He doesn't look like a criminal these days – and he's not, to the uninitiated. I, however, see the truth. And as I walk in through the door to his room, I see plots in his eyes – the things he would do if he were truly free. I see how they cook in his brain, how they torture him. I see.
Then I feel the chill I always do when our eyes meet. "Bruce," he says, and smiles.
"Victor," I say.
He is happy to see me; I am happy to see him in a containment chamber. But I smile back. I play nice.
"How's the book coming?" I ask.
"Excellent," he says. "I'm working on chapter 11." He's writing an autobiography – My Life As Mr. Freeze, or something like that. He thinks there's a real audience for it; I do too.
"What's the chapter about?" I inquire.
"You'll have to wait and read it," he says. "Please, sit." He motions towards one of the chairs across from him, in the warm half of the room.
I choose the one closest to where he is sitting. Of course, calling this half warm is giving the heating too much credit – it is unpleasantly brisk. But given the temperature behind the glass it is a wonder it's not cooler; Victor needs to be in a an unnaturally frigid environment to survive, a perpetual, horrible winter. But he takes it in stride.
"How is life, Mr. Wayne?"
"Good," I say, "very good."
"The company is doing well?" he asks, mildly interested.
"So I'm told. I'm taking a leave of absence right now."
He nods. "Going on vacation?"
I shake my head. "I'm staying in town, taking care of some things." Namely trying to loosen Two-Face's current stranglehold on the city; going out every night in the suit and prying his fingers as loose as I can. I sigh. "You know, just taking a breather."
He nods. He knows the feeling; he must, because Victor Fries hasn't been anywhere out of this corner of Santa Lucia hospital for a year.
Victor opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. "What is it?" I ask.
"I've been off parole for three months now," he says.
I play dumb. "Okay." I know what he's getting at. And he knows what my answer will be. But we've never actually had the conversation, and at this point he has to try.
"I am really grateful for what you've done for me, paying for the room and all," he says. "But this place is…so small, you know?"
I nod. "It must be hard." I can only imagine.
"I was wondering, if…" Staring at me, he doesn't want to ask.
"Go ahead, please," I say.
He sighs. "Things were different back when I had a suit, that's all."
I don't say anything. I let the implications of his statement write themselves in the air, and he backpedals.
"Look, I know…it might be hard to, you know…trust me."
"That's not the problem, Victor. I do trust you, I do." He smiles. I must be a good liar. "But this room isn't technically my investment – it's through a rehabilitation charity I contribute to. And I am fairly certain that they would not pay for the kind of suit you used to own. Because of, uh, your past."
He nods. "Just thought I'd ask."
"Things are okay here, right?"
"Oh, yes," he says enthusiastically. "Very much so. Good food, a lot of freedom. There's even a view," he says, pointing to the panorama of Gotham visible through the window behind me. "I really can't complain." But try as he might, he can't conceal his sadness.
"It's too much like prison, isn't it."
His eyes give me his answer; it's a sore spot. I could make him cry with a nudge. "I mean, I got out a year ago," he says. "It's just like, I moved from…" He trails off. "Don't get me wrong, I am really grateful for this. And I haven't been wasting my time here. The book's almost done."
I nod. "We might be able to get you some sort of job," I say. "Something else to pass the time."
He stares at the floor. "…maybe," he says.
"Should I look into it?"
He looks up. "Yes, please do."
I look at my watch. "Well, I was just passing through East Gotham and figured I'd stop and say hello," I say. "But I do have things planned for today."
"Sure," he says, and breaks out his smile again. "I'm glad you thought of me."
"No problem," I say. "You're one of our greatest successes." I stand. "And good luck with the book. I can't wait to read it."
"You'll be the first," he says. "Goodbye Bruce."
"Goodbye Victor."
I wave as I open the door, and close it lightly behind me. The halls of Santa Lucia smell like a lot of cleaner, with traces of more human odors poking through, and I make my way through their maze quickly towards the elevator.
The book will never be published, I'll make sure of that. Too much could go wrong – sympathy for these people is not a good thing to cultivate, and the negative portrayal of Batman that is sure to be included would only hurt my cause. But once he finishes he'll be restless; if I can get him the right kind of job, then maybe…
One of these days I will come back and see the chamber empty. It may not be soon, but it will happen. He will figure out some way to free himself, find someone willing to foot the bill for the climate-controlled suit he needs to move freely in the world. He will be back on the street, causing the havoc it is his nature to cause. But until that day I have effectively quarantined a disease; I have kept him in the freezer, where he belongs.
Do I feel bad, keeping a man captive like this? Maybe I should. But this isn't a man. It might talk and walk like a man, might engender sympathy like one. But no.
This is scum.
So I walk away feeling fine. And as I leave the hospital parking garage in my comfortable private car, I pat myself on the back. Sometimes, just sometimes, Bruce Wayne can do some good without a cape.
It's hot outside, and I am thankful that I am not up there in a hospital turret, in a room I cannot leave, all alone with the cold.