First Interlude



"All right, guys, you've done a lot of hard work -- and trust me, I appreciate every second of it - but now we've got to be real careful, watch ourselves, and keep a lid on things. Raise your hands if you understand."

Chaise, standing on a raised platform in the middle of the room, beamed as the group of men sitting on the floor before him obligingly raised their hands. Mopping his brow, he squatted down, resting gingerly on the edge of a large basin that covered more than half of the platform.

"Good, good. I don't mean to talk down to you guys, but I just need to make sure we are absolutely clear. I mean, we're too close now to start making silly mistakes. Right, Jer?" he looked to his left.

Wittinger, sitting quietly in the shadows, inclined his head. He wriggled in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was all but useless. The chair in which he was sitting was too soft, too lumpy and too large for the small space. In fact, the whole décor seemed wrong. He glanced around the finished and furnished first level of The Haven. The overhead lamps were dim, bathing the entire level in an eerie, almost sinister glow. The walls were painted an olive shade and were decked with collages of dried leaves and twigs. He noticed that one of the decorations was actually a Christmas wreath with the ribbon and berries torn out. The wooden floor was covered in dried pine needles, some of which were as pointy and sharp as stickpins. Jeremy shook his head. Chaise did say he wanted the building to have a "lived-in" look, and it did - as in, looked like a bunch of nuts ~lived~ in it.

"... Don't want a bunch of people poking around," Merrill's voice was a little agitated. "So just keep a lid on things - any leaks get out, and, well, it'll be bad. Bad for all of us," he looked around, smiling. "It's all about protecting our interests, right?"

The group nodded. Jeremy noticed, however, that none of the men had relaxed under Merrill's genial expression. They were remembering, maybe, that this same smiling, sweet-looking man had sent 13 men to their deaths with the push of a button. Thirteen men whose only crime was to have had the misfortune to run afoul of the Batman. Jeremy remembered those men, too - but that was not the reason he was not smiling. No - his grave expression was for another reason entirely.

". . . So we've got a lot do. I want to get set up by tomorrow - day after at the very latest. So, I figure we'd better do our little test run now. Get all the kinks out. Jeremy?" he glanced over at Wittinger again. "Could you show us how to set up? Please?"

Wittinger got to his feet, walking quietly toward the dais on which Chaise and the basin rested. A large wooden barrel stood near, a hose running from a hole in its side to the inside of the tub.

"It's really very simple," Jeremy cleared his throat. "You simply turn the nozzle here," he pointed to a gray knob on the underside of the hose. "Turn it counterclockwise. You'll feel a slight resistance, but don't force it. You must turn it slowly or you will break the knob."

"Hear that, boys? Easy does it," Merrill gave the men a broad wink. "All right - then what?"

Wittinger carefully turned the dial until he felt the knob jump in his hand. "You'll feel a slight click - you may not hear it, but you ~will~ feel it," Jeremy straightened. "When you do, it means the barrel has been tapped, and then all you'll have to do is wait."

He looked down into the faux-marble basin, watching as the hose twitched, issuing out a clear, odorless fluid into the bowl. "And there you have it. In about 30 to 45 minutes, the basin will be full, and you'll simply roll the empty barrel away and dispose of it however you like. Now, I estimate that in a given day, you'll require two to three refills," he looked at Chaise. "I hope you have a plan in place for that, especially, as I imagine, ~this~ area will be full of people."

"Oh yes," Merrill said. "We figure will have some wide vid-screens in here - you know, something to give the people to look at while they wait. We'll stash the reserve barrels behind the screens, roll 'em out when we need 'em and put the empties behind the screen 'til we get a chance to get rid of them later. Easy."

"All right. At any rate, as long as you remember to turn counterclockwise, slowly -"

"-Until we feel the click -"

"Yes ... until you feel the click - ah, and another thing - this is extremely important - do not let any metal alloys or metallic substances of any kind come into contact with the liquid," Jeremy gave them all a stern look. "Metals void the reactant properties in the solution."

"No metals. Okay," Chaise said. "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes," he turned to Merrill. "It is not enough to just sprinkle the solution on affected individuals. They must ingest some of it, as well. That is imperative. Somehow, you must ensure that your ... patients ... open their mouths enough so that you can get some of the liquid in. Once it is, the reflex to swallow should kick in, but if it does not, if the solution is spit out or what have you, you must repeat the process. A person will not be ~cured~ until he or she has swallowed some of the liquid. I cannot emphasize that enough."

"Don't worry, Jer. We hear you loud and clear," Merrill clapped him on the shoulder. "How much of the stuff should we use?"

"About a palmful will do," Jeremy reached into the half-full basin and scooped up a handful of he liquid. "More won't hurt, but it won't be necessary. Please try not to waste much of the liquid - it takes a good deal of time to make and synthesize."

"Don't worry," Merrill murmured absently, staring into the basin. "Geez . . . this looks bona-fide, Jer, it really does. Just like water. Wonder what it tastes like . . ."

"It doesn't ~have~ a taste - I told you that in the beginning," Jeremy looked annoyed. "I gave you a sample some time ago. I thought you were going to try it."

"Never got around to it," Merrill shrugged. He looked up, settling his gaze on a tall man with a patchy crew cut, broad shoulders and hands like meat hooks. "Oh, Dex?"

The man stood uncertainly. "Yes, Mr. Merrill?"

"Come on up here and give this stuff a try. I'm curious to see if it really doesn't have a taste at all."

~Then why don't ~you~ try it?~ Jeremy thought, hiding a sneer. But that was typical Chaise; Such a big talker. And such a big coward.

Dex looked uneasy. "Geez, boss. I dunno. I mean, I'm not sick or anything. Sandy's the one who needs this stuff."

"Sandy will get his shot - don't worry. But he'll be too out of it to remember anything - even that he was sick. Right, Jer?"

"Correct. When the substance takes effect, the subjects won't have any real memory of the dreams at all. It will be as if it never happened."

"Schway, as the kids say," Merrill beckoned to Dex. "Come on Dex . . . it's just water - kind of - and a little water never hurt anybody."

"But what if it messes me up?" Dex protested. "It could, you know, because I don't have the bug. Lemme go get Sandy -"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Jeremy, annoyed, plunged his hand into the trough and brought it out full of the liquid. He downed the fluid in one gulp, enjoying the cool liquid as it slid down his throat. "Ah . . . it's quite refreshing, actually."

"Good man. See? Nothing to it," Chaise smiled at Dex. "C'mon . . . give it a whirl."

"But . . . he . . he ~made~ the stuff," Dex looked pointedly at Wittinger. "What if he, you know, gave himself a shot or something, you know, so it won't screw him up . . ."

Jeremy struggled to hide his outrage at the implication. It really was intolerable to have to work with such morons. And ~these~ were the men on whom they were all supposed to depend? Beautiful.

"Chaise, I-" Wittinger turned toward him only to be waved into silence. The smile had disappeared from Merrill's face, and he stood staring thoughtfully at Dex.

"Dex . . . let me try to understand this. Are you saying that Jeremy - who's worked and slaved over this formulation here - you're saying, Dex, that he'd try to ~poison~ us and poison those poor people who're going bonkers out there without sleep. Is ~that~ what you're saying, Dex?"

The gun was out of Chaise's inside pocket and pointing at Dex's head before Jeremy had time to register what was going on. "Is ~that~ what you're ~saying~, Dex?"

"N-no . . . that's not w-what I --" Sweat dripped off the ends of Dex's tangled hair. "M-Mr. Merrill . . . what . . .w-what are you--"

"Dex," Chaise's voice was low and soft. "Get up here, please, and take a drink. Please do not make me ask you again."

"Okay, boss, o-okay," the man scrambled onto the dais, his eyes never leaving the gun. Stooping at the basin, eyes still trained on Merrill, he dipped his hand into the liquid and brought it, trembling, to his lips. The room was completely silent as Dex gulped it down, gripping the edge of the basin to keep himself steady.

"Well? How is it?" Chaise lowered the gun as Dex straightened up. "Not too bad, huh?"

"N-no," Dex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nice and cool."

"What's it taste like?"

"Uh . . . taste's like water, I guess."

"Not like chemicals?"

"No, sir."

"Not even a hint of 'em? Any aftertaste? You know, I really ~hate~ that-"

"No, Mr. Merrill, sir. It really, uh, doesn't have a taste at all. It's . . . uh . . . just like water."

"Good, good," Chaise nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Thank you, Dex. You're done."

Jeremy saw the flash of the gun out of the corner of his eye a second before the shot sounded - the report of the blaster sounding incredibly loud in the stillness of the room. Dexter slumped to the floor like a bag of wet cement, blood ringing his head like a lopsided halo. A splash of blood dotted the wreath, the vivid red swirling around the green wreath, creating a macabre mosaic of Christmas colors.

No one moved, but Jeremy saw that many of the men had turned pale. A few in the front had been splashed with Dex's blood, but they didn't move a muscle. All eyes, save Wittinger's, were on Chaise.

Merrill slowly put the still-smoking blaster back into its holster, and he looked up - his face, his whole demeanor, exuding calm.

"Never question me," Merrill's voice was gentle. "I have only your best interests at heart. And I will not have any nonbelievers in my camp. Is that clear?"

They all nodded solemnly. A dazzling smile stretched across Merrill's broad, florid face.

"Excellent. Jerse, Lyle? Please take Dexter somewhere where he will not be in the way. Gene? Please go upstairs and fetch Sandy. He's in the lab, poor kid. It's time for him to be brought back to us. Oh, and Ben? Get a mop please . . . we don't want any unsightly stains." Merrill stooped low, studying the contents of the basin as his men went about their tasks.

Jeremy glowered at the silent, oblivious man, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. Fourteen dead. Fourteen men dead now. And, by the looks of it, Chaise wasn't done. Wittinger could only hope that he'd be able to gut it out until he was able to do what needed to be done. And if he, Jeremy, was successful in ~that~, well, he would have avenged those dead men several times over.

"Mr. Merrill, sir?" The unfortunate Ben reentered with a tattered mop. "Uh, there's something wrong with the taps on the sinks, sir. I can't get any water to uh, to clean, uh . . ." he nodded toward the pool of blood.

Merrill considered a moment, then reached into the basin, throwing three or four handfuls of the liquid on the floor. The clear substance mixed with the crimson oval, turning it an oddly attractive shade of pink. "There you are, Ben."

Ben murmured a thank you and began hastily mopping at the wet spot. Completing the task quickly, he scurried to the relative safety of a shadowy back room.

"Jeremy, I know what you're thinking," Merrill stood, but did not look at the smaller man. "I know just what's on your mind right now."

If that were true, Wittinger thought, he'd be lying right next to Dex in a ditch somewhere. "Yes?"

"It had to be done. We can't have any malingerers, no nonbelievers. We need to weed them out, Jeremy. The nonbelievers need to be . . . cut down."

Wittinger started to speak, but thought better of it as footsteps sounded on the stairs behind them. A moment later, two of Merrill's men came into the space. One, a youthful-looking redhead, was pale and trembling, and leaned heavily on his cohort's arm. Jeremy forced himself to look at the man - another of Merrill's ~test~ subjects.

"Ah, Sandy," Chaise looked up. "How are you feeling?"

"D-D-D-D-D-D-Dunno, boss. I-I-I-I-I can't . . . I c-can't get to sl-sleep," Sandy gasped out. "I-I-I . . ."

"Yes, Sandy. I understand," Chaise beckoned the two men toward the dais. "I understand. Gene, bring him a little closer."

"I-It's just that I-I see him. I s-s-see ~him~," tears rolled down the man's cheeks, and his companion, still holding him up, shifted uncomfortably. "He . . . he . . . he keeps after me. I shoot him - I-I shoot his arms off . . . I sh-shoot his l-legs off . . . I even shoot him in the -- in the head. But he keeps on after me . . . no matter how much I- I-I . . . he keeps after me!" Sandy began to shake uncontrollably. "I . . . can't make him s-stop. I can't! I can't make him s-s-s-stop . . ."

"Of whom does he speak?" Merrill looked at Gene.

"His brother," Gene replied. "Dumb guy spilled Zesti all over Sandy's comic collection . . . ruined the lot. So Sandy wasted him."

"He killed his own ~brother~ over ~comic~ books?" Jeremy gaped at the man. "You can't be serious."

"What, are you slagging me?" Gene glared at Wittinger. "Some of 'em were, like, a hundred years old. Worth a ~lot~ of creds."

"He won't go away . . ." Sandy moaned from Gene's shoulder. "Every time I close my eyes . . . I see him. . ."

"It's going to be all right, Sandy," Merrill squeezed the man's shoulder and guided him to the side of the basin. "It's going to be over soon. Jeremy?" Merrill's voice was soft. "Could you guide me, please?"

"Have him crouch down," Wittinger instructed. "That's it . . . now tilt his head back."

"This way?"

"Not so much. You don't want him to choke. Yes . . ." Jeremy nodded in approval as Chaise shifted upward, Sandy's head supported in the crook of his arm. "All right. That looks fine. Now, go."

Merrill dipped his free hand into the pool and brought his hand out full of the liquid, some of which splashed across the dais. He bowed his head close to Sandy's, muttering something Jeremy could not quite make out. As he spoke, Merrill's hand moved slowly down Sandy's pallid face, sprinkling the crystal-like liquid as he went over eye, nose and lips. Chaise's hands halted over the man's slightly open mouth and tilted slightly, sending a stream of the liquid within.

"Now you swallow this water, Sandy," Merrill said. "It's going to cleanse you. It's going to soothe your mind and set you at ease."

Sandy complied, swallowing painfully. A few drops trickled from the corners of his mouth, and the man coughed a little before falling weakly back into Chaise's arms. Gene, standing open-mouthed in wonder, took a few steps back.

"Good, Sandy. Very good. It's all going to be just fine now," he eyed Jeremy. "How long until it begins to work?"

"Five minutes . . . ten, tops. They will feel incredibly fatigued - the exact opposite of how they felt within the first minutes after ingesting the catalyzing substance. They will almost immediate lapse into slumber . . . but when they do, the dreams will have stopped."

"All right. We'll give Sandy here a little time to relax," Chaise eased the drowsing man to the floor as two of his men, both dusty and covered in clay, entered from a back door.

"Jerse, Lyle, back so soon? Is Dexter squared away?" Merrill asked.

"Yes, sir. Usual place."

"Excellent. Our Sandy has taken the cure. He should be back with us momentarily," he turned again to Jeremy. "I've decided to begin by charging 25,000 credits for treatment."

"That's quite high."

"Yes . . . but it will do two things: One, it will give us a sizable cash flow almost immediately, and we'll need it. The materials to manufacture the cure aren't cheap. Two, the price is cost-prohibitive enough to make sure we won't be overwhelmed - at least not at first," Chaise ran a hand across his forehead. "As word gets out, we'll be able to lower the price a smidge."

"When word gets ~out~, it's going to be a madhouse in here, regardless of price. I truly hope you are prepared."

"We will be. Believe me, my friend - we will be."

~My friend?~ Jeremy glanced sideways. Merrill's head was bowed, and his voice had shed its commanding timbre and morphed into something quite different -- high and whispery, almost song-like. His hands were clasped lightly in front of him and he was all but motionless, kneeling next to the supine form of Sandy. Jeremy stared a moment longer, the color rising to his cheeks as he realized what was happening.

"I often wonder what it is about Gotham that intrigues me," Chaise's gentle tone caused the hair on the back of Jeremy's neck to rise. "It is not the lights and glamour of the city. It isn't the reputation. It isn't the money," Merrill looked grave. "Do you know what it is, Jeremy, my friend? Do you have any idea?"

"No . . ." Wittinger's mouth was dry.

"It is, simply, that there are so many sick people here," Chaise said. "~Sick~. Physically, mentally, emotionally ~sick~. ~That~ is what brings me back . . . that is why I cannot stay away. This whole city has been tainted with illness. Every one of them infected. And they need me, ~me~ to make it right. They need me to make it all right again."

Chaise caught Jeremy's eye and smiled at him. Wittinger, pale as milk, did not return it. Looking into the round man's watery blue eyes, Jeremy knew, in an instant, that he was staring into the eyes of a madman.

There could be no mistaking it: Chaise was reverting into that . . . that . . ~thing~ that had caused so much pain and so much damage in the past. Jeremy felt a surge of anger - Chaise had promised him that ~this~ venture would be totally different. That they'd approach everything like businessmen - like professionals. But Jeremy could see, now, that Chaise had gone back on his word. This enterprise of theirs would be no different than it had in the past. No different at all. After all his assurances, all his promises, Chaise was reverting, turning into ~him~ again.

For the first time since the whole affair had started, Jeremy began to feel nervous.

"Sandy's beginning to stir," Chaise looked down at the floor. "Shall we wake him and see how he's feeling?"

Wittinger studied his watch intently, glad for the chance to look away from those eyes. "Hmmm. Nearly seven minutes. He should be all right. Wake him."

Merrill nodded to Gene. The taller man came forward, and grasped Sandy's shoulder, shaking him hard. "Sandy? Sandy, wake up!"

The man on the floor gave a slight groan. "Huh? Wha . . .?"

"Hey, Sandy! Get up! Mr. Merrill wants to talk to you."

Sandy's eyelids fluttered slightly. "Geez . . . let me sleep a little while, willya? I'm slagged, man."

"Sandy," Chaise leaned close. "Can you hear me?"

Sandy started in alarm at Merrill's voice, and he sat up quickly. "Mr. Merrill, sir! I-I'm sorry. I was, um, I was just resting my eyes. I-"

"It's quite all right, Sandy. Quite all right. How are you feeling?"

"Um . . ." Sandy's eyes darted nervously from one face to another. "A little tired . . . like I've been up all night or something . . . but -"

"Do you remember anything of what you did last night?"

"Uh . . . sure, Mr. Merrill. I . . .uh . . . was on sentry duty. No, wait a minute . . . maybe that was the night before. No . . . hold on a minute," he frowned heavily. "I was . . . um . . ."

"Never mind," Chaise said. "You were sleeping just now -"

"No, sir, Mr. Merrill, I wasn't! I swear!"

"It's all right, Sandy. It's all right. Now tell me . . . tell me about your dreams . . ."

"My . . .dreams, sir?"

"Yes, Sandy. Your dreams. What did you dream last night?"

"Uh . . ." Sandy looked perplexed. "Gee . . I dunno, Mr. Merrill. I don't remember that kind of stuff."

Merrill smiled slightly. "Come on, now, ~surely~ you must remember ~something~. Tell me about a dream you had this week . . . this month."

"Geez . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Merrill . . . but I don't really . . . uh, wait. Last week . . . um, I think it was last week, I had this real weird dream that I was dressed up like one of those Jokerz dregs. I had this wild yellow wig on, and-- "

"But you can't remember anything else? Anything . . . exciting?" Merrill paused. "Scary?"

Sandy shook his head uncertainly. "I don't usually have any exciting dreams, Mr. Merrill, and if I do, I don't remember 'em."

"But, San . . . what about your brother?" Gene asked breathlessly. "What about, you know, the chasing and stuff?"

"My brother? What the hell? I don't give the bastard a thought," Sandy looked angry. "Not a thought . . . hope the dreg's roasting in hell," he yawned expansively. "Geez, I feel so tired. I must've been on sentry last night . . . yeah, yeah, I'm almost sure that's what I was doing."

"Of course it was," Merrill nodded. "Of course. Now go on upstairs and have a nap, Sandy. I'm going to need more of your help tonight. I'll need you to be well-rested."

"Yes, sir," Sandy got to his feet and yawned again. "Yes, sir." He headed toward the staircase. An amazed Gene followed close behind, stopping at the stairs to look back at Chaise and Jeremy. The former shook his head curtly, and Gene, understanding, nodded back, following Sandy up the stairs.

"Success, my friend," Chaise's voice was barely audible above the footsteps. "Success."

Jeremy nodded once, his gaze fixed on the shimmering liquid in the faux- marble basin. So it was done, then. There was, as they said, no turning back now.

It had begun.