"Your secret is safe. He is definitely a wacko."
She did not see him running. With all intense haste, his speed was filled with purpose. A trot through the November mud with intent, with force behind every step. A man with a mission. To maim. To destroy.
"Wacko? Is that a technical term?"
He did not see it. How blind could he be, the Batman? It was sickening to behold, his vulnerability… his discovered humanity… it was sickening to know that such a feeble thing was present in the man's life…
"Listen...I won't need this anymore. Thank you for giving me a new dream."
The old man stood by the car, softly smiling, observing as a weak bystander. Pennyworth. Or did he too have another name…. another meaning….?
"Don't work too late…."
A kiss, and then she was walking away from him, towards the old man who knew everything… he would put her in the car, and whisk her away to safety. And this could not be allowed. The man who ran with purpose, with intent in every crazed step, crashed past Wayne…past the Batman…. forcing him to the side. Wayne stumbled about, taking by surprise at the man's swiftness. The old man saw him coming first, and opened his mouth to call out a warning to the woman. Dr. Meridian… karma. Absolute karma.
She did not know he was there until it was far beyond too late. Her hair was long enough, and it made for a suitable hold upon which he could turn her. She cried out as he jerked her around, but the sound only meant pleasure for him. Courtesy of them both, the dark man thought, as he unpackaged the large beaker from his trench coat. The stopper flew through the air as the messenger, this heathen monstrosity glorified through sin, forced the woman against Wayne's car and promptly poured the contents of the beaker upon her face…
Bruce Wayne, screaming as he ran forward, his own intent as powerful as that of the messenger, saw the label on the side of the beaker. Saw the horror of the amber colored liquid within. It made his heart turn to ice.
ACE- HNO3
3 months later…
The couple had been married for twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of what they had seen as love, more than two decades of passion and play. Not that there had never been bad moments. There had been a lot, as every health relationship knows. But they never stopped loving each other. On their wedding day, Arthur Donovan had pledged his vow to Lucil that he would die for her, if ever given the chance. He had pledged his life to her, and the two had become one, as Mark 10:8 tells us.
Arthur was a visionary. Ambitious to the last, he aspired to build Gotham's first reliable, commercialized hover car. A mechanic by nature, Arthur had spent years glossing over encyclopedias of car-craft, engine maintenance, aerodynamics and physics theories of suspendability. And all the while, Lucil, a police instructor and vetern of the GCPD, would stand in the corner of his workshop, a small but sad smile on her face. She knew how obsessed her husband was in this project, and she knew that, realistically, he would never succeed. After all, technology just hadn't reached that point yet, but Arthur was a man of faith. He believed God would allow him to fulfil his dream before the end of his life, and so Lucil had stood by his side, always smiling that sad smile but never expressing her own lack of faith in him.
Arthur was employed by the Wayne Enterprises research board, space division. He had a Bachelors in Science and Aviation, and often his employees called him the "Wingnut," because they too doubted him. But he never gave up. He never threw in the towel. He had support from Lucil, from Bruce Wayne himself and from the late Fred Stickley. Wayne had even given him a small fortune in grant funding to extend his research. That money had made Arthur the scourge of the eyes of his co-workers, who accused him of brownnosing the Chairman.
"Innocence in that the man sees me' dream!" had come his reply. "I gave this project my all! I got rewarded for me' work."
Rewarded with cash abundant, close to a million in funds to research small-time contributors from scrap deposits. Superficial, fresh brands of flight had its budget limitations. Arthur was going to change the world slowly.
He would have changed the world slowly.
Arthur and Lucil were having issues now.
'Shhh," she whispered to the whimpering man, brushing his cheek gently with her hand. "It'll all be over before you know it."
"No, it won't," said the Other. "It has to be drug out slowly. Very slowly, even."
"What purpose would it serve?" the woman demanded, her fist clenched. "We have things to do and rodents on our tail. I want to be out of here when he comes calling…"
"But this man may have more secrets to spill…more combinations to offer…" the Other protested firmly. "No, we stay here and go about things slowly until he's given us everything."
"I-I-I-I'll g-give it…all…t-take it…" Arthur was terrified more than he had ever been in his life. It was utter horror, and utter hell. "W-willingly…"
"Aw, really?" the woman cooed, pinching his cheek lightly, looking ecstatic. "Oh, you are a doll, dear… I see why you married him," she added, looking right at Lucil. She winked. "I'd sure like to be the one who had kept him for so long. It would have been amazing. It was, wasn't it?"
"Hurry up!" the Other snapped.
"Fine," the woman hissed, annoyed with her partner's persistence.
The scene was gruesome. Arthur's penthouse was a fine place, indeed, very fine. Reinforced glass at every angle, transparent walls with the most wonderful view of Gotham's entertainment district, the abundance of neon casinos ravishing to the eye. Color porn. The Donovans had decorated the floor with an Indian carpet, scarlet with entwining golden flower patterns. The rooms smelled strongly of lavender. One entire wall was dedicated to a massive fish tank, in which twenty-one different species of fish were swimming about contentedly, unaware as to the scene occurring outside of their dollhouse world. Two people, a man and a woman, both dressed in black suits of fine quality, lay upon the floor near the door, a gunshot wound in each of their foreheads. They had failed in their jobs as security guards. When the woman had sent her first threats (a politely written note calmly requesting the entirety of the Donovon fortune and a dead kitten to emphasized the point), Arthur and Lucil had been quick to hire two well-known ex-soldiers, Hannah Mason and Julin Gartell, to watch over their homes while the police investigated the typed out note and the carcass of the poor cat. Arthur had only met them a week ago, paying them three times what average police made in a month. It had been adequate.
Their deaths had stricken Arthur was an interior death, and it was agony. Mason's eyes stared out at him, in accusation. You did this to me, they screamed, you did this.
Lucil had put up a fight. She always kept guns in the strangest of places: behind the television set, under the couch cushions, strapped to her underwear, and even inside the shades of lamps. The woman and the Other had come with a handful of hooded men, seven in all. Lucil had brought down three of them before the woman had shot her in the leg, incapacitating her. The five surviving thugs from the fight had drug the three casualties somewhere out of sight, leaving only the woman and the Other to stand over the Donovans, the silver pistol aimed between Arthur's eyes. Lucil had been gagged, her hands and legs bound with chains…. She could only watched in horror, tears flooding from her old eyes, as the woman bent down before Arthur and traced her black gloves fingers across his face.
"The fortune?" she whispered.
"I-i-in the s-safe….bank account information…" Arthur tried to be brave, tried to sound like a tough warrior. But he found it impossible. He was a frail old man, and this woman was young. Young and very fit indeed.
"Combination?"
"I'll d-do it…"
"No, you won't," she whispered even more intently, and now her gun was kissing him on the lips. He had wet himself, literally. He could feel the warm trickle of water between his legs. The woman either did not notice or did not care, for she did not ridicule him. Lucil, however, was crying for her husband. "Com-" She prodded him hard in the mouth with the barrel, "-bi-" placed her index finger over his eye, "-nation." Wiggled the finger threateningly. Would she destroy his eye…to match hers?
'2 -18- 21 -3- 5…"
"Is that a stutter or is that the actual combination?" the Other snapped.
"2- 18 -21- 3- 5," Arthur stressed more intently, wanting her to take the information and leave them.
The woman kissed him on the cheek and giggled. "Safe?" she whispered, her head jerking to and fro now.
Arthur looked towards a large painted portrait of himself and Lucil from their wedding day. They had been married at the foot of Gotham's Wonder Tower. That had seemed so long ago, in another era… he wanted those moments to be brought back, wanted to trap himself in that existence and stay there forever….
The woman stood up and walked right over to the painting. Without hesitation, she grabbed both ends of the tall piece and forcibly yanked it from the wall. With brutal force she brought the thing down upon her knees, bending it and breaking it in two. Arthur moaned, his heart aching now. He desperately looked at Lucil. Their eyes locked and he whispered an unspoken promise: You will make it through this. I swear.
A minute later, the woman had broken into the safe and now had a fat manila envelope in her hand, a smile of contentedness upon her shattered face.
"Vera! Yvonne!"
She called out towards the hall, tapping the pistol in her hand impatiently against her thigh. There came the scampering of quick strides. Two women entered the room at quick pace. Both were tall and both looked full of temperament, but they could not have been more different. One wore an intensely bright, almost white fur coat, her hair a bright gold, her skin cherry and full of color. The other wore a long black trench coat, her hair was cropped and her skin was so pale, matched against the black lipstick and heavy black eyeliner she wore. One looked like an angel, the other a vampire. However, both were carrying pistols of their own, and the expressions on their faces…so dead…so empty….
They were shells. Shells set apart from old lives, broken upon this shore of insanity known as Gotham. Husks.
"Vera," the woman said calmly. "Take this." She handed the envelope to the angel, who took it so slowly and so emotionlessly. Her eyes were so dead. "Yvonne… take this." She handed the vampire her pistol. The woman fell to her knees before the two Donovans and looked from one to the other in a very piteous way. "Shame it turned out like this. Why? Why did you do it? Why did you have to exist? This is a crime….a crime…a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime… a crime…"
She chanted and chanted, her head jerking as she did. Arthur was shaking madly. He wanted to hold Lucil, to kiss Lucil, to get Lucil a thousand miles away from Gotham stinking City. When they made it through this….they would make it through this…. Oh how he would leave Gotham forever… at least he did not keep his research notes into aerodynamics in that safe. They were hidden away even more intently than his bank information… and this lunatic did not seem to be interested in them anyway.
"Crime! CRIME!" The woman grabbed at her head and squeezed hard, sobbing uncontrollably. Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why!?
"Because you must answer the call!" the Other screamed.
"I-DON'T-WANT-TO!"
"Too bad!" the Other retorted. "Do it, do it, do it now! Do it now! Do it!"
The woman punched at the floor, viciously snarling like a wild animal.
My God…I'll be killed…. Arthur was screaming inside of his own head. She'll kill us both! She really IS a lunatic!
"Okay, okay, okay, okay…" The woman got herself under control, breathing deeply. The two zombified women who stood behind her only stared blankly. Gulping loudly, the woman reached into a pocket that was sown into the side of the half white, half black dress she wore. She pulled out a coin. It was a regular old silver dollar, a newer one by its look. Liberty on one side, the eagle on the other. Freedom….or the predator. Black and white. Big and small. Opposites were poetry, and all poetry wreaked of death, in some form or another.
"The itsy bitsy spider crawled down the water spout," the woman sang to herself softly as she twirled the coin in hand. "Down came the rain…and he died. He died a horrible death with no family or friends to give him a proper burial… he died, alone, crushed beneath gallons of water, struggling to breath…it must have been agonous…"
The coin flipped through the air. It seemed to fly almost in slow motion. Certainly the world had paused to watch….certainly…
Jesus loves me, this I know…for the Bible tells me so…little ones to Him belong…they are weak…but He…is strong…little ones…little ones burn…..people are little…so they burn too….more to give to Him…more to give to Heaven….or Hell….Hell….Hell…Hell…Hell…
The coin had already landed in her open palm, but she paid no notice. Had not noticed.
Burn them all, can't we burn them all… I hate….fuck… why the hell….damn…cuss words aren't nice… and he said he would wait….hate….Oh, Bruce…. Seventeen years down the drain, itsy spider fell and died…
"Boss?" The dead, dry whisper came from the angel. The woman and the Other heard it, for they were one. One. They were One, with a capital O. She looked down at her palm. Heads. Smiled sadly to herself.
"You were heads," she whispered to Arthur. Arthur's heart froze. What did…heads…mean?
The vampire, Yvonne, handed the woman her pistol back. Handed the monster her pike.
"You were heads," she whispered again, and she pulled his head forward, kissing him softly upon the lips. When she pulled away, she sighed. "Heads up."
And then she shot him. Point-blank murder and Arthur Donovan fell backwards, so dead and so gone from his body, the bullet hole in his forehead smoking fiercely. Lucil was screaming through her gag, tormented into her own madness by the horrid sight. Even through her screams, the murderess was still loud enough to be heard.
"You were tails…"
She reached out a hand, and Vera placed something in it. A vial, filled with an amber liquid. ACE- HN03. Yvonne and Vera both then proceeded to crouch down on either side of Mrs. Donovan and they held her in place, removing the gag from her mouth. Her screams filled the air with the most horrible intensity, but this did not halt the murderess in her movements. When she stood above Lucil, she did so while unstoppering the acid within. "You were tails… You get to live…"
And indeed, Lucil Donovan's life was spared. But not half of her face. No. Never half of her face.
The woman who stood over her, pouring the acid down to destroy half of what Lucil Donovan had always treasured, her face, mirrored the results in turn. Half of her face was gone. Muscles tendons and bone protruded outward. She was ghastly to behold, eye bulging, half of the hair on the top of her head burnt away. A true monster. A shell. A shell washed upon the insane shore of Gotham freaking City. A shell that was all that was left of Dr. Chase Meridian…
