Batman: Vignettes
Disclaimer: Batman and all associated characters contained herein are the property of DC Comics. This story is in no way affiliated with the company.
Scarecrow
I dangle.
Far below my steel soled boots, tainted gray frost forms a crust over the intricate patterns of crevices in the ancient pavement, concealing the blood that congregates therein. My leather-smothered fingers are rigid on the line, one which is not quite as thin as a thread, but which is not wide enough around to be called a rope or cord. It yanks up against my bulk, taut and dissecting the eternal winter winds of Gotham's midnight. My breeze-stiffened fingers, weathered like the myriad stone monuments upon the jagged Gothic structures that thrust into the crimson congregation of pestilent vapors above, tighten still, and my bicep inches away from the bone, alleviating the burden on my belt, which has been inadvertently caressing my pelvic bone through tissue.
The ragged, blood-tinged cries of terror, grappling with the perverted cackles of malevolent joy, tell me that he's having a good time. My eyes narrow beneath my mask as muscle balloons out, threatening to rend itself from bone. My teeth recede themselves as adrenaline, thick and electric, suffocates blood cells, attempting to possess me.
Do not heed it. Things so primal do not drive a man. Just watch the flashing red light as the camera records. Just tighten your grip on the line, let your muscles go flaccid. Breathe, just like you were taught. Remember past mistakes; you have progressed so much since those infant years. Don't crash through the window.
Yet.
He's gone all out for this one. I see it all, though the grime and condensation on the abused and neglected window is thick. The only light in the derelict closet of an apartment is the flame of the stove, smothered by a large pot, rusted from years of use without wash but still gleaming. The light casts an ominous shadow across the loose, yellow flesh that dangles off the madman's skull; the fedora is a nice touch, as it enshrouds the bald eye sockets which somehow manage to gleefully glimmer as only a killer's can.
The kid screams. Poor guy; as is consistent with this guy's M.O., it's a teenager, probably just out of high school, if he hasn't dropped out. Tattoos of various designs, an assortment of piercings driven through his contorted face, and soiled clothes far too loose for him; this boy was taken from the street, probably from the labyrinthine alleyways of the city in the middle of a trip. I can only imagine what his already intoxicated eyes are experiencing now that the hallucinogen has been introduced. The boiling crimson liquid in the cauldron, its bubbles belching steam and splatters, look almost convincing already.
The serrated talons of the madman's right hand divide the flesh of his victim's arm, and in his struggle, the boy allows the wire that binds him to do the same to his wrists. Again, it is consistent. If heart attacks do not kill the victims, then blood loss from ravaged wrists is the culprit. The concern was that we would be unable to physically connect the killer to the crime, since the victims had always either died of "natural causes" or "self inflicted wounds." Now I have evidence that the madman instigates the deaths.
And, of course, he physically cut the victim this time. That helps.
The observation period has ended.
Camera pocketed, I tap the release on the belt, and my belt sighs its thanks as both hands take the full burden. After adjusting my chilled spine, the stiff creaking causing only minimal and fleeting discomfort, the steel soles of my boots launch me away from the slick, smooth, repainted brown brick of the wall. I swing back with only a sliver the momentum I had intended, and when I collide with the window, the thunk of metal against thin glass reverberates. I push away again, leaving behind a trickling print, which soon cascades to the stone floor with the rest of the shattered glass; the leather of my suit protects me from the vengeful shards as I roll, unsettling the thickly piled dust.
I rise, cape fluttering behind me… and promptly fall as a dart embeds itself in my chest. Once more, I find myself beside the window, though now a mirror image, and in a slightly more comfortable recumbent position. The sinks into the dust.
Madmen like to gloat. As though following an unwritten textbook, he follows the rule blindly.
"Crane," I growl as menacingly as I can from my position, gritting my teeth with a loosely hinged jaw.
"Bingo. You're as good as they say, Batman."
A mask admitting his identity.
"So tell me," he continues, "how did you find out?"
"You left plenty of yourself around." A bluff.
He takes it: "Well, what can I say? I was excited."
"Why, Crane?"
"I don't know? I've just always been fascinated by fear. Screams, welling red eyes, the gurgle of blood, pleading…"
Method and motive in a single stroke.
"Most men wanting a sexual thrill would find a woman."
"Don't lecture me about using fear for fun. After all, you dress in S&M gear and jump out at criminals. There's something just as weird about that."
"Fear is an effective weapon. You know that as well as I do."
"True. All one needs is the right drug and a little prop. Would you like me to show you?"
A final mistake: he turns his back on my vulnerable form, doubtlessly going to retrieve one of his fun house props.
He must sense the ripples in the air as my figure slowly rises, as a tremor agitates his form, his foot halting mid-shuffle, sending up miniature clouds of dust.
"You're half right," my silhouette purrs. "You only need a good prop."
He darts forward, the dust billowing up in his wake like a veil of fog across a lake; my shuriken flies faster, rotating through his tattered coat and embedding itself in his arm; ignoring the intermittent crimson light and faint buzz, he twirls with the fading kinetic energy, clutching the pot and hurling the scalding contents at me. I am just as quick to clutch the leather of my cape, stretching it taut before me as the liquid arcs down upon it; it splatters harmlessly, though the mist opens the pores that are visible through the slit of my mask.
As he runs, what remains of the window behind me implodes, permitting the scores of winged nightmares to flutter through, faithfully following their call. And now Crane's maniacal laughter becomes a terrified howl that surpasses that of his victim- who still sits bound in the corner, bleeding and bruise but shallowly breathing. He'll live. So, unfortunately, will Crane.
I look out through the window; Crane must have tumbled down the flight of stairs, for he blindly stumbles out far sooner than I had anticipated, flailing his arms against the torrent of bats that follows. The barricade of police cars casts a flickering light of interchanging red and blue across his rotting face, which Jim soon removes, revealing the tangled mass of greased hair beneath; I can hardly see the thin, pale, sweating face beneath it.
As Crane is finally escorted into the backseat of the police car, Jim glances up at me, a shallow, half-sincere grin on his lips. He is grateful, but the grin is dubious; I know that he'd rather have gotten Crane himself, without the assistance of a violent vigilante. I had hoped in the beginning we might become true friends and partners, but I have come to realize that as long as he wears a badge and I substitute it with a mask, our working relationship will always be tenuous.
Such is the burden of being the Batman, and such is the reason that I fire a grapple into the infant morning, leaping through the biting wind, momentarily suspended in mid air like a feather caught in conflicting gales before the slack of the line straightens, allowing me to cut a broad swath through the early mists, soaring like a human-bat of some ancient myth.
The pestilent vapors above the concrete do not part to permit a sunrise.
Author's Note: For the few who follow my animated Titans work: I know I've not updated in some time. I assure you that I am working on it, and have it all mapped out in my head, but the actual writing part is quite taxing.
Enter this project. I've always loved Batman. This piece is actually modeled after one of my stories on Fictionpress in that I don't necessarily know where the story is going. It is something to work on gradually, with chapters that don't have to connect with one another, or be in chronological order. It is something I don't have to thoroughly map in advance, that I can just pop into and write sporadically in times of stress.
Batman is an obvious choice for this: he is a very layered character with a rich history, a great supporting cast, and scores of personal demons that can be explored. Other chapters I'm thinking of writing include a new spin on the Gordon/Bats relationship, a look into some past vents that scarred the Bat and shaped his methods, and the growth of technology in Bats' career.
Don't expect frequent updates or ingenious work; this is a project I'm doing for personal enjoyment. I just hope some readers can share in my enjoyment.
So drop a review, and if you'd like, suggest something you'd like to see in future chapters. After all, Batman is a character who has worn many masks in the past; I want to try and get into every aspect of his long history.