Yeah. Sorry about that. I have only one excuse: nineteen credits. But that's not much of an excuse, so feel free to chuck rotten tomatoes at me.
Anyway, this is kind of a quickie to get me back in the habit and introduce some crucial characters. I finally worked out EXACTLY what's going to happen, so hopefully the plot holes will be minimized.
Oh, I just fixed one hole, though. You remember how really frickin' easy it was for Tory to get into Max Security and for Jon to escape? Well, guess what! Arkham in the comic books is notorious for being an easily cracked crib. Just about everyone has escaped that dump at least once. So, I didn't screw up. I was being true to the comics! And if you believe that, I have all kinds of things to sell to you...
So, anywho, welcome to Part III. Cue the confetti.
Plot Twists
"Roger, this is Tory. Tory, this is Roger. You've met before. You were just unconscious."
"That's helpful, Jack," said Tory, rolling her eyes.
"Nice to see you again, Tory," said Roger, shaking her hand and giving her a winning smile. He was of medium height, boyishly good-looking, and somewhat swarthy, with dark hair and eyes – probably of Italian descent. Something about his quick smile and the gleam in his eye labeled him as a ladies man. "Hope you've recovered from your, ah, adventures."
"Um…" she gave Jack a questioning look.
"Roger is the one who gave us the car to get to Jorge's place," he supplied. "You passed out in the helicopter, remember?"
"And slept through the whole drive," added Jon.
"Oh! Okay. Well, in that case…very much so," she told Roger with a smile. She looked around curiously. They were in a large warehouse that had been modified into a garage. Cars were everywhere, both new and old, sexy and clunker. Men were everywhere as well, all wearing grease-stained clothes and shouting loudly over the whir of the various machines.
"Nice place you have here," she said tentatively.
"Nothing says home like a chop shop," said Jon sardonically, leaning casually against a concrete support pillar. The three of them all looked horribly out of place – Jack with his business casual look, Jon dressed like the former college professor he was, and Tory in her ever-present jeans and tank top – but nobody seemed to be paying them any particular attention. Clearly, the men here were used to visitors.
Roger grinned. "Damn straight. So, what can I do for you fine gentlemen today?"
"We need a new car," Jack told him. "Our old one's got some holes in it."
"Yeah, I noticed. I apologize in advance, by the way."
"Oh? For what?" asked Jack, sounding suspicious.
"No Porsches," said Roger solemnly, in the kind of tone usually used to announce someone's death.
"WHAT?"
"Sorry. That new biker gang in Santa Fe had a good run and completely cleaned me out of the pretty stuff."
"Fine," Jack said sourly. "Any Ferraris?"
"Nope."
"Shit!"
"Suspend your elitist tastes, Jack," Jon told his brother. "It would just make us stick out, anyway."
"I never get to have any fun," Jack muttered.
"Do you have any BMW convertibles?" piped up Tory. "I love those."
Roger grinned and rubbed his hands together. "A lady with taste! As a matter of fact, I do."
Jack turned to give Tory a disgusted look. "A BMW?" he demanded.
"Could be worse," Jon told him. "Could be a Toyota."
"Hey!" Tory protested. "I like those, too."
"Roger, take me away," said Jack with a slight eyeroll. "I may become violent if I stay here."
"Right. Want to inspect the merchandise?"
"Of course."
"Don't trust me, huh?"
"Not if I can help it."
"You've cut me to the quick."
"Don't worry, I'll bind your wounds with green bandages."
"Now that's the Jackson we all love."
The two wandered off, leaving Jon and Tory by the pillar at the corner of the garage.
"How do you two know him, anyway?" Tory inquired of Jon, who was still leaning against the pillar, looking half-asleep.
"Oh, he's an old friend of Tim's. Roger started out as a car thief, made some money, then moved out here and became a fence."
"Kind of like Jack starting as an assassin and becoming a manager."
"Very similar, yes. Jack included Roger in his cast…"
"Cast?"
"That's what managers call their regular employees, the seven or so they use in every job. There's usually a couple of assassins, couple of thieves, and always a tech expert or two. Together, they're called a cast. They all work together and whoever's the manager is the boss."
"Why a cast, though?"
"Think theater."
"Ohhh, I get it – like the cast of a show."
"Mmm-hmm."
Tory could tell that Jon was almost asleep. He looked so cute dozing off in the little patch of sunshine that seeped through the window that she couldn't help but snuggle up to him.
"Mmm," he murmured as she wrapped an arm around his waist and settled against the pillar next to him. "Sorry, I'm still just…"
"I know," she said soothingly. Fearing another panic attack after the events of last night, she and Jack had encouraged Jon to sleep during the long car ride to Roger's shop. So far, the extra nap seemed to have helped some, but Tory could tell that Jon wasn't even close to operating at his normal levels. Silently she prayed that the storm wouldn't break until they had reached the comparative safety of New York. Considering that they were driving there, however, that didn't seem likely.
Jon seemed to know what was going through her mind. He took her hand from where it rested against his hip and squeezed it. "I'll be all right," he whispered.
"Liar," she whispered back, kissing him lightly on the cheek. His skin was cool and clammy. Tory squeezed Jon's hand back and mentally cursed at Jack to hurry up.
"So if regular employees are a cast, then are the people a manager uses sometimes called extras?" she asked, trying to distract Jon.
He chuckled. "No, but that would be pretty funny. They're just called employees."
"Damn. I got all excited."
He craned his head down to smile at her. "There is something called a "shadow player," though."
"Oh? What's that?"
"It refers to someone who's in the cast but whom nobody outside knows."
"Um…what?"
"Most of the people in a hand are well-known. That's how people decide which manager to hire – they look at his past successes and they find out what kind of cast he has."
" 'He.' How sexist."
"Unfortunately not. There's never been a female manager."
Tory's mouth dropped open. "What? Never?"
"Never. In fact, there are hardly any women at all in our profession."
"Well, that sucks." Tory mused on that fact. "Kind of explains a lot, too."
"Yes," said Jon, again picking up on her train of thought. "I'm afraid Jack's sexism is in the nature of an occupational hazard."
"But you're not sexist."
"No, I despise both genders equally."
Tory bent over double with silent laughter, forcing Jon to catch her around the waist before she fell down.
"Did I miss something?" asked Roger just above her, startling her into looking up.
"No, that's just their usual antics," Jack said with a long-suffering sigh. "Let's hustle, you two. We have a car."
"A BMW convertible?" Tory asked eagerly.
"Yes. Unfortunately."
"What color?"
"Black."
"Sweet!"
"Michael's pulling it around front," said Roger. They heard a squeal of brakes.
"Pulling or crashing?" Tory asked nervously.
"Pulling," the twins affirmed together. Jon released her and got off of the pillar, rubbing at his eyes and knocking his glasses askew. "Alright, let's go."
"Hey, Jon, are you okay?" asked Roger, sounding alarmed.
"I'm fine," he assured them, but his voice was weak. His eyes seemed caught by something over Roger's head and the color drained from his already pallid face.
"Are you…hallucinating?" asked Roger in a whisper, sounding nervous, as if he weren't sure what Jon's reaction to the question might be.
Jon seemed to shake himself and smiled wearily. "I'm always hallucinating, Roger," he told him, an ironic twist to his lips. "It's just a matter of whether or not I can ignore it."
The sack landed on the mahogany table with a squishy thump, just in front of the seated woman. She opened it with quick motions of her long, manicured fingers, seemingly impervious to the nauseating smells emanating from the rough burlap. Peering inside, she frowned.
"I was rather expecting Crane's head," she said quietly, glancing up at the man who'd thrown it on the table. "Jorge's, while gratifying, was hardly the target of your expedition."
"He didn't have enough of a head left to bring," the man said sweetly, lips curling upward and blue eyes gleaming. "And I don't take trophies unless they present a challenge."
The woman was still frowning but appeared to accept this explanation. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded.
"A job well done is to be rewarded," rumbled a deep voice behind her. "Give this man what he is due." A small Asian man hurried forward with a briefcase and passed it to the assassin.
"Many thanks, friends," the man told them, grinning. There was more than a hint of raw bestiality to the way he bared his teeth, which went well with his ragged, dirty blonde locks and thick beard.
"I am sorry," she told him in a sweet, consoling voice that retained a slight accent, "about the loss of your comrades."
Phillip, former employee of the General and leader of the Wolves, the team sent to assassinate Crane, shrugged. "Good men," he said nonchalantly, although she thought she could detect the faintest catch in his voice. "But they knew the risks. And this'll numb the pain some," he added, hoisting the briefcase with another feral grin.
"So glad to help," she said, and with a flick of her elegant hand dismissed the man. He bowed twice, first to her, then to the man standing behind her.
"Ra's Al Ghul," he told the man, a hint of reverence in his scratchy voice, "it's been a pleasure."
"Likewise," the man rumbled back, and the Asian man escorted the assassin away, leaving the man and the woman alone in the opulent hotel room.
Sora turned sideways in her chair. "Indeed," she murmured, looking up through long eyelashes at her fourth husband, "it is a pleasure working with you."
Aman grinned, flashing bright teeth against his black, almost purple skin. "I must say," he told her, running a hand over her shiny, raven's-wing hair, "I like all this unearned respect."
"Feel free to get used to it," she told him, rising gracefully and walking to the closet. "I doubt you'll ever be exposed. Everyone who knew old Henri as Ra's Al Ghul is dead, and who would doubt the word of a beloved, long-lost wife?"
"Everyone except Bruce Wayne," he reminded her.
"Shortly, everyone who knew will be dead," she told him firmly, sliding open the closet door and examining her various beautiful coats. "And even if the 'Batman' does escape, they will never believe him over me." Selecting a black wool trench, she draped it over her arm and shut the door.
"Isn't it ironic?" she asked, almost to herself, turning around to face Aman and leaning against the closet. "Twenty-five years ago the man deserted me because I was a criminal. I was 'lost' to him, he said. Everyone in his organization thought I was dead. They were amazed to discover that I was alive." She belted on the trench and gestured for Aman to put on his own tailored black coat. "But now he's the one who's dead," she continued, striding to the door, closely followed by Aman. Just as she was turning the handle, she twirled around in a swirl of cloth and gently laid one finger against Aman's chest. "And everyone thinks," she murmured up at him, a smile curving her lips, "that he's alive."
They exited the room to her bright laughter.
The graveyard was deserted at night, but even then he didn't dare to go in. He killed the engine and rested his forehead against the cold window, staring at the rows of tombstones behind the iron fence.
He knew exactly where the General's was: seven rows up, three columns left. It was just visible from here. A brief walk from the gate. He could climb over the fence and visit it right now.
Except that he still couldn't be sure that the feds weren't watching, waiting to arrest anyone who came. After all, weeping over the grave of an assassin wasn't exactly a great character recommendation.
More importantly, however, he dared not risk being seen by any of his old colleagues. They would begin to ask themselves why he felt so strongly about the General's death. They would start to remember little things that hadn't seemed important at the time, like the number of times the General had taken him out to dinner, or the way the General never assigned him to the really dangerous jobs. The speculations would begin, the rumors would spread, and pretty soon they'd forget their old loyalty to their leader and tarnish his General's name forever.
His lips pressed briefly, lightly to the windowpane, in the direction of the General's grave. Then he started the car and drove away.
