Who's Laughing Now?
Part Four
**
The medieval court fool was seldom mentally deficient. For the freedom to indulge in satire, tricks, and repartee, many men of keen insight and caustic wit obtained powerful patronage by assuming the role of fool. –The Columbia Encyclopedia, Sixth Ed.
~*~
Batman sat with his back to his charges in the Cave, glaring at the computer. There really wasn't much information to behold there, but a part of him could not face them. "Provisions have been made for your father and step mother," he informed the youngest of their company. "He is away on business in Switzerland, she has accompanied him. He believes it is for the acquisition of a small French firm—which is partially true. He just doesn't know it is a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary."
The boy nodded, some modicum of relief brought to his suddenly anxiety- ridden existence. He ran his forest-green gloved finger beneath the gold- trimmed black collar of his cape. Usually the cave was cool, even a bit chilly—but since this had all began he'd been sweating profusely. Or since it had begun for HIM, at least.
"And you, Richard," Batman began again. "You should reconsider taking leave from your 'other' job until this is rectified. For the safety of those around you."
Nightwing folded his arms across his chest and gave half a curt nod. "I will reconsider." Normally, he would have found a thousand excuses, but now wasn't the time for excuses, squabbling, or even delicate sensibilities.
"I will pay the Joker another visit tonight," Batman added.
Walking to an ill-lit table near the weapons vaults, Nightwing shook his head. "You think you'll get something out of him this time that you didn't get the other two visits?" He turned on the lamp and inspected a large pink and orange box that had arrived at Bruce Wayne's office from the joker two days previous.
Anxiously, Robin looked back and fort from Batman to Nightwing, his panic finding renewed vigor. "You… you've been there TWICE? And we don't know anything more?" His hands wrapped around the edges of his cape, and he twisted them nervously.
"This time I'm going in with help. I'll talk to him. Do my thing. Nightwing, I want you to see if you can find any obvious breaches in security, any loopholes that could be enabling the Joker to be doing what he's doing.
"What about me?" Robin asked anxiously.
"You're staying here," Batman ordered.
"Wait!" the boy protested. "You can't do that! My dad--" not to mention the two people he looked up to most in the world—were in danger.
"ROBIN," Batman announced sternly. His voice echoed off the walls of the cave, and came back to assault the young man again. "Obey me without question," the Dark Knight said, reiterating one of his primary rules.
Bitterly, Robin pressed his lips together. How long had it been since they'd worked together on any great task? He'd been flying solo so long, and now recently, running with Nightwing, that he didn't even remember what it was like to work with him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he joined Nightwing at the long dissection table. Inspecting the oversized box, he found a crank on the side.
He quickly turned it one full rotation before Nightwing could pull his hand away. The lid snapped opened and a stuffed Nightwing doll, similar to the one next to Barbara's computer shot out, like a jack-in-the-box. The body bobbed back and forth on its cloth-covered spring, a kitchen knife from Wayne Manor stuck through the chest.
"Make him let me go," Tim whispered.
Nightwing looked from the morbid toy to the young man he thought of as family. "I'm not making him do anything," he answered quietly.
Batman's chair turned around, and he stared at the two young men. "You will be monitoring our activity from the Cave," he informed Robin.
Robin's teeth ground together to keep from protesting. He didn't dare even turn to look back at Batman. Dick and Bruce expected him to just keep out of this, obviously.
"You'll also be rerouting security feeds with some previously prepared tracks into Oracle's systems."
Tim was sure he'd stopped breathing. "You want me to screw with Oracle's systems," he stated. Did Bruce understand how IMPOSSIBLE that was?
"I have several protocols which previously required granting myself access to Oracle's systems. We will be using those already-established hacks."
Behind his mask, Tim's eyes blinked blankly. "You just regularly hack Barbara's machines," he stated.
The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Batman's thin, staunch lips. "Only when she has something that I need." He turned back to the computer and began pulling up various programs to show Robin. "She isn't to find out about this mission—or situation—until we have some handle on it."
Slowly, Tim approached the computer, staring at the lines of code. "This is so messed up," he muttered to himself.
"Yeah," Nightwing answered, leaning against the table—next to the mutilated image of himself. "You can say that again, Timbo. You can say that again."
* * *
Batman sent his two protégé's to the kitchen to eat before tonight's mission. They could have just have easily eaten in the cave—especially since they'd been in costume. But right now, he needed a few moments. He wasn't used to always having them clamoring around him—filling up the cave with their exuberant presence.
It was good to have them. He just wished it were under better circumstances. Walking over to the dissection table, he pushed the impaled doll back in the box and closed the lid. To the left of the box were a few other items, which Tim had thankfully overlooked.
His gloved hands reached out and touched the cassette tape containing the vile phone message, detailing what the Joker was going to do to each of his pupils once had had hold of them. It had been left on his home machine on Monday morning, right before he'd come in from patrol. According to video from Arkham—the Joker had been asleep at that time.
Not thinking he could listen to it again—he removed his hand from it. He had memorized the contents of the cassette already anyways. Every word, every cackle, every inflection of the madman's voice was imprinted in his head.
"…I just want to reach out and touch the bird-boys. Once you have names… phone numbers're sooo easy to find. Whitepage.com. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing…" The assured promises of what he'd do to them once he had them…
He'd arranged for Jack to go out of town the minute he'd gotten that message.
Instead his hand drifted to the yellow envelope beside the tape. He'd only read this one once, because it had been so difficult to read in Tim and Dick's presence. Both of his gloved hands gripped on to it tightly as he moved away from the table, and towards the glass case in the center of the cave. For a moment, he stared at the white light from the quartz lamp that lit the contents of the case, as if it could somehow wake him up from this.
With reluctance and an ache of renewed grief, his sight trailed to the contents of the case, the short yellow cape with its hard, pointed collar. A crimson tunic that had been cleaned and repaired with care in one night by a shaking and emotionally distressed hand. He remembered watching Alfred attempting to maintain his composure—all the time not trying to let himself break down.
A renewed sense of mission came over him, and he pulled the thick paper out of the envelope. Dick had said that he'd only read the first paragraph, and he refused to read any more. It was quite unlike Dick, who would pick apart every pencil stroke and every chosen word for a clue. This one time, he'd decided to allow the young man his emotional upheaval—especially after seeing the rest of the contents of the letter.
Bruce read it again.
"There's always a rush when you do it with you bare hands. Now you know how I felt when I killed Jason.
"The blood made such pretty patterns when I whacked him. His little head snapped forward, and it just went shooting out everywhere. Didn't get a drop on me. That's the funny thing, about splatter-patterns. That was the problem with you—you hit me right in the face with your fist. Then you got blood all over those pretty gloves of yours. Messed the blue stripes right up, didn't it? I'll give you some lessons—when I come for you and your little brother. Maybe you can watch me do him. And trust me… I'll have my chance. You can't be on your guard all the time—and Batman can't always protect you. You saw how good of a job he did with that mouthy brat, Jason."
The letter pretty much ended there, and was signed with a kiss. The hand containing both letter and envelope fell to his side. The fingers of his other hand pressed against the glass, in front of the gold and black R upon the red vest. That had been the hardest to repair.
He wasn't going to fail Dick and Tim the way he'd failed Jason. He couldn't let that happen again. There was no way he could live with himself if he had to watch Alfred restitch another uniform.
Breaking the painful, uneasy moment, the grandfather clock at the top of the cave steps creaked as it swung opened. Muffled voices became clearer as two sets of youthful feet came padding down the steps. Bruce stepped into a shadow and observed, his heart turning cold and heavy as lead, and sinking to his stomach with the speed of an anchor in fresh water.
"You're stupid," Tim announced.
"I'm stupid? You're a dork. And your hair looks funny," Dick replied. There was a scuffle on the fifteenth step. The pair lost their balance until the eighteenth, and slid on their backs down to the unfinished cave floor.
"I told you to leave my hair alone! It isn't my fault! I woke up this way!" He was trying to get a handle on Dick's shoulders to push him away, but Dick was too big, and Tim's arms were far too short.
Bruce tried not to make evident his observation as Dick mashed the young man's hair around his head, almost maliciously. "You woke up a dinkwad?" he pushed the boy's cheek to the floor.
Tim gave only a muffled protest. "Shut up. I hate you."
"I hate you more," Dick replied.
Their scuffle stopped, and the two crawled to their feet.
"How ya doing now?" Dick asked quietly, fixing his own hair. Some day he'd give up and admit it was wild and unmanageable and stop trying.
"I'm ok," Tim answered quietly. "Where's Bruce?" He looked around in the dark. Bruce wasn't near the computer, or any of their evidence. Maybe he was in one of the vaults. He was glad; he didn't know how he'd feel about Batman witnessing their display.
"Just don't think about it," Dick ordered, though he was having trouble doing that himself. "Just… concentrate on how bad Babs is going to beat our asses for this." And if that didn't work, he could beat Tim up.
Some part of him was kind of fearful that this situation might part him from his family, so he wrapped an arm around the boy, squeezing as hard as he could, and punched him in the chest firmly. He wasn't sure how or why, but it made HIM feel better. Were they normal people, he supposed that pestering Tim would be the equivalent of a deep talk and a hug for reassurance.
If they were a normal family—they wouldn't be having these problems.
He sighed, but was brought out of his thoughts when a spry fist caught him in the jaw just enough to hurt. "I'm going to hang you upside down and beat you like a piñata," he promised, pushing the boy away.
Something sentimental crossed the younger man's face as they parted ways. "Thanks, Dick," he muttered, some part of him assuaged. "Time ta get to work. And Babs can only beat us if we get caught." He could do his job. He was a professional, and he'd been trained by the best. Even if he were scared, he'd uphold their standards.
"Yes," Batman said, suddenly appearing out of the shadows behind the case bearing Jason Todd's costume. "It's time to get to work."
Continued in part 5
One of the first circus clowns, established by Joseph Grimaldi in the early 1800s, was the "Jocy? Character" a comically self-serving clown who alternated between arrogant gloating and cringing cowardice. --Colombia Encyclopedia, 6th ed.
Part Four
**
The medieval court fool was seldom mentally deficient. For the freedom to indulge in satire, tricks, and repartee, many men of keen insight and caustic wit obtained powerful patronage by assuming the role of fool. –The Columbia Encyclopedia, Sixth Ed.
~*~
Batman sat with his back to his charges in the Cave, glaring at the computer. There really wasn't much information to behold there, but a part of him could not face them. "Provisions have been made for your father and step mother," he informed the youngest of their company. "He is away on business in Switzerland, she has accompanied him. He believes it is for the acquisition of a small French firm—which is partially true. He just doesn't know it is a Wayne Enterprises subsidiary."
The boy nodded, some modicum of relief brought to his suddenly anxiety- ridden existence. He ran his forest-green gloved finger beneath the gold- trimmed black collar of his cape. Usually the cave was cool, even a bit chilly—but since this had all began he'd been sweating profusely. Or since it had begun for HIM, at least.
"And you, Richard," Batman began again. "You should reconsider taking leave from your 'other' job until this is rectified. For the safety of those around you."
Nightwing folded his arms across his chest and gave half a curt nod. "I will reconsider." Normally, he would have found a thousand excuses, but now wasn't the time for excuses, squabbling, or even delicate sensibilities.
"I will pay the Joker another visit tonight," Batman added.
Walking to an ill-lit table near the weapons vaults, Nightwing shook his head. "You think you'll get something out of him this time that you didn't get the other two visits?" He turned on the lamp and inspected a large pink and orange box that had arrived at Bruce Wayne's office from the joker two days previous.
Anxiously, Robin looked back and fort from Batman to Nightwing, his panic finding renewed vigor. "You… you've been there TWICE? And we don't know anything more?" His hands wrapped around the edges of his cape, and he twisted them nervously.
"This time I'm going in with help. I'll talk to him. Do my thing. Nightwing, I want you to see if you can find any obvious breaches in security, any loopholes that could be enabling the Joker to be doing what he's doing.
"What about me?" Robin asked anxiously.
"You're staying here," Batman ordered.
"Wait!" the boy protested. "You can't do that! My dad--" not to mention the two people he looked up to most in the world—were in danger.
"ROBIN," Batman announced sternly. His voice echoed off the walls of the cave, and came back to assault the young man again. "Obey me without question," the Dark Knight said, reiterating one of his primary rules.
Bitterly, Robin pressed his lips together. How long had it been since they'd worked together on any great task? He'd been flying solo so long, and now recently, running with Nightwing, that he didn't even remember what it was like to work with him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he joined Nightwing at the long dissection table. Inspecting the oversized box, he found a crank on the side.
He quickly turned it one full rotation before Nightwing could pull his hand away. The lid snapped opened and a stuffed Nightwing doll, similar to the one next to Barbara's computer shot out, like a jack-in-the-box. The body bobbed back and forth on its cloth-covered spring, a kitchen knife from Wayne Manor stuck through the chest.
"Make him let me go," Tim whispered.
Nightwing looked from the morbid toy to the young man he thought of as family. "I'm not making him do anything," he answered quietly.
Batman's chair turned around, and he stared at the two young men. "You will be monitoring our activity from the Cave," he informed Robin.
Robin's teeth ground together to keep from protesting. He didn't dare even turn to look back at Batman. Dick and Bruce expected him to just keep out of this, obviously.
"You'll also be rerouting security feeds with some previously prepared tracks into Oracle's systems."
Tim was sure he'd stopped breathing. "You want me to screw with Oracle's systems," he stated. Did Bruce understand how IMPOSSIBLE that was?
"I have several protocols which previously required granting myself access to Oracle's systems. We will be using those already-established hacks."
Behind his mask, Tim's eyes blinked blankly. "You just regularly hack Barbara's machines," he stated.
The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Batman's thin, staunch lips. "Only when she has something that I need." He turned back to the computer and began pulling up various programs to show Robin. "She isn't to find out about this mission—or situation—until we have some handle on it."
Slowly, Tim approached the computer, staring at the lines of code. "This is so messed up," he muttered to himself.
"Yeah," Nightwing answered, leaning against the table—next to the mutilated image of himself. "You can say that again, Timbo. You can say that again."
* * *
Batman sent his two protégé's to the kitchen to eat before tonight's mission. They could have just have easily eaten in the cave—especially since they'd been in costume. But right now, he needed a few moments. He wasn't used to always having them clamoring around him—filling up the cave with their exuberant presence.
It was good to have them. He just wished it were under better circumstances. Walking over to the dissection table, he pushed the impaled doll back in the box and closed the lid. To the left of the box were a few other items, which Tim had thankfully overlooked.
His gloved hands reached out and touched the cassette tape containing the vile phone message, detailing what the Joker was going to do to each of his pupils once had had hold of them. It had been left on his home machine on Monday morning, right before he'd come in from patrol. According to video from Arkham—the Joker had been asleep at that time.
Not thinking he could listen to it again—he removed his hand from it. He had memorized the contents of the cassette already anyways. Every word, every cackle, every inflection of the madman's voice was imprinted in his head.
"…I just want to reach out and touch the bird-boys. Once you have names… phone numbers're sooo easy to find. Whitepage.com. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing…" The assured promises of what he'd do to them once he had them…
He'd arranged for Jack to go out of town the minute he'd gotten that message.
Instead his hand drifted to the yellow envelope beside the tape. He'd only read this one once, because it had been so difficult to read in Tim and Dick's presence. Both of his gloved hands gripped on to it tightly as he moved away from the table, and towards the glass case in the center of the cave. For a moment, he stared at the white light from the quartz lamp that lit the contents of the case, as if it could somehow wake him up from this.
With reluctance and an ache of renewed grief, his sight trailed to the contents of the case, the short yellow cape with its hard, pointed collar. A crimson tunic that had been cleaned and repaired with care in one night by a shaking and emotionally distressed hand. He remembered watching Alfred attempting to maintain his composure—all the time not trying to let himself break down.
A renewed sense of mission came over him, and he pulled the thick paper out of the envelope. Dick had said that he'd only read the first paragraph, and he refused to read any more. It was quite unlike Dick, who would pick apart every pencil stroke and every chosen word for a clue. This one time, he'd decided to allow the young man his emotional upheaval—especially after seeing the rest of the contents of the letter.
Bruce read it again.
"There's always a rush when you do it with you bare hands. Now you know how I felt when I killed Jason.
"The blood made such pretty patterns when I whacked him. His little head snapped forward, and it just went shooting out everywhere. Didn't get a drop on me. That's the funny thing, about splatter-patterns. That was the problem with you—you hit me right in the face with your fist. Then you got blood all over those pretty gloves of yours. Messed the blue stripes right up, didn't it? I'll give you some lessons—when I come for you and your little brother. Maybe you can watch me do him. And trust me… I'll have my chance. You can't be on your guard all the time—and Batman can't always protect you. You saw how good of a job he did with that mouthy brat, Jason."
The letter pretty much ended there, and was signed with a kiss. The hand containing both letter and envelope fell to his side. The fingers of his other hand pressed against the glass, in front of the gold and black R upon the red vest. That had been the hardest to repair.
He wasn't going to fail Dick and Tim the way he'd failed Jason. He couldn't let that happen again. There was no way he could live with himself if he had to watch Alfred restitch another uniform.
Breaking the painful, uneasy moment, the grandfather clock at the top of the cave steps creaked as it swung opened. Muffled voices became clearer as two sets of youthful feet came padding down the steps. Bruce stepped into a shadow and observed, his heart turning cold and heavy as lead, and sinking to his stomach with the speed of an anchor in fresh water.
"You're stupid," Tim announced.
"I'm stupid? You're a dork. And your hair looks funny," Dick replied. There was a scuffle on the fifteenth step. The pair lost their balance until the eighteenth, and slid on their backs down to the unfinished cave floor.
"I told you to leave my hair alone! It isn't my fault! I woke up this way!" He was trying to get a handle on Dick's shoulders to push him away, but Dick was too big, and Tim's arms were far too short.
Bruce tried not to make evident his observation as Dick mashed the young man's hair around his head, almost maliciously. "You woke up a dinkwad?" he pushed the boy's cheek to the floor.
Tim gave only a muffled protest. "Shut up. I hate you."
"I hate you more," Dick replied.
Their scuffle stopped, and the two crawled to their feet.
"How ya doing now?" Dick asked quietly, fixing his own hair. Some day he'd give up and admit it was wild and unmanageable and stop trying.
"I'm ok," Tim answered quietly. "Where's Bruce?" He looked around in the dark. Bruce wasn't near the computer, or any of their evidence. Maybe he was in one of the vaults. He was glad; he didn't know how he'd feel about Batman witnessing their display.
"Just don't think about it," Dick ordered, though he was having trouble doing that himself. "Just… concentrate on how bad Babs is going to beat our asses for this." And if that didn't work, he could beat Tim up.
Some part of him was kind of fearful that this situation might part him from his family, so he wrapped an arm around the boy, squeezing as hard as he could, and punched him in the chest firmly. He wasn't sure how or why, but it made HIM feel better. Were they normal people, he supposed that pestering Tim would be the equivalent of a deep talk and a hug for reassurance.
If they were a normal family—they wouldn't be having these problems.
He sighed, but was brought out of his thoughts when a spry fist caught him in the jaw just enough to hurt. "I'm going to hang you upside down and beat you like a piñata," he promised, pushing the boy away.
Something sentimental crossed the younger man's face as they parted ways. "Thanks, Dick," he muttered, some part of him assuaged. "Time ta get to work. And Babs can only beat us if we get caught." He could do his job. He was a professional, and he'd been trained by the best. Even if he were scared, he'd uphold their standards.
"Yes," Batman said, suddenly appearing out of the shadows behind the case bearing Jason Todd's costume. "It's time to get to work."
Continued in part 5
One of the first circus clowns, established by Joseph Grimaldi in the early 1800s, was the "Jocy? Character" a comically self-serving clown who alternated between arrogant gloating and cringing cowardice. --Colombia Encyclopedia, 6th ed.
