I gasped and sputtered as I drew a breath of sweet, sweet air- never mind the throbbing pain in my head. I sat up- and bashed my head into a low hanging...girder? It was too dark to see anything, I stretched my hands out, trying to feel my way around, I didn't find the light switch, but I did manage to grope my way into Batman.
"You should lay back down. You're suffering from a concussion and near-drowning. I had to cut your armor off to revive you."
"It's not as if it matters," I replied, not a little bitterly. "It's not as if I have any chance of being a superhero without my pills, anyway. You called it-"
"Miraclo-developed in 1939 by Rex Tyler, alias Hourman. But he destroyed his work. How did you obtain the formula?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Picture a city of super-strong criminals."
"I have a biochemist friend in Ivy Town."
"Hm. I any case, you have a concussion."
"Yeah. Is Ivy always that crazy?"
"No. She was under some kind of influence- considering that her body can process almost any toxin, a disturbing thought." Batman turned around, switching on a computer and sitting down in front of it.
"According to this blood sample from Ivy, she didn't have any drugs in her bloodstream. Puzzling." Without turning his head, Batman remarked: "There's pain medication in the cabinets to your left."
"Thanks." I gratefully walked over to the cabinet- when suddenly, an arm was at my face, pressing a cloth to my mouth. I gasped- and fell unconscious once again.
At around three in the morning, I awoke once more, and decided to write down the past two night;s adventures. My career as a superhero is over; that much seems certain. No need to get a codename anymore. Good night.
Day 9:
Today passed uneventfully, if a bit listlessly. Since Arkham was still in lockdown, I spent the day in the library reading about psychopathology. I glumly reasoned that even without my super-heroics, I still had a chance at a good "true-confessions" type of book.
Anyway, without a 'night job,' I can finally get some sleep. Wait, what's that noise?
Wow. Just wow. A few hours ago, I opened a window, and was greeted by a note, stuck to the window-frame by a still-quivering batarang.
Check your closet, the note declared. I turned around and practically tore the closet door off its hinges.
I didn't find my suit, however. I found my suit on steroids, Painted matte black, in stark contrast to the white chess knight on the chest, It also included certain enhancements, as I was to later find out. As I fitted the last few pieces, a radio in my helmet crackled to life.
"Meet me at the docks. Pier 16. I could use some extra manpower. Also, Check your wrist compartment."
Opening the wrist compartment, I saw a large red button.
"That button applies a Miraclo patch. You have around 6 hours worth. See you at the docks." The radio fell silent. Grinning, I leapt out into the night.
F I N I S
That ends "Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea." I hope you enjoyed it. Look for my next story. I apologize for my sometimes laconic prose, but I prefer laconicism to graphorrhea. As always, critiques are appreciated.
Quill9
