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A/N: Hey all, Baxyratty here, letting you know that this Chapter was brought to you by the Master of the Boot amd reviewers like you! so review, even if it's constructive criticism. We enjoy hearing from our readers!
Wayne Manor
Despite all things, Alfred Pennyworth's parents were still alive. At the ripe old age of ninety and eighty-five, Mr. and Mrs. Pennyworth showed no signs of slowing down. Unfortunately, there were some days that Alfred just wished that his parents would up and drop dead.
For one, Alfred's father did not approve of his son's profession.
Allred groaned as he listened to his father on the phone in Wayne Manor. "Dad, I'm not a maid, I'm a Butler."
A response was buzzed on the other side of the line and Alfred felt his migraine getting worse. "Dad, the difference is that one is a woman and the other is a man. I work managing the estate and schedule of one of the world's richest men; that includes his security and managing over a hundred other people to take care of this place."
"But you're still bloody acting like a homosexual in a suit, taking care of some rich boy."
Alfred just about had enough. His dad didn't have dementia but he was always repeating the mean stuff and never the nice things. "Dad, put mum on the phone."
"Hello, Alfie," came the creaky, kindly voice of Alfred's mummy.
"'Allo mum,"
"Alfie, are you taking your vitamins?"
Alfred groaned, but this time good naturedly. "Mum, I'm a grown man."
"But you're over sixty, take care of yourself."
Before the conversation could continue, Alfred felt his phone ring. Checking the caller ID, he knew that it was his friend from Mossad. "Sorry, mum, but I have to go."
Ignoring his mother's protest, Alfred opened the line on the cell phone and greeted his friend and contact within the Israeli secret service.
"Hello Olev," Alfred beamed as he walked towards the conference room.
"Good to see you too, Alfred," came a cultured and slightly German voice from the other end of the line.
Downtown Gotham
Downtown Gotham was a scary place. It was like New York City in the middle of November, in the middle of the night and with the corruption rate of Kabul and the crime rate of Baghdad during the worst of the wars.
Currently, a worn down and damaged bus was leaving the bus stop. The driver was protected by three inches of bulletproof glass and was carrying a shotgun; all paid for by Wayne Enterprises.
As the bus pulled away there were two figures sitting down on a bench. Normally, only the really scary, the really desperate and the really fucked up would be out here in this neighborhood at this time. However Schrodinger wasn't worried. As he was very nearly immortal he had nothing to worry about. He was even harder to kill than that fool Alucard.
Sitting next to Schrodinger was a man who was even stranger looking than a Nazi neko.
"So," said Schrodinger, "Me und meine homie are looking to join a gang. Know anybody?"
The man said nothing; he didn't even acknowledge Schrodinger's presence.
The cat boy's ears twitched as he looked up the man up and down. The gentlemen next to him appeared rather old; his hair was white and his trench coat was tattered and frayed.
Atop his head he wore a top hat of all things, with a row of polo mints glued around the band of the hat.
Schrodinger once more attempted to talk to the strange man that was huddled over an ornate wooden box. The man was green like the wicked witch of the West and for no discernible reason there was a giant polo mint taped over his right eye. "Maybe you're deaf, but I vant to join a gang und makes lots of money."
The Cat boy leaned back as he attempted putting on his best American accent, "So, who's got da powa." And his best wasn't very good.
The green skinned, white haired man with a polo mint fetish said nothing, did nothing.
From his hooked nose to his protruding chin, he looked like a fairy tale witch but did not say or do anything. The only sign that he was alive was the fact that he was breathing.
Schrodinger realized that maybe this wasn't the best guy to find out who the number one crime lord in the City was. Out of curiosity, he tapped the man on his dusty shoulder; nothing happened.
The white haired freaky man budged a little and put one hand on top of his box, as if he were afraid it being stolen. One more strange thing about the man was his thumb. It was gigantic, bigger than the whole rest of his hand.
Schrodinger swooped in, fascinated by the giant sized thumb. "That's a pretty big thumb," said the hyperactive cat boy.
The man's eyes flashed. "Do ya wanna know about me thumb, do ya boy?" he said in a jolly cockney accent.
Schrodinger's eyes widened as the man sprang to life. He pushed himself back as the man jammed his mega thumb into his face.
"Intrigue ya, does it boy, me thumb?" said the cockney.
"Uh . . ."
The man cut off Schrodinger. "Well boy, I hail from a long line of hitchhikers, and the thumb is an enormous boon to the Hitchhiker, as is well known to all."
Schrodinger tried to pull back but the Hitcher pulled him to listen to the story. The whole time, he stared at that massive thumb with awe.
The man put an arm around Schrodinger, pulling him in and for the first time in a very long time, actually making him feel uncomfortable. "And me, unfortunately, cursed by the Gods, was born with a tiny thumb, Not just Tiny," said the Hitcher, whose voice was rising in volume, "But a mere speck, disgusting; like a solitary corn puff."
Schrodinger just stared at the bizarre man, regretting asking about the damn thumb but also too intrigued; like a cockney train wreck.
"And so me own mother cast me out of the family unit for me tiny thumb. I think it was that, or it could have been that I was spending too much time with me sister's big syrup covered nipples and not enough bringing in me mum's cut of the prostitution money."
Schrodinger nodded his gaze now long and cold. "Ja . . . nice." What else could he say?
"Ah," the Hitcher crooned as he remembered his darkest days, "I spent three years living on the streets of London, anal raping small animals and eating black people." He pinched Schrodinger's cheek, "Really good," he said in a lusty voice.
Just as Schrodinger was about to teleport away, things got really weird and he was forced to listen.
"And then one day as I was playing with my hairy green banana at the workhouse after hours, I heard new of a man who could help me with my thumb and the case of the clap I got from me mum's green snatch." The Hitcher grumbled, "Dirty whore, she was, old mum."
"I heard of an immortal named Ra's Al Ghul, said to be eons old and possessed of ancient knowledge. I combed the universe for this man, searching wide and low; leaving London just as it was being taken over by wogs and poufs."
Schrodinger had done many amoral and kinky things in his day; but this guy's predilection towards female members of his family really was making him feel kinda ill.
"And so I finally found Ra's Al Ghul; he was in the men's room in a pub in Wales. He was completely cabbaged after doing a line of Charlie on the toilet seat."
Schrodinger tried to crawl away but the Hitcher just pulled him in tighter. There was something about the guy, something otherworldly. It was like some black voodoo was keeping Schrodinger stuck here and it was coming from the Hitcher's ornate box.
"I begged and I pleaded but soon he worked his black magic, taking me to his Lazarus pit, which was guarded by a band of gypsies."
The Hitcher was shouting now, "A miracle! After the madness of the Lazarus pit me thumb was enormous, like a fleshy maraca. And I asked Ra's how I could repay him."
"And he said 'five hundred pounds'
'Five 'undred pounds! You won't see penny one from me, you slag!"
The Hitcher huddled on himself as he recalled the terrible wrath of Ra's al Ghul. "Oh it was horrible. The cackers that he had guarding the pool sprang to life and started kicking me arse. They shoved a broomstick up me green arsehole and kicked me to a pulp. And the worst part was when Ra's summoned the spirit of the Harvest moon. And in the most horrible moment of me life, it declared I wasn't a cockney! Now I'm—hey! Where'd you go, you little Nazi chav!"
In his insane and rambling storytelling, the Hitcher had noticed that Schrodinger was gone.
Angrily, the green skinned cockney banged on the bench and vanished in a puff of Jazz music.
Wayne Manor, Conference Room
Bruce Wayne sat beside his loyal butler Alfred. Sitting on top of the conference table was a massive fifty inch state of the art plasma screen TV. Being broadcasted all over that screen was a balding man of roughly the same age as Alfred, in a grey suit.
"Thank you for speaking to me, Mr. Wayne," said the Mossad agent in an amicable German accent.
"No," said Bruce with his trademark goofy playboy voice, "The pleasure is all mine. It's not very often that I rub shoulders with the defense community and it's rather exciting."
Alfred's friend, Olev suddenly felt himself embarrassed at the sight of Bruce Wayne's plastic smile. Still, he maintained his professionalism and did what he'd been bribed to do. It would be thanks to Bruce Wayne that Olev could retire on a private island filled with naked women.
Olev straightened his tie. "Well, Mr. Wayne, I admit that when you asked to learn about the terrorist attack on London. More so, I'm surprised that your first thought was to turn to me."
Bruce smiled back. "Well, Mr. Kask, ever since a bunch of Nazis blew up London I've found myself getting a little worried about something like that in Gotham. I love my hometown and I own a lot of real estate here." Nobody would ever expect a superficial douchebag like this to be Batman.
Olev nodded. "Well thus far little is known about who or what attacked London. The British government is trying to hush up the situation but the destruction of a world capital is not something that can just be covered up. The mass media of the internet have seen to that and the more the British government denies the more their credibility fails."
"Grace me with a theory, it should be exciting," said Bruce, though excitement was far from what he felt at the discussion of the slaughter of London.
Olev sighed, "Well, if you insist, Mr. Wayne."
The man then began to pull up documents from the laptop before him, which were then promptly displayed on Bruce Wayne's giant monitor. "During the closing years of the second world war, a number of prominent Nazis fled to South America, as many regimes there were pro-fascist and pro-Nazi."
Bruce said nothing as the screen shifted to show documents which had the stamp of the Soviet Union Politburo on it.
"As the war ended, the Soviet Union was far more dedicated to ending the Nazi menace than the Allied powers were. The Soviets executed thousands of Nazi war criminals while the Americans only executed a few hundred. Not surprising, given that at the start of the war the Allies feared the Soviet Union more than the Nazis."
Bruce pretended to look fascinated, but most of this was well known to him, as during his younger years he'd learned interrogation techniques from former KGB agents in the Eastern Bloc.
"However, in 1949, Mossad was approached by a special task force from the Soviet intelligence community. They were interested in a joint effort specifically to hunt down Nazis escaping to South America; at least that was what they told us in the first place."
More documents appeared on the screen and were instantly transferred to Bruce's private computer in the batcave.
"The leader of the KGB taskforce was none other than the disgraced Marshal Zhukov. He led the spies under his command like he led his armies; totally uncaring for losses incurred on his side and hell-bent on defeating his foes."
The next set of documents that came up on the screen had the stamp of the Vatican Holy See on them, as well as an ornate crest with the Roman numeral XIII on it.
"For two years the joint Mossad-KGB operation yielded nothing until the Soviet Union began to get a ring of spies inside the Vatican and the Vatican's own black ops organization, known as Iscariot."
"Judas Iscariot?" Blurted Bruce
"The very same," explained Olev, "The Catholic Church has been attempting to influence foreign affairs since the fifteenth century and before. The Iscariots are fanatics." His tone of voice turned dark, "They believe themselves like the betrayer Judas, betraying their god to bring about the end of sin. They also wish for all the Jews in the world to return to Israel so that Armageddon may begin and all the Jews may be burned in everlasting fire."
Bruce had to choke back bile at hearing this, at knowing that such a group of people was allowed to exist in the world.
Olev suddenly chuckled. "Well, their God was on vacation in those years since we more or less penetrated the Iscariots with ease and stole many valuable documents. We learned through the Vatican that while many war criminals escaped with stolen war loot, there was in fact a larger effort to bring materials and manpower into some safe haven in South America. This wasn't merely rats escaping a sinking ship; it was a veritable Nazi seed, trying to find a safe place to grow in the chaotic capitalism of Brazil and other regions."
Olev was about to tell Bruce more when he had to interrupt. "Are you still carrying on the revolution, Alfred?"
To this, Alfred smiled and held up a sleeve which had a Che Guevara cufflink on it. "Oh yes, I'm still a member of the Labor Party. Workers of the world unite."
A look of supreme confusion crossed Bruce's face as both Alfred and Olev started to sing La Internatinale in French. This was stupefying that he'd fail to notice his butler was a red. "You never said you were a socialist, Alfred," Bruce almost sounded hurt.
Alfred shrugged as he and his old friend stopped singing the workers anthem. "You never asked, Master Wayne. Anyway, you were saying, Olev?"
Olev straightened up, snapping out of his socialist reverie. "As I was saying, Mr. Wayne. Once we'd stolen the files from the Vatican, our work greatly sped up. The Mossad-KGB task force found and executed hundreds of Nazis and Nazi collaborators, often torturing them first."
"We began to receive rumors, nothing substantial; about a secret base being constructed in the jungle and talk of ways to resurrect the dead and immortal soldiers. We knew that something big was happening."
Olev pressed more buttons on his laptop and documents filled the screen as sadness filled his voice. "The most disappointing part was how widespread this level of support was for this secret Nazi organization. Many higher ups in the CIA and the American business community assisted these Nazis, as did many elements in NATO. THIs hidden Nazi group, codenamed the Last Battalion or Leztes Battalion promised many things to a lot of people. They promised the end of communism in the world, suppression of labor movements and even immortality of all things; and it seemed like we and our KGB cohorts were the only force in the world that had any serious interest in stopping them."
Olev leaned back, struggling to hold back his embarrassment. "This went on for years. During the mid-nineteen sixties we were very close to discovering the heart of the Nazis. And just as we were about to rip that heart out, the newly minted Premier Khrushchev ended the partnership with Mossad, declaring us enemies of the people and dissolving the task force. Not long after, our own government ordered us to cease all further investigations into this organization. It didn't take long for all our leads to grow cold. We just forgot about the Last Battalion until the recent attack on London."
Olev leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "I'm sending you the last of the relevant files, Mr. Wayne. If nothing else I hope that it provides you with peace of mind, for it has brought none to me. Even now, good men do nothing until it is too late."
For a moment, Bruce dropped his playboy act and looked the Mossad operative in the eye, "Thank you, Olev, for everything."
When the conference was over, Bruce turned to Alfred. References to immortality, a hidden Nazi group, vampires in London and a cannibal in Gotham; none of it was impossible, only improbable.
Bruce turned to his butler; he was in full Batman mode now. "Alfred, I need equipment to help me fight vampires."
The silence was deafening.
Finally Alfred spoke, "Of course Master Wayne, I have Abraham Van Helsing and Peter Cushing's phone numbers in my directory."
"Don't be a smartass," Bruce scowled, looking very much like a man-child.
Alfred however couldn't hold it in, "Master Wayne, I had a hard enough time coming to grips with your plan to dress like a flying rodent and beat criminals into a pulp, but this is crossing a line into madness."
"Alfred, if you help me fight vampires then I will go with you to movie night hosted by that Friends of Cuba organization you're a part of."
Alfred nodded, "Alright, Master Wayne, but if it really is a vampire I will stake you if you're bitten. I still remember the mess you made when I had to dig Killer Croc's teeth out of your leg."
Bruce rolled his eyes, "Let's just get going, Alfred."
Hugo Strange's audio log
Day forty one of my experiment. So far I have made progress. Using transients and homeless people as test subjects, I have managed to test my first batch of the so called FREAK, chips. Though so far I have no idea what FREAK stands for.
The subjects died violently as cancer like growths metastasized through ought their bodies. After a time, they seemed to transform into mindless cannibalistic creatures with no higher thinking. I dare say they have become literal zombies.
To my surprise after seventy two hours the subjects simply melt as their cellular structure breaks completely down. The necrosis starts with skin and works through the muscles and internal organs. Cells completely implode as the body's fluids become isotonic
This is frustrating, as I am trying to reengineer a human killing machine from a few microchips and ashes.
Spectrographic analysis of the ashes has proven fruitful in revealing—
RING-RING!
Damn phone.
(Grumbling)
Hello, Professor Hugo Strange speaking. How Might I help you?
(Other person on phone)
Anne Rice? As in the author?
(Anne rice on Phone)
Erm . . . yes, I did as a matter of fact purchase an authentic vampire off of e-bay.
(Anne Rice)
Yes, I bought it at great cost, outbidding a number of rabid Twilight fans as well as outbidding a highly unpleasant person calling themselves Alucard.
(Anne Rice)
. . . Pardon me? You are suing me? For what, may I ask?
(Anne Rice raises her voice)
But I have performed no infringement of your work. I merely bought an undead on the free market.
(Anne Rice yells louder on the phone)
Be reasonable Mrs. Rice. Your books are widely acclaimed but you do not own vampires in general.
(Anne starts to lose it
But—
(Anne goes apeshit on Hugo)
Surely—
(Ann calls Hugo an Asshole)
Alright Mrs. Rice, if it is a fight you want then a fight you'll get. Oh, and by the way, your books are awful. Even Stephanie Meyer is laughing at your useless purple prose.
(Anne says something awfully explicit)
Yes, you stupid bitch! I said it. You're no better than the Mormon hack in Arizona.
(Hugo hangs up phone) (Sighs)
Note to self: when purchasing an artificial vampire online erase all paper trails. I must do this quickly.
Well, future legal battles aside there is a bit of good news before me. Spectrographic analysis of the ashes has indicated the presence of several rare mutagens including rare Alkylating chemicals and variations of superoxides. Similar in chemical composition to the so called VENOM steroid used by the super criminal Bane.
I believe I know both the next step in my research and my next test subject.
The vampire I purchased on eBay was originally the captive of a French hunter named Gaston; who was on vacation in London at the time of the attack. Gaston's fighting skills are superb, given the fact that he caught and subdued an artificial vampire after drinking no less than nine beers.
I think I shall call Gaston, and offer him a job.
Then I will ruin his life to perpetuate my plans.
So in conclusion:
Step 1: Brainwash Anne Rice
Step2: Wash my car
Step 3: Capture the last survivors of the London Attack
Step 4: kill batman
Step 5: be batman.
Schrodinger had heard of Scarface. All day he'd heard nothing but good things about the guy. He was rumored to be ruthless and bloodthirsty. Some even went so far as to say that he was even more ruthless than the Joker. That just made Schrodinger smile with excitement.
To survive in Gotham's underworld you had to be brutal. To thrive in this kind of environment you had to be absolutely psychotic. Hence, Schro and his lover the Captain would be perfect.
Schrodinger materialized in front of Scarface's Night Club, a dingy shithole called The Painted Lady.
The catboy teleported in front of an armed guard wearing an overly expensive and ugly suit. The guard, who looked like a shaven gorilla just grunted at the cat boy. He'd been warned in advance about their strange new guest.
"Howdy, stranger," said Schrodinger, attempting to sound more like a local but failing.
The guard grunted.
"I'm here to see Scarface und Ventriloquist," the boy flashed a smile, "Ve met on Facebook."
The guard grunted in a slightly lower pitch.
Schrodinger was getting a little discouraged by the guy's seeming lack of grasp on language in general. "I messed vith the Penguin?"
Two days ago
After a hard day of sleeping with dirty whores, eating raw fish and running a criminal empire there was nothing more beloved by Oswald Cobblepot than a good pizza with a ton of pepperoni and anchovies
Unfortunately for the rotund, monocle wearing man there was a boy in Hitler youth outfit eating his believed anchovies pizza.
Oswald raised his Umbrella gun and shouted at Schrodinger. "That's my pizza, ya fat cunt!"
The catboy gave a rather realistic cat hiss and then swore at Oswald, "Fuck you!"
The little cat boy pulled out a derringer out of his pocket just as the Penguin blew his head off.
Oswald smirked but ducked when the Catboy popped back to life and shot at him with intent to kill.
Schrodinger hissed and fired his gun at Oswald, while Oswald took cover behind a bulletproof chair (only the best for Mr. Cobblepot.)
In the ensuing shootout, a stray bullet from Cobblepot destroyed Schrodinger's gun and the boy promptly vanished.
The Penguin laughed, "Serves you right."
Unbeknownst to Oswald, Schrodinger had filched a grenade from the weapons magazine and used it to blow a hole in the ceiling. Oswald watched in horror as the roof blew open and it started to rain on his pizza.
Cobblepot dropped his umbrella and began to weep as steam rose up from the sodden pizza.
Schrodinger laughed.
Schrodinger really didn't know anyone in organized crime, but Scarface had been impressed by the humiliation of Penguin and had arranged a job interview over Facebook.
The cat boy walked past rows and rows of gangsters, each one wearing a progressively more horrible suit than the last and each one meaner than the one before him. Assorted whores, hookers and call girls lolled about, attending to the men's needs as required. Cigarettes and alcohol flowed with such freedom that Schrodinger could almost swear he was back in the nineteen fifties.
Until at last, the grunting man led him to the inner sanctum of the shitty night club, Scarface's office; and his suckass lackey, Ventriloquist.
Hans had agreed not to reveal himself. Neither he nor Schrodinger had any wish to lead this criminal cabal; least of all the Captain who saw such humans as little more than leeches and ticks. And Schro was the one who wanted all the material goods.
Confidently, the cat boy stepped forward to start a career he could really enjoy and under a leader he could respect; not like that fat fuck the Major. For all his raging orgasm about war, the man wouldn't know it from diet and hard exercise. That fat bitch had never even seen combat.
As Schrodinger walked into the room, he saw the meanest bunch of gangsters yet. These were Scarface's personal bodyguards; Rottweiler's in human form, recruited from the most hardened of criminals. To be part of the guard, you had to pair up with another guard and fight to the death for the job. Serious business.
Standing at the center of the guards was a small, slightly fat middle aged guy. This was the ventriloquist, Arnold Wesker.
Then Schrodinger saw the puppet on Ventriloquist's hand. It was a freaky little thing, carved of wood and made to resemble a stereotypical 1930's gangster. With its leering, hateful grin and worn appearance, the puppet just looked like it was going to come to life and strangle a baby. Schrodinger had the funniest feeling that the damn wooden thing was watching him.
He didn't know what to say, he was confused. "Uh, vhere's Scarface?' Schrodinger asked.
"You fucking blind?" snarled the puppet in an Edgar G. Robinson voice, "I'm right here, ya goofy cunt."
Schrodinger turned to the guards around him and pointed at the puppet with evil eyes. "Vait, that's Scarface?" He couldn't believe this shit, "You guys vork for Pinocchio!"
To Schrodinger's surprise, the puppet reached forward and grabbed him by the Adams apple with one in its pincer like wooden hands. "You's didn't tell me you had a death wish, kitty cat," the Puppet jeered. Schrodinger knew he couldn't die but that fucking puppet was giving him the willies. "I oughta make a fucking tennis racket outta yous."
Schrodinger hissed in anger. No wooden cocksucker was going to mess with him.
At that moment, the Ventriloquist piped up. "Mr. Scarface," he began in a reedy voice unlike that of his hateful proxy, "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by what he said."
The Dummy's head turned. The control mechanism inside must have been very complex to move the arms and head with just one hand. "When I want your opinion, dummy, I'll beat it outta ya."
The puppet (Scarface, not Ventriloquist) turned to Schrodinger and let go with its little wooden hand. "So kitty, you wanna work with me; well whoop-de-fucking-do. Why should I hire a little furball like you?"
Schrodinger smirked. He had been waiting for this part. It was the Captain's idea. "Vell, for starters . . ." he trailed off as he vanished from sight and teleported back with an explosive device, "I've got a bomb und du have shit."
The Captain had built the bomb, made from plastic explosive and an old alarm clock. The parts were remarkably easy to find, even the supposedly illegal explosive C4.
In a heartbeat, every gun in the room was aimed at Schrodinger's head. The digital clock was counting down. Less than a minute to go.
But Scarface just laughed, even as his human operator (slave?) trembled and sweated.
The puppet laughed and laughed. Schrodinger smiled. At last, somebody who could understand him. Thirty seconds to go.
With every laugh, the puppet's off-white teeth clicked together in a way that raised most men's hackles. "You got guts, kid. I give ya that," Scarface stopped laughing. "You wanna work for me, I got two rules. One: you obey me like I'm Jesus H. Christ. Rule Two: there is no rule two. So, either get in line or set that firecracker now and quit wasting my time."
Ten seconds left.
Schrodinger smiled and pulled out two wires from the device. The countdown was finished. Casually he threw the bomb over his shoulder and smiled, "Alright, vhat's my starting pay?"
"I'll give ya a hundred bucks to ring the Penguin's doorbell and run. I fucking hate that bastard. After that, we'll talk."
Schrodinger did a fist pump, "JA!" he cheered.
"Ha, no one kills niggers like Gaston," boasted a booming, arrogant voice.
Hugo strange nodded politely and smiled, "Indeed, Gaston, I'm sure that man was going to commit a crime."
The handsome, muscular Frenchman offered a winning smile at Hugo. "Well Professor, when you called me to offer me a job, who was I to turn you down."
Hugo smiled. Though Gaston's racism offended him, everything was going to plan. Besides, science had disproven race decades ago. "Won't you have some wine, Gaston?"
Gaston grinned, "Merci, professor." The buff Frenchman pretty much shattered every stereotype held by Americans about the French. With style and sophistication that only the class bully could have, Gaston poured himself a glass of fine Australian wine. It was his favorite; Hugo learned of it through complex psychographic models.
Gaston began to speak, loving the sound of his own voice. "So Professor, last time you paid rather lavishly and this time you paid for my hotel and plane ticket. May I ask what work you're offering?"
Hugo started to tell lies as he walked to the back of his dark office, counting on Gaston to focus on his wine. "Well Gaston, to be honest I have some jobs that would benefit greatly from your experience as a hunter and soldier."
Gaston smirked as he sipped his wine, turning around to face Hugo. "Well, I do bring results, you can't argue that."
Hug grinned, one hand hidden behind his back. "That is good, Gaston. The work I offer you is highly delicate; with a zero margin of error."
Gaston laughed, "Well, the harder the better. There's nothing I can't—
The man gasped as Hugo drove a syringe into his muscular neck and depressed the plunger. "No more talking, please," Hugo almost purred.
The racist French hunter gasped and dropped his wine glass; even now Hugo's magic cocktail of drugs was taking effect.
"Don't talk, Gaston. Because right now you are nowhere near good enough to do the job I need."
Gaston fell to his knees, his mind full of fog. He knew that Hugo Strange has just insulted him, but oddly he didn't really care. In fact, he was starting to feel very peaceful and with each passing second he wanted to fight it less.
A glaring, soft light filled up Hugo's dark office and the soon to be science experiment looked up. In front of him were a dozen TV screens that he was sure weren't there before.
On each TV screen, patters and subliminal messages flashed; designed to break down Gaston's sense of self.
The patterns would have given a normal man a seizure or caused temporary blindness. Yet Gaston's pupils remained wide and open to all of the sights; his blinking reflex was similarly absent.
On the TV screens, a silhouette of Hugo's face appeared; formed from the flashes and sparks that seemed to drift at random into existence.
Tyger, tiger! Burning Bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry
The floor, windows and world dissolved and soon the boorish Frenchman found himself in the eye of a storm of thought and light.
Hugo's voice was there. It was always there, the fallen angel seeking to return to paradise.
Tyger, tiger, always right
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
In reality, Gaston now lay on Hugo's operating table; his eyelids surgically removed and several plugs drilled into his skull to feed information direction into his frontal lobes. Overhead, a concentrated optic device fed visual imagery into Gaston's permanently open eyes.
Hugo rolled into the operating theater, fully sterile, scalpels ready to go and the first of the experimental TYGER chips ready go.
His eyes flashed in the dim light of the operating theater, taking the mien of glowing, lifeless orbs and his too white teeth practically glowed. His white surgical gloves seemed disembodies, floating in the shadows with glinting surgical tools
No fallen angel was this, but a devil outcast. He sought not to return to paradise but to rule hell; and in Gotham city, Batman was the lord of hell.
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?