Chapter 6: In Pace Requiescat
Bruce Wayne popped an aspirin in his mouth and swallowed it, gulping a little water to help it down. He sat feet propped up in his home office, pangs of guilt or the beginning of a wicked spell of stomach flu lacerating his gut.
He had been dry-heaving for the last eight hours but so far hadn't managed to bring anything up. Now dawn touched the spires of Gotham and he was wide awake, and in pain.
What had preceded this spell was something more like a nightmare than any event that could've actually happened. One thing that kept sticking with him, something that gave the incident a more unreal quality, was Tetch's clothes.
Just clothes.
No man.
The hat that he claimed lost settled where there should have been a head. That Thing.
Bruce shuddered and doubled over. Just remembering the Thing set off his stomach, because if you remembered it, then you remembered the atmosphere that went along with it, and you remembered the smell…
He clapped a hand on his mouth. He was quite surprised Tetch had been able to run at all, but then again he hadn't had nearly as much exposure to it as Bruce. Alfred, who Bruce hadn't even had to call for at god-knows-when at night, had found him slumped behind the wheel of the batmobile. He had kept pace with Bruce, supplying him with hot towels and cold facecloths, only now going down to the kitchen to make weak tea for him. Bruce marveled at the man rarely caught unawares, even in the time of day that was morning in name only.
He grew saddened, without really knowing why, that so many people cared so much for him and he rewarded them with so little. Besides Alfred, who appeared to run on no more than air and occasional cups of tea, there were all the little people who kept his empire running, did things for him, and he repaid them by keeping everyone at arm's length.
The Hatter was another prime example. He had come to him like a drowning man for help, and Bruce pushed him back underwater. The Hatter had come to him for safety, Bruce reciprocated by putting him directly back in danger. Of course, in light of new evidence, it might've been doomed from the start.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes felt dusty and hot after a long night without sleep or liquids. From what he could assess from the creature so far, it enjoyed toying with people before it killed them, driving them away from other people and possible help. Croc had been picked up on a back street but the existence of certain compounds in some of his skin lacerations placed him in the sewers at the beginning of the attack. Evidence indicated that the creature had been aware of the Hatter's presence all along, even his hat was accounted for. Perhaps if he dug a little deeper he would find that other more minor fixtures of Gotham's underworld had been disposed of in the same manner.
He leaned forward again and winced, hand on his abdomen. His stomach muscles were completely shot from his five-hour hurl session, it was amazing Alfred didn't have to prop him up in the chair. His hands were shaky from lack of nutrition and his mouth was cotton dry. If he didn't know any better, he would attribute these symptoms to a virulent strain of the 24-hour flu, like Alfred did.
While he sat, nauseous, his friend and confidant entered the room, sans tea tray and looking harried.
"Sir," he began, which was worrisome. Alfred didn't call him that unless a full-scale invasion was at the door.
"There's a man demanding to be let in. He says he's a business associate of yours, but when I told him you were ill, he just laughed and asked who wasn't."
Uh-oh. This looked familiar.
"Did he say who he was?"
"No, I don't think so. He just barged in, but he handed me a business card." He patted the pockets of the soot-grey apron he wore in the kitchen and came up with a card that Bruce didn't even have to see to know whom it was from.
"All right, send him in, and in ten minutes come in and say it's time for my doctor's appointment."
"Are you sure that's wise, sir? This man has proved impossible to get rid of so far; he may go so far as to wait here while you go."
"Show him in Alfred. I'll think of a way."
About eight minutes later, allowing for the delay of traveling between the office and the sitting room in the opposite end of the manor, Nihil Ibi was shown in to a much changed Bruce Wayne.
He had propped himself up with pillows in a baroque armchair and covered himself in a crocheted afghan from some distant dead relative of Alfred's. He had drunk a quantity of cold water to give himself stomach cramps, and was very pleased with the results. The man in the mirror had an ashen-grey complexion and shivered often, changing his appearance to that of a man in the throes of a bad stomach infliction.
The man who was shown in was, if possible, even more the same than when Bruce had first met him. He wafted in with his perfect hair and teeth on the strange, sharp scent of a foreign cologne, hand extended. His hand gripped Bruce's, and again it was all he could do not to throw up.
"My poor Bruce, how does the day find you?" was it him, or was the man's accent slightly different today?
"I'm bad, but I've been better."
One of his patented grins creased the man's dark face. "Ah, another of your 'jokes'. When I tell my associates about you, they laugh and laugh."
He wasn't hallucinating, the man's accent was different, but he couldn't tell how. His nausea had increased threefold when the man walked into the room, and it was hard to concentrate.
"I'm sorry, Ibi, but if this is only condolences, I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon, because I only-"
"Oh," his tone grew louder, like he was trying to shout Bruce down. "I do apologize. This was more than just condolences, I assure you. I had wanted to see if you were free sometime in the near future for a discussion, and also, I was curious to see how you improve your shining hours."
The man's diction was oddly flat, like he was talking with a ventriloquist's puppet. The scent that carried all around him, odd and ashy, was getting overpowering the louder the man talked, and Bruce was actually having a hard time holding his head up instead of pretending to.
"Well-" his gorge hit the back of his throat and he had to stop for a moment. "I'm sure-my secretary-I'm sure-"
"Ah-" the man's grin was like an obscene saw. "I had heard you were ill, but the rumors did it no justice. I only wanted to discuss a possible venture, I'm sure you would be interested."
Bruce sprawled lifelessly in the chair, he couldn't even get the energy to roll his eyeballs around in his head to check the clock. The man was sapping his energy with his sheer banality.
"What…exactly is it?"
"Why the acquisition of the asylum, of course! It covers a large amount of acreage, prime for real estate."
Bruce felt like laughing, only he couldn't.
"A few things, Mr. Ibi. The most glaringly obvious is the fact that the town fathers would never agree to your acquisition of one of the largest mental facilities in the western hemisphere for land development, even if it was hemorrhaging money, which it is."
His opponent's eyes lit up with the challenge. "Ah, but with the right funds-"
Bruce did laugh, but it came out as more of a gargling hack. "No amount of money is going to make them uproot the largest collection of criminally insane patients and do god-knows-what with them. The very fact that that place is there gives them stability."
If Ibi's spirits were dampened, he didn't show it. "They could be relocated, of course."
"Where? What sane person would possibly place the Joker in one of their wards? Just the value of the equipment runs into the millions because of how they've had to augment to accommodate for some inmates. Ever hear of Clayface?"
Ibi waved a hand dismissively. "Mr. Wayne, we are splitting hairs. They could always be moved to…ah, yes, 'Black Gate'. Inmates that are beyond treatment, like the Joker and the man you say, can be executed."
The clock ticked by a minute in silence while Bruce just stared at the man, awestruck. A number of possible arguments rose to the surface, all beginning with the phrase "Who the hell?". He wanted to be sick, wanted to purge the aura of this man from his system. He wanted to vomit his whole belief system back in his face so he could see what it really was. Bile.
"Mr." he began and swallowed. His throat was parched and had a metallic tang to it. He had desperately needed that tea.
"Mr. Ibi, despite all the above criminals have done, the laws of this country clearly state-"
"And what of the law, Mr. Wayne? I am sure the law is of great comfort to the thousands that have their routines disrupted daily by the activity of such burdens on society. These people that deserve much more than you are giving them."
"The insane are people too."
"Not to me."
A great silence washed over them, and interlude where Bruce found he could no longer look the other man in the eye, they almost blazed with their intensity. Being near this man made him sick, talking to him made him angry.
"It's people like you" he said finally. "that were responsible for creating the Joker and the rest. Humanity is many things, and one of them is having pity for those who are lower than you. Many of the inmates at Arkham have fallen, but they are still human. And, as humans, they are treated to certain inaliable rights."
"And what of the rights of the people they hurt? What of the men they defraud in their schemes, the women they kill on a daily basis in the low places of a city with plenty of low places? What of the people who only hide behind a façade of normalcy and hide within them the same poison that pumps through the bodies they claim to be against?"
"Being off-balance doesn't immediately qualify you as a card-carrying menace to society; if it did the crime rate would skyrocket. We're all a little mad sometimes, aren't you?"
"No." he said smugly. "Are you a criminal, Mr. Wayne?"
"No. That's not very civil for you to imply that I am."
"Then it's not very civil for you to question my sanity, now, is it?"
Bruce bit his tongue. It had to've been at least ten minutes by now. Where the hell was Alfred?
"Sane or no, I'm afraid I can't meet you halfway on this. Please show yourself out, Mr. Ibi."
"Please, Nihil." He said as he stood up. His eyes still gleamed but it was as if the fire in them had been banked, and only coals were left.
"I am very sorry we could not see 'eye to eye', as it were. I hope that you do not live to regret this, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce stiffened, getting some of his old resolve back. "Is that a threat?"
"No, it is a promise, from me to you." Ibi tossed over his shoulder. "Your hair wants cutting."
And like that, he was gone.
Two minutes ticked by while Bruce sprawled listlessly in the chair, all strength gone. Then, when three had nearly come, Alfred threw open the door with an uncharacteristic crash.
"Master Wayne-Bruce-I had only just-were you in here with him the entire time? I-I just-"
"It's all right, Alfred." God, how weak he sounded! Just talking made his chest hurt.
Alfred continued to talk while he hovered over him like a mother hen, straightening things, unstraightening them, unsure of what to do with his sick charge.
"Oh, Master Bruce, I smelled smoke and I was afraid the kitchen had caught fire-it hadn't really-but then I realized you were still here-I looked out the north bay window and I saw that man walking away-does it hurt much?"
His head, lolling ineffectively, managed to nod the confirmation.
"I watched after him until he was very nearly at the gate-Master Bruce, I believe I should take you to your bedroom, you aren't well-I left you alone for so long, I'll never forgive myself-no fire, what a fool-"
"Alfred." It felt like live coals were dropping from his mouth. "I'll be okay. I just need to rest. Take me to bed, give me something to drink, and I'm sure I'll be all right."
"Whatever you say."
Between the two of them, they managed to maneuver him to the bed and drop him there, where he lay like a pile of laundry. After half a cup of chamomile tea spoon-fed to him, Bruce fell into an uneasy and dreamless sleep.
Waking hours later, Bruce very strongly considered rolling back over and passing out again. The past few day were taking their toll, and his mouth felt like several small finches gained ingress from a window left open and used his mouth for their own personal crapper. His head had Glenn Miller's entire ensemble playing #9 with extra snare drum, and when he stood he found his nose had begun to bleed. Lovely.
Still, somehow he managed to heave his way down to the kitchen to get a drink of water, no mean feat as the way was punctuated by three staircases. After sitting upright and breathing slowly and deeply awhile, Bruce felt marginally better.
Deciding to leave the cup in the sink and let Alfred worry about it, he lurched to his feet and made his way to the batcave. There, he switched on the computer and sat at it for a minute, staring fuzzily.
After a moment he made one keystroke, then another, and another, until he had brought up the databank on recent offshore business deals. There was no record of a Nihil Ibi. He brought up all firms from offshore dealing in security. None involving his man.
He sat back and began to tap the card against his teeth. Alfred had left it carelessly on his desk and Bruce had stuffed it into his pocket. Something about the card nagged him, too. It wasn't the same grade of quality of most other business cards, it was thin cardstock, with offset print-
Bruce did a double-take.
The writing. Of course. It was the same wavery font as the pen, the co insignia was identical. It was all starting to click together. He turned the card over. There was no marking but in the upper-left corner, where there was the slightly scorched outline of a fingerprint.
He had never left information with his secretary, had scheduled an appointment but without stating the reason. The Scarecrow had his pen, not a certainty but strong evidence that they had been dealing with him.
The man had no record. It was like he never existed. Even his ethnicity- he punched in his name. After a moment, he swore and whacked the console. "Nihil Ibi". Latin. Roughly translated: "Nothing there".
He then searched through Gotham's PD files and grimly nodded at what came up. Lock-up turned up dead in the work farm he was sent to. The Clock King went missing from his apartment, his probation officer arrived to find everything as it was, no sign of struggle. Pamela Isley had been released and never heard from again.
Whole pages of disappearance, all under different circumstances and minor enough not to warrant more than a raised eyebrow. What does it matter if people are being killed? They were bad, and considering what's left behind, no more than a drop in a bucket.
He rubbed his eyes. This was a tenuous connection at best, even if he could prove Nihil was somehow connected to some of them, how would he find him? He hadn't the first clue where to look, and by the Hatter's description the businessman had come to them-
He stared off into space, tapping his finger. Nihil Ibi. No one there. The creature. It didn't so much kill as absorb its victims. Nihil Ibi. When he had seen it, it had the features of at least three people he knew it had killed. Parts of had been transparent. "nothing there".
The creature moved quick enough so that it was always one step ahead of its victims, wearing them down with its presence, making them unsure when it would strike.
He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Nihil Ibi. Had come to see him. Had heard he was sick.
Bruce had only been in for a few hours, most of them dark. The likelihood of someone from his company calling that early, even if it was urgent… And Alfred would never, to someone he didn't know-
Alfred.
Damnation.
He turned to the stairs, where he was able to glimpse a dark figure for a moment, possibly carrying another figure, before there was and explosion and blood and darkness and pain.
Author's note: Two chapters in two weeks! Woot. This story has been nagging at the corner of my eye, I've got a rough outline of how it should be finished, but I've got so many ideas for a finale that I know I won't use all of them. I've been reading issues of Detective Comics, #777-780's, and I can't find any more! The storyline, Dead Reckoning, is really intriguing and I love the villain's characterizations. Especially Scarecrow, love the granny glasses. Sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger…again. Also, please forgive my bastard latin.