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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx

Chapter 8: News Travels Fast In This Town


Five hours earlier.

Steve Trevor lifted the cup of coffee dregs to his lips and tried to sip. The cup hadn't held liquid in ten minutes, but the act was ceremonial. Sipping bad coffee was what one did in the lobby of a crummy police station after midnight, like avoiding eye contact with the desk sergeant or trying not to think about the stains on the walls. The cop who brought him in for questioning and was now taking a call in a nearby office. Steve wasn't sure who was on the other end of that call, but their conversation started an hour ago, and both parties occasionally yelled.

Whatever sanitized record of tonight eventually hit the books would say he was here to help the police investigate Arturo Bertinelli. That was true enough; Steve was the last man to speak with Arturo. But Steve had answered the cop's few questions when they first arrived, and the cop hardly seemed interested in him. Yet he was still here. Steve's best guess was that he was a hostage.

He still didn't fully understand the situation, but now he knew that Arturo Bertinelli was a gangster, the kind who shared tips with Atilla the Hun by the sound of it. Apparently, the military had people who paid attention to gangsters, and someone with a bushel of stars on their shoulder had arranged for Steve to protect Arturo for reasons unknown. Then someone with even more stars heard about it, blew a fuse, and promptly took that protection away. Arturo was going to be arrested soon. Somehow the FBI were involved. All Steve could say for sure was that a lot of important people were talking, and at the bottom of this information pecking order was the GCPD. The poor local cops were probably holding him so the War Department would keep them in the loop. Maybe they knew less than he did.

Steve sympathized, but that didn't make it any easier to be patient. He had left Diana a message when his interview was over. They needed to have a long conversation of their own. He finally crushed his paper cup and tossed it at the trash can. It bounced twice on the rim then fell to the floor. Steve sighed.

The nearby office door opened, and his cop walked out.

"Hey, Trevor."

Steve looked up. "Yeah?"

The cop gestured to the door. "Yer off the hook, bud."

"Bully." Steve stood and stretched his neck. The desk sergeant tossed him his pistol, and he slipped into its holster. Steve nodded. "Know a good taxi service? Assuming my car's still where I left it."

The cop snorted. "Nix the cab, I'll drop you off."

Steve followed him out the door to the station lot. "You don't have to."

"No problem. Figured you had some real lumps tonight, eh?"

"No kidding."

"Smoke?"

"Thanks."

The cop tapped two cigarettes from a pack and brought out a lighter inscribed with the police union crest. They stopped in the middle of the lot. The two sudden embers were the only dots of red around. Dark blue smoke lifted into the night, invisible in an instant.

Steve coughed and hacked. "...Not bad."

"Dirty liar."

"Heh. I never heard of this brand before."

"I think by law in most states they can only use its ingredients for grout cleaner."

"Hm."

They smoked a minute. Steve mused that any day you had to wear a tie for sixteen hours straight was a bad day. He was surprised the cop was so friendly.

"This is nice."

The cop nodded thoughtfully. "Ya know, my brother just enlisted."

"No kidding."

"Off to Paris Island."

"Marines. Jeesh."

"That tough?"

"Don't ask me. I just fly planes for a living."

"Well, he's a tough little squirt. We'll see."

They took another drag. Steve tried to think of something friendly.

"My cousin's a cop."

"'Zat so?"

Steve nodded. "Detroit."

"Oh, I hear it's nice out there."

"Best city on Earth."

"No argument here. Good for him."

"Thanks. And thanks for the smoke."

"No problem." The cop dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his heel. "Let's hit the road."

As they crossed the parking lot, a dented police cruiser sped through the entrance with its headlamps on. It squealed to a stop in front of them, still rocking on its suspension. They held their hands against the glare.

The lights went off, and the driver cut the ignition. Steve could hardly see the figure that struggled through the door, but the cruiser frame lifted as as he stepped out - his weight had made it sag. Steve's new cop friend quietly cursed.

The figure slouched up. "Hey, youse!" He was roughly the size and volume of a piano: tall, scruffy, big overcoat, big gut, dirty shirt. He spit on the pavement. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to youse!"

Steve's cop friend took a step forward. "What's this all about?"

The big man elbowed him out of the way, "Pipe down, clownfish. I ain't talkin' to you, I'm talkin' to this guy. You Steve Trevor?"

Steve crossed his arms. "Yeah. And who might you be?"

The man pulled out a folding badge. "Detective Harvey Bullock. Got some questions that need answers, so cupcake here is gonna lead us both to a nice, cozy interrogation room." The cop was about to say something, but Bullock shuffled past him and grabbed Steve by the arm. "And get me some coffee while you're at it."

Bullock was stronger than he looked, but Steve eventually tugged his arm away. "Hold on, I answered your questions."

"Nah, you answered his questions." Bullock jabbed a finger back at the cop. "Some uniforms can't find the petals on a daisy, and since I'm actually on the case you unwittingly fouled up tonight, and since I'm actually good at my job, we're going to have to do it all over again."

"Look, officer-"

"Detective."

"Detective, your case will have to wait. I have Air Force business to attend to."

"Yeah, I'm glad you brought that up. See, the folks I answer to think the folks you answer to might be on the wrong side of a big, ugly manure-based weather front. You can imagine why I want we should chit-chat first."

"How long is this going to take?"

Bullock stuck a toothpick in his mouth and chewed. "S'long as it has to, bud."


Diana Prince rubbed her body with a coarse cloth until her skin shone red. She didn't know how long she had been soaking in the small hotel tub, but her fingers were pruned and the once-scalding water was almost cold (indoor plumbing was divine). She occasionally stopped to rest, fading away in the scent of porcelain and soap, but then she would feel it again: the muck of dead beasts flooding her eyes and nostrils. Diana would grit her teeth and scrub and scrub until she was clean.

There was a knock on the front door. Diana nearly jumped out of the water. She scrambled on the slick tile for the hotel's complementary bathrobe. Tying the knot, she rammed her way out of the bathroom, pushed the mane of wet hair out of her face, and paused a moment to prepare a less anxious voice.

When Diana finally spoke, she almost sounded calm. "Yes? Hello?" She leaned her ear against the door in anticipation.

But the voice she heard back wasn't his. "Room service, miss."

Puzzled, Diana opened the door and peeked out. In the hall was a young lady pushing a cart with a stack of linens on it. The lady handed her a folded paper. "Telegram for you."

"For me?"

"Your name's Prince?"

"Yes."

"We usually don't deliver after midnight, but it was marked urgent. Hope you don't mind."

"That's quite fine. Thank you." Diana opened the paper and skimmed it. She glanced at the time-stamp, then at her wall clock. "Excuse me, this was sent over an hour ago."

"Sorry, I knocked on your door earlier. You must not have heard me. Figured I'd try again on my next lap."

"Well, yes, I was … preoccupied."

"As you say, miss. Have a pleasant night."

"Thank you, you as well."

Diana shut the door and huffed. She balled the telegram up and threw it at her bed.

It read:

HOPE YOU AT HOTEL AND COMFORTABLE. STAY.

IMPERATIVE WE TALK FIRST OPPORTUNITY. STAY. ORDERS HAVE CHANGED. STAY. THINGS COMPLICATED. PLEASE STAY. DON'T LEAVE HOTEL.

PROBLEM WITH LAW. COPS TAKEN ME TO WEST 43 ST. STATION. LONG STORY. ALMOST DONE. SHOULD BE BACK FORTY MINUTES AT MOST.

MISS YOU, ANGEL.

Diana paced across the room, absentmindedly smoothing the fabric on her bathrobe. She enjoyed the little comfort after all she had seen that evening. A bathrobe was about the nearest garment America had to the tunics she grew up in - no buttons or clasps or zippers, no starched seams or fitted waists. Her only concern was that the robe was cut for the average American woman whom she towered over by a foot and a half.

Diana walked past the standing mirror. She wasn't bothered by the robe's immodesty, but seeing herself brought out a chuckle and a flush of embarrassment. There was a fad among certain Amazons to wear as little as possible. They argued that the body was the most fundamental gift of the goddesses, and hiding gifts was a sin. Diana, like the majority of Amazons, found the fad silly. Themescaya was covered in brambles and bushes, and seeing a body-sized rash or sunburn wasn't a gift to anyone. Besides, royalty would never engage in it. She wondered what her queen mother would say now. Diana's expression fell. She had asked herself that question nonstop when she first stepped off the boat. Everyone was a stranger, and every barbaric custom reminded her how far she had traveled. Diana had her mission, but at times it had been so lonely it made her sick. Was she doing the right thing? Would her mother approve?

As weeks passed, she asked that question less often, only every day, then every other day, until she rarely wished for her mother's guidance at all. She began to enjoy her radical independence. But now Diana could only think about the poor man with the broken hand, about the pool of dead beasts and the fell monster who dwelled there. The Amazons had always known Man's World was a nest of monsters. How shameful that she was the first in millennia to forget that. She was here to protect her people. She was to act as their champion

And she had to protect herself too, no forgetting that. She studied her figure in the mirror: the fading burn on her cheek, the bite along her throat, the thin white lines on her limbs where deeper scrapes healed.

There was only one decent man she could trust, and he had left her. He promised to return, but he still wasn't here.

Diana stopped. A rational part of her pointed out that he probably hadn't returned because this wretched city had trapped him, not through any decision of his own. Of course. He was too dutiful; she always respected that. Well, no mere civil guards restrained her allies. The Princess of the Amazons would never be a passive bystander. As heir to a rightful throne, Diana was raised to hold the utmost respect for a nation's laws and authorities, but no more. Tonight, her patience had suffered its last.


Diana Prince unfolded herself from the backseat of a yellow taxi. For a city with such titanic structures, everything meant to fit a person seemed paradoxically small. Diana was wearing the same blouse and pencil skirt from what seemed like days ago but was only several hours. The hotel concierge had given her the address for the 43rd street police station and drawn her a map. It was almost a surprise that strangers could still be kind and helpful in this fallen place.

The street was empty, but it was a clean neighborhood, the sort where empty meant 'peaceful' instead of 'abandoned'. The streetlights were brass antiques, bright and steady. The sidewalk was lined with benches and mailboxes, and none of the windows were broken. Diana soon found herself at the bottom of the short stairs leading to the frosted-glass door of the station house. Diana's eyes narrowed. She balled her hands into fists and took the first step.

"I don't suggest you do that, dear, though I wouldn't blame you."

Diana spun. It was a woman's voice, warm yet rough. There was a short figure sitting on a nearby bench.

The woman glanced over. "Sorry if I startled you, I understand you've had an awful long night."

Diana stepped back onto the sidewalk and peered at her. "How do you know how long my night had been?"

The stranger sat just outside the ring of lamplight, but Diana could soon see she was a stocky woman in her middle years with dark brown skin (skin color was extraordinarily important in Man's World, though Diana had yet to hear a convincing reason why). She said nothing.

Diana pressed again, "Have we met, miss?"

The woman smiled. "Heh, miss. Not in the conventional sense, no, but you'll find we run in the same circles."

"You must be mistaken, I don't run in circles."

"That was a figure of speech, dear. Let's just say I'm a friend of a friend of a friend. Call me Amanda Waller." She stuck out a hand.

Diana kept her arms at her sides. "Sorry, I have no time for talk." She turned back and started to climb the steps again.

Amanda spoke behind her. "Three minutes, it's all I ask. Then I promise you'll have everything you're looking for in there."

Diana hesitated and looked back curiously. "You said you wouldn't blame me for what I wish to do. Why do you believe you know what that is?"

"It's a long story, honey."

Diana crossed her arms and stared patiently. Amanda shrugged, then lit a cigar and took a contemplative puff. "I work for the government. My colleagues and I pay attention to anything ... how shall I say ... out of the ordinary."

"That sounds like a vast jurisdiction."

"You have no idea. Regardless, I heard through the grapevine about several counter-espionage raids around Washington this year that fell beyond ordinary. Spies and malcontents were being subdued by a tall woman in what all the witnesses described as either a flag-patterned swimsuit or an extras costume out of Julius Caesar." Amanda paused, choosing her next words carefully. "Very little happens in Washington that I can't find out about, yet no one had a clue about this curious lady, or at least no one was willing to talk. But I'm stubborn about these things. I explored the mystery and eventually realized that each of the operations had one detail in common: the involvement of Captain Steven Archibald Trevor."

Diana's eyebrows lifted. "His name is Archibald?"

"So you've met."

"I mean-"

"I made a casual effort to learn more about the good officer and uncovered two interesting facts. One, he recently went missing on what the records call a reconnaissance mission. He was declared lost at sea but returned no worse for wear eight days later. And two, soon afterward he was seen in the frequent company of an assistant by the name of Diana Prince. This assistant has tried diligently for months to meet with senior diplomats and lawmakers in her off-hours." She looked Diana in the eye. "I've heard rumors on what was discussed in those meetings. To be candid, I think we could have a mutually-fruitful discussion tonight."

Diana said nothing for several long moments. Amanda seemed content to wait and enjoy her cigar.

"Elaborate, Amanda."

"For my own reasons, which I'd prefer to keep under my hat for now, I've been very interested in you. I'm not involved in whatever the military's been up to here in Gotham, but I make it a point to keep my ears open. When I heard the Army was assigning a task to Captain Trevor here, well, Gotham has a certain reputation. I figured there was an above-average chance something interesting would happen, so I stopped by. Lo and behold, when my flight touches down, rumors bubble up that some shiny lady in her underclothes scared off none other than the Batman! My, my, that piqued my interest something fierce, dear. Felt like Christmas come early."

"You know of this bat man?"

"Sure. He and I met before."

"You have?"

"Under equally antagonistic circumstances, I assure you."

"Engaged in combat?"

Amanda shrugged noncommittally. "I'd love to swap stories sometime, but what I find more pressing are the rumors of what came next. Police chatter says you assaulted some workers at a meat-packing plant, lifted a cop car, then tossed two cops into a dumpster."

"I was-"

Amanda held up a hand. "I trust you had your reasons. But it did seem like you were in a bit of a temper, if you don't mind me saying. I heard your man was tied up at this station and figured you might be tempted to do something about it." She paused. "I hope you're no longer in a temper."

Diana spoke coldly, "My aim is justified."

"May I ask why you're dressed for your day job? That other outfit was something special, if the witnesses can be trusted."

"My battle dress is ... it represents righteous public deeds. It is for my mission. Here, my goal is..."

"Is what?"

"Personal."

"I see." Amanda smoked her cigar. "Speaking of your mission. I assume a smart gal like you has realized by now that our system is designed to ignore odd agendas from strangers. And you have a real whopper by the sound of it. Now, you could keep trotin' obediently from meeting to meeting while powerful geezers close doors in your face, or …"

Diana couldn't help but lean in. "Or what?"

"Or you could get so riled up at the injustice of it all that you knock down a police station, which would feel awfully vindicating, I'm sure. But becoming an enemy of the state might put a stopper in whatever goals you've been working towards." Amanda shrugged. "Or …"

"What?"

"Or you go home, get some rest, and give me a call after breakfast." She slipped a business card into Diana's coat pocket and patted it. "I'll introduce you to the real movers and shakers in this country. Then I'll show you how to make 'em move and shake."

Diana glared at her suspiciously. "Why do you offer help to me?"

Amanda chuckled. "A shrewd one. Listen, I assume that your current deal with the Army is hidden so well because it's a causal, under-the-table arrangement. Or maybe you don't have an arrangement. Maybe you're just helpin' out your man without either of you telling anybody. That would explain why I haven't heard of you, plus why you stepped in on the Captain's sudden errand tonight when I know there weren't instructions for you." Diana said nothing. Amanda looked back at her. "Why do I offer my help? I want to see you do what you've already been doin', fighting the good fight against spies. I only want to provide you with official sanction and support. You'll get twice as much done with half the effort. Then I get to rest a little easier knowing the country I love is under the protection of a guardian with unimpeachable character and, let's be honest, enough muscle to scare off the Batman."

The edge of Diana's lip turned up in a shadow of a grin. She forced it back into a serious line. "I will call. I promise nothing, but we may speak further."

"That's all I ask dear." Amanda made a wide wave with her arm, as if stretching a cramp. "As promised, you'll get what you want in nine."

Diana looked puzzled. "Nine what?"

Amanda continued. "Eight, seven, six."

"Oh, you're counting."

"Five, four, three, two, one."

Both women looked at the station doors.

They remained shut.

Diana frowned. "What was supposed to happen?"

Amanda grumbled something and tapped the embers off the end of her cigar.

"What did you say?"

"Hold on."

Seconds passed.

"I don't think your-"

The doors opened. Steve Trevor stumbled out, tired as a dog.

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Finally."

Diana ran up the steps and embraced him. Stunned, he held her at arms length.

"Diana ... you're here."

She smiled brightly. "I am."

Steve looked at her closely under the streetlight. He saw the mark on her neck. "Diana?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you have a hickey?"


One minute ago.

The Boys Anti-Tank Rifle was the one of the largest firearms in the free world. It was British, but the Americans owned a few for special outfits like their Army Rangers and Marine Raiders. At the moment, there were only seven in the state of Gotham, and all were aimed at Diana Prince's back from a pair of high windows a block behind her.

As their name implied, anti-tank rifles normally hunted bigger prey, but an expert marksman was perfectly capable of hitting a woman-sized target at that distance, and Lieutenant Slade Wilson and his team of expert marksman had plenty of practice with the weapon. None of them was eager to pull the trigger, but only because firing the huge cartridge caused bruising and neck pain. If the target tried to enter the station, they wouldn't hesitate. Wilson and five of his teammates could comfortably hit the center of mass, but their designated sharpshooter, Private Floyd Lawton, was in a league of his own. He could place a shot though the lady's neck like other men flipped a light-switch.

The team had been warned that the target was unnaturally durable. They weren't especially concerned. They crossed paths with unnatural beings almost monthly now. Experience had shown that of all the strange and wonderful mysteries in the world, very few of those mysteries could live with an anti-tank round in the throat.

They sat in tense silence, steadying their sights whenever their target neared the door, but she always turned away.

Finally, the boss gave the wave, and the team disappeared.