Chapter Twenty-One: In Which They Raid

It seemed like it had been many, many years since Dahlia had really taken the time to stop and observe her own home. Dusty smelling, and a mild fragrance of cleaning supplies, but only in the kitchen. Dark and often times humid, shadowy and with little vibrant color. Her bedroom always smelt like citrus or peppermint, from the wax candles high up on her dresser, and she made it a habit to clean up now and then so the floor was always spotless. She felt like a runaway returning home after being off on an adventure most of her life, revisiting the one place where one would think that they would be accepted. Of course, that wasn't the case. She knew very well that Lou wasn't home, probably out filing a missing report for her, and Linda was probably out drinking and gambling with her fellow fools. It was an opportune time to return to gather some belongings - Dahlia didn't plan on coming back anytime soon.

The black gym bag was stuffed full of her favorite books, some clothes, and all of her wall's photographs and her camera. They were packed in tightly, and the strap felt as though it would snap her shoulder bone, it was so heavy. As she trudged back to Crane's house that morning, she stared down at the single picture she had taken of Crane, rubbing its dented and worn out edges. Lou's oily fingerprints were all over the glossy print from the night before, so she rubbed them away with the material of her skirt. She only succeeded in shifting the tiny swirls and spirals into a one-directed smudge only caught by direct light. She'd have to take another one to replace this one.

What was it going to be like now? she wondered. Surely Crane wouldn't let her reside at his home for very long. He didn't have time to babysit her all the time, and she didn't have the strength to work as hard and as many nights in a row as he did. Get a job, find someone to share an apartment with, find a way to get a car and a job, make sure her father never found out where she was . . . What was school going to be like? Pah, that pondering was short lived - There wouldn't be any more classes for her. She had a good hunch she was already expelled. After all, her father did tend to act pretty irrationally when it came to these minor misunderstandings. A simple physical would prove that Crane hadn't put a finger on her, and vice versa. Would he listen to reason? Of course not. He was a flatfoot, one of the fuzz. It was about time Dahlia saw with unclouded eyes to what kind of police officer he was. The only thing worse than a corrupt Gotham policeman was an emotional Gotham policeman.

. . . Wait a minute, back up. If she was, indeed, expelled . . . what stopped the madness from spreading to Crane?

Upon opening the door to the house, Dahlia quickly jogged in and looked for him. He wasn't in the living room or the study, nor was he in what area of the kitchen and hallway she could see. First closing the front door, she dropped the heavy gym bag on the floor and went down the short hall to the master bedroom. Her quick heart beat settled as her relieved eyes found him stretched out on the bed, one hand resting behind his head, the other scratching at his exposed collar bone under his shirt. His jacket and tie were sloppily hung over the back of a nearby chair. It looked completely unlike him. "Jonathan?" Yes, he got the pink slip, just as she expected.
"Dahlia, come here." It almost startled her, how not even two seconds after she entered, he had quickly pushed himself into an upright position and was looking at her directly, no humor left in his straight face. He perched himself off the side of the bed, holding out his hands for her to come. Nervous as usual, feeling as though she was about to get a spanking like a child, Dahlia slowly approached him. He was patient, only continued to hold out his still, steady hands, as her shaking ones reached out and very gently slipped into his fingers. Once close enough, Crane held her hands and pulled her close, looking up at her, holding her hands near his chest in a pleading manner. He softly massaged them, apparently trying to calm her nerves - He was good at that.

Crane spoke very lightly, different from how she figured he would have sounded. He touched on each word carefully, almost whispering, and was very delicate and flowing in his dialogue. "Dahlia, you did handle the meeting at the docks very well, and don't think otherwise. I need you to do this again. Another meeting. If all goes according to plan, Mr. Dodge will simply stop by, hand over his money, and leave. If you handle this just like you did the docks, everything will be fine, and it will be smooth sailing. Tonight, at six o'clock, and not one minute later."
What he told her was completely different from what she had expected - A slap on the wrist, a scolding, and a request for her to leave his abode. That's what she figured. But no, he was just as compassionate as ever. It made her feel guilty. But to help relieve this guilt, she swore to do whatever it was that he asked of her, without question. She had to show him loyalty and devotion. ". . . Is Dodge all that reliable to show up?"

The following pause was awkwardly long. And after about twelve or thirteen fully excruciating seconds, Crane finally smiled. Standing up, he yet still held onto Dahlia's hands as he assumed an upright position, standing uncomfortably close to her, hovering about eight inches taller. "I'm glad you realize that. Should Dodge not show up at six o'clock or sooner, I'll have you and some men travel to his home and have a merry little raid. Take all you want, use the toxin, and leave no one sane."
"Hm hm." Dahlia giggled with shut lips, finally smiling. "Sure. But, I have a question."
"Yes, my dear?" Crane replied, lifting his chin slightly.
"Where will you be during this meeting?"

"Ah . . . hm." Crane smiled again. "I have a few items of business that need attention, so I'll be away the rest of the afternoon and most of tonight."
"This afternoon?" Dahlia quirked an eyebrow. Crane turned and let her hands slip from his as he headed back down the hall, Dahlia following closely as he answered.
"The sooner I get started, the sooner I'll be finished. And I did hope to get these tasks done within one day."
"What tasks?"
"Nothing of importance, my dear."

At first Dahlia feared he was hiding some sort of animosity towards the school or her father, a quite reasonable fear at that. But she noticed that he had instead picked up the leather briefcase he used for work at the university, as opposed to the silver one she often found him with while they were masquerading as the Scarecrow and Banshee. It didn't take much thought for her suspicion to wither, so like the typical Fifties house wife, she saw him to the door and waved a farewell while he headed down that stone path to the street.

So, she was left to entertain herself in the Crane household. Dahlia didn't realize it yet, but evidently some workers had already arrived and were busy sending off shipments of orders and fear toxin in the basement and working with the chemicals to produce the poison. For about an hour or two, her boredom lugged her downstairs to assist in whatever way she could. It was actually quite a fascinating, educational process. Her newfound brothers seemed to accept her as well, joking with her and conversing as they went about their business. It was fun, enlightening. So after a while, she returned upstairs and milled about with nothing else to do. Sheryl cawed for attention, so for what seemed like another full hour, Dahlia stood by her perch, pampering her. A quick kitchen raid for lunch (Crane had such fine tastes in food for a guy with his salary), then Dahlia explored the study, scrolling across the book titles Crane kept on his shelves - The room wasn't particularly large, but just the sheer magnitude of the bookshelves made her feel as though she were in a library. And most all of them were of psychology topics of course. For as long as her boredom could stand it, she studied into emotions and subjects such as hatred, dementia, jealousy, inherited human folly, and love, ranging from crushes to a stalking obsession.

The clock sounded at six o'clock, summoning the evening, lifting her sagging eyes from the text. Time flew fast, and already, Dahlia realized that Richard Dodge had not appeared as Crane had said. A sort of miniature panic attack caused her muscles to have a sudden spasm, a quick exhaling of air through her nostrils forced out - Her mentor's instructions were clear and so simple that even an ape could follow them. But something in her gut told her that the future was going to look awfully messy. She didn't want to go through with this, but the thought of disappointing Crane scared her more.

Masked, gowned, and ready to go, Dahlia swung open the basement door and flicked the lights off and on to grab the thugs attention. Once each of their rusted eyes fell onto hers, she announced, somewhat softly as if fearing her lunch would fly out her throat, "Time to find Dodge, guys."

It was a pity, really, that so many of the few millionaire aristocrats of Gotham were such scum. This seemed like the eighteenth mansion that they had visited, and by this one, they all looked the same. Enormous, lavish, and deserted, other than the awaiting owner and his hired thugs inside. Something about this particular trip yet still bugged Dahlia however. Call it a hunch, but this Richard Dodge seemed a lot more dangerous than the average man - And ironically enough, he was the most charismatic, handsome, and seemingly sane of the others they dealt with.

Three were the amount of vans they took this time. They screeched to a halt right outside the many steps of the high and wide stoop, and thugs emerged like clowns from a clown car. One helped Dahlia step out carefully, cradling a rather large looking firearm in the hook of his arm as he walked her towards the others. "Okay," She began after taking a deep inhale for preparation, "let's go."

The erupting piercing sounds were so loud and sudden it gave Dahlia's heart a good run, panic stricken in her eyes as she witnessed bursts of white crack at the cement in front of her, tiny fragments of debris flung upwards in a chalky mist. All around her she saw her men drop to their knees and duck their heads, pointing their guns upwards or towards the door as they barked out commands to one another. The nearest grabbed her arm and pulled her down with him, then used his own body as a shield as he hovered closely over her. His armed hand jerked in the direction of his upward glaring eyes, "Watch out!" And the gun fired off speedy, rapid bullets, the gunfire fanned across the open window high above and unluckily missed their attacker who had ducked back inside.

"Damn it!" Dahlia couldn't help but scream aloud. "I knew something was wrong!" While busy contemplating if she'd die this night or not, the human bodyguard grabbed her again and carried her with him back to the vans for cover, each of the thugs spreading out around the perimeter and proceeding to smash windows to get inside. Constant gunfire shot off, barely missing each man, and they too shot back whenever the origins of the shots were found. Glass shattered, men shouted, and there wasn't a moment of silence. No more than twenty seconds after they had arrived, they were in a domestic war.
"Stay here!" He clamored as he ran out from behind cover. Dahlia didn't see where he went, too terror-stricken to budge from the van - Her back and neck were practically glued to the side of the safe vehicle, each muscle in her body taut and strained. From the corners of her eyes, she witnessed their bodies shift and jerk about, avoiding the gun fire as best they could, and firing back up at the high window. With concentration, she heard rhythmic thumps and the smashing of wood on the other side of the van. They were trying to break down the front doors, she assumed.

Remarkable however, that through this war, her very first time being in such a dangerous situation, Dahlia suddenly acquired the role of a scout, or a spy. She took several deep breaths, steadying her heart as best she could and trying to relax her muscles. Slowly her hands stopped shaking, and finally she was able to peel herself off of the cool metal passenger's door. The gunfire never stopped, but still she leaned out to one side and shouted to the nearest thug, "Go around to the other side! Distract them!" He nodded, then punched another in the arm and gestured towards the opposite corner of the mansion. As they sprinted away, the bullets followed them, and Banshee had her chance to make her move.

With upper body bent forward and staying as low to the ground as possible, she too sprinted, but for the side from which her thugs had just evacuated on command. Like a deer, she sprung around the bushes and shrubbery as best she could, keeping an eye out for any sort of opening or entrance. So far, the glass windows on the first floor were all closed and most likely locked, and breaking one open would certainly direct attention to her. But off near the back of the mansion and at its side was one that was propped open, the barrel of what, to her, looked like a sniper rifle was peering out, slowly watching the scenery for any movement. Banshee pressed her back up to the rough outer wall, and stealthily sidled towards it, carefully maneuvering her thin heels around the pebbles and rocks. Boy, Dodge was really prepared for this, wasn't he? He planned it from day one, she figured. Crane was completely correct in not trusting him. Now, it was her duty to take him out and let him know just who he was messing with.

Banshee now lay crouching under the window with the sniper, and above her, she heard Dodge's thugs chatting amongst themselves.
". . . no you doofus! You do that and we'll all get killed, stupid."
"Hey, you didn't see Crane, did you? No. Just-"
"-the Banshee, who's just as dangerous. Don't let her young age trick you. That chick's got skills, and if you disrespect her, she'll put one of them heels up your . . . Ah!"
Banshee took advantage of their lowered guard, and with a firm grip on the outer edge of the frame of the window, violently flung herself inside and drove both feet into the side of the sniper's temple, knocking him over with ease. What came next seemed only a blur in her eyes, hearing shots fired off but no pain from burning wounds, the wind whirling about her as she worked as quickly and efficiently as possible. Several seconds later, she was pressed up against the wall and staring wide eyed at the three fallen men around her, disarmed and out cold on the plush and opulent rug. It may have alerted others, so she didn't take the time to think about what just happened, and only ran down the corridor, through several rooms, finding the unguarded stairwell.

Heavy plodding footsteps echoed in the upper hall, and Banshee quickly leapt and rolled into the nearest open room, shifting about to hide herself behind the door and careful not to disturb anything to give away her whereabouts. The guards headed down the stairs, and once she heard them out of the area, she poked a head out to take a good look at where she could go next. The open door at the far end of the hall showed part of what appeared to be a study - All she could make out were books and a few Renaissance paintings hanging on the walls. All the other doors were shut. The gunfire gave away the stationed men, so she knew they were kept busy, most likely in those rooms, so didn't have to worry. Dodge on the other hand, his location wasn't so easy to pinpoint.

She leaned back into her hiding spot and examined the room she herself was in. This one appeared to be an office. A large mahogany desk sat at the far corner, a computer and monitor plus a stack of papers and a few envelopes and folders. The large painting behind the desk seemed like just the perfect (not to mention unoriginal) place to put a safe, which she was quite sure there must have been one embedded in the wall. Another plush rug, and file cabinets along the back wall. Something about the corner opposite the desk bothered her, and gave her a feeling of dread. Her unmasked eye squinted as she carefully took several steps forward, observing it to be nothing more than a mere wall, yet still her instinct told her that something was definitely of important interest. Aha! That's what it was! But her realization came too late, as the hidden doorway suddenly slid open, and out strolled Richard Dodge.

Without having to even see his face before realizing it was him, Banshee threw a leg behind her as she bent forward, kicking the door shut and then dashing forward. Dodge's eyes widened with shock, too stunned to avoid her knee impacting with his gut. He toppled forward, and she finished it with a hard elbow strike into his spine. But somehow, she wasn't surprised that her hits weren't as effective against the head honcho, as she felt his forearm swipe just over the floor, literally knocking her feet out from under her. Just as soon as she landed on her back, exclaiming as the wind was knocked out of her, she felt his powerful hands grab at her leg just below the knee and pull her towards him with frightening ease. Containing her impulsive shrieks, he clawed his way up her body, at her hip, stomach, chest, then shoulders, now lying directly over her as she tried to thrash her way free. He pulled her mask up to rest atop her head, seeing her pale face stare back up at him.

"You know . . ." Dodge's lips stretched into a mad grin, eyes burning with fire and lust as they trailed down her body. His neatly slicked back hair was falling apart, several strands at the front curled forward over his forehead. ". . . I always did admire your feistiness. And I gave you the perfect opportunity to quit Crane's dummy work and come join me, but you refused. Why would you do that? Now see what I have to do." Finally she did shriek - Keeping herself hidden wasn't quite as disgustingly chilling as the thought of getting raped. Both of his hands grabbed at her blouse and began to tear it open, streaks of her moist skin showing through. She shrieked again, silenced with Dodge's aggressive hand laid over her mouth and chin. Yet still her tore at her clothing, managing to tear off just enough to see her heaving chest and part of her bra, but he wasn't satisfied with just eye candy. "I told you, I told you. Now look what I have to do. Look what I have to do to you."

He was completely out of his mind. Dahlia had to do something, because if she cried out again, the only thing she would get would be more of Dodge's thugs wanting a piece of the action, she figured. The only person who could save her at this point was herself . . . but he was so strong. A beast clawing at prey, savoring every moment and desiring nothing but its flesh. She couldn't reach the toxin tucked away in her boots and stockings, which didn't manner anyway, because Dodge was now tearing at them too.

If there was such a great being as God, then he had just shone light on Dahlia Rhodes. She was deeply weeping by the time Dodge had managed to rip off one of her stockings, but her sobs ceased once she saw a bottle of the toxin roll across the rug. The fool Dodge was probably in too big a hurry to realize what he had just done. Without a moments notice, she stretched out and snatched it up, then drove it as hard as she could into the side of his face. Just as she had wanted, it burst open, dispelling the poisonous fumes into the air around him. "GAAHH!" Dodge moaned as Dahlia wiggled her way out from under him, and with anger drove both of her heels into his chest, causing another yell to escape him.

Gun. Must find a gun, or a weapon, or something. That's the next thought that occurred to Dahlia, while Dodge was distracted. Still in such fright and shock to even be able to rise up to her feet, she crawled on the floor to the desk, opening each of its drawers in hopes of finding something, anything. The bottom drawer did indeed harbor a puny looking firearm, which she immediately snatched up, then pivoted on her rear to face her attacker and point it straight at his forehead. Realizing that her face was exposed, she quickly pulled her mask back down, shaking as she adjusted it to be more secure. Dodge's coughing fit finally halted, and as he looked up at her with watering eyes, his breathing just increased once again as nightmarish images, unknown to the Banshee, surged through all of his senses.
"Rot in hell, you sick-"

The door bursted open, the doorknob and lock flung off as the wood splintered and was destroyed. Banshee unfortunately thought it to be one of her men coming up to finally rescue her, but it was one of Dodge's men. She dropped the gun in panic as she tried to get behind the desk for cover, but was stopped halfway as the close gunfire shot out, the stinging pain she had anticipated reaching into her lower left arm. And because she had been trying to scramble away on all fours, one less limb caused her to fall forward, screaming in paint. Her wrist especially burned, the cool liquid seeping out doing nothing to help. It was the worst pain she had ever experienced.

As Banshee's ears caught following shots, she was almost sure she was dead this time. No one was this lucky, were they? But yes, she was, for finally one of her own thugs had taken out this foe, then entered the room and ruthlessly taken out Dodge with a showering of bullets into his chest. This all happened within no more than four seconds, and already he had grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up as he said, "We gotta get out of here, Boss! Dodge's taken care of, but now his guys are talkin' 'bout getting you. We'll stay behind to grab whatever cash he has lying around, but two of the guys downstairs'll get you back to the base." Finally Banshee had a few moments to let the man make the decisions for her. As she lay slung over his thick shoulder, ignoring the bullets flying by and the floor running out in front of her, she only stared at her shining crimson colored hand, counting three black holes in her wrist and at the area of flesh just under her elbow. It hurt so bad, and though she tried, she was unable to bend her fingers without her nerves as far up to her shoulder began to sting and shake with tension. Finally the moonlight came into view, the cleaner air reaching her nostrils - They were outside.

All the injured Banshee could remember after that was opening her eyes in the back of the van, feeling the steel bench bump and rock under her as when they had terrorized Killinger's. Where they were going now didn't matter to her anymore. Blinking her day dreaming away, she looked up to see one thug wrapping a scrap of his shirt around her arm, and one more at the wheel of the vehicle, driving like a madman through Gotham's streets. The earlier words "back to the base" rung in her ears over and over again, which at first didn't bother her until . . .

". . . Wait . . . Stop! Go back to the Narrows, to my apartment!" She so hated it when her gut feelings interrupted the more logical course of action. Just as natural as gravity, something pulled her towards her home, even if she had fled it and swore to never return.
"What? We gotta get you to a medic!" The driver shouted back, slowing the van as to not rouse so much attention from the other cars on the road. He didn't sound like he was prepared to obey her command, but Dahlia could clearly see through the tiny peephole and through the windshield that he was making a turn to head for the Narrows.
"It's just my arm and only for a few minutes. I'm fine! Now go!"

After giving him the directions and address, they came to a stop outside the apartment building about twenty minutes later. "I'll be right back," Dahlia muttered as she refused the thug's aid in helping her out of the van. Quickly, she raced up the stairs, clutching her wrist in her other hand, panting as sweat rolled down her forehead and neck, making her way up to the third floor. The hallway to her front door was empty, lucky her, so no nosey neighbors would inquire as to why blood was dripping off her wrists and hands and there was a huge stain on her torn blouse.

Seeing her front door wide open at first gave her the impression that her father of Linda were either entering or exiting at that time, which strangely enough didn't bother her. But once she reached it, once she stepped inside, her feet froze to the floor as her eye caught sight of Linda sprawled out in the kitchen, unconscious. Drunk, maybe, but she wouldn't have passed out on that hard surface. Besides, it was out of her way to the living room or bedroom, which is where she preferred to pass out. Speaking of the living room, once Dahlia took several more steps inside, she almost screamed upon seeing Lou, too, out cold, half clinging to the couch and half lying on the floor beside the coffee table. A robber perhaps, or Dodge's thugs? But other than her family's silence and stillness, nothing else was disturbed. Everything was just as she remembered it was, all unbroken and in its usual organized messiness.

Dahlia's bedroom door was open too. Shakily inhaling through her nostrils, she made no effort to keep her footsteps quite as she entered with flair, expecting to see that room alone in shambles. After all, Lou and Linda didn't do anything to disturb Gotham's underground mobs, as far as she knew. It was all her doing if anything of this was related. But no, it too was just as she had left it, clothes on the floor, sheets undone and everything. That hunch though, it had never left her, and at that moment had seized her stomach and was wringing it and pulling it in ties, causing her to nearly fall over in shock.

Facing her wall of photographs, head arched back and inspecting each diverse individual that had been captured on film, was Crane.