Well, I'm out of school for a month, and I intend to use that month to get as much of this fic done as possible. I've learned my lesson about predicting the number of remaining chapters, but this story is definitely closer to the end than the beginning. The plot lines will begin to converge.
Boring stuff over! Thanks for the reviews, and for the patience, and for not sending me threats or virtual shaking fists.
The Riddler had not been expecting this. Finding Jonathan Crane on the precipice of being tortured—and obviously not for the first time, either, if all that blood was anything to go by—was not quite as shocking as walking in on Richard Dawkins and Fred Phelps reconciling their differences but was more than enough to stop the Riddler in his tracks. He stared into the room, and had the misfortune to lock eyes with Crane. It was worse than those ASPCA commercials with sad dogs and Sarah McLachlan.
Though this was, at most, one-percent his fault, the Riddler was accosted by a disproportionate heap of guilt. Crane's pitiful, beseeching expression didn't exactly ease Nigma's conscience, either. Any attempt to rationalize what he'd done failed in the face of Crane's miserable state.
There was only one way to remedy the situation: save Crane. Nigma knew he'd never have a good night's sleep again if he didn't at least try. He also knew he couldn't charge into the room without any kind of weaponry unless he wanted to experience what it was like to be gutted with a letter opener. Before he could mount any kind of rescue, he needed to arm himself.
Hoping Crane was good with charades, Nigma pointed down the hall, mimed walking with his fingers, pretended to pick something up, and then walked his fingers back. He never got to see if Crane comprehended his message because Zsasz chose that moment to reintroduce Crane to the old ultra-violence.
The Riddler skirted around Black Mask's pathetically inept security and arrived back at his van without incident. He threw open the driver's side door and began ransacking the van, looking for anything threatening enough to guarantee Crane's freedom. All he found under the driver's seat was twenty-two cents in loose change and a burrito wrapper. The passenger's seat yielded an old, well-thumbed pornographic magazine. Nigma supposed, if he wasn't so disgusted by the prospect of touching the magazine, he could always roll it up and threaten his enemies the way one would threaten a bad dog. Then he could get shot right between the eyes when Black Mask tired of his shenanigans.
The front seats were complete failures, so Nigma hopped into the back of the van, which was so cluttered it looked like a hoarder's refuge. He opened a toolbox that had looked promising, only to find it empty. That made sense, he supposed. The owner of the van would have removed anything of value before abandoning the vehicle.
Nigma kicked through the dense strata of trash. Beer bottles went rolling, a year's worth of newspapers scattered, a moldy half-eaten taco flew from its disturbed wrapper, and among all that, Nigma heard liquid slosh inside a container. He prodded around in the newspapers and near the back of the van discovered a plastic gas can.
The gas can contained no more than a liter of fuel but Nigma believed it would suffice. He scurried around in the trash like a rat and found two empty beer bottles. With a steady hand he transferred the gas from the can into the two bottles. Once they were equally filled and the gas can was empty, Nigma set them aside and searched for the next component to his improvised firebombs.
The van yielded a torn tee shirt that the Riddler shredded further. He plugged the two bottles with the rags. The bodies of the bombs were complete. All he needed was a fire source.
Five minutes of scrabbling through garbage only made the Riddler dirty and smelly. He found nothing that produced a flame. Unwilling to give up after he'd assembled his firebombs, Nigma stopped burrowing for a moment and thought about his predicament. He had to believe the universe would provide. Damn it, he was doing something good for someone else! He was risking his neck, even. That deserved a cosmic reward.
The well-oiled gears turned in Nigma's head. Even if there was a lighter or a box of matches somewhere in the strewn field, he'd never find it. He needed to look somewhere less cluttered, and there was only one such place that he hadn't searched: the glove box.
The glove box was filled with expired insurance cards. Nigma threw the cards out and, buried beneath them, found the universe's gift to him: a disposable lighter. He knew the universe would recognize his altruism.
Crane was sure he'd been abandoned, and the despair that followed didn't make being carved like an Easter ham any more enjoyable. He should have known better than to believe, even for a moment, that Nigma would help him. The Riddler was a narcissist and a coward, a combination that made him put himself before anyone else. He had no doubt decided Crane's situation was too dangerous and any noble intentions Nigma might have had had been flushed.
As he'd always known, he was going to die alone. Alone and miserable and exploited. His only consolation was that, once he was dead, he wouldn't be aware of how widely the video of his torture and death was distributed. He tried not to think about it while he was alive. The idea of the people of the world united in watching one of Gotham's greatest villains taken apart piece by piece was, like the knowledge of Nigma's traitorous retreat, exacerbating an already despicable predicament.
"You aren't even paying attention."
Crane was bewildered, like he'd been called on in class while he'd been staring out the window. He'd been so busy decrying the wanton cruelty of the universe and the complete uselessness of a certain question-obsessed poltroon that he'd somehow forgotten to give Zsasz the respect the killer felt he deserved.
"You failed to keep my interest," Crane replied. He heard the Joker snigger. Crane wondered if it was over the joke, or over the hurt Zsasz was going to administer for his sarcasm.
"I'll have to try harder."
A minute later, Crane found he'd been cured of his ADHD. His mind focused with singular intensity on the letter opener that protruded from his shoulder like an arrow. He didn't think he'd ever concentrated on anything so hard. Even his vision, it seemed, was narrowing to encompass only the letter opener. That was a very bad sign, Crane's medical training told him, the world dimming and contracting like it was. It probably meant he was going to faint.
On second thought, that wouldn't be so bad. He could use a pleasant period of total unconsciousness. It would be restful. He wouldn't care what stabbed him while he was out. Maybe he'd even get lucky and mere unconsciousness would deepen into a coma. Yes, he rather liked the idea of slipping into a comatose state. Not even the Joker's boundless stupidity could bother him there.
Crane was on the verge of closing his eyes and blacking out when something flicked him on the nose. It was enough to startle him back to his senses. He blinked, his vision cleared, and something hit him in the forehead this time.
"No sleeping on the job, Johnny-boy," the Joker said. Following the clown's words, another projectile bounced off Crane's cheek.
The object that had just hit him fell into his lap. Crane looked down and discovered it was a kernel of popcorn. The deranged clown was throwing popcorn at him like he was some kind of circus animal that had failed to amuse its audience.
"Come on, Zsasz, Johnny's so bored he's nodding off. You can do better, can't you?" the Joker asked.
"There's nothing wrong with the job I'm doing now!" Zsasz replied.
"Yes there is. It's boring."
"How can this bore you?" Zsasz plucked the letter opener from Crane's shoulder and brandished it in the clown's general direction.
"You're a one-trick pony. It was interesting for a while, but you can only see your pet Scarecrow stabbed so many times before it gets old. I'm, what's the word, desensitized."
"You're an idiot," Zsasz muttered.
"And you have no creativity!"
Zsasz tried to defend his performance, only to be pelted with popcorn. As much as the Joker liked eating popcorn, he found he liked throwing it even more.
Crane couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. It was as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. There was nothing about the scene that made sense, or was remotely probable. Who in his right mind would ever expect to watch the Joker boo another madman's performance and originality, and then rain popcorn all over the creation?
"Clichéd! Uninspired! Unimaginative! Dull! Lame! Snooze-fest!" the Joker shouted, punctuating each condemnation with another handful of popcorn.
The Joker ran out of popcorn long before he ran out of insults. Zsasz stood his ground, taking the Joker's abuse with a deepening scowl, until the clown compared his talent to the minds behind Troll 2. That proved to be just a little too cruel for Zsasz to handle, and the killer stopped suffering in silence and started venting.
"I should cut your throat and see if you can still laugh then!"
"Or you could bore me to death. Look, I think you've done it to Johnny!" The Joker pointed to Crane, who was staring straight ahead, mesmerized by the verbal warfare before him. Then Crane, realizing he'd become the center of attention, blinked and shattered any notion of his death. The Joker looked slightly disappointed.
"If you think someone else can do a better job, fine. I'm leaving," Zsasz said.
"You can't quit, I'm firing you! Clean out your desk and don't kill anyone on the way out," the Joker replied.
Zsasz had no further words for the clown. He stormed from the room, no doubt off to work out his frustrations on the first homeless person he encountered. Luckily for that homeless person, but not so luckily for the Riddler, Zsasz ran smack into Nigma as he was leaving the room.
Both men had been moving with some speed, and the collision sent them stumbling backward. One of the Riddler's improvised Molotov cocktails was knocked from his hand and went rolling down the hall. The Riddler managed to keep hold of the other and wasted no time fishing the lighter from his pocket. Zsasz recovered just as quickly and brandished the letter opener at Nigma.
"Get back in there," the Riddler said.
"Put down the lighter unless you want to be my newest mark."
"Even in Gotham you couldn't find someone stupid enough to fall for that. Now get back in there or be flash-fried."
Zsasz had never burned someone alive, but he assumed it would be a horrible way to go. He entered the room he'd just exited and was greeted by the Joker's derisive comments.
"Nope, still fired. Don't make me call security and have you hauled out," the Joker said.
"I'm not back under my own free will. Someone's here for your plaything," Zsasz said.
Edward Nigma, unlikely hero and firebug, stepped bravely into the room.
Next door, Black Mask and the Great White Shark were glued to their seats. They had just witnessed the greatest twist in history. When this video made its rounds on the Internet, it would dominate even the cutest cats and fruitiest fifteen-year-old singers.
"Should we do something about this?" the Shark asked.
Black Mask considered what would be the best—and most potentially profitable—course of action. Yes, many members of the audience would be in it only to see the Scarecrow brutally tortured and murdered. The plot that could develop meant less to them than the plot of a porno. There was, however, no denying the power of surprise developments. People with more latent sadistic tendencies, the ones who wouldn't watch a straight-up snuff film, would be drawn in by their curiosity. For the same reason people went to see movies like The Sixth Sense or Fight Club, they'd watch to see how the Riddler's appearance changed the game.
"No, let the Joker deal with it," Black Mask said.
"Good documentarian doesn't interfere, huh?" the Shark said.
"You got it. We're like those National Geographic filmmakers. When the shark goes after the seal, you have to let nature take its course."
Warren White grinned. He was sure Black Mask hadn't picked an animal at random.
"You wouldn't mind missing your chance to play with the Scarecrow?" the Shark asked.
"I've got plenty of fingers I can break if I want. Plenty of fingers I'd have a reason to break. I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy it, but the Scarecrow's not on my black list. There just isn't the same satisfaction. What about you? That fork through the hand important enough? If it is, I don't have a problem with you popping the Riddler. I'll even lend you the gun."
The Shark ran one of his remaining fingers along his palm. Crane's fork attack, White's official welcome to Arkham Asylum, had left White with no physical reminders. The tines hadn't even left scars. Revenge over such an old score didn't seem worth intruding.
"Forget it. This is too interesting," White said.
And it was about to get even more interesting. The Joker, seemingly unflustered by the Riddler's brazen entrance, met the intruder with a wave of snark.
"What's this, Mop Man? Your boyfriend? I've heard the rumors for years, but here's the proof. It's your knight in green hot pants." The Joker laughed.
Neither Crane nor Nigma found the Joker's comment worth rebuking. As though he hadn't heard the taunts, the Riddler pushed forward.
"I want Crane, and if you don't step away from him, I'll use this." The Riddler flicked the lighter on and held the wavering flame close to the rag fuse in the bottle.
Crane looked from Zsasz to the Joker and calculated his chances of getting past both of them and behind the relative safety of the Riddler. He was desperate, terrified, hyped up on adrenaline, and they were distracted. Trying to escape seemed worth the risk. It wasn't like they weren't already planning to kill him in the most awful ways imaginable. His situation couldn't get any worse.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you," the Joker said. "I know a thing or two about burning gasoline and small spaces. You wouldn't want your cuddle bunny to get cooked."
Crane waited until the Joker laughed at his own stupid comment before making his move. With speed that would have earned him an Olympic medal, Crane threw himself forward, keeping low like a running back to avoid getting tackled. In four strides he was past the Riddler and out into the hall.
Crane's momentum propelled him forward until he hit the wall. He rebounded and staggered, nearly losing his footing. Through sheer force of will and an absolute refusal to collapse now that he was free of that torture chamber, Crane managed to stay upright. He stumbled to the wall he'd just bounced off of and used it to support himself.
Nigma followed hastily behind Crane, lighter and firebomb held out in front of him, the flame never more than a few inches from the fuse. He stepped past the threshold. He could hear Crane panting for breath behind him. The lighter was growing painfully hot against his thumb. He endured until he, like Crane, was against the wall.
"Jonathan, the stairs aren't far. Can you manage?" Nigma asked.
"Haven't got a choice," Crane replied.
"Go left and take the first hall."
"Burn the clown. Burn him, the miserable bastard."
The Joker stuck out his bottom lip and pouted. "That's not very nice, especially not after all I've done for you. I made you friends, you ungrateful little straw man."
The Riddler considered doing as Crane wanted, but had to weigh the repercussions. This was the Joker, the guy who escaped death almost as often as Batman did. If he didn't die, but came out mutilated like Two-Face, he would be deadlier than a canister of nerve gas released in a subway station. And even if the lunatic did have the decency to die, there was Harley to consider. Nigma shuddered. When word reached Harley that he'd toasted her Puddin', there would be no corner of the Earth distant enough to hide him.
Instead of throwing the firebomb at the Joker, Nigma pushed Crane in the direction of the stairs. Before he followed, he had one small matter to attend to.
"Riddle me this. Give me air and I thrive, give me food and I grow, give me water and I die. What am I? A fire!" Nigma touched the lighter to the gas-soaked rag, backed up a few paces, and hurled the bottle to the floor. A curtain of fire roared across the hall, forming an impenetrable barrier.
"Run, Crane, run!" Nigma said as the fire roared behind them.
Crane needed no further encouragement. Guided by the Riddler and his perfect mental map, the pair arrived at the stairs just as an alarm, no doubt in response to the fire, began to sound. Nigma shoved open the door and ushered Crane into the stairwell.
Even though it was all downhill, Crane found descending the stairs almost as exhausting as running up them would have been. His body had been pushed in ways it had never meant to be pushed, and his injuries bleated with every movement. If not for Nigma's increasingly whiny and obnoxious "encouragement," Crane would never have been able to maintain any kind of speed.
"My grandmother could move faster than you, and she's been dead for twenty years!" Nigma said.
Grandmother. He had to bring up grandmothers. Crane managed to coax a final burst of speed from his protesting body.
Even on the ground floor there was no time for a rest. Nigma led Crane out the emergency exit and into the cool air of extremely early morning. Crane could never remember the miasma of Gotham tasting quite so fresh.
"I parked the van—"
"Van? What did you do to my Cadillac?" Crane demanded.
"Killer Croc caused a traffic jam and I couldn't wait around all day," Nigma replied.
"You traded in my Cadillac for a van?"
"Jonathan, this can wait."
"First my pickup and now my Caddy! I can't believe it!"
"Do you want to die?"
Crane reluctantly shut his mouth. This conversation was merely postponed, not over, not by a long shot!
"The coast is clear. This way."
The only obstacle on the quest for the van was one of Black Mask's henchmen. The henchman held a walkie-talkie to his ear and was apparently unhappy with whoever he was speaking to. Crane and Nigma waited until he went stomping off, shouting about proper fire extinguisher use, before sneaking by.
The van was an absolute piece of shit. Crane could have wept. The nicest vehicle he'd ever owned, and the Riddler had abandoned it in favor of this beastly thing.
"I'm saving your life," Nigma said when he noticed the hate in Crane's eyes.
"I'm gassing you into insanity for this," Crane replied.
Nigma knew better than to doubt Crane's words. His only hope was to get Crane to safety, disappear until Crane cooled down and found someone else to rage against, and then never, for as long as he lived, ever Taser Crane and leave him for dead again.
As much as he hated the van, Crane had no choice but to get in. He opened the passenger door, sat down, and crossed his arms. He would tolerate this ride, but he would not enjoy it.
Nigma was not such a sourpuss. He took the driver's seat, turned the screwdriver that served as the ignition key, and felt something that felt suspiciously like a gun muzzle press against the back of his head.
Author's Notes:
Richard Dawkins is an author and outspoken atheist. Fred Phelps is the leader of the Westboro Baptist Church, which pickets soldiers' funerals and is generally the scum of the Earth. Matter and anti-matter would reconcile before they would.
Troll 2, the worst movie ever made, features special effects that would have looked bad in 1970's episodes of Doctor Who.