Wicked – Chapter 3
By Christopher W. Blaine
DISCLAIMER: All of the characters and events portrayed in this work of fan fiction are ©2004 by DC Comics Inc. and are used without permission for fan-related entertainment purposes only. This original work of fiction is ©2004 by Christopher W. Blaine.
The place that he found himself occupying was not a home, nor was it a residence. It was simply a gathering point, an area where he would bring together his personal items, personal hopes and goals and personal conquests. Here he was a god, master of a world of pain, blood, sex and more pain. Death was merely the method of being exiled from his world.
He walked away from the dirty window that gave him a view of an even dirtier alley and turned to the teenaged girl who was shaking uncontrollably. "The first time is always difficult; you'll learn to become more accepting of my gift over time," he told her, watching the revulsion and fear wash across her eyes. Had she not been tied to the chair, she would have no doubt gotten up and flung herself out that dirt-stained window that he had just been looking out.
But she was trapped, a prisoner in his dungeon, her life a toy for him to play with as he wished. He cast a glance at her exposed flesh and licked his lips. Her shaking began to worsen and inside he found himself warmed by her reaction. She would have to be bathed soon; he could not tolerate body odor or excessive body hair and she was starting to stink and the hair on her legs aggravated his hips when he was "training" her.
But that could wait as he was hungry and needed to eat. It was important to keep his strength up for soon he would be out on the hunt again, seeking out another citizen for his world. Always there had to be two of them because a god had to always make choices. A god was required to bless the faithful, the ones who pleased him the most, and then punish the bad.
So far, the teenaged girl he had taken for himself had proven not very eager to please, not unlike the many others before her. Some had even showed a willingness to do whatever it took to bring him pleasure; of course, most of them died because he hated suck-ups.
Many times he based his decisions, his death sentences, on more deviant factors. Which one screamed the most or which one made him sweat from activity. So many ways to choose that sometimes he thought that the decision making process was why he did what he did. Certainly the sex and the murdering were of great benefit, but actually making a choice of who would live and who would die, and then pronouncing that mandate of finality, that was what made it worth it.
He moved away from her and went into his small kitchen to make himself a light meal. Then he would go to sleep, but not before he injected her with a sedative to ensure she did not break free and run away. She had to know by now what a heavy sleeper he was.
As soon as it became dark he would go out and scout the area, seeing what children were out at night and try to gauge their habits and rituals. He had a hunger for a young boy, a smooth-bodied lad of perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. That was the age he was when he was first introduced to the wonders of sexual pain.
It had been easier to accept rather than fight as he grew older.
A few minutes later he had finished his meal, deciding not to feed his prisoner. It was better that she learned that obedience had it rewards; defiance had its punishments. If she wanted nourishment then she would learn to perform like the slut she was meant to be. "All women are sluts," he told himself as he pulled a beer from his refrigerator.
Opening it he sauntered over to her and sniffed the air. She would have to be bathed, there was no doubt about it and that had to be done soon. He needed two because that was the only way to truly increase the horror. Let the families fight with each other: black versus white, rich versus poor…it was all a comedy for him. His sole purpose was to seed evil in the fertile garden of Gotham City, to bring true horror to the citizens for nothing more than a chuckle.
He felt no shame, no remorse, no flicker in the back of his mind that screamed out that what he was doing was wrong and he should be sorry. Instead he felt the need to do more, but his keen intelligence, honed by years of doing whatever it took to survive, told him he needed patience.
He would only kill one more and then he would fade from this city, moving upstate, or maybe even crossing the river to NewYork. They could not…no, would not catch him. They, the police, were incompetent and full of bluster and pride; they would not share information across jurisdictions and so the killing would go on and on. Ted, Ted Bundy, he had the right idea and he was a persona hero of the man who called himself Wicked. Like Bundy, he was not a bad looking fellow on the outside, but under the skin their lay a monster that came out every time he got an erection, and that was more often than not.
In fact the beer was loosening him up, opening the door for ideas of depravity that often kept him warm at night but had to be shut away during the day so he could function with all of the people who did not understand pain. The so-called "normal" people.
He existed only to give back to the world what he had received, and received and received and received! He was a god of death, a messiah of perversion and he did not care. His soul might have been damned, but his body still had work to do and he was going to get it done.
He turned and looked again at his prisoner and slowly walked up to her, petting her long hair gently. She was shaking still, but she had learned not to move away. Maybe she was finally understanding that he was even now deciding if she were going to live or die. He didn't really care; the only reason he let any of the children go was so that they could grow to be just like him.
He knew that he was not like everyone else, but that was fine with him. She dared to look over at him, a small bit of hope in her eyes. That disturbed him; he had thought the hope would be gone after hours of sexual torture and rough "playing". It had been her first time and her muffled sobs from behind the tape had invigorated him like a siren's call. He sailed his ship of cruelty into the rocks of her bare soul and laughed the entire time.
He began to unbutton his pants and she shook her head and he nodded in reply. "Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes," he said before pouring a beer on her head. With the hand that had been caressing her hair he grabbed a handful of her dark mane and yanked her head down so he could spit in her eye. "Shut up and take it like a man," he said, knowing that she did not fathom the meaning of the joke or what was about to happen to her.
And that made him laugh, especially as he imagined the look on her face when it did happen to her. He thought about setting up a camera and taking a picture of it and sending it her parents. That was truly something of true artistic expression he told himself!
That, he thought wryly as he stripped, was truly wicked.
Ted Grant stood looking out at the small cemetery that was near the mansion proper, observing the young boy that carefully pulled weeds away from two of the gravestones. There were several markers, each of them a work of art or, in some rare cases, a piece of historical significance. The boy, though, refused to even acknowledge the other stones; his entire purpose and focus was set upon the two newest ones.
"Why don't you just lock his door?" he asked without turning around.
Behind him, clad in the formal attire of his station, stood Alfred Pennyworth. Next to him was a woman who projected an air of intelligence and slowly radiating power. Her name was Leslie Thompkins and along with Alfred she had been entrusted with the guardianship of Bruce Wayne.
"Obviously you are not fully aware of Master Bruce's capabilities," Alfred answered.
"Or determination," Leslie added.
Ted nodded and then ran a hand through his dark hair. It was beginning to shows signs of gray, which wasn't so bad when most of the people he had gone to grammar school with were getting ready to retire and play golf. "So, he leaves the estate on one night a year to sneak into the city. I suppose it has to do with his parents," he said. The murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne was a matter of local legend. Everyone who had spent any amount of time in the city within the last two years knew the story.
The only problem with this tale, Ted mused, was that there was no happy ending. Looking at the boy he could just make out the scowl on his face as he wrestled a particularly stubborn plant out of the ground. A lifetime of facing opponents, both in the ring and in the back alleyways, had given Ted a unique perspective on facial expressions. There was a cold rage inside young Bruce Wayne.
He mentioned that little tidbit. "We are trying to deal with it the best way we can. Bruce is consumed with the idea of avenging his parents," Leslie explained. "But he doesn't want to kill anyone. He wants justice. Justice for them. Justice for him."
"There's a thin line between justice and revenge," Ted told them.
Alfred looked at the clock and coughed. "It is time for Master Bruce's ninjutsu lesson; perhaps you would like to observe him there."
Ted turned. "You're letting him take martial arts? Why?"
"I recommended it," Leslie said. "I'm only a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist, but I felt that physical activity would be good for him, a way to release some of his anger."
"Or teach him how to snap someone's neck when he's pissed off," Ted remarked, shaking his head. "I don't get into all of the Eastern philosophy crap, but I can tell you right now that isn't someone ready to find his center of being."
"He has a most excellent instructor…"
Ted held up a hand, cutting Alfred off. "If you want to have him lean chop-sake then be my guest; I've been employed to follow him one night a year and protect him. In order to protect him, I've got to understand him…the way his mind works so I can follow him without being seen." He stepped away from the window. "I'd like to see his room."
Alfred looked to Leslie who nodded her assent. "I'll take him; you collect Bruce. Sensei Terry will be quite upset if you are late again."
The butler excused himself with a small bow and left to perform his duties while Ted was led upstairs by Leslie. "Bruce keeps his martial arts uniform in the gymnasium so he won't disturb us," she said as she walked next to him. "May I ask you a question, Mr. Grant?"
He shrugged. "Go ahead…you guys are paying the bill."
"How is it that a man who is as old as my own father looks so young?"
He chuckled. "Good eating, sex with younger women…"
"Mr. Grant…I'm a doctor, I know that is not true," she said with a slight blush. Ted found himself liking the good physician, but not in the way he normally found himself attracted to women. Instead she represented the type of person he and the other members of the Justice Society had fought to protect in World War 2. Here was an example of true American compassion where a woman was willing to take on the responsibility of raising the son of her friend because he had asked her to. Nothing more, nothing less.
"I'm not a scientist, doc; thought I could arrange for one to talk to you if you want," he told her as they reached the top of the massive staircase. "Truth is that most of us heroes got zapped with 'time energy" a few years back…"
"'Time energy'?" she asked, her tone indicating she did not believe what he was saying.
"Yeah," he said. They stopped for a moment in the hallway. "I don't know all of the details, but we were all exposed to an energy field that slowed down our aging processes." He stared down at the floor. "Sometimes it seems like it isn't fair and sometimes its rough seeing old friends…well, grow old…"
"I understand," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "I was only curious and did not mean to cause harm."
He shook his head. "You didn't; it's just that sometimes, when I'm not ready for it, the big picture kind of slams into me. I mean, chances are I'll outlive little Bruce and there's something wrong with that I suppose."
He straightened up. "But I suppose we both need to make sure that he still gets to a ripe old age, so let's go see what is going on with this kid."
They entered Bruce's room and Ted was immediately taken back by what he did not see. Most children Bruce Wayne's age had models, toys and posters strewn about the room. Instead what he saw was an almost desolate bedchamber. There were no posters, no trophies and it was neat as a pin. On the small desk was a set of books; a couple of Hardy Boys mysteries by Frank Dixon and a textbook that had a title that Ted was not sure he could pronounce. Leslie picked up the book. "He asked me for this; it is the latest text on forensics dealing with gunshot wounds."
"A little morbid for a kid, especially one that has seen his parents killed, don't you think?" Ted asked as he moved around the room. He checked under the bed, hoping to find anything, but it was clean as well.
"We once tried to keep Bruce away from all of the news accounts of his parent's murder, so one day he simply called the Gotham Gazette and asked them to mail him the clippings," she responded.
Ted nodded. "And they were more than happy to comply with his request, hoping to get an exclusive interview one day. Yeah, I've dealt with reporters before, worse than lawyers and lawyers pretty muck suck pond scum if you ask me." He quickly finished his inventory of the room and then sighed in frustration.
Leslie asked him what the problem was. "He's holding everything in; there is nothing here to give me a clue of what he thinks about. This could be the room of a high school drama teacher, a priest or a lesbian refer smoker for all I know. There's nothing to indicate ownership, nothing to give a personality trait. Christ, the books are from the library or borrowed from you. His clothes…well, they suck eggs."
Leslie looked confused. "I am afraid I do not understand what it is exactly that you are looking for here, Mr. Grant."
"A clue," he said. "Why does he make this trip every year? If we knew that, then maybe we could find a way for him to do what he needs to do here, instead of running off into the city in the middle of the night." He sat down on the bed. "Hell, when I was his age, I was running out at night to see good old Annette Bertinelli."
"Of the Bertinelli crime family?"
Ted smiled large. "Oh yeah, a cousin in fact. I was twelve, she was fourteen with a set of knockers on her that…well, you get the idea. We would meet behind the fish market, the same one where some of her relations would chop up their enemies, and kiss for hours on end. Kiss until our lips were numb. That's what he should be doing."
"I'm afraid Bruce has difficulty with emotional issues," she admitted.
"I can imagine," Ted told her as he got up. He moved over to the desk and picked up the text book and thumbed through the pages. He got to a chapter that had several notations made in it, none of them in what looked to be particularly feminine handwriting. Still, he verified his suspicions by asking her if she had made the notes.
"No, that is Bruce's handwriting," she said after examining the book. "I personally would rather have him face his problems then bury them, so you can see why I tend to disagree with your assessment. Bruce is reserved, but that is to be expected. He will come around eventually."
"Yeah, I'm sure that's what Hitler's parents said about him," Ted sniped. "Look, Doc, I know it isn't any of my business…I'm just the gorilla for hire, but this kid needs some real help."
"Which is why you are here, Mr. Grant. You are the best at personal protection, you have said so yourself. Sending Bruce to see a therapist or the like will do no good; he will simply lie about what he is feeling." It was her turn to sigh. "You have no idea how forceful he can be. He is much like his father, but he gets his true strength from his mother."
"I'm sure he does," Ted commented, not really wanting to take the conversation any farther. To him it seemed as if everyone that lived or worked in Wayne Manor suffered from an inability to grasp reality. But then, he really was only seeing the entire situation from the outside; he wasn't here every day. They obviously were sparring no expense getting Bruce the proper protection and lessons, though the martial arts aspect still bothered him.
He had nothing against martial artists. As a pugilist Ted respected anyone who dedicated his or her life to the art of unarmed combat. The problem was that after years of knocking heads and fists with other people, Ted had come to realize that sometimes a hug worked a lot better than a left hook.
But that was not his concern and he needed to focus on the job. Her question about his age had brought up old guilt and that had left him open. He closed himself down and went into his professional mode. The money was good and honest and super-heroes still needed to eat. If the Justice Society was still active then maybe things would be different, but it was nothing more than a VFW for old costumed adventurers now. Very few members even bothered to put on their costumes even though it had been years since the government had demanded that anyone of them reveal their identities to the world.
"Again, I am concerned about his internalizing everything; it makes him unpredictable," Ted remarked as he rubbed his chin stubble. He did not bother to tell her what he had read in the margins and she had not bothered to look. Perhaps she knew what it was, what it said, or maybe she was looking at the boy with blinders on.
The notes were on the chapter concerning bullet trajectories.
Young Bruce was trying to determine if the bullet that had killed his mother had been meant for him.