window, his eyes looking out at the countryside scrolling past.
“I can understand if you don’t want to talk about it. A lot of people are scared. Putting a rest to the rumors… letting them know the truth… it would help.”
Tim’s eyes slanted to look at her. “Promise not to share with the ‘rents? Tell them I need pills or a headshrinker or something?”
“Hand to God.”
“Okay then.” Tim sat up a little, slumping straighter against his seat. “What do you want, then?”
“I want you to write an eyewitness report of everything that happened. The Joker, Batgirl, everything. Is it true that DA Dent killed a man? Where was Bruce Wayne? You’ll make front page, guaranteed. With a start like that, you’d have a foot in the door of every newspaper in the country. Right place at the right time, that’s how great reporters are made.”
Tim’s eyes shut. “Right place, right time?”
“Making the best of a bad situation. People deserve to know. With folks like the Bat and the Joker running around, they need all the warning they can get…”
“Batman’s nothing like the Joker!” Tim said vehemently.
“Okay, okay, chill. See, that’s another reason. You can get the truth out there. Put people’s minds at ease.”
“But Batman wasn’t there.”
“And people are wondering why he wasn’t. It was pretty high-profile, and yet the Joker is still at large. They want to know that Batman can keep them safe.”
“Batman’ll kick that clown’s ass.”
“Here’s hoping.”
Tim bit his lip.
“I swear you can have the byline.”
“No, I want to share it…” Tim nodded to himself, a couple of successive bobs. “When can we start?”
“Grab the recorder out of my purse?”
Tim dug for it, nudging aside Chloe’s birth control pills to find it. Chloe set it on the dashboard and pressed record. Tim stared at it, the microcassette inside winding.
“What do I say?”
“Whatever you remember.”
Tim gulped. “Okay. Well, we were at the party… should I start there or go to the beginning of the evening, give some backstory on the whole thing?”
“Start wherever you’re comfortable, we’ll sort it out in edit later.”
“Okay.” He nodded once more, then leaned forward over the tape recorder.
8:30 A.M.
Bruce watched Talia wake up. Even pale, her skin so stony she was practically blue, and with tubes surrounding her like links in a web, she was beautiful. It was strange, having those urges outside his normal control. He felt them, he dealt with them, that was it. He didn’t keep… thinking about those things. Not since Rachel. It’d been a relief when she’d left for Bludhaven.
He didn’t keep thinking about them.
“Father?” Talia said, her mouth parting slightly.
Bruce stuck a straw in a glass of water and brought it to her. “Here. Drink something.”
She did, her eyes opening wider and wider as she came awake. Finally, she was able to lift her arms to push the water away.
“Bruce? Bruce Wayne? I must be dreaming…”
Bruce smiled his most charming smile and patted her hand. It wasn’t because he was infatuated with her. Infatuation was a immature emotional reaction to sexual stimulus. This was damage control. He was paying her hospital bills as well as those of his other guests.
“The museum… the Arabian exhibit is opening next week.”
This wasn’t him, this was Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy. And she was a newcomer to a hostile city, a stranger in a strange land… an orphan. He could be there for her, just a little bit. Until she stood on her own two feet. It wouldn’t compromise the mission.
He squeezed her fingers in his hand. “I’m sure in light of recent events, they’ll delay it.”
“We didn’t have these problems when I worked in the British Museum.”
His hands were treacherous. They wanted to hold her, touch her. He permitted himself a modicum of contact. Brushed some hair out of her face.
“Tell me about it.”
8:40 A.M.
“The Joker came in and looked at the paintings on the wall like he was an art critic. We thought he and the Stooges were an act Mr. Wayne had hired. Then the Joker defaced a painting of Thomas Wayne… Mr. Wayne’s father… and Mr. Wayne went to confront him… but the Joker had a gun… it, umm, there was a woman, she tried to step in… Talia Head, from the museum, she works with my dad… w-w-we thought the gun was a fake, because it just shot out a flag that said bang, but then he pointed it at the woman and… and there was all this blood, just everywhere, and people were screaming and… and I…”
Chloe pulled over to the side of the road. “Are you okay?” His head was bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Chloe turned off the recorder. “Tim?” She touched his shoulder.
Tim seemed to crumble at her touch, folding against Chloe, crying and speaking in a hiccupping gargle of mangled words. “And I was so scared, he was going to kill us, he…”
Chloe put her arms around him, holding him as close as she could while he sobbed.
9 A.M.
Bruce was not shocked. He was never shocked. He had suspicions, of everything conceivable, and these suspicions were either confirmed or disabused. There was a very select group of truths he considered incontrovertible, and those had never been overturned. His worldview was firmly set, as unlikely to be rattled as a block of granite.
He was prepared for alien invaders from another world, natural disasters of all stripes, even supernatural events. The only thing he didn’t expect was that he would find himself enjoying Talia’s company. She was good conversation, and the first thing he realized that was off was that he didn’t have to fake laughter. The things she said to him actually struck him as funny. And he didn’t think anything was all that funny, because they were all of the world and the world wasn’t a funny place.
The second thing that was off, the clincher, the shock to his system, was that he was happy being with her. He wasn’t a… happy person. He had satisfaction, of a case being broken, of helping someone, but actual joy was distant from him. It’d been a while since he’d felt it. There were times under Ducard’s tutelage that he’d been amused by Ducard’s… by Ra’s’s sly wit and rare deadpan humor, and there were times with Clark when he didn’t feel so alone… but compared to those occasions, this was tangible. Tactile, not fleeting. Under his skin.
He was getting so used to it that he excused himself and walked off. When the Joker showed his face on Good Morning Gotham, he was already long gone. There didn’t have to be anything suspicious about his timing. His good fortune.
10 A.M.
Usually at this point, Joker would be thinking of the funhouse ride he could install in his Ha-Ha-Hacienda with all the money he’d made. It’d be both a classy way to get around, and a good escape route in case the crowd turned ugly. Not that he had enough money to build one yet and not that it would fit in the Ha-Ha-Hacienda he had right now (it was a seller’s market for hide-outs, anyway), but…
But…
(Jack hated it when his mind wandered.)
Feeling a bout of inspiration, Joker grabbed some of the chemicals he’d procured and started experimenting. The toxic reaction he was looking for was very specific, which was why he always used laughing gas as a base. But aside from that, he couldn’t replicate the composition of the muck he’d been immersed in. His test subjects never laughed. At best, they gibbered. So very frustrating… he began mixing a new batch. No rush. He had all day before the sun went down and the whores came out, so lush and verdant and so vocal about exactly what they were experiencing… when they weren’t screaming.
He hadn’t made that much money. He hadn’t been expecting to; crashing the party had been all about crashing the party, just like killing that annoying host and his annoying guests. First impressions were so important, after all. What vexed him was losing his henchmen this early. After all, they were his to kill and nothing about their demises had been Stooge-like. Totally out of character. At least Curly’s death had been a joke played on that Wayne gazillionaire. Maybe for the next set of henchmen he’d go for a Marx Brothers motif.
But no, then one of them would be Groucho, and Groucho would upstage him. That wouldn’t do. Maybe it was time he quit with the homages. He’d paid his dues, now it was time for some fresh material. Yeaaah, that’s the ticket! Maybe some clown make-up, just to set them apart from the average goon…
Someone harrumphed behind him. There was only one person Joker knew who harrumphed.
“Three men,” the Penguin said, prodding the door open with his umbrella. A handkerchief hung from the doorknob, allowing him to emphatically not touch it. “I gave you three men. Was it too much to ask that you come back with one of them alive?”
“Moe didn’t even get to jail. He hitched a ride on a passing prison break. That’s the kind of go-getting I like to see in an employee, and what I love about this city. Every time I think it can’t sink any lower, it does. Restores my faith in inhumanity. The rest… just saves on overhead, Pengy.” Joker dug a batter into his mixture and stirred vigorously. The smell offended Cobblepot’s delicate nostrils.
“What is that?”
“Joker Juice! Just like mom used to make! A pinch of arsenic, a dash of mustard gas, a generous helping of cyanide, and a sprinkling of garlic – just for flavor.” Joker licked the batter. “That’s a spicy meatsa-ball!”
Again using his umbrella as a manipulator, Cobblepot picked up the lid of the crock pot Joker was cooking in and set it down atop the foul-smelling experiment. Joker wondered if his frown would turn upside-down when he drowned in it. But no. No. The juice wasn’t ready yet. Needed more experiments. Although he still hadn’t fed the old ones to the gators. An artist’s work was never done.
“I make more money rigging my casinos then you’ve done with your very public fiascoes. When does the Bat die?”
Joker pulled up a chair for the Penguin. “Patience, patience! Ozzie, my sweet little flightless bird, the Bat is bigger than the man… so far. But I know what makes him tick. He craves order. Worships it! Fetishizes it. It gets him hard, and I don’t just mean that in the crude sexual sense… although who knows, with a guy who runs around in that much black leather…”
“But what’s the point of killing a talk show?” Cobblepot interrupted, most rudely. Hecklers.
Joker frowned. Then he shoved Penguin back into the untaken chair. “I WAS GETTING TO THAT!” Then, his smile slowly regaining equilibrium, Joker walked around the Penguin, jauntily spinning him. “Batman has a thing for order. Confront him with a problem he can’t solve… namely, moi… and he’ll start to breakdown. It’s inevitable. The more I push, the further he’ll teeter. And when he falls… when he falls, he’ll suffer. But you have to tell the joke before you can get to the punchline. Just be patient, Ozzie… and send me more men! Oh, and a rocket launcher.”
11:00 A.M.
School was weird. The powers that be were in full trauma mode, just because some guy had dressed up like a clown and killed people. That was just, like, Gotham, you know. Sure, it was messed up that it happened to Bruce Wayne, but it wasn’t like anyone knew him. It was just that it could happen to anyone. What really got people talking was
“Batgirl.”
“—so hot—“
“such a ho”
“I heard she was Batman’s dark mistress”
“No way, Batgirl’s a dyke”
“the Batwiki said she was young, like our age”
“Is that Drake’s website? He’s a freak”
“He was there”
“He was Batgirl. Drake’s a cross-dresser. Totally Glen or Glenda, man”
“No, see, Batman needs a youthful sidekick to counteract the darkness in his soul,” a goth said in lunch period. She was instantly pelted with cafeteria food.
Barbara walked away from the lunch line, feeling very pleased with herself. People who wouldn’t give her the time of day as nerdy Barbara Gordon were electing Batgirl a sex symbol. This must’ve been what Benjamin Franklin felt like after writing one of his Silence Dogood letters. Only… with go-go boots.
Feeling particularly sexy, she found Dick’s lunch table and sat down in his lap. He one-upped her by kissing her neck in a very adult way. She felt like Grace Kelly with her leading man. Then she looked at who Dick was sitting with.
“Barbara, these are the boys. Boys, this is Babs.”
“Don’t call me Babs.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Dick added nonchalantly. “Barbara, this is Raven.” A pale-skinned goth girl with purple streaks in her hair nodded. She was wearing a dark hoodie and black jeans. “Donna, she’s a foreign exchange.” A woman who looked more WB than real teenager gave a cheerful wave. “Garth.” A nerdy-looking kid drank from a bottle of water. “And Roy.” A stoner with a peach-fuzz goatee coughed on his blunt.
“You know marijuana’s a gateway drug, right?” Barbara said to him, nervous.
He blew smoke in her face. “Where’d you dig her up, Dickie-boy?”
“Lay off her, she’s cool. Take my word for it.”
Everyone was staring at Barbara. She didn’t feel sexy anymore. She felt frumpy, dowdy… like a librarian or something.
“I don’t usually do that,” she assured the freaks and geeks.
“Kiss, you mean?”
Barbara nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Riiiight,” Dick drawled. “Well, unless anyone else would like to hear awkward personal information…”
Roy raised his hand.
“I got something cool,” Raven said, pulling a black-cased iPhone from her pocket. “Gar told me about it in third period. The Joker went on Good Morning Gotham and killed, like, everybody.”
“No way,” Garth said.
Raven played the video file. They watched in silence. Barbara felt sick to her stomach.
“Makes you wonder if he’s gonna call off the hit on the Gotham Parkers. I wouldn’t want to die with that on my karma.”
“Yep,” Dick said darkly. “Someone should do something.”
An idea occurred to Barbara. A dangerous, stupid, irresponsible idea. She loved it.
“Maybe… Batgirl will do something.”
3:40 PM
Tim waited on the curb, watching the car show. It happened every day at Brentwood. Students either took their own cars or were picked up in Rolls-Royces, sports cars, limos. Ives, the son of a software giant, sat next to him on a bench. Ives was a nerd, but it wasn’t like Tim had room to talk. It was just that Ives was more stereotypical than Tim.
“So, who do you think would win in a fight, Batman or Superman?”
“Batman.”
“Are you kidding me? Superman would toss him into the sun before Batman could blink.”
“Not if Batman had Kryptonite.”
“How would Batman get Kryptonite? The only chunk of it on Earth is under lock and key at STAR Labs.”
“It’s probably just some painted rock that Batman swapped for it during his preparation time.”
“And how would he do that?”
As if he were explaining that water was wet to a particularly dense fish, Tim said “He’s Batman. Duh.”
A honking horn. Ives’s dad, driving a convertible. Ives said goodbye and drove home with his father. Tim was left alone. He folded his fists in front of his face and tried to convince people he didn’t care.
With nothing left to tether his mind down, it was drawn back to last night. Tim opened his notebook and started writing. It wasn’t all bad. Batgirl… Batgirl was beautiful. It wasn’t just looks, because the mask covered up most of those (although that bodysuit was tight enough to showcase her figure, and it was that of a frickin’ goddess), but she had this grace. A rhythm of lithe motions that swung her around, electrified her from smoothly rounded thighs to swan-like neck. A mask that left her full lips exposed and her red hair cascade down her shoulders like eternally pouring wine. It was like coolness, as Tim understood it. She was hot because she didn’t try to be hot. The costume left her body as it was, well-formed and well-proportioned, and the curves spoke for themselves. And she had saved him. Him!
By the time the shadow fell over him, Tim was five pages in and showing no signs of stopping. By the time he noticed the person had sat down beside him, he was sweating like a cold drink on a hot day. “Chloe! What’re you doing here?”
“Come to pick you up. You wanna get lunch? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, sure. I skipped lunch, so I could go for a burger.”
“Cool. Whacha writing, anyway?”
“Your article.”
Chloe glanced at it. “Awesome. Think it’ll be ready for the evening edition?”
“No reason it can’t be”
Chloe nodded. “You put the finishing touches on in the car, I’ll edit over lunch, and by tomorrow morning you’ll be making Lois Lane look like the opera critic in the Springville Chronicler.”
It worked pretty much like Chloe called it. He wrote in the car (Chloe had a pretty nice stereo system, and good taste to go with it), they got lunch at one of those sit-down restaurants with the half-pound burgers and the steak fries the size of a thumb (the cook sent his regards to Chloe, who blushed and mumbled something about pulling some strings with the Gazette’s restaurant critic), and Chloe looked over the article as Tim made half-hearted conversation about his day at school.
“No, go on, tell me about your crush.”
“It’s nothing, she probably doesn’t even know I exist.”
“Easy fix for that,” Chloe said.
“You think I’m pathetic.”
“I think it’s cute.”
“That’s worse.”
Chloe set down what he’d written and took a bite out of her salad. “Okay, I think I’ll trim a bit of the prose on Batgirl… it gets a bit purplish… but aside from that and some spellcheck, it’s ready for publication.”
Something broke loose in Tim’s chest, flung itself onto its bed, and wept for four hours. “What do you mean, purplish?“
“You get all mushy when you describe her.“
“Well, yeah… she is.”
Chloe smiled and touched his hand, wrapping the fingers of it within his palm like a secret handshake.
“I know what it’s like. Someone amazing comes out of the blue. They save you and for just that second, in their arms, you get the feeling that you’re the most important person in the world to them. But it’s only because you’re their mission. Really, you come second. You want to believe you’re the one for them, disguised as… something else. But they never see through your mask. And eventually, you realize you are the mask. You’re nothing to them. And no matter how much you dream of the day he’ll come flying to you, he never does.”
“Wow,” Tim said. “Are you writing a book or something?”
“What? No. I was in high school once too.”
6:42 PM - After dark.
Jason swallowed his fear. His father had always mocked him when he was afraid, called him a fag and a scaredy-cat. But on the street, being afraid was a way of life. Fear kept you alive and free and sharp. And for as long as Jason could remember, fear of the Bat had put all the other fears to shame. Gangsters might work you over and policemen might arrest you (worse if you were a girl or they were horny), but Batman… who knew with that freak? Jason had heard about a wise guy who’d dropped thirty stories, landed without a drop of blood in his body. That just wasn’t right.
Only he didn’t have anything to be afraid of. Batman only went after criminals and Jason wasn’t a criminal. Not a real one, anyway. He didn’t hurt anyone.
He was in one of Justin’s hide-outs, an old theatre with strip shows in the other auditoriums. Mr. Thomas was leaning under the torn screen, tatters of it hanging down like curtains. He watched Jason pace up and down the aisles with small amusement.
“Nervous?”
“No.”
“We’re all nervous when we first meet him. But only the sinners have cause to fear.”
Jason sprawled across a row of seats in a determined snit. “I ain’t never been a saint.”
“But you desire redemption. Your earthly transgressions are forgiven. You have nothing to fear so long as you are a part of my flock. And don’t be nervous either. The Batman is just a man. It’s the mission that’s holy.”
“Well-spoken,” came a voice from the burnt-out crater of the projection booth, victim of a bygone insurance scam. Jason had heard the voice in his nightmares. It was the voice of the avenger, the stalker, the night. The voice that had taken…
Jason was glad Mr. Thomas had never asked if this was his first time meeting the Dark Knight.
Mr. Thomas stepped forward, putting his hands on Jason’s shoulders like a proud parent. “This young man has some information for you. His name is—“
“Jason Todd.”
Jason felt like not only had someone walked over his grave, but that a marching band had followed him. The Batman knew his name! That could not be good.
“Your social worker is worried about you.”
The only thing Jason’s social worker had ever done for him was to take a cut of Jason’s profits in exchange for minding his own damn business. When Jason’d stopped paying, Mr. Thomas had stepped in to settle things. It involved three Wonder Boys and sports equipment.
Mr. Thomas’s fingers dug possessively into Jason’s shoulders. “Jason is under my care. He’s well-looked after.”
“See that he is. You have information for me?”
Mr. Thomas urged Jason forward. “Go on, boy. Tell him what you told me.”
Jason felt the Batman lower his omniscient stare onto him, like a scientist looking at bacteria under a microscope.
Mr. Thomas had given them stills from the Joker’s attacks on Good Morning Gotham, digitally enhanced and modified to give him a Caucasian skin tone. Aside from the smile, Joker could’ve passed for any old schlub off the streets. The smile… and the eyes.
Since early that morning, Jay and the rest of the Crime Alley Irregulars had been showing that picture to anyone with eyeballs. But Jason had been the one who’d gone to the underworld dives, the places where you bet on ponies or picked up some cheap companionship or just bought something a lot harder than booze.
And while Jason was speechless, Mr. Thomas was prodding him almost hard enough to hurt. Then Batman did a strange thing. He knelt down to eyelevel with Jason, seemingly to leave the shadows up there in the air. Jason could see his mask exposed to the life, his eyes no longer cruel slits but deeply human green. They blinked beneath the deep-set eyeholes. Weirdly, Jason wasn’t afraid.
“One of the dancers at the Pussycat Club recognized him. Said his name was Jack. Quiet guy, kept to himself… just your average schmoe.”
“And just how did you get into the Pussycat Club?”
Jason was feeling braver by the minute. He grinned as cocky as he felt, which was a lot. “I have my ways.”
“Did this dancer know anything else?”
“She said he was ‘melancholy’. Whuzzat mean?”
“Quiet desperation.”
“I suppose you don’t go to a place like the Pussycat Club when you’re happy,” Mr. Thomas said, intruding on what had been a private conversation.
Batman shot him a look, then returned to his appraisal of Jason. “What was the dancer’s name?”
“Kyle. Selina Kyle.”
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Also will you be working the CW's new Graysons series?
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Hmm... I might have to change Kory to Donna, even though I love the idea of Kory as the foreign exchange student in a cliched John Hughes-y Teen Titans comedy.
Also will you be working the CW's new Graysons series?
Define 'working'? Because if I was in charge, I would do maybe one or two episodes of Dick and la familia before they die (after just having given us enough time to fall in love with them) and Bruce enters the series (if this weren't the pilot). And Dick would be Robin by season three at the latest. None of this Ang Lee's Hulk bullshit with having to wait a million years for tights and flights.