Chapter Seven Through the Looking Glass

The classroom fell silent, every young eye was filled with fear. They had already watched their classmates and teachers fall to this madman's bullets, and now they were to watch the murder of a police officer.

In the back of the room, two green eyes blazed with fury. He had gone far enough. He had tortured these children all day long, and someone had to stop him. No more. His attention was focused on the students, feeding off of their terror. She used this to her advantage as her slender hands dropped to the sides of her chair.

A silver flash of light soared effortlessly through the air of the classroom.

Reese cried out as it struck his leg and the knee jerk reflex made him lose his footing. He crumpled to the floor. A fraction of a second later, the silver light once more flashed through the room. This time, the disc struck Mark Foster's hand, slicing into the skin and muscle. He cursed as his muscles spasmed and his grip on the gun loosened.

Dinah was out of her seat in a second, the gun mysteriously flew from Mark's hand as if by its own power. The students could hear it strike the lockers outside. The other guns, in a wall of firearms against the chalkboard also fell away, far from his grasp. She crossed the room quickly, striking out with her fist. She hit the large man in the sternum and watched him sail back a little into the chalkboard. He grunted, balled his fist...and stopped. "What's the matter? You don't hit girls?" She glanced down at the letterman's jacket... "Or are you afraid of hitting the explosives?" She hit him again, her expression grim. "That's for my friends."

Mark gasped, choked, collapsed to his knee on the floor. A thin line of sputum and blood trailed from his lips.

Reese was rising to his feet when he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He could not react fast enough.

Mark's hand had dropped to his ankle when he fell, and in a movement that was nothing but a blur to those present, he had Dinah in his arms, a knife pressed to her throat. "I don't want hit the explosives, Babe. But I don't give a shit if I get blood on 'em."

***

"This could not be more beautiful. I could not have planned it better." The man stirred his tea and sipped from it slowly, savoring every drop. "The good Detective, the war hero, the loving father and doting husband....a madman, a murder, a nightmare to plague the children of New Gotham well into the next decade. He will be a legend...as shall we, when the time is right." He gave a slow, but bright Cheshire cat grin at the woman seated to his left. "My love, you are witnessing history. You watch, the good detective is only the first of many victories. There will be more, oh so many more."

"Isn't our world amazing? Look at the media. The sentence first, and the verdict afterwards. He shall be put to death, and then declared guilty before them all. Its too bad they won't know the truth until its too late." He chuckled. ""I have a dream, my darling. The Bat. No one knows where he is at. The city is ours for the taking." He poured a bit more water into his cup, dipping the tea bag in silence. "Mark Foster...He was part of my dream, of course - but then I was part of his dream too. Vengeance. Sweet. Cold. Wonderful, vengeance. He was not man enough to claim it on his own...but with a little help, he's a killing machine. Oh yes, He was a part of my dream, but I am a part of his nightmare."

***

Dinah's hands instinctively rose to grab her captor's arm, and as her skin touched Mark's, her world faded into the monochrome world of the human psyche.

The classroom looked almost the same, though the students were now gone...and the was another figure in the room, a man. Dinah frowned, walking slowly towards him, her movements cautious. With a gasp, she recognized him.

The man was an exact copy of Mark. Although, he looked younger. His hair was cut in military fashion, he was in some kind of dress uniform complete with white gloves and a sword at his side. At least, the gloves had once been white. His uniform was torn and bloody, his face covered in bruises and lacerations. Still, he held his head high. His eyes met hers for a moment, a silent apology passed between them. He opened his mouth to speak, but blood trickled from the corners. Dinah took a few more hesitant steps towards him, finally squatting by his side. "What happened?" His answer was a bloody gurgle. Dinah gasped in horror as she realized the man had no tongue. "Who...who did that to you?"

"The madman did it. His is the only voice Mark hears."

The answer surprised her. It had come from a separate corner of the room. Dinah spun towards it, ready to fight. She stopped, surprise etched on her face. "Chad?"

"No." The young man laughed and shook his head. "More like Jiminy."

"Jiminy?" Dinah frowned. "I'm confused. What's going on?"

"Mark, he's out of control."

Dinah snorted. "Tell me about it. He shot up my school. He could have killed my friends. He fit me with a ten pound bomber's jacket. The guy's nuts."

"You don't understand. Mark is not in control. Mark is a prisoner. He is a victim."

"He's a psycho."

The young man sighed and shook his head. "No, the only madman is the puppeteer who pulls the strings. Mark is just a puppet in his show."

"Okay..." Dinah was only getting more confused. "How do I stop him?"

"You don't. He's as dead as his son. You have to kill him, and you have to stay away from his blood."

"His blood? Does he have AIDS or something? Is he sick?"

"Kill him, Dinah. Kill him before he kills anyone else. I cannot control him anymore." 'Jiminy' gestured to the battered soldier by the wall. "Neither of us can. We fought for control, we lost."

Dinah shook her head. "I can't kill him. We don't kill."

Dinah felt the blade against her throat as the world around her suddenly came back to life in full technicolor. The young man's final comment still echoed in her ears.

"He is already dead, Dinah. Now, you must put his soul to rest."