This was not the first time Jonathan Crane had woken up after a fight with no memory of how he had gotten home. It was not the first time he had woken with lingering traces of some drug in his system making everything feel oddly blurred. It was not quite the first time he had woken with the feeling of ropes binding him to a chair. But it was the first time he had woken to the sound of a woman sweetly humming an oddly soothing rendition of "Snow Miser."
All this passed quickly through his mind in the split second before he opened his eyes.
Yes, he was at home—or, at least, in the closest thing to a home he had anymore. It was not a place he visited often, this little storage pod. He only used it as a place to keep the things that really mattered—the books he couldn't stand to lose. Besides those, he had an old recliner that could have been specifically made for his body (good to read in, easy to fall asleep in, and a color that made it easy to forget that he had bled on it more than once), a few blankets, a first aid kit (because this was where he came, if he could, when he was hurt), extra clothes (one set of street clothes and one Scarecrow costume), a small supply of fear toxin (old now, but with a little bit of life left in it), some cash (for the rare occasion that he would actually need to buy something), and a battery-powered reading lamp (complete with extra batteries and light bulbs.) Usually, there was food, too, at least some water and trail mix, but he hadn't restocked last time. He only came here in case of an emergency, after all. He had kept it for years without its being discovered. No one was supposed to know it was his.
And yet, this woman…
"Good morning, starshine," she said with sugary sweetness. "I was starting to think I gave you too much. You were dead to the world." She was not from Gotham, he realized, but he couldn't quite place her accent, though it sounded naggingly familiar.
"Who are you?" he demanded, slurring the words a little. She leaned over to look into his eyes, first with a look of concern, then with a smile when she realized that the only thing wrong with him was the tranquilizer still in his system.
"You can call me Al," she said. "That's not my name, but that's what you can call me. What can I call you?" He narrowed his eyes, refusing to answer. "Scarecrow? Professor Crane? Jonathan? Take your pick. If you don't, I'm just going to call you Squishykins."
"What do you want?" he asked, squirming a little to test the ropes.
"Short answer: I'm kidnapping you."
"Why?"
"Now, that would be telling. Come on, Squishykins. Do you want to take any of these books? It's going to be a long trip."
"Don't call me Squishykins," he snapped. His mind was becoming more alert. The woman whose name was not Al smirked.
"Jonathan? Can I call you Jonathan?"
"No."
"Still too informal? How about—"
"What do you want from me?" he interrupted.
"Manners," Al singsonged. "If you can't be polite…" She trailed off. He waited for her to finish, but she didn't seem to have anything else to say.
"If I can't be polite, what?"
"Oh, nothing. Sure you don't want to bring a book?" He just glared at her. For some reason, that made her giggle hysterically.
That made it rather difficult to maintain a fearsome expression.
Still chuckling softly, Al picked up a bag that had been lying at her feet and wormed her way through the clutter to the door. It squeaked horribly as she raised it.
As soon as she was gone, he started wriggling against the ropes, but she had tied him too tightly for him to make his escape before she got back. One rope tied his wrists together in his lap; another across his chest held him to the chair. His feet were bound, likewise, but he couldn't see exactly how from this angle. His glasses were gone, which was probably for the best, judging by the swollen feel of his face where the gun had hit him earlier.
This was not the worst spot he had ever found himself in, but it had the potential to be uncomfortable enough.
He couldn't imagine who she was, though. He hadn't upset anyone recently, other than the usual people—certainly not anyone who was likely to employ someone like her. Female criminals were a rarity in Gotham—not unheard of, but uncommon. The hired help tended to be muscle and not much else, and who would bother taking a woman for that when big, burly men were a dime a dozen? The Penguin used women, but while this Al was by no means repulsive, she didn't quite have the pretty face or the other assets that would have brought her to his attention—and she didn't seem the type to expose herself in one of those skimpy costumes, anyway. Two-Face would hire anyone who came in a matched set, but if that were the case, then the other half would have put in an appearance by now, and besides, Two-Face was safely locked away in Arkham. There were no others he could think of who liked working with women, other than the Joker, and he and Harley were as lovey-dovey as they had ever been before, so it wasn't likely that he had picked up another one. Besides, she might be giggly and a little unbalanced, but she was also stealthy and dressed in black, neither of which fit the Clown Prince's profile.
So that meant that she was either extraordinarily talented, working for someone outside Gotham (possible, given her accent) or working for herself.
He knew how to read her, of course. In a matter of hours, he knew he could have from her every little secret she wanted to keep buried, and a few she didn't even know she had, all without ever exchanging a single word.
But he was not at all sure that he wanted to spend that much time in her company.
"I'm back," came her irritatingly cheerful voice, sugary as Sweet 'N Low, and just as false. She ducked under the opening, smiling like a kid on her way to Disneyland. "Think you can walk now? I'm getting you back in the car either way, but I'd rather do it with you walking."
"Why bring me here and wait for me to wake up?" he asked in a more civil tone. "Wouldn't it have been easier to keep me in your car?"
"I don't want to attract too much attention," she said, which wasn't an answer at all. "Walking? Yes? No? Maybe?"
"I don't see why not," he retorted, raising his bound hands to her line of sight as best he could. She gave him what was evidently supposed to be a patient and long-suffering look as she picked up the butcher knife that had been sitting on the table next to her.
"Okay, so you're having a bad day. I get that. I'm going to cut you loose now. Try to run, and I'll catch you. Fight me, and I'll fight back. Make some noise, and I'll shut you up. Cooperate, though, and we'll have a nice, painless couple of days together. I won't hurt you if you don't make me. Understand?"
"I understand." Satisfied, she knelt in front of him.
Might as well make use of the element of surprise.
The moment his feet were free, he kicked out at her, slamming her against the wall.
"Damn it all!" she yelped as he hooked his leg around her neck, pinning her against the chair. "I told you not to fight me! I'm still holding a knife, you fucktard!"
He realized he was not doing a very good job of strangling her…not with both legs asleep.
Damn.
"Get off me," she snapped, shoving his leg away with very little effort. It was a little embarrassing. She straddled his lap, holding her knife where he could clearly see it. "Do you want to get killed, or what? God, you're a dumbass! Are you going to be this difficult the whole time?" He glared at her sullenly, and after a moment of intense effort to meet his anger halfway, she snorted with laughter and got off him. "Okay, smeghead. Do yourself a favor and come quietly." She cut the rope that bound him to the chair.
He tried to jump up and run for the door, but his legs gave out under him, dumping him back in the chair.
"Your foot's asleep, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said. With a nasty grin, she slipped her arm through his and dragged him up out of the chair.
"Walk it off."
She led him out to her car, practically carrying him (he was not going to cooperate, even if the only thing he could do to make things difficult for her right now was to feign more weakness than he actually felt.) The car was an older model, midsize and thoroughly unremarkable. He saw nothing there that he could immediately exploit.
She put him in the passenger seat and untied his hands just long enough to fasten his seatbelt, which surprised him a little. Then she took a pair of handcuffs, gave him a hearty smirk, and cuffed his hands to the door. Then, to his further surprise, she spread a warm blanket over him.
"What's that for?"
"To keep you warm, silly," she said sweetly. "I like it cold, and I don't want you to freeze to death before we get where we're going. Besides, if we have to stop somewhere, I don't want you flashing your handcuffs at people and inviting them to come to your rescue. I mean, I don't think you want the cops involved in this any more than I do, but you might get stupid. You don't want the po-pos involved, do you?"
"No."
"Good." She started her engine. True to her word, the air conditioner was on, full blast, despite the below-freezing temperature outside. Al turned the dial a little toward the heat side, but not nearly as far as he would have deemed comfortable or sane. "Do you want to pick out a CD?" He didn't answer. "Okay, suit yourself. But this is going to be a pretty long drive. I don't want to hear you whining about it later." She put a lemon yellow CD in the player, and he immediately regretted his decision to remain aloof. Whatever they were listening to, it was completely unfamiliar, but it sounded like something the Joker would have enjoyed. He hated it on principle.
He tried to pay attention to where they were going, but he couldn't read the signs without his glasses, at least not at the speeds she was driving. He was amazed no one had tried to pull them over yet. Then again, the police didn't often bother with this part of town at this time of night (just past midnight, according to her clock.)
As if his thoughts had conjured it, a car pulled up behind them, low, dark, with lights as bright as twin suns.
The Batmobile.
"Oh!" Al yelled—just that, oh—and hit her turn signal so hard something should have broken off.
"Don't panic. Batman is not a traffic cop." Why he suddenly felt compelled to help her, he didn't know. But she clearly did not want to meet the Dark Knight, at least not under these circumstances. And, truth be told, neither did he.
"O-okay." She pulled the car smoothly into an empty parking lot, and then they watched the Batmobile drive past. "Holy. Smeg. Batmobile."
Well, that was interesting. He watched her fighting to control what looked to be absolute panic. So she wasn't as professional as he had originally thought. But why was she afraid of Batman? Had she had a run-in with him before? Or was she new at this? Did she fear the known or the unknown?
"What are you afraid of?" he asked in a gentle, soothing psychiatrist's voice. She looked up at him in surprise, blue eyes still wide with fright.
"Well, aren't you cute," she said shakily. "Shouldn't you be a little nervous when the Batmobile comes barreling up behind you on a dark, deserted street?"
"I'm not the one doing anything wrong."
"This time." She looked both ways and pulled out into the empty street. "So…what's he like, anyway?" Ah, so she was new. Or, at least, new to Gotham.
"Who?" he asked innocently.
"You know. Batman." They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then, when she was no longer expecting an answer, he spoke up.
"Inconsistent," he said.
"What?"
"Batman is very inconsistent. He lets his emotional state dictate his actions. He may think he's an unstoppable crimefighting machine, but he isn't. Not really."
They lapsed into an uneasy silence as she turned onto the interstate. Then she turned down the music.
"Tell me more about Batman." He decided he might as well answer. If nothing else, it would be informative to watch her reactions. And it would keep that manic bassline from pounding into his head.
"He hates to lose. Beat him once, and he can hold a grudge for months until he feels the score is settled. If he is in a good mood, he can act as if he's your best friend—'Put down the spork. I just want to help you.'" She smiled at his imitation of that gravelly voice. "If he's in a bad mood, he's likely to put you in the hospital without thinking twice. And there's no telling which one you're going to get."
"Must be rough," she said.
"I suppose," he said with a shrug.
Silence.
"Do you get hurt a lot?" Al asked. He didn't answer that. "You probably spend a lot of time in the hospital, don't you?"
"No more than anyone else." He stared out the window, making a point to look as unresponsive as possible. She didn't take the hint, of course.
"But you're so fragile." That almost made him laugh. "Batman could, like, break you in half without even trying." He gave up on trying to read the signs, but he still did his best to appear interested in the scenery.
"Not many people are strong enough to face the Batman," he said indifferently.
"But you do it anyway." Was that respect he heard in her voice? Admiration? He risked a glance at her face. No, nothing. His gaze shifted back to the window.
"It's a living," he muttered.
More silence.
"Have you ever thought about moving to another city? You know, one without a Batman, where you could work uninterrupted."
"We've all tried it," he said. "It never works out."
"Really?"
"Really."
Another awkward silence.
"Why not?" she asked finally. He sighed.
"Some of us get bored easily. Some of us remember personal issues with Batman that we need to settle. And some of us are important enough for Batman to follow out of Gotham."
"Are you that last one?"
"Sure. Why not."
The silence was much shorter this time.
"Well? Are there any other reasons why it doesn't work out?"
"Of course. There are any number of reasons."
"Such as?"
"Such as the fact that people like the Batman spring up where they feel they're most needed. Why are you asking me these questions?" Do you consider yourself a hero or a villain? Al shrugged.
"Just curious. This is going to be a long drive. We might as well make conversation."
"Hmm." He leaned his head against the window as if he were trying to go to sleep. Under the cover of the blanket, he tested the handcuffs. They weren't hurting him, but there was no way he was going to be able to slip out of them without breaking his thumbs, and he wasn't—quite—prepared to do that. Not yet.
"You cold?" Al asked. He shrugged. Let her make her own conversation, if she was so bored. She turned the heat up another notch. "You want to help me merge over?"
"No." She gave him an exasperated sigh.
"Fine. Forget the blind spot. At least if we die, we'll go out together."
