The black of the SWAT uniform reminded him that this was not a training session. He could occasionally feel Ducard's eyes on him and the watchful scrutiny of his brethren.
He didn't know all the details, just his own duty. They would bring their weapon into the city and use it there. The how and when was purposefully kept from him. That he understood. This was his test of loyalty.
Seeing the microwave emitter was the first shock. He was fairly sure that Wayne Enterprises had never developed weapons during his father's time. Obviously some things had changed since then.
His unease grew while they drove through Gotham. He had never been overly familiar with some of the city's districts but he didn't remember so much neglect and disrepair even seven years ago. It became worse when they neared the Narrows. He had never been there before, and still the filth and the undisguised poverty disgusted him.
Dismay turned to anger when he first glimpsed the train station. This had been his father's gift to the city. Now its filthy shabbiness made it a desecration of his father's legacy. The years of the Depression were long over. Why did the rail look as if it could break down any time? Didn't anyone care?
He hadn't realized that he had muttered this question aloud, but the young man who had met them at the station answered. "No one cares, at least not the upper classes who could act. Most of those who use the rail are too poor and they are not a concern of the rich. "
Bruce nodded. With his parents and their example gone, indifference had set in.
The young man, Dr. Crane, stuck to his side while Bruce, together with two others, wrestled the bulky emitter into the train. Once started, Crane didn't seem able to stop speaking. "They never concern themselves with something that doesn't gain them more riches or threatens them. But this here, " he touched the machine almost reverently, "will make them fear. A short test run and they will have to face their worst fear - to lose everything they take for granted." He chuckled, a nervous sound. "And thus they will be willing to pay. Because we control their worst fear. We are the masters of their fear."
Pay? Bruce looked at Ducard who had followed the proceedings with a satisfied little smile. Now he dismissed the Shadows but a few, Bruce among them.
"Time to spread the word of this night, gentlemen," he said. "- terror."
He pushed a button and the emitter started humming. The effect was immediate. Below them manhole covers shot into the air and steam jets filled the street. People screamed in surprise and confusion and then their cries took on a more sinister note as they started to breathe in the fog.
"Yes," whispered Crane. "Watch! Doesn't the toxin work wonderfully?" He turned to Ducard. "Just as I promised you." Below them the people turned into a mob. Bruce shivered as he realized what this toxin had to be and turned away from the sight.
"So you did, Doctor." Ducard signalled one of the Shadows and the man moved to the front and started up the train engine.
The rumble pulled Crane from his rapture. "Shouldn't we wait until the police notices the turmoil? It can't take that long and then we demand ransom ...
"So you assumed, Doctor. But it is not money that we desire. Tonight Gotham dies." The train started to move. Ducard turned away from the suddenly slack-jawed Crane, dismissing him and his objections.
Bruce had kept his eyes on them both, anything to occupy his mind and avoid thinking of what was about to happen. As Crane straightened and made a step forward, apparently to further plead with Ducard Bruce saw the twitch of his hand, readying something in his sleeve. Without conscious thought he stepped between both men to intercept the attack. However there was neither knife nor pistol. Instead a cloud of smoke puffed into his face. Surprised, he breathed in while his backhanded slap sent Crane's glasses flying and threw the doctor back.
Bruce choked. Reality stretched and distorted. A part of him was aware of Ducard donning his mask and the other Shadows moving in. But most of him was caught in a nightmare.
The train picked up speed and screeched in its tracks.
A swarm of bats came screeching from the shadows ...
Bruce tried to swat them away and stumbled to the side. He almost fell over a seat and grabbed the support bars to keep himself upright.
Bars? Was he back in the cage?
A cackling laugh diverted his attention. The rushing lights cast a reddish sheen on Crane so that he looked ...
... like the burnt man. He turned his head to Bruce, and where his eyes should be there were only holes. His lips moved but Bruce didn't hear above the screeching of the bats that now turned into crows...
He flailed with his arms to keep them away. Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms to his body. Bruce twisted to free himself and clawed at the arms holding him, but they were like steel. He cut his hands on something sharp ...
... he scratched at scaly, ridged wrists, wrists that led to large claws ...
Someone spoke to him but he didn't understand. He doubled his efforts to free himself and turned to face his attacker.
... He saw the frightening visage of a demon, a demon god with blue glowing eyes. He knew him, had already met him. He fought to escape but could not get free and the bats and the crows and the burnt man were all around him...
The demon growled into Bruce's ear and it drowned out the screeching. He commanded and dark shadows came forth and swallowed the burnt corpse.
Bruce ceased his futile struggle and forced himself to go limp. The fear still raced through his veins.
The demon was stronger than the bats and the crows so Bruce submitted to that which was more powerful than everything else, his patron demon. The raspy voice continued to growl - threats and promises - and the screeching of bats and crows was only a weak echo now.
The train raced on.
-----
Bruce woke with a start. He stared up at a stone ceiling and for a moment he believed himself back in the monastery basement. But then he felt the blanket tucked around him. A bed.
"Welcome back among the living."
Bruce turned his head. Ducard leaned against the wall of a small cell without a door. Light came from the hallway. The small room was bare of any furniture except for the bed and some IV equipment. He looked at his arm that still bore needle marks.
"You had us worried."
"How long..." Bruce almost didn't recognize the raspy whisper as his own voice. He rolled over and sat up. He felt dizzy and parched.
"A few days." Ducard offered him a bottle of water. Bruce emptied it greedily.
"I do remember the train and the gas." And Gotham, but he didn't say it aloud. "It was like the smoke from the Blue Poppy but far more intense."
A certain tension seemed to leave Ducard's face and he sat down beside Bruce. "It's the same base. And it was supposed to be a deadly dose. Crane was convinced you would not survive it, at least not with an intact mind. I am glad that you proved him wrong."
Bruce needed a few moments to stomach that fact. Before he could come up with a new question a man appeared in the doorway and bowed to Ducard. Ducard sighed.
"I have to go," he told Bruce. "Try to rest. There are still a few hours 'til dawn."
Bruce nodded and raised the empty bottle. Ducard took it and passed it over to the man. "Bring him more water and also something to eat." The man left immediately.
Ducard rose. "We will have time to speak later."
-----
Despite dreaming of bats and crows and a blue-eyed demon, the short sleep had refreshed Bruce, enough to be able to walk and follow his escort through the temple. And a temple it was, old and probably abandoned until recently. By the design and the warm and humid air he guessed that this base was somewhere in South East Asia.
Ducard wasn't alone. Several dozen men were gathered in the main hall, all in their black armour. Bruce felt underdressed in the remnants of the SWAT uniform. His escort led him to the front of the crowd where Ducard greeted him with a nod. Then he faced the Shadows.
"You all know that our mission in Gotham was a resounding success," Ducard addressed his men. "Thanks to your efforts and diligence. All that is left to do is to tie up a loose thread." He looked at Bruce as he said those last words and at first Bruce tensed in surprised dread. But then a guard dragged in a dishevelled-looking Dr. Crane and forced him to his knees before Ducard.
"I thought you might like to witness this," Ducard murmured to Bruce and drew the sword. Bruce looked down into Crane's blue, slightly crazed eyes. You thought yourself the master of fear but you have mastered nothing, he thought. He expected to feel at least a touch of compassion, but all he found in himself was a vague feeling of pity mixed with contempt. The doctor tried to struggle but his guard subdued him easily.
As Ducard moved into position a thought entered Bruce's mind and he couldn't suppress a twitch, not knowing if he should speak out. Ducard gaze snapped sharply to him. "Yes?" There was a hint of threat but it didn't worry Bruce. He lowered his head in deference. "I'd like to do it... master." For once, it seemed, he had managed to surprise a smile out of Ducard.
Ducard stepped back and handed him the sword, hilt first. Bruce could feel the men at his back shift and tense, ready to take him down should he try something untoward. Nothing was further from his mind. He curled his finger around the familiar hilt and slashed down. His only worry had been that he might botch the job due to his lingering weakness but his aim was true and his strength sufficient. Because it was meant to be. As the guard presented the severed head to Ducard and the gathered Shadows, a single roar of triumph and approval rose from the men.
The shout roused bats from the depth of the temple. Bruce twitched once in surprise but the familiar twinge of fear was absent as they flew around the men before vanishing into the open. That is the gift that the League has given me: to move past my weaknesses and do what is necessary.
His eyes moved back to Ducard and the open smile of pride and approval sent warm shivers through his limbs. When his mentor called for the red-hot iron he didn't need a prompt to kneel and bare his chest. He knew that the willingness was plain on his face. Strong hands gripped his arms tightly from behind and Ducard pressed the iron to his chest.
The pain was searing, but together with the warmth already in his limbs, it swirled and grew into a hot rush.
It was a good pain. He did belong now.