Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Some dialogue written by Chuck Dixon, and owned by either Dixon or DC. References to Batman: Azrael.
Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.
Chapter 14
The Opposite of Ego
"Anxiety is sort of the opposite of ego. You're so sure you'll do everything wrong you're afraid you'll do anything at all. It results from over motivation--leading to errors that lead to an underestimation of one's self."
Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
He fights like a machine—disarming them, taking no chances, reveling in his unique blend of athletic skill and brutal physical power. He's new to this city—and yet there is something about him that was here long before there were streets and buildings and… and criminals.
Atop a fifth-floor fire escape, Lonnie Machin—Anarky—watched intently as a six-foot-two-inch tall figure in a black ninja-esque costume plowed through a crowd of armed street punks. A kick to the shoulder sent one flying. A second kick knocked the gun from another's hand and continued on, connecting with the man's jaw. The man crumpled spitting blood and teeth onto the asphalt. Without pausing a beat, the man in black crouched low and shot his fist heavily into a third assailant's abdomen. A rear kick incapacitated another gunman. Swiftly, the masked figure seized the man by his shirtfront, hoisted him over his head, and slammed him into another attacker—this one sporting a red balaclava.
Understanding dawned on the teen watching above. The evil of Gotham City is all the fault of people like this! They set themselves up as vigilante elite—costumed heroes who issue their challenges to all: Gotham belongs to us—take it if you can!
…And the maniacs have accepted. The Joker—the Ventriloquist and Scarface—the hoods, Zsasz, Two-Face… All of them—they only exist as an answer to this challenge!
Anarky felt as though a light had exploded within his head. Vigilantes—masked men like the ninja in black below were at the root of the evil in the city. However good their intentions, their guilt was unmistakable. Reflexively, he touched the gold mask that completely covered his own features.
Quoting Einstein out of context, they say that good and evil are relative; that there are no moral absolutes. They lie. Only two laws are needed to change the entire universe: Never use initiatory force, and never cheat. The vigilantes who roam our streets constantly break both. Their very presence draws the criminals out of their hidey-holes, initiating conflict. They purport to uphold the law, and yet they violate it themselves when it suits them and they cheat the consequences. They are as evil as those they fight!
The youth straightened his broad-brimmed red hat, watching as the man below fired a grapnel. It snagged a cornice several stories above him and he swung away, doubtless in search of others to hurt. No. He would have to fall. "And," the teen said aloud, barely above a whisper, "Anarky, the voice of the people, must bring him down!"
Bullock hated sloppiness. If he'd ever voiced that comment aloud, he knew that it would have provoked smirks and eye-rollings from anyone within earshot. At first glance, his rumpled suit, frequently coated with powdered sugar residue from the jelly donuts on which he practically subsisted, and the habitual five-o'clock shadow on his jaw line would seem to indicate self-loathing, were that indeed to be the case. But, whatever his personal appearance, when it came to police work, he displayed a thoroughness that was the admiration of many within the Department.
Dean Kalisky, a middle-aged nervous man, whose fingers twitched anxiously, was the just the opposite. Neatly dressed, and impeccably groomed, his mahogany desk was bare of any decoration save a picture of a smiling woman in her middle forties, and a large snow globe paperweight. A clean pad of ruled paper lay beneath a Parker pen. Beyond that, the desk was bare. If a cluttered desk means a cluttered mind, Bullock thought, how about an empty desk?
Kalisky had seemed stunned when Bullock had asked how Crane had come unchallenged to lecture that evening. No security, no request for ID, no verification of credentials… Bullock made little effort to conceal his irritation, as he followed the dean into the classroom from which Crane had taken the students. As he examined the scene, he felt his annoyance congeal into a mixture of anger and disgust.
"…Several Scarecrow costumes—a dead kid—and seven missing students! Pardon the aspersion, Dean," he said, not sounding at all sorry, "but what kinda university you running here?"
The dean's fingers twisted together nervously. "It wasn't our fault, detective! We rented out the annex in good faith. Professor Rance—"
"Crane, Dean," Bullock corrected furiously. "Jonathan Crane—the Scarecrow!" He snorted in disbelief. "You didn't even check on him!" The press was going to have a field day with this one. And, if GCPD didn't catch Scarecrow soon, Mayor Krol was going to start twisting the screws on Gordon. Which was all the commish needed right now. And this idiot could have stopped the whole thing cold if he'd just made a few phone calls!
"That was Ms. Stopes', responsibility—" Kalisky said faintly, pressing a hand to his brow."
Maybe she would have some answers for him. "She around?"
Kalisky coughed, miserably. "I fear she's missing, too!"
Perfect.
"Lighten up, Bullock!" Behind him, his new partner, Renee Montoya approached waving a videocassette. "It's easy to be wise after the event. Look at this…" On the label of the tape, someone had scrawled in bold black lettering "For Batman."
Bullock frowned. "A message?" he grunted, holding out a hand for the tape.
Montoya jerked her hand back, automatically. "Not for us."
Bullock glowered. He liked Montoya. She was tough. She was smart. Unlike most of the other rookies he'd had occasion to be paired with, she hadn't instantly written him off as some loser who'd been Peter Principled into his current position. But she had displayed a distinct eagerness to let the Bat take over what should be strictly police matters. Bullock respected the Bat. To a large extent, he trusted him. And, if some lowlife injected him with enough sodium pentothal, Bullock would even admit that Gotham probably needed him. But he didn't have to like the idea that the GCPD relied on the Bat as much as it did. And if Montoya's first instinct was to turn over all evidence and let the Bat have first crack at it…
He snatched the cassette from her. "This is evidence--found at the scene of a crime. We watch!"
"…We watch!" Nightwing heard Bullock proclaim. He slipped silently through the open window. After a moment he motioned to Robin to follow. The younger crime-fighter hesitated, but managed to enter unseen by the police and Dean Kalisky. Nightwing smiled encouragement as Robin pulled his cape tightly forward, concealing his red-and-green costume beneath its inky blackness. And just why, Dick wondered, had he never thought to wear a cape that was black on the outside… or long pants, for that matter?
He shook his head and pulled his attention to the television set connected to the VCR player. The screen wavered, and then stabilized to reveal the Scarecrow staring menacingly out at them.
"Greetings, Batman!" leered the figure on the tape.
"Yo yourself, Fruitcake," Bullock snorted.
Scarecrow continued. "I've read that the present parlous state of world affairs may be a direct result of Mankind's long slow drift away from religion. I intend to rectify that sorry fact. Before the night is over, a million voices will sing my praise--a million knees bend in homage--a million screams beg me to release them from my awful reign of terror. Beware… for tonight the god of fear stalks Gotham City!"
"Cheez!" Bullock gaped. "Fruitcake ain't the half of it where that creep's concerned!"
Hoo boy, Nightwing rolled his eyes. Did Crane and Maxie share a padded cell together, or what… hunh--
"Tape seems to be stuck--" Montoya said.
Robin saw it in the same split-second that Nightwing did. The two lunged forward as one. Montoya found herself hurtling forward as a brightly clad teen plowed into her, carrying her clear. Nightwing tackled Bullock.
"What the heck…" Bullock gasped as the TV set exploded in flames.
"Magnesium-based booby trap," Nightwing snapped back. "Want to read some more of his mail?" Out the corner of his eye, he saw that Robin had removed his cape and was using the Nomex fabric to keep the flames at bay with one hand, while he fumbled for the chemical flame retardant canister in his utility belt with the other. He nodded approval and gestured to the other three to follow him to the exit.
"Point taken," a chastened Bullock replied. "Next time I just pass the message on!" He exhaled. "That's one we owe you." Robin joined them. "If you freaks ever need anything--"
"A list of the missing students would be good," Nightwing returned. "If forensics comes up with any leads, tell Gordon I'll be watching for the signal."
Bullock glanced up sharply. "You."
"Me." Want to make something of it?
He nodded. "So that's how it is, then."
Nightwing nodded, clenching his teeth, as he braced Bullock's resigned acquiescence, or more likely, his derisive snort. "That's how it is."
Bullock mulled that over for about ten seconds. "Well if that's how it is," he said finally, "Then what the hell are you doing standing here talking to me?" He bellowed. Robin jumped. Bullock ignored him. "You two freaks have a fruitcake to nab! What, you want me to turn around so you can do your Claude Raines impression? Scram!"
Nightwing's stunned expression gave way to a huge smile. Giving a mock salute, he nudged Robin. "You heard the man. Let's go."
Elsewhere in Gotham, Azrael swung from rooftop to gargoyle to flagpole. He was developing a feel for the city's moods--an awareness that had only recently begun to manifest. Some nights, there was a near-serenity to the bustle of traffic, a heady enthusiasm to the pace of the pedestrian crowds pouring out of theatres and nightclubs, something almost comforting in the warning bells of the elevated trains passing below his perch. Tonight, however, Gotham was on the brink, stress levels on overdose. Bane was responsible, Azrael knew. By rights, he should go against him. With the System guiding his moves, Azrael could take him down. He knew it. But Bruce Wayne had forbidden it. Very well. Leave Bane to Bruce. He would take the rest of this evil city!
The sound of breaking glass caught his attention. Two youths had apparently gotten hold of a crowbar, and were using it to smash the window of a parked car below him. Azrael smiled to himself. The night. The chill. The challenge. No wonder Bruce loved this. No. No wonder he loved it. He leaped from his perch, to land, crouched on the roof of the vehicle in question.
"Lost your key, Lowlife?" he asked, tensing for battle.
"Oracle." Nightwing activated his comlink. "Any signs of Scarecrow making his move, yet?"
"Negative," she replied. "Continuing to monitor on all frequencies."
The voder was up, providing a buffer between them. Dick understood, much as he detested it. Rather than give anyone the opportunity to feel sorry for her, Babs was keeping as many defenses raised as possible. She'd rather have people ticked off at her than have them pity her, any day. Dick blinked. That sounded oddly familiar. He wondered… "You know his condition," he stated.
"Affirmative." When she spoke again, however, Nightwing was pleasantly surprise to find the voder off. "How are you?"
Well, considering that the woman I was planning to marry recently left the solar system, considering that the people I think of practically as family essentially followed in my 'Dad's' footsteps and fired me, considering that said Dad almost died last week, considering that one of his protégés is acting like he's been doing undercover work at Arkham long enough to 'go native' on us…
"Managing." A thought occurred to him. "It's been too long. Any chance of us getting together, later?"
Tim, overhearing Dick's half of the conversation, shook his head in mock disbelief. "Scarecrow's at large and you're trying to make a date?"
"The current Boy Wonder has a point, Dick. Besides, you don't think Silver Dragon'll be hurt if you don't turn up in time for those chocolate chip cookies?"
Dick's jaw dropped. Did she have every room and rooftop in Gotham wired for audio feed? More to the point, did she have the manor wired? "How did--"
"I'm Oracle, genius. The all-seeing, all-knowing--" her voice broke off in midsentence. "Guys," she said, patching Tim's comlink into the conversation, and turning the voder back on, "I've got eight simultaneous Scarecrow sightings within the downtown core. Feeding coordinates to your trackers, now."
Robin was already pulling the device out from his utility belt. "Got 'em."
Dick held up his own tracker. "Me too. Thanks, Oracle. Keep us posted if any intel turns up?"
A note of flippancy entered the synthetic voice transmission. "Well, I was thinking about getting my jollies watching you two fumble around, but I guess you've got a lot to keep an eye on over the next little while."
"Cute."
"How kind of you to notice, Sir--" She broke off suddenly. "Oracle out."
Dick frowned, resigned. They had been that close. They had almost slipped back into the easy banter that had once come so naturally to them. And then, she'd raised shields again.
"Eight sightings," Tim said. "Split 'em up, four apiece?"
Dick shook his head. "Too dangerous. One of those has got to be the real one. And you don't want to face him without backup."
Tim nodded, declining to mention that the night he'd earned the Robin suit, he actually had faced Scarecrow without backup. It wasn't like he wanted to repeat the performance.
"So," he ventured. "You know Oracle pretty well, I take it."
Dick looked down at the slightly built youth. "You worked out who Batman and I are. Can't you just leave it at that? Or at least," he added with a grin, "leave me out of your investigations. She prefers to act as a voice behind the scenes, these days. An anonymous voice."
Tim nodded sheepishly. "Okay. So, which Scarecrow do we want to take first?"
Nightwing looked at the tracker grid, eyes narrowed. "You tell me."
"Hunh?"
"Take a good look at those coordinates. There's an anomaly."
Robin studied the display intently. A moment later, his perplexed expression gave way to comprehension. "Six of those Scarecrows are working solo. Two of them are together. Since that's the only team showing, one of those two is probably Crane." He glanced up to see Nightwing's smile of approval.
"Thought you'd figure it out. Let's see how fast we can make it to the Gotham Central Public Library."
Azrael had lost count of the number of punks he had encountered over the last few hours. The rush of adrenaline, coupled with a heady sense of accomplishment fueled him onward. This would be a night that Gotham remembered forever! The two thugs, their ponytails held tightly in Azrael's black-gauntleted fists, whimpered in fear and pain. "N-no more, man!" one pleaded. "I've had enough." Earlier in the evening, that might have moved him to pity. Not now. Swiftly, he knocked both heads together, noting the sound of the resulting impact with grim satisfaction. Abruptly, he released them, and they fell, groaning to the asphalt. He doubted that they would cause further trouble, this night or any other. But just in case…
"Now, I don't care if the police get you or not," he gritted. "This is my personal warning: if I see either of you on the streets after dark in the next month, you get the same again." He paused a beat, before adding, "whether you've done anything wrong or not!" He departed, leaving the two panicked men cowering behind him.
Elsewhere in the city, as the church clock in Mortimer Plaza chimed ten, at the Cameron Theater, the Hotel Paris, the Garden of Von Eeden Restaurant, and an apartment block on the corner of Sherman and Sprang, many more people were cowering. By ten-oh-five, one restaurant patron had choked another nearly to death. Witnesses later reported that the victim had offered no resistance, frozen in terror and shrieking about snakes. Although nobody else had spotted an ophidian, one woman recalled that she had seen scorpions on the victim's head.
At roughly the same moment, another patron, shrieking that he was covered in ants, inadvertently jostled a flaming platter of Crepes Suzette, setting the waiter ablaze. The terrified man hurled himself blindly out a fifth-story window.
Spotting him, Azrael, trusting to the fireproof qualities of the costume that Robin had designed for him, caught the hapless man in midair. Although the costume was, in fact, impervious to the flames, the acrid smoke blurred his vision, and the heat reddened his face. The pungent odor of burning metal assailed his nostrils. Looking up, Azrael saw, to his horror, that the flames were eating away at his decel cable. Instinctively, he bore down on the fountain below, dropping altitude as quickly as he dared.
They were barely nine feet above, when the line snapped. Take the brunt! He forced himself to override The System's mandate for self-preservation, hugging the burning man against his chest, as he tumbled, headfirst, to the water below. If it wasn't deep enough… if it wasn't deep enough, he'd end up in worse shape than Wayne, he thought, as they hit with a splash.
"You! Scarecrow!" Anarky leapt toward the raggedy figure, who was poised over an airshaft. A small, skull-shaped object was in the spindly man's hand. As the red-clad teenaged boy slammed into him, the device fell from his grasp and tumbled harmlessly down a sewer grating. Taken unawares, the Scarecrow fell without a cry, with Anarky on top of him.
"Professor Jonathan Crane," the youth announce triumphantly, "if I remember the police files I hacked into, the Voice of the People says you are busted!" In a single fluid motion, he unmasked the prone figure. Behind his own mask, his eyes widened. "A kid?" He gaped, astonished.
The boy, not much older than Anarky himself was, stared back blankly, reacting not at all to the gold mask with the severe expression.
Hypnotized, he realized. Well, at least I can do something about that. Pulling a device out from his robes, Anarky passed the disk in front of his captive's eyes. "Okay--snap out of it! Now!" For a moment, something sparked in the youth's eyes, but they immediately went blank again. The conditioning was deep, indeed, he realized. To get to the bottom of it, Anarky would need to go even deeper…
Over the city skyline, the ghostly image of the Scarecrow suddenly appeared, leering down. And a raspy voice blasted forth: "PEOPLE OF GOTHAM!"
Inside the burning Garden of Von Eeden, Azrael was trying to herd the frenzied diners to safety, with scant success. Most of the patrons were paralyzed by fear, and virtually incoherent, due to Scarecrow's fear gas. The fact that the restaurant was on fire, barely registered on them. Azrael was searching for a way to break through to them when he heard the voice. What the…
"People of Gotham," the voice repeated, "this is the Scarecrow! Already my omnipotent power moves among you--spreading fear--Panic--DEATH AND DESTRUCTION!" The voice gained volume with each word, ending the sentence with a wheezing cackle. A moment later, it continued.
"Fall on your knees! Worship me! Pray that in my magnificent omniscience I will spare you the onslaught to come! Surrender your city to me by midnight… or face total annihilation at the hands of the new god of fear!" Maniacal laughter echoed through the night, as the words 'BY MIDNIGHT… OR YOUR CITY DIES!' appeared overhead. The words faded quickly, but the image of Scarecrow remained.
Azrael suddenly recalled something he'd caught over the radio in the Batmobile earlier… something about a truck of hologram equipment going missing. Immediately, he realized who must have found it.
Outside the window, he could see fire trucks closing in on the restaurant rapidly. "Took them long enough," Azrael muttered to himself. The professionals should be able to handle the blaze. He'd be of better use tracking down Scarecrow. If he could only figure out where to find him…
Nightwing looked up at the hazy words grimly. "Guess it's up to us to convince the Wicked Warlock of the West that we're not going to 'surrender Dorothy'." He stated.
Robin winced. If that was supposed to be a quip, Nightwing had to be a lot more nervous than he was letting on. How did he hide it so well?
They had been tracking the two blips in close proximity, when their signals had vanished into one of the areas of Gotham that boasted too much electronic interference to pick up a clear trace. They had given up, temporarily, and tracked down another one of the blips. The student it represented, one Tracy Meehan, was currently under observation at Saint Swithin's Trauma Center.
After unloading Meehan at the hospital, they had rechecked their scanners to find that one of the two missing blips had reappeared. But there was no indication, now, as to which one of the remaining dots on their screen represented Scarecrow.
"The fear of the L-rd is the beginning of wisdom!" The voice was back, projecting throughout the city.
"Man!" Robin exclaimed. "That's getting annoying."
Nightwing nodded agreement. "Tell me about it." He turned on his comlink again. "Oracle. Any luck pinpointing the source of his signal?"
A moment later, the voder responded. "Depends on what you mean by luck. He has six projectors throughout the city. Hold on; better make that five. Azrael just took out one--oh!"
Nightwing started. "Ba-" Don't call her 'Babs', you moron! Tim's right there! "Babe?" Sorry, Babs, please let me explain that one before you kill me… "Oracle?"
There was a long pause. "Dick. One of the kids Crane kidnapped. There was a firefight at Precinct 43, ten minutes ago. The kid was in a Scarecrow costume. They shot him. He's dead. Along with three officers--" The voder paused. "I'm trying to get a fix on Crane for you. Meanwhile, I've found out one more thing that could be useful. One of the kidnap victims is Philip Herold. His father was--"
"Paul Herold," Nightwing completed. "The first man Scarecrow ever killed. Hold everything! Oracle, Herold was an antiquarian. What happened to his ancient book collection?"
"Philip inherited it. It's currently located at his home… feeding the address and coordinates to you… now."
Nightwing grinned. "Thanks, Doll. I think that's just the break we needed."
Barbara's voice came on the line. "'Babe'. 'Doll'. You know, I knocked the stuffing out of my last practice dummy. You volunteering to fill in until my next mail order gets here?"
He'd been on the receiving end of those escrima sticks exactly once. Which was precisely once too many. "Very busy, no time." He countered quickly.
"Scaredy-bat!" The channel clicked shut.
Robin turned to him. "A lead?"
"A good one." Nightwing nodded. He quickly filled his junior partner in on the Herold situation.
Azrael shook his fist impotently at the massive Scarecrow hologram. What a mess this was. It might be Scarecrow's handiwork, but Bane had the ultimate responsibility.He wanted to go after Bane. It occurred to him that much of the violence set to befall the city, now that Bruce Wayne was incapacitated, and the Santa Priscan held sway, might be averted, were Azrael to simply… kill… the man who had broken the Batman. No. Scarecrow was still the priority. His midnight deadline was fast approaching. Azrael returned to the Batmobile to review the data. Almost as a reflex, he turned on the police band radio. For a moment, there was static. And then…
"Base--Bullock here! I got a list of the students kidnapped by the Scarecrow. Pencil ready?"
Azrael opened the glove compartment. It was, indeed.
On the rooftop terrace of Philip Herold's apartment building, too ragged figures stood gazing out at the city. While one stood mutely stiff, the other was a bundle of enraged kinetic energy…
"Stunted dwarves!" Crane ranted. "What do they know? Just take the paucity of words they have for states of fear--anxiety, nervousness, fright, fear itself, and terror. What kind of primeval brain would stop at that? Wait till I'm in charge! We'll be precise! There'll be a thousand words for fear! One for that cold clammy feeling when alone in bed, a corpse grabs your ankle! One for that sweet eternal frisson before a major auto crash! A million words… and all based on fear!"
He turned to his companion, who stood miserably stoic, a vacant expression on his face, a lifetime's worth of anguish in his eyes. "What do you say, Phil?" He asked, mockingly.
The boy stood still.
Scarecrow knocked smartly on the youth's head. "Hello? Anybody home? What are you thinking about in there? Hate me, eh?"
Unwillingly, the syllable burst from his lips. "Yes."
Crane took no offense. "Remembering how I killed your father," he continued conversationally, "or worrying about how I'm going to kill you?"
He answered because he had no choice. "Both."
Scarecrow chuckled genially. "Cheer up," he said, draping an arm around the boy's stiff shoulders. "I like you. Whatever might happen tonight, I guarantee you a most excellent death!"
Philip Herold, his will sapped by the same fear gas that had set his fellow students, zombie-like, to terrorize the city, stood paralyzed, unable even to cringe without Scarecrow's permission. Which, oddly enough, given his desire to be acclaimed 'god of fear', was not forthcoming.
On another rooftop, not too far away, Anarky watched them via a pair of binoculars. Scarecrow's hood mad it difficult for him to lip-read, but in fact, he didn't need to. Scarecrow was insane. By rights, Anarky should challenge him, but that would only rectify the problem in the short-term. If it was Batman, and other vigilantes like him, who had created the costumed maniacs who treated Arkham Asylum as if it was a minimum-security detention center for white-collar tax-evaders, then they were the greater threat. They attracted these maniacs to them like flies to rotten meat. But they were far from stupid…
Anarky knew that at least one of them would deduce where Scarecrow was. And Anarky would be waiting when that one did.
At GCPD headquarters, Gordon was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There were at least ten major fires and several minor ones blazing throughout the city. There was a mass panic at the university. The press was on line one, and Mayor Kroll's office on line three. At present, Lieutenant Kitch was on line two, telling a caller whose panicked voice was spilling out of the receiver…
"Sorry, fire teams are all busy! You'll just have to do your best!" He banged down the receiver, wincing.
"I've seen it bad before, Sir," Kitch said, burying his head in his hands, but never anything like this. And, if Scarecrow's to be believed, there's worse to come if we don't give in! I don't mind admitting… I'm afraid this time we won't pull through."
Gordon placed a meaty hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "That's exactly how he wants you to feel. Sure, we're in a mess right now, but we have to go on. It's our only option." The telephone rang behind him and he reached for it. "Things will work out in the end, you'll see," he said as he picked up the receiver.
"Commissioner Gord--"
The raspy voice on the other end cut him off. "Hi, Big Guy! Remember me?"
Scarecrow. "Had enough?" The voice continued. "Is the city prepared to declare me a god, yet?"
"Listen to me, you murdering maniac!" Gordon shouted
"No, Gordon," The voice turned coldly serious. "You will listen to me. I have a tanker full of fear gas centrally positioned! Unless you officially announce my godhood, it will be detonated at midnight precisely. Time is running out, Gordon. This is your last warning."
"Scarecrow," Gordon's tone was placating, "you're being illogical." He's being insane. Why do I find that surprising? "How on earth can we make you a god!"
There was a click, and the line went dead. Remembering what he had just told Kitch, Gordon slowly replaced the receiver. "It'll work out," he lied convincingly. "It's got to."
"Thanks again, Oracle," Nightwing said. They had just managed to put down the rioting students at the university. Thanks to an internet connection and access to the chemistry labs, they now had a viable antidote to the effects of Crane's latest fear gas--as approximately two hundred sleeping students would be able to attest, once they regained consciousness. "We're on it."
They were standing above the elevated train tracks waiting for the eleven-oh-three.
"Doesn't make sense," Robin protested. The gas'll just dissipate in the atmosphere. He'd need to release it in an enclosed space."
"Here it comes," Nightwing cautioned. "Get ready."
Robin nodded, still thinking aloud. "It can't be gas. Not if he's going to use it on the entire city. He'd have to get it into every ventilation system. He hasn't got the time or the manpower--"
The train stopped. Nightwing leapt lightly from his perch, to land quietly on one of the cars. Robin followed suit. His landing was solid, but he lost his footing when the train started, and would have toppled hand Nightwing not grabbed him.
"You think it's a bluff, then, Robin?" He asked.
"Maybe. But if it isn't then… how… could he immobilize the city?"
"You mean apart from what's going on right now? Well, he could have some sort of setup where the gas sprays out at intervals. That way as it dissipates, more gets pumped out. It still wouldn't nail everyone--but it would be more effective than just detonating the tanker. What if..." Nightwing stood very still. "What if it's not gas? What if he chilled it down to a liquid state, instead?"
Robin's jaw dropped. "He's going to dump it in the reservoir!"
Nightwing nodded. "Oracle," he spoke into his comlink. "Can you get me patched through on a phone line to the commissioner's office?" He filled her in quickly. A moment later, a harried voice came on the line.
"Gordon here."
"Commissioner, this is Nightwing."
"Do you have him?"
"Not yet. Commissioner, forget what he said about the tanker. If you have any available units, get them to the reservoir. That's how he's going to release the fear toxin. We're on our way."
"Understood." Gordon spoke firmly. "What about Scarecrow?"
Nightwing's response was immediate. "If he's at the reservoir, we'll get him. If he isn't, we'll get him after we take possession of the toxin." It was the right answer, he assured himself. It had to be. Even if Bruce might have handled it differently, it was still the correct course of action.
There was a long pause on the other end.
It was the right thing to do. Wasn't it?
"I have three units in the area of the reservoir. Two of them are on their way."
Inwardly, Nightwing breathed a sigh of relief. "We should be there in about twelve minutes. Commissioner, if they get there first, tell them to keep their distance, until we're sure who--and what--we're dealing with."
"Understood." The line went silent. For a moment, Nightwing thought he'd just missed hearing the click of Gordon hanging up the phone, but then the older man's voice came through again. "You watch out for yourself, Son. It looks like we're going to be needing you out here beyond tonight."
"Will do, Commissioner," Nightwing said, disconnecting. He turned to Robin. "See that cenotaph coming up?" He asked. "As soon as you're in range, get your grapnel around it, and jump."
Anarky was growing impatient. "Come on, Batman," he muttered. "What's keeping you, and the rest of your army?" What if he didn't figure it out in time? It was less than a half hour to midnight. He whipped out the flare gun that had brought Batman to him the last time he had fired it. He couldn't wait any longer…
Just then, a black-clad figure swung by on a decel cable. Not Batman, but he would do.
Scarecrow spotted the vigilante and started swearing. He was so close… so close to having his scheme succeed. There was no hope for it, now but a strategic retreat. He began to run.
In a smooth, controlled motion, Anarky leveled his flare gun and fired a blast ahead of the fleeing madman. The impact knocked him off his feet to land before a looming Azrael.
"It's over, Scarecrow," said the man in ninja garb.
"Well now, my tall, dark, stranger," Crane wheezed, clenching his fist, "excuse me if I beg to differ!" Thin, needle-like shafts flew from his glove, triggered by the flexing of his fingers.
Azrael hesitated. Under the System's influence, what would… what could he possibly fear? Curiosity warred with common sense. The latter won. Now was not the time to find out. The Kevlar of his costume protected him, as he took care not to let the darts near the exposed skin of his upper face. Swiftly he rammed his elbow into the straw man's solar plexus. "I said it was over," he gritted through clenched teeth. "I meant it!" He knocked the thinner man onto his back.
Astonishingly, Scarecrow swung his feet upward, catching Azrael in the abdomen and flipping him forward. "I'm no cheap street punk, masked man!" He proclaimed. "I stand poised on the edge of godhood. And no mere mortal will stop me!"
Azrael recovered in mid-fall, and landed on his feet. Scarecrow arose to take a fighting stance. "I've always preferred to rely on my natural genius," he sneered, "but I'm not averse to a spot of rough and tumble!" He lunged forward. "The crane style," he volunteered by way of information as he delivered a kick to Azrael's chin. "Apt. Don't you think?" As Azrael went down, Crane kicked him again. "No defense against it, they say!" He taunted, moving in for yet another kick.
That was what Azrael had been waiting for. He seized Scarecrow's extended leg, dragging the lanky man down. "I guess they lied," he snapped. "You're going to suffer for what you've done!
"Ooh," Crane taunted, "I'm terrified! Don't you know a man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears?"
Azrael had one hand on Crane's throat. Swiftly, he punched the prone man in the jaw with his other hand. "Really?"
Without warning, a large net fell from above to settle atop them both. What…? Azrael looked up quickly. His eyes narrowed. "Anarky!"
"In person," the red-clad figure confirmed. "Unfortunately for you!"
"You young fool! Get me out of here," he snapped. "Don't you realize what this madman's up to?"
Anarky didn't move. "Only too well," he agreed, but as you'll note, he too is my prisoner."
Behind his back, Azrael extracted a knife from a compartment in his belt and began sawing away at the net. "Why? Just what's your game?"
"Scarecrow will be going back to Arkham. You, on the other hand, I'm not sure about."
"Phil!" Scarecrow bellowed. "Take him. I order it!" Suddenly, the all-but-forgotten boy in scarecrow tatters rushed forward. Face expressionless, he swung hard and connected with Anarky's face. The gold mask flew off. Azrael's eyes widened as he looked into the now-apprehensive eyes of a boy Robin's age, perhaps a year or so older. That was all her registered before Scarecrow fired off another volley of needles from his glove.
There was no time, or possibility to block this round, hampered by the net as he was. He barely registered that some of the missiles had hit the boy in red as well, and that the Herold boy had helped Crane free. Wave after wave of fear washed through him. Who… what was Azrael? Without the System, without the mask, he was nothing! Helpless… useless… but, somehow, the System was fighting back, forcing him to stand, to shrug off the remains of the net. Wasn't he even allowed to be afraid? Or was the system going to forbid that as well?
Scarecrow gaped at him. "Impossible! That's concentrated fear; you should be out for an hour."
Azrael towered over him. "Someone once said… the only thing we have to fear is fear itself!" He kicked Crane into a patio table. "On your feet. You may be insane--but not so crazy I can't give you the beating you deserve!"
"Phil!" Scarecrow shouted. "Throw yourself off the roof!"
Part of Azrael yearned to leap after the boy. But… Azrael was the avenging angel. Azrael did not save. He destroyed. And stopping Scarecrow was the greater good…
The boy stood on the edge of the roof. As he began to take the first fatal step, Azrael took hold of Scarecrow. "You're going to let him die? I don't believe it!"
"Believe this!" Azrael said, punching Scarecrow hard enough to dislocate his jaw. Another blow, and he was down for the count. And that was when he heard another voice saying…
"Lonnie, it's okay. He's not going to fall. Relax. You're doing fine." It was Robin's voice. Nightwing was standing behind Anarky, helping him haul up his decel cable. One end was wrapped around the Herald boy's foot. As the rest of the boy became visible, Robin's head and upper torso emerged above the guardrail of the roof. "Nice work, Lonnie. Here. You can let go the rope, now… and give me a hand over."
The other youth complied. "He," he gestured shakily behind him. "He was going to let him fall. I had to--"
Robin nodded. "I know you did."
Nightwing advanced slowly toward Azrael, expression hard. Azrael lowered his eyes. Nightwing stood waiting. Finally, the elder of the two looked up. Nightwing frowned at him. Then came a blow that he did not telegraph. Reeling, Azrael slumped against the patio door. Nightwing stalked away without a backward glance.
He dropped his hand on Robin's shoulder. He looked at Anarky. "I agree with what he said earlier. You did good work. Keep it up, and we won't have any quarrel with you."
He turned to Robin. "C'mon. Let's get Phil, here to a doctor. Then we can call it a night."