Chapter 12: Intersection
The Story Thus Far: Gotham is caught in the grip of a massive attack of induced fear a la the Scarecrow; Harley and Beal have discovered the Batcave's museum of trophies and take a tour, learning something along the way; Bruce has donned the Batman costume and is about to leave the cave when Ivy intercepts him and provides a kiss "for luck." He exits and Ivy hopes he'll return. Harley isn't as optimistic; Batman finds Gotham in utter chaos. Upon reaching the asylum he also finds the Commissioner, who manages to provide some information regarding possible suspects in-between bouts of delirium. Batman discovers that the asylum roof is covered in a flammable solution that ignites upon prolonged contact, which means if he tries a rooftop entry he'd light up the entire building, along with the inmates and staff inside. He's determined that no more innocent lives will suffer because of him so he opts to make himself the target…
…
A grimly resolute masked manhunter strides across the rain slicked walkway towards ancient wooden doors that mark the entrance into Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He kneels down upon reaching his target and scrutinizes the door locking mechanisms as closely as possible, before realizing how unnecessary it is. Gloved hands push forth on the oaken doors in unison and they yield to gentle pressure, opening silently on greased hinges. They are unlocked and inviting.
The Batman enters the front hallway and pauses, his silhouette marked by the occasional burst of lighting from outside. The entire building is unlit save for the intermittent blinking of emergency lights. Arkham has its own source of power in case of emergencies, so to come across it in such a state would suggest one of two things: Either there has been a cataclysmic upheaval, which is unlikely given its currently unnatural calm, or the power has been shunted elsewhere…
"Transmitter," grumbles the dark knight as he turns towards the cell ward. He knows this building all too well, like if it were a second home. To reach his goal he must pass through the nest of prisoners and climb…
Making his way through the darkened hallway the dark knight is given a moment to wonder what his adversary has done with the staff. Normally this stretch of the asylum would be abuzz with activity at this time of day, only now he's the only soul present. His mind then turns to thoughts of what may have been, playing possible scenarios for each hapless victim. This raises his ire and he shunts it aside, a reserve to call upon if required.
His first leg soon completed Batman returns his focus to the task at hand, surveying the cell ward. This portion of the asylum is also devoid of power, battery operated emergency lights are its only means of illumination. He slowly makes his way through the hall, acknowledging each name engraved on the cage door. Fortunately Arkham still employs manual locks as a failsafe and each deadbolt is securely in place.
Each name etched upon the cells is familiar and provides bitter memories. Dent, who came to him for aid, and was left on his own because of a damnable quest that was urged on by the master schemer; Cobblepot, a pawn of this whole sordid affair though he never realized it. Then he comes upon the door labelled Crane and he pauses. He cautiously opens the observation window. Jonathan Crane, the tall, lanky master of fear better known as the Scarecrow simply stands there, unmoving like his namesake. Batman shuts the window. His curiosity piqued the Batman chooses another door at random and moves towards it. This time the label reads Waylon Jones and once more he opens the observation window, only to be greeted with the same still, silent response.
He crosses the hallway and tries the window labelled Nygma. This time he calls into the cell as well, "Edward!"
A hollow rasp of a voice yells back, "No!"
"Edward!"
"NO!" he screams, coming into full view and falling on his knees. He struggles vainly against his straightjacket bonds, "I will NOT be controlled!"
"Riddler!"
Edward Nygma turns and looks at the face of his oldest enemy. His eyes are sunken and filled with emptiness; his mouth is curved in a malicious grin, "Hello! A contestant! And what's your name young man?"
There is no reply.
"No matter! No matter!" he chortles in a high-pitched whine as he runs up to the door, "You can still answer the riddle! The riddle, yes, the riddle! When is a man dead on, but not what he appears to be? Answer!"
"When he's a decoy," Batman answers.
The Riddler jumps up and down excitedly upon hearing the words, "Exactly! A decoy is placed dead on target, but he is not THE target! Excellent! You've earned a prize!" And the Riddler smashes through his cell door with a thunderous kick, sending the Batman back against the far wall in a daze. He then bursts his bonds as if they were nothing and lunges in for the kill. Batman manages to recover in time and sidesteps the enraged quizmaster. He then desperately reaches for the stun gun in his utility belt and fires. Twin prongs burst forth in an explosive blast and embed themselves within the Riddler's flesh. Their leads then shine a striking blue hue as thousands of volts of electricity travel into their prey's sinews. The aroma of burnt flesh permeates the air as the Riddler collapses in a heap. Batman switches off the gun and encroaches upon his unconscious foe. Gently he rubs atop the Riddler's scalp, feeling a tiny, irregular bump that should not be there.
"Mind control," he whispers before turning to continue his trek. The doors then shudder and vibrate all around him as each inmate pounds and wails upon them. They've been roused from their induced state of rest and been instructed to crave a single thing…blood…the blood beyond their door…the blood of the Batman! He knows that nothing in his arsenal can possibly fend them all off so he runs like a man possessed, past clawing arms, past gnashing teeth and to a security door at the end of the hall. Without power it easily slides open, evidently a more modern addition to the asylum. He turns and watches the horde charge towards them, their eyes showing more beast than man. With a heave he shuts the door and with lightning reflexes he removes his grapple, unwinds a length of his silken cord and uses it to bind the door handles together. He then continues his run and does the same with the next set of doors and so forth until he reaches the stairs. He pauses to gather his bearings and his breath.
"No escape," is all he says as he turns to start the arduous climb to the asylum's very apex, "and no retreat."
The ascent is uneventful, marked only by the sounds of rickety wooden steps creaking under the Batman's boot heel. There is no reason for stealth, he was expected, and he'll simply have to bypass this gauntlet as best he can. Upon reaching the top he pauses and nudges on the door before him. Beyond the archway is a small room, modestly furnished, a raging fireplace located in the far wall with a large chair facing it, its back turned to the Batman. Next to the chair is a small tea set and a hand lying nonchalantly upon the table as it grips a steaming cup. Batman makes his way towards the chair, making nary a sound as he reaches for his utility belt under the cover of his cape. As he approaches the hand recoils out of sight and a voice calls, "Do come closer to the fire, you must be chilled to the bone, what with the weather outside…"
Batman instinctively removes a batarang and hurls it forward. It ricochets off the mantle and into the chair, sure to strike anyone sitting there. He then flies forward and whirls the seat about to find his weapon, and nothing else.
Puzzled, the dark knight reaches for his weapon and feels a sharp pinching sensation upon the palm of his hand. He pulls it back and watches in amazement as a small, pointed blade melds back into the seat cushion, a weapon that mere moments ago was sharp enough to cleave through armour and flesh, drawing blood. The batarang soon follows suit, dropping into the seat like it were quicksand. Batman could feel his head become heavy and his muscles spasm. He falls to his knees, frozen, the drug tipped blade having done its work. The batarang then flies forth from the chair's edifice, careening off the Batman's face it draws even more blood. He doesn't move. He can only watch as a gruesome grin forms on the chair's seat-cushion, smiling its approval. The chair then transmogrifies before his very eyes into a black clad creature with a blade in each hand and blood red eyes, its features masked by cloth. The Shaftie.
"Clayface," Batman manages through great force of will, the drug permitting him to speak, barely. In response the creature turns from black to brown, its cloth coverings now an oozing, muddy mess, like raw clay before it enters the fire.
"And your master?" Batman asks in great difficulty. Clayface points at a far door and the knob turns, as if on cue. It opens to reveal a near diminutive man dressed in a long green trench coat with a large blue top hat on his blond head and a playing card of 10/6 tucked on its side. His white gloved hands are twitching anxiously against each other as he shakes his head disapprovingly, "Please, master is so formal; you know I prefer The Mad Hatter!"
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Story Thus Far: Gotham is caught in the grip of a massive attack of induced fear a la the Scarecrow; Harley and Beal have discovered the Batcave's museum of trophies and take a tour, learning something along the way; Bruce has donned the Batman costume and is about to leave the cave when Ivy intercepts him and provides a kiss "for luck." He exits and Ivy hopes he'll return. Harley isn't as optimistic; Batman finds Gotham in utter chaos. Upon reaching the asylum he also finds the Commissioner, who manages to provide some information regarding possible suspects in-between bouts of delirium. Batman discovers that the asylum roof is covered in a flammable solution that ignites upon prolonged contact, which means if he tries a rooftop entry he'd light up the entire building, along with the inmates and staff inside. He's determined that no more innocent lives will suffer because of him so he opts to make himself the target…
…
A grimly resolute masked manhunter strides across the rain slicked walkway towards ancient wooden doors that mark the entrance into Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He kneels down upon reaching his target and scrutinizes the door locking mechanisms as closely as possible, before realizing how unnecessary it is. Gloved hands push forth on the oaken doors in unison and they yield to gentle pressure, opening silently on greased hinges. They are unlocked and inviting.
The Batman enters the front hallway and pauses, his silhouette marked by the occasional burst of lighting from outside. The entire building is unlit save for the intermittent blinking of emergency lights. Arkham has its own source of power in case of emergencies, so to come across it in such a state would suggest one of two things: Either there has been a cataclysmic upheaval, which is unlikely given its currently unnatural calm, or the power has been shunted elsewhere…
"Transmitter," grumbles the dark knight as he turns towards the cell ward. He knows this building all too well, like if it were a second home. To reach his goal he must pass through the nest of prisoners and climb…
Making his way through the darkened hallway the dark knight is given a moment to wonder what his adversary has done with the staff. Normally this stretch of the asylum would be abuzz with activity at this time of day, only now he's the only soul present. His mind then turns to thoughts of what may have been, playing possible scenarios for each hapless victim. This raises his ire and he shunts it aside, a reserve to call upon if required.
His first leg soon completed Batman returns his focus to the task at hand, surveying the cell ward. This portion of the asylum is also devoid of power, battery operated emergency lights are its only means of illumination. He slowly makes his way through the hall, acknowledging each name engraved on the cage door. Fortunately Arkham still employs manual locks as a failsafe and each deadbolt is securely in place.
Each name etched upon the cells is familiar and provides bitter memories. Dent, who came to him for aid, and was left on his own because of a damnable quest that was urged on by the master schemer; Cobblepot, a pawn of this whole sordid affair though he never realized it. Then he comes upon the door labelled Crane and he pauses. He cautiously opens the observation window. Jonathan Crane, the tall, lanky master of fear better known as the Scarecrow simply stands there, unmoving like his namesake. Batman shuts the window. His curiosity piqued the Batman chooses another door at random and moves towards it. This time the label reads Waylon Jones and once more he opens the observation window, only to be greeted with the same still, silent response.
He crosses the hallway and tries the window labelled Nygma. This time he calls into the cell as well, "Edward!"
A hollow rasp of a voice yells back, "No!"
"Edward!"
"NO!" he screams, coming into full view and falling on his knees. He struggles vainly against his straightjacket bonds, "I will NOT be controlled!"
"Riddler!"
Edward Nygma turns and looks at the face of his oldest enemy. His eyes are sunken and filled with emptiness; his mouth is curved in a malicious grin, "Hello! A contestant! And what's your name young man?"
There is no reply.
"No matter! No matter!" he chortles in a high-pitched whine as he runs up to the door, "You can still answer the riddle! The riddle, yes, the riddle! When is a man dead on, but not what he appears to be? Answer!"
"When he's a decoy," Batman answers.
The Riddler jumps up and down excitedly upon hearing the words, "Exactly! A decoy is placed dead on target, but he is not THE target! Excellent! You've earned a prize!" And the Riddler smashes through his cell door with a thunderous kick, sending the Batman back against the far wall in a daze. He then bursts his bonds as if they were nothing and lunges in for the kill. Batman manages to recover in time and sidesteps the enraged quizmaster. He then desperately reaches for the stun gun in his utility belt and fires. Twin prongs burst forth in an explosive blast and embed themselves within the Riddler's flesh. Their leads then shine a striking blue hue as thousands of volts of electricity travel into their prey's sinews. The aroma of burnt flesh permeates the air as the Riddler collapses in a heap. Batman switches off the gun and encroaches upon his unconscious foe. Gently he rubs atop the Riddler's scalp, feeling a tiny, irregular bump that should not be there.
"Mind control," he whispers before turning to continue his trek. The doors then shudder and vibrate all around him as each inmate pounds and wails upon them. They've been roused from their induced state of rest and been instructed to crave a single thing…blood…the blood beyond their door…the blood of the Batman! He knows that nothing in his arsenal can possibly fend them all off so he runs like a man possessed, past clawing arms, past gnashing teeth and to a security door at the end of the hall. Without power it easily slides open, evidently a more modern addition to the asylum. He turns and watches the horde charge towards them, their eyes showing more beast than man. With a heave he shuts the door and with lightning reflexes he removes his grapple, unwinds a length of his silken cord and uses it to bind the door handles together. He then continues his run and does the same with the next set of doors and so forth until he reaches the stairs. He pauses to gather his bearings and his breath.
"No escape," is all he says as he turns to start the arduous climb to the asylum's very apex, "and no retreat."
The ascent is uneventful, marked only by the sounds of rickety wooden steps creaking under the Batman's boot heel. There is no reason for stealth, he was expected, and he'll simply have to bypass this gauntlet as best he can. Upon reaching the top he pauses and nudges on the door before him. Beyond the archway is a small room, modestly furnished, a raging fireplace located in the far wall with a large chair facing it, its back turned to the Batman. Next to the chair is a small tea set and a hand lying nonchalantly upon the table as it grips a steaming cup. Batman makes his way towards the chair, making nary a sound as he reaches for his utility belt under the cover of his cape. As he approaches the hand recoils out of sight and a voice calls, "Do come closer to the fire, you must be chilled to the bone, what with the weather outside…"
Batman instinctively removes a batarang and hurls it forward. It ricochets off the mantle and into the chair, sure to strike anyone sitting there. He then flies forward and whirls the seat about to find his weapon, and nothing else.
Puzzled, the dark knight reaches for his weapon and feels a sharp pinching sensation upon the palm of his hand. He pulls it back and watches in amazement as a small, pointed blade melds back into the seat cushion, a weapon that mere moments ago was sharp enough to cleave through armour and flesh, drawing blood. The batarang soon follows suit, dropping into the seat like it were quicksand. Batman could feel his head become heavy and his muscles spasm. He falls to his knees, frozen, the drug tipped blade having done its work. The batarang then flies forth from the chair's edifice, careening off the Batman's face it draws even more blood. He doesn't move. He can only watch as a gruesome grin forms on the chair's seat-cushion, smiling its approval. The chair then transmogrifies before his very eyes into a black clad creature with a blade in each hand and blood red eyes, its features masked by cloth. The Shaftie.
"Clayface," Batman manages through great force of will, the drug permitting him to speak, barely. In response the creature turns from black to brown, its cloth coverings now an oozing, muddy mess, like raw clay before it enters the fire.
"And your master?" Batman asks in great difficulty. Clayface points at a far door and the knob turns, as if on cue. It opens to reveal a near diminutive man dressed in a long green trench coat with a large blue top hat on his blond head and a playing card of 10/6 tucked on its side. His white gloved hands are twitching anxiously against each other as he shakes his head disapprovingly, "Please, master is so formal; you know I prefer The Mad Hatter!"
TO BE CONTINUED…