I don't tell my stories. I don't think anyone cares. Well, no one who might read this anyway.
But this is one story that no one else is going to tell. To be honest, I think they'd all rather forget it ever happened. But then, I kind of would too.
It started last month, when things got really crazy, all of a sudden. Where I'd see one purse-snatching, a convenience store knock-off, maybe a battered wife in any given night, suddenly I was pulling guys off screaming girls in alleys and knocking out alley brawlers five, six a day. Always the same, too. They were like animals, biting, snarling, scratching... I'd have sworn we had zombies if they didn't still bleed.
It pained me, but after a week of going to work feeling like a walking bruise, my students started asking questions, and I had to ask for help.
The phone rang. Twice, three times, thank God it was going to voicemail. I kept it short. "Dick, it's me. Let's get coffee, tonight, the usual spot, 9:30." He would know what I meant.
At 9:15 I saw him pop out the door onto the rooftop of the Squealing Pig bar. He liked the irony of their sign, a fat pig in a policeman's uniform. I liked the fact they didn't light the roof. I shot a zipline over his head, missing him by inches, and dropped soundlessly into a crouch beside him, my cape floating around me. He was plainclothes, but I knew the suit was there, under the conservative button-up and khakis. Why else would he wear long sleeves in July?
He looked about like I felt, sporting a black eye, and moving like his ribs hurt. He lit up a cigarette, and silently offered me one. I took it. I don't smoke, but he likes the company. An unruly lock of dark hair fell into his eyes, and I pushed it back before I caught myself. He's not comfortable being touched, although everyone knows he needs it more than air, more than this charade we play every night, more than he needs his foster father's approval. He needs to be loved, and he's not willing to let anyone take the job. When he does, they die. Welcome to the club.
He fixed me with uncomfortably blue eyes as he lit my cigarette, and I managed a cocky grin. "Rough week?" I asked, searching his face for any sign he'd seen what I did. He nodded, brushing a finger over the yellowish-green bruise blossoming on my left cheek. "You too, obviously." I didn't give him the satisfaction of making me flinch. I think he was disappointed.
He took a long pull off his cig, and let it out in that angsty sigh he inherited from the Bat. The one that said he wished he was anywhere but here at this moment. And he spoke, careful not to use my name. "What the hell is going on?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"If I knew, you think I'd be calling you? It's nuts out there."
He nodded. "Should we call...?" Always the dutiful son. Hate the man, but at the first sign of trouble, let's go running to Daddy. I should have known. I should have called Dinah.
"Non mettere-" I caught myself, quickly. "Let's not put the cart before the horse." I hated sounding like some fresh-off-the-boat ginzo, and I hoped he hadn't noticed.
"Just get back from Sicily again?" Damn it, he did. He was laughing, too. I changed the subject.
"There's no reason to call him. We don't know anything yet anyway."
He looked at me for a long moment. "You just need help." It wasn't a question. And if it had been, it would have been the wrong one.
"Screw you, Dick. I don't need anyone." I pulled out my grappling gun. He put his hand on mine, his expression apologetic even in the reflected neon light from Porky McCopper below us.
"Huntress, I'm sorry." I believed it. His tone was sincere. "I need help too. I can't do this alone, these people... they're like PCP addicts. No conscious thoughts."
I sighed, and tucked the gun back into its pouch on my utility belt. "So we need to know what's causing it. A new drug?"
He considered. "Maybe. Some of these perps though, they're pretty stand-up guys. Family men who just all of a sudden come home and try to rape the babysitter. No history, no provocation, no drugs." A thought hit me.
"You said men. Have they all been men?" He nodded.
"Women don't tend to be violent."
I laughed. He smiled, that lop-sided little-boy grin that told me he knew it was funny before he said it. I stopped, and rolled my eyes, not wanting to encourage this.
"If it was drugs though, women do those. No up-swing in hookers, in fact, I've seen fewer than normal lately." I paused, thinking. "And the last time I gift-wrapped a girl for you boys in blue was weeks ago."
He got my point, and his brow furrowed, deep in thought. "I've noticed that too, actually. It's like they're hiding from something."
"From, I don't know, packs of hyper-violent men with no sense of morality or decency?" I asked sarcastically.
His eyes met mine, and the thought hit us simultaneously. "Poison Ivy?" he asked, with a quizzical tilt to his head.
I considered, and shrugged. "It's a workable theory. I'll run by Arkham and make sure she's still inside. If she's not, at least we'll know who IS missing. Get dressed and hit the streets?"
"Hey, why don't -I- go to Arkham while YOU stay here and get your ass beat?" I rolled my eyes again.
"Because my car is faster than your bike." Burn. Chew on that, Evel Kneivel. He knew I got him, but as he searched for a comeback, we heard the creak of the rooftop door. He turned to look, and by the time he turned back I was gone, leaving only a glowing cigarette butt at his feet.