Putzes Here, Putzes There.
Enjoy:
The bartender stood behind the counter with the terminally bored expression he always sported whenever he was left to clean the glasses. His green eyes scrutinized the mug in his hands for a full minute before deeming it needed a second rinse. It was interesting to see how some quirks never died.
He glanced over the bar with a small smile. Sure, having an empty didn't help pay the bills, and money was a scarce thing to come by when working the midnight shift; but he felt more at peace when silence was his only companion. He could reminisce or think about the future, whichever was more worrisome that night. Or so that had been the case ever since he took the job a desperate bar owner offered him when he first blew into town around a year ago. In recent weeks, he pondered the latest project to be formed by his genius-level intellect. He conceded that it was a project he should have gone over a long time ago. Alas, circumstances got in the way.
The bartender stealthily readjusted his brown wig with practiced ease, all the while never breaking his chain of thought. It was second nature to him to be able to subconsciously recognize when his disguise needed fixing. What did break his silent contemplation was the clicking sound of heels marching through the front door.
His head shoot up and offered a warm welcome to the blond walking towards the bar. What caught his attention was the trail of dried mascara that dripped down her face and unto her red dress. "Welcome to Mike's, what can I getcha?"
Her disheveled look and unsteady footing coupled with the way she nervously scratched the left ring finger told volumes; nevertheless, he kept his peace until the tired voice asked for vodka. The bartender left the bottle on the counter after pouring her drink, he would've be surprised if she didn't just reach over and under the counter to snatch more of her chosen beverage if he did.
"Smart," she stated when she realized the clear liquid hadn't vanished from view. "I'm going to be here for a while."
"Who's the shmuck?" The bartended retorted as he went back to cleaning what was left of the glasses, his smile vanished in favor of a more serious demeanor now that he got the ball rolling.
"Husband. Well, ex-husband now that I know he likes to clock in extra hours with his secretary. I couldn't handle confronting him after I caught him red-handed so here I am!" She exclaimed with her arms outstretched.
"Sure sounds like a dumbass."
"You sure about that?" She nervously joked, head hung low. Her arms had since come down, gone to grip the drink tightly. "I know I'm past my prime and all. You don't need to sugarcoat it for me, you'll get tipped either way."
Severe lack of confidence, he noted with a critical eye, probably compounded by a natural lack of self-esteem. That would explain why she decided to head into the nearest bar rather than fight her cheating husband. At this rate, a string of compliments would be the only thing the husband would need to rope her back into an unhappy relationship if nothing was done.
"I'm sure. Like you said, I'm getting paid either way so I call it like I see it."
"Well, you're an honest man and a good bartender, then." She intoned with a little more spunk that she previously exuded. A few careful words had an incredibly positive effect on people's psyche on occasion. She turned back to her glass and softly laughed at her own joke. "Though I'm not exactly sure plain vodka is a daunting thing to make, is it?"
"You pick up tricks at bartending school for just about every drink," he jested which, to his surprise, elicited a small giggle on her part.
But seeing no way to continue this discussion, she promptly changed to subject to something that nagged at her since hearing the server's accent. "How does an American end up in Gibraltar?"
"Needed to get away for a bit; rethink my life. That sort of thing."
The woman nodded at that. Anyone who wound up on this rock were getting away from something. More often than not, it was an ugly secret that should stay buried. Therefore, despite her naturally inquisitive nature, she did not press the issue. What good would it do to piss off the only sympathetic soul in the neighborhood?
"I understand," she sighed.
She was hoping to learn a little more about the man all the same. If asking about his past was off limits, perhaps he would be inclined to tell him about where he was from.
"Metropolis."
She raised an eyebrow at the unexpected answer to her of yet unspoken query. How did he know what she was thinking? The confused look she gave him must have tipped him off. With a light chuckle, he elaborated. "Can't imagine you wouldn't be curious. Some guy offers you a drink and acts all nice; you gotta wonder where he's from, right?"
"I suppose so," she admitted, slightly reassured by his coincidental reply. She brought the glass to her ruby lips and took another sip. The liquid burned on its way down. For some reason, it reminded her of how impolite she'd been up until now; she hadn't bothered to introduce herself. "I'm Melissa by the way."
"Walt."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Walt."
"Likewise," noticing her glass was empty and that she was searching her pockets, it appeared their time was at an end. Odd, he internally mused, he anticipated two more glasses before she got up enough courage to go home.
"You sure you're gonna be okay?"
"Yes, I think so," her puffy eyes had dried after walking in. Though bloodshot, he was pleased to see that a determined and defiant flame had sparked within. She seemed more confident, more willing to face the nasty future fate dealt her. That was good, she would need every ounce of courage she had for something so messy.
Placing the money in front of her and stepping off the stool, she marched towards the exit with purpose. Turning around to give a grateful glance at Walt the bartender, she paused long enough for one last question. "You wouldn't happen to know where I can find a good lawyer by any -"
'Turn right and head down two blocks down; you can't miss it."
"Thank you." With that, Melissa left the bar as empty as she'd found it.
Bruce nodded and glanced at the clock behind him. He had to start thinking about leaving too; his shift was just about over. Before that, he took the time to pull out the latest issue of The Gotham Times he bought at a nearby stand and proceeded to read the main article. Peering at the title to make sure it was a current issue, he could tell everything wasn't as rosy back home as he would've liked. Not when the title of the front page read as followed: Arkham Asylum reopens its doors!
"Well, she was cute," the familiar voice boomed from deep within his psyche.
As per the usual, he ignored it utterly. After a while, it would fade away just like it always did when his deranged recollection of his arch-nemesis was unable to draw in his intended audience.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Oracle..."
The vigilante's voice was uncertain, shaky even.
"What's wrong, Robin?" The voice communicating from the Clock Tower sounded worried. It wasn't like Robin to sound so surprised.
"You're never gonna believe this."
Tapping into the Robin suit's schematics, she pulled up a live feed as broadcasted by the embedded camera inside Tim Drake's utility belt. She gawked in amazement as the gigantic plant that had grown on the roof of the Botanical Gardens open its petals. Within, a familiar form pushed through the plant's inside and landed on the ground in front of the youngest Robin. Covered in sap, there was still no mistaken the silhouette: Poison Ivy was back. She was sound asleep, twisting and writhing as the last few moments she spent before turning into a mass of spores flashed back into her mind.
Taking no chances, Robin quickly injected the inert from with enough tranquilizer to keep her inert for the rest of the evening and carried her to the freshly painted Batmobile. The ominous tank-like car opened its doors to accommodate the passenger as the on-duty superhero emerged from the bowels of the plant-covered structure.
Once Ivy was securely fastened inside, the driver's seat opened, allowing its newest owner to speed towards the newly rebuilt Asylum with haste. As he raced through the bustling streets, letting civilian and police vehicle pull aside to allow the enormous byproduct of Wayne Enterprise's Research and Development Wing through, the young hero had to admit he wasn't all that pleased Poison Ivy had somehow survived the toxin; this unforeseen resurrection, for lack of a better description, came at the worst possible moment. One more liability for the team to watch for as the full impact of Scarecrow's citywide takeover began to resonate across the criminal underworld.
Crane was locked away in the most secure part of the brand-new Asylum, monitored both day and night both by a fully staffed security team and an extension of the bat-computer the new mayor had graciously allowed access into Arkham's mainframe. Even without the dizzying scope of the system keeping a watchful eye over him, his own toxin made quick work of his aspirations to ever leave the Asylum. His brain was so traumatized by Batman's escape it hardwired itself into believing his cell was the only place he could stay safe from the masked vigilante.
Attempts made to cure him of his psychosis were unsuccessful, therapy and drugs seemed to lack the potency the fear-inducing concoctions possessed. That alone wouldn't have been a problem if that was the extent of the damage the toxin had wrought.
Shortly after Scarecrow's night of terror, as the media came to calling it, reports of traumatized criminals, ranging from perpetrators of misdemeanors all the way up to hardened felons, started pouring in each night. Previously sane delinquents turned into whimpering victims rocking back and forth in the recesses of back alleys and crime scenes.
Azrael had been busy, dousing the criminals he found with the large stores of toxin he managed to uncover following the Dark Knight's retirement. Condemning them to a fate worse than death, he never relented. When Oracle tried to reason with him, he turned against the bat-family altogether and severed the few ties he had with them, claiming they dishonored the Batman's legacy with their cowardice.
Jason also went AWOL. Spending his time killing every criminal he could track down, he rarely showed his face these days. Black Mask was but the latest victim of the dreaded Red Hood.
It was all one big mess. The whole city was falling apart at the seams. Even copycat run-of-the-mill civilians started dressing up like Batman and fighting crime. The majority of them died on their first night out.
Tim imagined Joker had to be watching this from whatever pit in hell they cast him into and was having a grand time laughing his ass off at the chaos springing up in the vacuum Batman's absence created.
'Tim?" Barbara tentatively asked. It wasn't like him to stay so quiet. She could tell the same that gnawed at her was weighing on the third Robin just as heavily.
"I'm here, Barb. I needed a moment to think, that's all."
"Don't worry," Oracle tried to reassure in vain, "we'll get things back to how they were."
"Any word from Bruce?"
The communication device went deathly silent. Tim requested an update every night he was out on patrol. When he's left back at base, he would spend most of his time staring at the bat-computer's communication's log to see if there was any news of the exiled superhero. The disappearance hit them all hard; but the youngest Robin especially. Batman had been his partner; it didn't matter how Bruce tried to stop him, he should have been more alert.
More alert, more vigilant. Then Scarecrow never would have caught him and Bruce would still be right alongside him, patrolling the streets together as the dynamic duo was supposed to. Yet that wasn't how it turned out.
Wayne Enterprise's R 'n' D department was mothballed before the government could seize any of the prototypes Lucius was working on, the Wayne family assets that hadn't been wired into offshore accounts before the manor exploded were frozen, and Stagg not only bought his way out of jail, he began applying that considerable wealth of his to buying up pieces of Wayne Enterprise Fox was forced to shut down due to free-falling investor confidence in the stock. The corrupt billionaire was quick to turn around and resell these bits and pieces to the highest bidder on Gotham's black market: the city's supervillains were all convinced Bruce Wayne was in hiding and the best way to find him or one of his little helpers was to assemble as much of the puzzle as they could and hunt him down across the Americas.
Penguin and Two-Face had the market cornered on that department, with Harley Quinn's gang slowly closing the gap despite their boss being one of the first transfers into Arkham. Penguin wanted him dead; word on the street was that Dent was waiting to capture Bruce Wayne before flipping the coin; and Harley… her motives weren't as clear to the one she should amiably referred to as Bird-Brain.
And speak of the devil. One of the first cells he passed by on his way to escorting an unconscious Poison Ivy to her new humble abode was Quinzel's.
Her mismatch gloved hands gripped the bars as he passed through, the surprise was clear in her voice as she called out to her long lost friend. "Red!"
Ivy was still so heavily sedated she heard nothing. After dragging her inert form to the pressurized isolation tank, Robin went on his way, ready to wrap up another long night of crime-fighting.
"Hey, Bird-Brain! I wanna word with you!" She screamed at the top of her lungs.
"I'm not in the mood, Quinn," the masked vigilante dryly replied.
"Where's my puddin'?!" She insisted, unfazed by the sidekick's sharp refusal to humor her.
"He's dead; now get over it!" Tim finally snapped. He wouldn't normally be so blunt or blunt; but her defiant act was the last straw his nerves could bare.
"He's not and you know it!" She lamented, tears forming in her eyes. "B-man was turning into my puddin' and you had to go and take him away from me. Why can't you people let us be, huh?"
The menacing hero approached the cage, his grimaced grew more menacing to the ex-psychiatrist as he neared her. With his face now inches from her own, she held her breath, eager to hear whatever Robin was planning to say. "I'll say this only once. Joker is dead. Batman is cured. And your pudding isn't coming back."
Her expression turned dreamy as she envisioned her boyfriend's face in all its funhouse-resembling glory. With her hands now wrapped around the extremities of Robin's cape she could grab hold of, she held him there before slowly responding to each of his assertion with a smile. "And I'll tell you this as many times as I have to. Not for long. Give me a few days to draw my puddin' back to the surface and you'll see. And finally, I don't care if it takes me years, I'll get Mister J back if I have to burn down the whole world to find him!" With a flash, the sinister look the airhead gave him evaporated, replaced with as innocent a smile he's ever seen.
What she said next was even more disconcerting. "Tell Brucie I said hi! Actually, on second thought, don't bother; I'll see him soon enough anyway."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Welcome home, sir," Alfred greeted his once-ward as he entered the spacious private residence one of the unaccounted portions of Bruce Wayne's wealth acquired specifically for the Knightfall Protocol. "Where will you be having dinner?"
"Downstairs." Bruce succinctly retorted as he rid himself of the wig and green-colored contact lens that help him assume the guise of his new alter ego.
"Very well, Master Bruce,' Alfred conceded. It was at his behest that Bruce Wayne ventured out into town and procured himself a decent job. It avoided letting the fearsome Batman revert back to old habits and spend all his time brooding in his newest lair. Downstairs was, for all intents and purposes, a more compact version of the bat-cave. The spare equipment and hardware that never made it to the Clock Tower were shipped to this underground refuge. Though the Dark Knight officially died, that never meant he couldn't keep a watchful eye from afar and follow the case that sprung up in real time. He took comfort in helping solve cases and contribute by optimizing the bat-computer's capabilities to come up with faster results whenever there was a need. A proverbial guardian angel watching over the 'bat-family', as people took to calling it.
His other project was also being conducted from this remote terminal nestled inside Gibraltar's subterranean levels. A project he felt he owed an old friend as a final parting gift. Once back in the comfort of his work area. He took a moment to think of those he'd left behind. Pictures of the entire team were there.
Barbara and Tim starred back at him; if he wasn't mistaking, that was their first date; he was against the idea of the two forming attachments in such a dangerous line of work at the beginning, but he soon realized the couple was inseparable and gave his blessing. Dick's fourteenth birthday, the day he mastered martial arts, that happy smile was a proud moment in the crime fighter's life; he suspected it was also the first time he could of something other than his parent's murder. Jason's picture was in the center; the two had finished their first night patrolling the streets as a duo and Alfred insisted on taking a picture to commemorate the occasion; his face had been punched a few times that night, but at least it was devoid of the J branded into his cheek.
Then there was Joker's picture…
He shook his head to clear his mind of the hallucination and looked back to see Tim's smiling face after he solved his first crime; a total of five people were saved that day as the eager teen slaved away in front of the bat-computer alongside Alfred for hours, trying to solve the bizarre string of murders.
The hallucinations were becoming more frequent and that was beginning to worry him. The danger the infected blood posed past for the most part. Traces still lingered in his system but the toxin effectively threw the prion-like cells his old nemesis fostered into a comatose state; so long as he didn't stimulate them, they wouldn't pose a problem. The same couldn't be said of the psychological trauma.
He was strong enough to lock Joker away inside his mind. The barriers he put up barred the split-personality from affecting his day to day life for most of the time. But for some reason, the barriers weren't as sturdy as the night he erected them while bolted down in Scarecrow's chair. That was the reason why the Batman had to remain dead. Not only did it protect those he loved from discovery, it was the safest way to keep Joker buried inside Bruce Wayne.
That reminded him. He turned his attention back to the computer as it penetrated layer upon layer of firewall. He'd deleted every trail he hypothesized could tie any member of the bat-family back to Bruce Wayne. All that was left was to purge the Tower's backup server of the digitized copies of the adoption forms and his obsessive-compulsive tendencies would be sated.
The computer was running into a little trouble which drew a content smile. "Barbara's upgraded security," he commented, mostly to himself.
"That does sound like something Miss Gordon… I mean Mrs. Drake, would do," Alfred responded as he brought in the lunch tray.
A few clicks and a decent number of evaded countermeasures later, Bruce was finally granted access to the files he sought. He entered one last command and observed as the related files vanished one by one. Unfortunately, complications arose. The mainframe lit up as virus after virus started to borrow through the firewall. It took a few minutes to purge the foreign programs but, ultimately, they proved no match for the supercomputer state of the art security system.
After an anxious span of time where neither said a word, they breathed a communal deep breath and permitted the bottled up worry of discovery flow away.
Elsewhere, back at the Clock Tower, the redhead liaison for the bat-family grinned as her specially designed programs cracked through far enough to triangulate the offender's location: The Southern coast of Spain.
It was a no-brainer that Bruce would try to purge the system of any file that could be used to incriminate anyone else's good name. All she had to do was set a trap and wait. She appreciated the gesture, she really did. Alas, she wasn't ready to let Bruce vanish on his own. They were a family, she wouldn't abandon him just because his secret identity was revealed.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
'Bruce Wayne is Batman," Poison Ivy repeated dumbfounded. 'You've got to be kidding."
"It's the truth; I swear it!" The ensnared guard did not hesitate a second. Those under her control never did falter; they were far too obsessed with her to keep her waiting for even a split-second longer than necessary.
The fool brought food into her cell in spite of the warden's clear warning never to enter the isolation tank. He felt guilty about allowing what he perceived was a helpless woman starve simply for the sake of proper protocol. A wiser man would have heeded his superior's orders and let her naturally feed of the humidity and UV rays filtered into her new abode.
It was located at the end of the maximum security wing. Far from any wall that might be broken through with the help of some plants. The cell was made up of reinforced glass on all fours corners, held together by at least a foot of steel and for only entrance a door she surmised to be just as thick as the rest of the tank's infrastructure. In the corner, she spotted the Wayne Enterprise logo; now that she considered it, it did make a lot of sense. Bruce Wayne was the biggest proponent for her 'rehabilitation' ever since she first tried to murder him during her grand debut into eco-terrorism. To think that she went after the Batman was enough to make her smirk at the ridiculous outcome.
"And where is he now?" She wondered out loud as she paced around her prison.
"He's dead."
"What?" Her head snapped back towards the seduced guard. "How?" She growled.
"Wayne Manor blew up with him and his butler in it."
She felt the urge to laugh. Were people so gullible, so idiotic they couldn't tell when they were being fed a lie so obvious it was insulting? This truly did make the case for plant consciousness being superior to primitive humanity in every respect… with one notable exception.
"And you actually believe that?"
"I think so…" The thrall was confused by her master's sudden bout of laughter. He never really asked questions about the explosion. Bruce Wayne was supposed to have died and Batman never came back to fight crime so he assumed the reports were true. This was all going beyond his head. Why should he care about some costumed superhero when the paragon of perfection stood right in front of him? A living, breathing Goddess that opened his mind to the supremacy of plant-life over his own kind. "…shouldn't I?"
Her new servant's stupidity made her groan. Just as dim as the last batch of guards they hired to guard this remodeled relic. It was past the point of laughable, it was getting downright painful. She shooed away the guard and ordered him to return to his duties. He would pretend nothing had happened and be ready for her next commands.
He gleeful did as directed and went about his business, bathing in the euphoria of her pheromones. She couldn't leave just yet, she had to think of her next move. Ensuring that plants overtook this polluted city was her top priority. However, she idly deliberated whether or not she should first try and narrow down Batman's hiding spot. If things turned ugly for the denizens of this city, he would take up the cape and cowl in an instant and pose a significant threat.
Neutralizing him first would be the better course of action. He was weaponless, exiled, and it was doubtful he could put up a fight if she ambushed him. That and she'd been meaning to thank Bruce Wayne for protecting as many wildlife preserves as he did during his tenure as Gotham's most eligible bachelor. She would make his death quick and painless if at all possible.