Hey guys; I am well aware that it has been about…(checks calendar) almost three to four weeks since I last updated on this (nearly a month). Sorry about that—I know I keep mentioning that I'll get better at updating, but talking about things is easier than actually doing it. So, if you wouldn't mind, please don't yell at me; it's been somewhat of a rough time, and I may go ballistic at any given moment. Anyway, moving on—ALL OF YOU ARE SO SMART! Nearly every single one of you caught the Tim Drake reference in the last chapter! Ha, ha! Yes, to those who were wondering, I did that intentionally—good job! By the way: Happy Thanksgiving!
Chapter Four: Stalker
Wintergreen-
William sighed and stared dejectedly into the mirror at his appearance once again—the tedious time he'd spent being a business man had ingrained the importance of appearances into his brain, and he sorely regretted it now.
When Slade had wanted him to assist him in his plot, Wintergreen hadn't anticipated that he'd been playing the role of messenger between his companion and that impossible Watson woman! Honestly, just knowing that he'd have to look at her tonight made his stomach tighten into thick knots—
It's not about her, he reminded himself as patiently as was possible, while adjusting his tie. You're doing this for a friend. Just a favor for a friend…
Wintergreen snorted rudely to himself, but finished grooming and reached for the wire on the desk beside him; he tucked and folded the cord beneath his shirt, positioning the miniature microphone on it so that Slade could listen in on the meeting without the interference of static. Then, with a final parting of his hair, the old gentleman picked up his briefcase and exited the room (Deathstroke had been kind and accommodating enough to let his sergeant stay in a spare room in his lair—that way, they could both work and sleep in the luxury of privacy).
"…corner of Main and twenty-fourth. Find him…"
"I beg your pardon?" Wintergreen said, in a formal tone as he entered the room; Slade's back was to him, and the man's form hunched over the top of his desk, but he turned to acknowledge his comrade—William immediately spotted the transmitter that the mastermind used to communicate with his patrolling drones (Slade had dispatched them as soon as the two had arrived at the old hideout, explaining the whole robot concept to his affiliate as he programmed the mechanical servants routes) clutched in the man's fist.
"Something came up," Slade proclaimed briefly, and started to strap on armor he had removed awhile earlier to allow himself more comfort. Wintergreen stood to the side and regarded the former soldier.
"Anything important?"
Deathstroke smirked and straightened his mask.
"I know where the boy is staying."
Even as these six words left Slade's lips, William felt his heart soar up in his chest. If they'd locked on to the child's exact location, it would mean they wouldn't require Watson's assistance as a spy at the highschool anymore.
"Excellent," the British man said, sighing gladly in his relief. "So, you're off to retrieve him?"
His friend shot him a side-glance.
"No."
Suddenly, Will's previous hopes had, quite unexpectedly, come crashing back to earth from where they had been swooping on air thermals.
"What!" He demanded, bordering on the edge of outrage. "Why not? This entire time, we've focused on only one thing: Discovering where the hell your kid is, and grabbing him! And now…now…"
Wintergreen gestured in helpless anger, unable to finish what he was trying to say. In the meantime, Slade had listened patiently and now motioned for calm.
"It's much more complicated than that," he informed his sergeant in an apologetic tone, trying to make up for keeping his ally in the dark. "You have to consider what might happen, should Mr. Wayne realize that his son has been absent from class for many days. The last thing I want—or need, for that matter—is the Dark Knight chasing us down."
The old man nodded reluctantly, knowing where this was going.
"To avoid attracting suspicion, we've used Ms. Watson, who is key to the plan. Therefore, you will go ahead with your meeting with her tonight at whatever restaurant you have selected. The drone will take care of Robin…"
"And you?" Wintergreen couldn't help asking.
"I've an unscheduled appointment with someone who may be able to help us."
"Huh," William growled. "Just out of personal interest: Where exactly is this new fellow? How long do you think it's going to take you to track him down?"
Slade shrugged, and clicked on his shoulder guards.
"It shouldn't be too hard to find him: After all, he's a permanent resident of Arkham."
-----------------------
"Nice day, isn't it?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow, but smiled all the same as Bruce strode over to him, black coat billowing in the wind. The butler had been resting in the center of one of Gotham's sprawling parks, admiring the brilliant shades of the leaves that fluttered from the boughs of the trees, but he stood now to greet his employer.
"Master Bruce: I see the meeting ended earlier than expected?"
The billionaire nodded, his glee evident in the grin he wore.
"I remembered you mentioning that you'd be waiting in the park and would drive by when I called to tell you I was done. But, I figured it'd be a waste of a perfectly good day, so I walked over."
"And here you are," Alfred finished for him; Bruce swept into a flourishing bow, making the elderly man chuckle appreciatively.
"Of course, you are accompanied by your flair for dramatics."
"Why, certainly!" the Dark Knight said seriously, but his mouth was twitching at the corners.
"Well, how was the meeting, sir?" Alfred questioned politely, while they began to stroll side by side along the winding paths of the common.
"It was great," Bruce announced. "Plenty of time for me to catch up on any lost sleep."
He received a mock-indignant slap on the shoulder from his companion.
"Master Bruce!"
The Caped Crusader snickered, and jogged a few steps ahead of his friend.
"I'm just joking, Alfred!"
The butler chuckled as well, and he quickened his pace momentarily to fall beside his employer once more.
"I know, I know, Master Wayne. But you really must get used to these meetings; dreary as they be, they are key to the development of the company—"
Bruce pretended to ward him off in mock horror.
"Please, Alf, I get those speeches all the time. I don't need you to remind me as well."
The elderly British man allowed himself a swift grin, before proceeding.
"Now, truthfully, Master Bruce: How did the meeting go?"
The younger man sighed wearily, and tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants.
"It was fine…a lot of it included information about the stock market—nothing terribly new…Fox had to nudge me a couple times when he wasn't giving speeches…and I'm pretty positive that a couple members of the board think I don't deserve to own the company, but other than that, it ran smoothly."
"Uh-huh…"
The playful gleam in Bruce's eyes had died down a bit now, and, adopting his usual brooding manner, he added quietly:
"Actually, I was interrupted a few hours before we finished; Jessica had gotten a phone call from the highschool—"
Alfred winced, knowing what was coming next.
"—Apparently Dick got into another fight with some kid."
The two men sighed simultaneously.
"This has been happening frequently," Alfred finally remarked, stating the obvious. Bruce grunted in affirmation.
"He hasn't been fitting in as well as I'd hoped, and he's really building up a double-sided reputation for his teachers—smart, but a troublemaker…" The Dark Knight closed his eyes meditatively and muttered:
"I can't help wondering whether or not if he's doing this to defy me, or if he honestly doesn't know how to behave."
Alfred considered both options, giving Bruce the opportunity to continue.
"After all, he wasn't happy at the prospect of being separated from his team, but at the same time, he never grew up like 'normal' kids—and maybe his life as a hero caused him to be a bit socially inept…"
Batman reflected again, a rogue breeze ruffling his hair as he contemplated asking the difficult, hated question that ran through his thoughts often enough to the point where it became disturbing.
"…Was I a good father, Alfred?"
The butler snapped to attention at this newest sentence; he stopped in mid-stride, and turned to grasp his companion's shoulders, staring directly at Bruce's uncertain expression.
"Don't even start with that," he commanded, firmly but reassuringly. "Your self-doubt is worrying, but not surprising. What you have to keep in mind though, is that you most certainly care about Master Richard, and that, despite how he may act, or what he may say, you mean more to him than perhaps you yourself know. Don't you dare doubt yourself."
Bruce gave a tiny grin, but beneath the surface, his heart did not believe it.
(A/N: This may seem like filler, but actually, this is going to come back later in the story. It's important, don't worry…)
Robin-
The skies of Gotham City were drenched in the thick darkness that consumed it, and the last slivers of the sunset were just barely glimmering under the cover of twilight. Robin walked beneath the stretched plains of nightfall, plastic bags from the local grocery store and their contents banging against his knees with every movement (before the educational semester had begun, Alfred had given him a brief lesson on cooking so that his young master wouldn't resort to eating take-out, or end up burning down his apartment building). All dreary memories of school were far gone from his mind now, as he strolled along sidewalks carpeted with autumn's thick leaves, each footstep accompanied by loud crunches, and the unmistakable aroma of fall.
The Boy Wonder gave a tiny sigh, humming absently as he passed the park where the children's laughter and whooping still rang in his ears. The playground and streets were virtually empty, save the occasional stray animal passing by, or a couple on a late walk after working hours. At least Alfred had picked a relatively nice neighborhood in Gotham, instead of placing Robin smack in the center of the city with the traffic, the smog…the crime…
The old butler must have known that the boy would be too strongly reminded of Jump and the Titans if he were to dwell near the center of all the excitement downtown.
An eerie quiet fell as the night descended, accompanying the long, groping silhouettes that reached for him like twisted fingers; at the same time, the boy's heart began to beat faster, and Robin unthinkingly quickened his pace. Why did he feel like somebody was watching him?
What's the matter? Afraid of the dark?
The Boy Wonder took a shuddering gasp for air, and forced himself to continue heading forward, the slap of his soles against the pavement echoing faintly as he neared the dark entrance of an alleyway. Everything was so dark, he couldn't wait until he got home—
From out of the curtain of black that veiled the alley, a long, clawed hand reached out and latched onto his wrist, dragging him into the shadows.
Blows landed, furious and swift on his body, as Robin toiled to block the attacks in time; the night, and the secluded, narrow space had placed him at an extreme disadvantage, not to mention that he could not flee without the possibility of getting mauled even worse by his invisible enemy. He was trapped, probably what his assailant had intended.
Then fight…'fight with everything you've got.'
Robin flailed with his fists, striking out at his attacker with as much precision as his eyes could provide him; he took light steps to both sides to avoid oncoming hits, feet stumbling and staggering over the grocery bags that he had flung to the ground so that movement came easier, consistently aiming punches at a face that was concealed behind a dark swath of scarf.
…It was surprising, how fighting stances and skills flooded back to his memory at the first real fight he'd had in ages; true, he was a bit sloppier than he'd been with the Titans, but—
With an unsuspected amount of swiftness, the anonymous attacker darted away from Robin's uppercut, and, taking advantage of the young man's lapse in attention, grabbed his wrist once more and twisted it relentlessly.
The Boy Wonder froze in shock, and, as if in a trance, he heard himself gasp in bewilderment—
…His stalker's coat slipped open a few inches, and Robin caught sight of a sleek metal body beneath, with a curved, 'S' shaped insignia blazing on the ebony chest…
Robin staggered backwards as though he'd been shot.
"No," he hissed desperately under his breath, "no, no, no…"
The Slade-bot's blank white stare narrowed as it advanced, and the teen stiffened, expecting it to charge. He was taken aback, however, when the robot reached into the pocket of its enormous overcoat and pulled out an awful, curved mask he'd once donned to save his friends' lives, stretching out its palm as if offering it back.
The former Titan shook his head weakly, still clinging to the wall for support.
"No, no, I'm…I'm different now…I don't have that life anymore…"
The drone cocked its head, and drew back its hand as if to slap him, but Robin retaliated sooner; a single roundhouse slammed the head off the steel shoulders of Slade's minion, and the inanimate figure now slumped to the ground, twitching here and there; the mask it had carried now fluttered to the ground, thin as a sheaf of paper—harmless in anyone else's opinion but the boy's own. 'Richard' heaved a weary, frightened breath, and then turned on his heel…and ran like hell, wishing that he would never stop, but simply go on and on until he had left behind the past for good.
I don't have that life anymore…no more…
Gotham City, Arkham Asylum. 7: 31 p.m.
"…C—c…"
The halls of Arkham were silent that night; the doctors who had their shifts during daylight had retired for the rest of the night (probably welcoming the time away from their job amongst the abnormal and the deranged) and their replacements were due to arrive in an another half an hour or so; the inmates, typically restless with boredom in their cells, remained oddly subdued, locked within their small, white rooms. There was only one prisoner that was still in the midst of the activity, and the guards watched, apathetically, the camera and the man's struggles against the straight-jacket that pinned his arms.
"…row…"
Words slipped from his cracked, raw lips, and he licked them out of nervous habit; pale eyes, alive with a curious mixture of intelligence and insanity, darted about the familiar walls that penned him in—but always, always the small pupils returned to what lay in the corner. And, as always, his mind went blank with the overpowering desire to feel the rough burlap rub against his flesh, the wish to step outside this putrid building and be unleashed on the streets of Gotham once more.
"Sc…Sca…"
He lay oblivious to what occurred outside his single cell, all free thought bent on his obsession, his masterpiece. Meanwhile, the other criminals that lined that particular hall began to hear noises—grunting, blows being delivered—and moved to their doors, faces pressed against the windows in puzzlement….only for their eyes to widen in recognition as the newcomer marched purposefully down the hallway. The guards once attentive in their office were now slumped in their chairs and sprawled across the floor, dead.
"Scar…Scare…"
Slade's boots clicked on the sterile white floors of the asylum, single eye observing the multiple villains that were examining him—some looked confused, others excited…and still some fearful.
With a self-satisfied smile (a luxury he rarely allowed himself—he'd learned when he was younger that pride brought down even the mightiest of rulers in history) at their reactions, Deathstroke the Terminator halted before the door he'd been searching for, then drove down the thick metal with a single, lazy kick.
Doctor Jonathan Crane jerked at the noise, and coughed lightly as dust and fresh air flooded his nostrils. His hazy vision—the morons who now ran the place had removed his glasses—now more handicapped than usual, swam, and then focused upon a solitary dark figure that stood framed in the light generated from the fluorescent bulbs.
"Dr. Crane…this truly is a pleasure," commented a voice, calculating and deep in its tone. "I don't suppose I'm interrupting anything?
Crane squinted, sizing the stranger up, but he refrained from responding just yet; it was a skill he had perfected when he'd still been operating the asylum, as a way to alarm inmates—they had talked ceaselessly to break the silence, and had often times let some relevant piece of information slip. The stranger, however, seemed to recognize this tactic, for he tilted his head back and chuckled mirthlessly.
"Come now, Dr. Crane, surely your imprisonment hasn't affected your ability to speak that drastically…" The voice paused, and then went on slyly. "Or do you prefer being referred to by your other name, Scarecrow."
Jonathan finally relented, and released a short bark of laughter, still surveying the other man with growing intensity.
"Well, well, well, sir…you know both my names…but I've yet to learn yours…" He let the sentence trail away, waiting with practiced patience.
"Slade," was the careless reply. "Many more people, though, know me better as 'Deathstroke.'"
Crane blinked, and appraised the man once more, a gleam of greedy interest creeping into the wretched blue eyes.
"The Terminator? The mercenary?"
Both questions were answered with nodding.
"I see…"
The doctor sniffed, pulled limply at his straight-jacket, then said offhandedly, as if his question didn't matter much at all:
"I don't suppose you're the same 'Slade' who purchased part of my hallucinogenic gas a year or two ago, when I wasn't—" He sneered slightly, and gestured as best as he could at his surroundings. "—Currently in my incapacitated state?"
"The very same."
Crane laughed again, sounding a little sadistically delighted.
"Hmm…" Despite his apparent intrigue, the insane doctor's gaze was drawn back by the limp mask that had been shunned to the side when the door had burst open; Slade followed the line of his vision thoughtfully, as he strode to retrieve the mask.
"How long has it been since you were last freed, doctor?" The world-renowned murderer wondered idly, running the thick fabric of the disguise over his fingers, but his single, severe eye did not leave Crane's anxious face for a moment.
Jonathan attempted a wry smile, but it was malformed by his concentration on his mask, and he did not respond. Slade rather got the gist of it.
"Perhaps much, much too long," he mused deliberately, as he strode forward and removed the straight-jacket that had incarcerated Crane for so long. The doctor managed to snap out of his momentary spell and, hand trembling in shock, reached up one hand and brushed black hair off his forehead, relishing his long-denied release.
"W—why—?"
"I have a business proposition for you, doctor. You're no good to me in here," Slade announced, and tossed Crane's obsession at him.
Jonathan gaped as he ran his hands over the textile of his mask, and found his mouth moving ahead of his brain.
"What exactly did you have in mind?" He whispered faintly.
The mastermind chortled wickedly, sounding almost truly happy for a moment.
"How would you like to frighten a little brat of Batman's, for me?"
To be Continued…
I am absolutely exhausted…(shakes head). Well, anyway, that's another chapter—and again, I am REALLY sorry about the long gap between updating! The next chapter will be longer, and will come much sooner than this one did. Anyway, I'm off to go writing up new chapters for my other stories…and finish brainstorming ideas for upcoming stories…
Have a nice night/day!
Rebel
