Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx
Chapter 13: Recovery
Only two cars remained in the convoy sent to bring Arturo Bertinelli to Gotham City. The third car was stuck in two feet of water in some wild gully, and the heavy truck had suddenly roared away while the rescue party was helping Arturo. He had been handcuffed to a tree branch. It took two big men to break the branch, but no one could remove the cuff from his wrist, so they left it hanging. The leader of the convoy was on a tight deadline, so he told Arturo to take a seat in the first car while the former occupant stayed behind to wait with the stranded car's crew. The truck's original driver and guard were still nowhere to be found.
The remainder of the trip was uneventful. The two cars returned to the highway and cruised homeward at twenty over the limit, assured in advance that no traffic cops would visit their route tonight. The leader grilled Arturo along the way, demanding to know what had just happened. Arturo could only balefully respond, "Batman." The leader asked what Batman wanted with him, and why he go through the trouble of catching him just to leave him in the woods. Arturo answered that Batman wanted to take him away for motives unknown, but the rescuers caught up too fast, and Batman left him behind to escape. He declined to mention that he and Batman had briefly talked. The leader seemed annoyed but accepted this explanation for the time being since he doubted the existence of the so-called Batman anyway.
They reached the Gotham City limits in the nick of time, pulling into a full service car wash that happened to be built atop the municipal border. The entry parking lot was still in the neighboring county, offering a fig leaf of privacy from the GCPD. The car wash should have been closed, but one of its garage-like booths was open and lit, and a few vehicles were parked. The two cars stopped, and Arturo's escorts led him to the open booth. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the glare, but the five figures at the entrance quickly resolved into his wife, his three children, and his cousin Frank. Shadows with rifles lurked outside the light. His wife and children looked scared, but they put on a brave face. Frank for his part wasn't nearly as angry as he might have been alone. His expression mostly glum.
As Arturo approached, Frank stepped forward, glancing oddly at the free-swinging handcuffs but making no comment. Instead, he stared Arturo in the eyes, his gaze cool and sad but unsympathetic, and when he spoke, it was all business.
"A lawyer will see you before your arraignment. You can have," he studied his watch, "two minutes with your wife, then go through." He gave Arturo a light slap on the cheek and pointed at him. "You know the rules."
Frank didn't wait for a response. He nodded to one the shadows and walked past Arturo into the dim parking lot. Arturo shivered. He features had been haunted all evening, but he looked worse since his brief encounter with Batman. His wife flew towards him, and they fell into each other's arms. His children scrambled around to join the embrace. The remaining shadows said nothing and kept their distance. After three minutes, a shadow came and led his family away. Arturo walked into the booth and swung the door shut behind him. If he had been younger, even three days younger, he might have dreamed of some escape even now, but he didn't dream of anything. Now he felt like a puppet. He crossed the short room full of hoses and brushes and opened the other door. The pavement outside was Gotham City. Four grim police officers stood in a line.
An officer told him he was under arrest. He said nothing. That was the first rule.
Two minutes earlier.
Frank Bertinelli removed his hat and slid into the rear seat of the limousine. Beside him sat Carmine Falcone. They were old men and didn't rush to conversation. The pair had known each other a long time: often friends, often rivals, always peers. Falcone gave Bertinelli time to gather his composure and let the world settle. When he finally spoke, it was without preamble.
"We have troubles, Frank."
"Mmm."
"Your man out there was bad news, but it was a problem we could contain. You would've taken a hit, an ugly hit, if you'll forgive my saying so, but it wouldn't have knocked you down. But this business?"
"We didn't know that. We still don't."
"This business though? Shooting in the streets? A mess. This is on me. I overreacted."
"You made a call, Carmine. And we backed you. That's the job. What we do takes coglioni, no question. And it turned sour. So what?"
"Well, the Department's had half an evening to put the scene together. City Hall won't begin to act on it for another day at least. We have time to organize. Let's strangle the problem in the crib."
Frank Bertinelli nodded gravely. "The troops that made it back are lying low. Might have them skip town. Luca Passafaro died on the way home. We'll fake a scene and let some out-of-state coroner find him. Maybe Hub City. That just leaves Eddie Pints. Cops plugged the poor man's hand. Bled out on the spot."
"Any dirt the police can find through Eddie? Any connections?"
"Peh. We already cleared his house, talked to his folks. That's shut tight."
"Suppose they find something you missed."
"Well, Maroni knows people who could lose a body at the morgue. Maybe they haven't made Eddie's name yet. Of course, Maroni isn't one to share on the cheap."
"I've no doubt we could convince him of the necessity, should it come to that. But that's not the real problem, is it?"
Bertinelli grit his teeth and shook his head. "That damned fat slob."
Falcone nodded gently. "Detective Harvey Bullock. He's in surgery. Word is he's not supposed to make it till dawn. Still, I have it on good authority that the other officers on the scene heard Bullock talking to your man Marco. Called him out by name."
"I know."
"Assuming they find whatever Arturo stashed in that bar, that's a big sign in your direction. If they can use Marco to connect the shooting to your people, even if he hides, that might be a case."
"I know that. Don't you think I know that?"
"And then there's the Hargraves. That pins us to the wall."
"I know! Those was supposed to keep this from being an issue! I'm thinking I better melt the five down 'fore they end up as evidence."
Falcone, who didn't bat an eye at the mention of two men bleeding to death, winced at this. "Those are valuable pieces, Frank."
"Are they? Are they still? Cause I think this Bullock and his buddies just showed us that the cops don't follow the agreement no more. Maybe they's just popguns now."
"We don't know that."
"Listen, you're the one with so many friends on the force. Are you telling me this guy was completely off the reservation? One hundred percent? Cause if he wasn't, if they don't toss the whole lot of 'em out for this, then bad enough we shot some lawmen, but if he gets any support for standing up to us, institutional-wise, then that's a whole different disaster coming in. That redefines things, see? That flips the chess board."
"It shouldn't come to that."
"What have you heard?"
"Nothing from command yet. The rank and file are all noise. None of them were there anyway, so you could have five officers with seven stories of how it went on. Not much of a surprise, really: reliable ears have warned about renegades in the Department for years."
"I know."
"We knew we could never please everyone, but our friends at the top have always shut down any upstarts who makes real moves against us. And hey, they've done an impeccable job of that for, what, ten years? I wouldn't say the board's flipped just yet. We play this right, we make nice, they pin the shootings on some patsy. We might even turn it into a win."
"You're a real piece of work, Carmine. There's always an angle for you, ain't there? Got to find a win."
Falcone didn't respond to the comment. "As I understand it, the other cops on this Bullock's team said the fight happened across a street. They say Bullock was the only one who walked close enough to get a decent look at your boys. The rest of this detective's team is new blood, Frank."
"Maybe that's the problem. This new generation didn't live through the old days. They don't understand the reasons for our status quo."
"I meant the other officers had never seen your five before. Not in person. And they weren't that close when someone opened fire."
"Ah! I see what you're saying! The best they got is old mugshots. We tear any eyewitness that takes the stand."
"But Bullock would know. He already called out Marco, good odds he'd recognize a few others, provided he makes it through the night."
"There, no problem, then. We take that option off that table."
"No, Frank, we can't snuff him. Not after all this."
"Come no now, Carmine. He broke the rules, see? Doesn't get more clear than this."
"There might be a way to fix our predicament, but we lose whatever bargaining position we have if we kill another cop, at least for the foreseeable future. We keep our hands clean. Let's see if nature does it for us."
"Right, nature. If you say so. But you better be right."
There were silent for a time. The driver watched Arturo enter the car wash and slowly brought the limo out of the parking lot. Frank Bertinelli turned and watched some cops argue whether to cuff Arturo above or below his existing cuff. Carmine Falcone glanced around Frank and was puzzled.
"Why does he have that on his arm?"
"The man I sent to bring Arturo in said Arturo claims it was Batman."
"Batman? Again?"
"Says Batman stole a truck, ran him off the road, and stuck him to a tree with them cuffs. And my man admits that everything about that seems true, at least that someone did it. Can you beat that?"
"How would Batman know where to find him? Or the time and route of their trip?"
"Beats me. I sure have some questions to ask when there aren't ten others pots boiling over."
"I think we all have some questions to ask. Arturo said Batman had cut a hole in his roof last night, yes?"
"Someone sure did. The repair crew brought me photos today. A few guys who've crossed paths say its a symbol. Arturo said he and the missus wake up to see it cut there in the roof. Scared them half to death, they say. And then this stronzo leaves papers about this kidnapping on Arturo's wall. That's what up and spooked him into calling the Army."
"Say, if these papers match some that show up at the hearing, we'll know that this Batman has some link to Bullock and maybe others in the prosecution."
"My thoughts exactly, 'cept what does that do for us? Bat's in the wind and Bullock's on a slab."
"That can't be his only link. I'm sure he'll show his face again. Or mask, I suppose. He'll be back."
The attitude of the Gotham's Four Families toward the Batman myth was complicated. In his early days, when Batman hunted lone felons and petty gangs in the back alleys civilization forgot, they had no reason to believe the stories when anything more than excuses and exaggerations. If anything, the Families would have encouraged such a vigilante. They made little to no profit from these independent thugs; in fact, their activity lowered property values. After a few months, the Bat's appearances turned less frequent, but he was seen around fatter and fatter targets. A rumor of a sighting would float up, then a week later, some conman or port official would be arrested, and the charge would stick!
That occasionally caught the Families attention, but none of their sources found anything was amiss save uncommonly determined police work. The GCPD even had a Batman task force, but it was an understaffed, marginalized joke: they clearly didn't believe the guy was a threat. And the Families didn't necessarily see the new attacks as a bad thing, even if they recognized a pattern. The Families had a hand in every corner of the city in one way or another, so any loss usually stung, but it made for good publicity when bad guys went to jail. That put people at ease. And from a Darwinian perspective, each arrest got rid of a bum who wasn't careful enough to protect himself and could be replaced without hassle.
The crucial truth was that the Families had a clear sense of their own kingdoms, and in two long years, Batman had not hurt, had not so much as threatened a core interest on any of their domains. Oh, he would probe the edges. If any of them had bothered to focus, they would have seen him circling like a shark, season after season. He would be stalk a friend of an associate, a minor supplier, players just outside the circumference of their organizations, or at least outside those echelons the bosses could personally supervise. And with each bite, Batman grew a little wiser, a little more connected, a little more feared. He never stayed near one kingdom long enough to become a nuisance, and it could never be proven that he had passed through at all. Nine times in ten, his targets looked so dumb and guilty on their own that one would expect them to fabricate an excuse. There were parts of Gotham where Batman was blamed for three times as many criminal failures as he caused.
His first real assault on a royal castle was his move against Arturo. Now the Families would have to at least confess he was a problem, but for all their insight, they only had a slight advantage over the Joe Public rumor mill in deducing who he was (or who they were, if the Dark Knight was a shared role) and what his (or their) ultimate agenda might be. The Four Families could safely discard at least one major theory, that he was a special enforcer of the Four Families. They could also predict that he was not an officer of the GCPD or state police. The Families' reach wasn't absolute, but it would take an awfully airtight conspiracy to keep the lid on a program like that. Of course, this Batman still coordinated with the police somehow. That was obvious. But it would be no easy matter to determine exactly how.
Old men had a natural prejudice to believe they'd seen it all. Carmine Falcone knew that he and Frank Bertinelli and the other bosses and their senior planners would try to fit this adversary into a neat little box they understood. They were almost always right. But Falcone had a notion that this might prove a new sort of problem.
Meanwhile.
In the clerk's room of stately Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth sat at a roll top writing desk. The Wayne corporate empire was much older than the automobile or telephone, so business-mined Wayne men of yesteryear kept a space in their home for part-time clerks and messengers to conduct business remotely. The clerk's room once employed up to three staff and contained at various times a telegraph switchboard, semaphore flags, and carrier pigeons. These were all long gone, and Alfred was the only hired help remaining on the ancient estate, but he still used the room as his private office. It was an efficient place, well-positioned, never drafty, neither too large nor too cramped. The desks and cabinets were master-crafted antiques, not the shoddy factory imitations American businesses tolerated today, and the light from the windows was second-to-none.
On a more private interest to Alfred, the clerk's room was one of the few which neither Bruce nor his parents had ever changed. Alfred still recognized it from the day he took the job, and that comforted him. He knew his life must seem quite comfortable already – he had health, freedom, material luxuries, dear friends, and honorable work – but these often failed to bring him peace of mind. He took small comforts where he could, however silly the source. And perhaps it was age talking, but Alfred swore by Saint George that he could sense if a room had been bothered in his lifetime. In the great houses of Europe, entire wings could go a century without alteration, but even the noblest American homes were in constant flux if the family was present. Every generation seemed compelled to rearrange the furniture, pick new curtain lace, change the violets to daffodils, and so on, ad infinitum. Indeed, ad nauseum! And these paled beside the exceptional projects Master Bruce devised.
Alfred was there to read notes on one of Master Bruce's least exceptional projects: his latest round of nutritional research. Like many great if eccentric minds, Bruce was meticulous about how he treated his body. Since childhood, he had experimented with different foods and vitamins, keeping abreast of the latest studies. In Alfred's opinion, most were bunk. One might as well measure the proper ratio of meat and bread and vegetable by roulette wheel, since the authorities contradicted each other every season. Perhaps in twenty years, doctors would solve the mysteries of the body and prescribe a perfect diet formula. Perhaps it would come in a pill. Until then, a parade of loons would march out suggestions for raw ram's blood or ten servings of eggplant.
Bruce had tried and fortunately discarded the most disagreeable diets by mid-adolescence and now focused on fine-tuning conventional fare. Still, the young man continued to keep an ear to what passed for nutritive research and requested unusual dishes every few months so he could test their findings on himself. By longstanding compromise, Alfred only agreed if he accepted the academic sources in question. Alfred suffered no illusions that his critical scrutiny could match Bruce's brilliance, but Alfred had some schooling in the sciences, and Bruce wasn't immune to mistakes. For instance, in a pile of tame if likely irrelevant ideas about the effects of dairy temperature on digestion, Alfred found an interview with a college swimming coach in Maine who fed his team nothing but steamed vegetables for a week prior to each meet and just won a regional championship. Alfred was certain the swimmers must have cheated – either on their diet or at their races. Seven days without a hearty meal and they wouldn't have the vigor to lift a teacup. Bruce had annotated the interview with a proposal to try his own all-vegetable diet on his next "low-intensity" week. Of course, a "low-intensity" week for him still involved hours of jogging and free-climbing. His only true periods of rest followed major injuries, and Alfred would sooner wound Bruce himself then let him recover from an injury on a rabbit's rations.
Alfred finished reviewing his current paper and was reaching for the next, a treatise on the protein content of mushrooms, when the trauma bell rang. With measured swiftness, Alfred rose, tugged straight the lapels of his evening jacket, and hurried from the room. He was about to break into a run when he felt the dense pistol pressing on his lower spine, and he remembered Master Bruce's cryptic admonition: I have encountered unnatural phenomena. Disregard existing reality framework. Expect every danger.
Alfred frowned and slowed to a brisk walk. In the study, He turned the face on the grandfather clock until he unlocked its secret door, then he descended to the Wayne's ancestral wine cellar. From the wine cellar, he opened another secret door and began the long trek into the Cave.
The Cave's lights were on. Someone was here. Unfortunately, many chambers of the cavern weren't visible from the stairs, and Batman - if it was Batman - might be waiting in any of them. Alfred reached the floor and called out, "Master Bruce! Are you there Bruce? Bruce!" His voice echoed off the endless crags and crevices. Alfred waited, but there was no answer. There was only the drip drip drip of hidden streams and the squeak of upset bats who didn't enjoy the light or his yelling. Alfred peered into the dim, but none of the layered shadows moved save those of the aforementioned bats. Alfred was a stalwart man, a doctor (of sorts), a soldier (of sorts), a father (of sorts), and above all, British (indubitably). He did not frighten easily. But these echoes did not relieve him.
Then he heard a shuffling. Footsteps? There was a noise of sliding pebbles and bumped furniture. Something fell off a table. Would Bruce be so clumsy? And why wouldn't he answer? Alfred slowly drew the pistol. He estimated where the noise had been and set a path to circle it. He moved as silently as he could. Trembling, Alfred hid behind a stalagmite. Expect every danger. The instruction played again and again in his mind. Disregard existing reality framework. Expect every danger.
Around the rock, there was an alien hissing sound. Alfred stepped out and fired his pistol twice.
When his vision cleared from the flash, he saw Bruce facing him dumbly from a few yards away. Bruce cocked an eyebrow.
Alfred nearly dropped the weapon. "Oh, dear Lord, Master Bruce. What have I done?"
Bruce, still garbed in much of his disheveled suit minus cowl and gloves, looked down to inspect himself. He grasped a handful of cape fabric from between his legs. There was a new hole gently smoking in it. Alfred hurried forward, but Bruce placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, lips turned up in a hint of a grin. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. "I'm glad to see you're finally bad at something."
Alfred hugged Bruce. "I am so sorry."
"No. I'm sorry for scaring you, old friend. I've been trying to answer, but I hurt my throat last night. Speaking has been tough all day, and I finally lost my voice hours ago. If I try to yell, it makes a hiss. This is as loud as I get."
Alfred let go. "Heavens, Bruce. Your outfit's a wreck. You hand is wrapped like a mummy. You have a veritable ring of purple bruises round your neck. You smell rank. Just what has happened to you?" Before Bruce could respond, Alfred pushed him towards the medical station.
Bruce grimaced and held a hand up to stop. "My knee's weak too. The joint locked on the way in. I nearly fell twice getting off the motorcycle."
Alfred ducked under Bruce's arm. "Then lean here. Steady now. Let's see what bits of you haven't fallen apart." They made it to the medical bed. "Now why don't you take off that chest-piece, and we'll be on with it."
"You'll need a crowbar first. The back's dented in. I can't slide it off myself.
Alfred found the tool as Bruce braced himself against a table. When a heave, Alfred slid the bar into a seam in the armor and used all his weight to pry the chest-piece off. After seconds of static effort, the armor split open. Bruce coughed and slumped forward, gulping down air. "Augh. Huh. Hhhh. Hhh. Thank you," he wheezed. "That metal's been pressing against my lungs. I haven't taken a full breath all day."
"My word, what caved in the back like that?"
"I confronted a," Bruce paused, weighing his words, "a being."
"A being."
"That looks and feels like a woman."
"Feels, sir?"
"She seemed human, but stronger and faster, and she had a luminescent cord that," he hesitated, "produced psychoactive effects. It caused disorientation and lowered my inhibitions."
"Are you saying you were drugged?"
"I would have imagined so, but even if it secreted a topical drug, the cord never touched my skin. Hmm. Perhaps it was some yet-unknown radioactive effect, or ultrasonics, or another exotic matter."
"My word."
"And that was still the less remarkable wonder. Her sheer body power was even more extraordinary. The woman dead-lifted at least half a ton. She made vertical jumps more than twice her height. And she was tough, Alfred. I ignited thermite against her face, and it left a mere burn."
"I beg your pardon? You did what?"
"In self-defense. She was crushing my throat with her bare hands. I hardly think chivalry applied." Bruce paused, his brow knitted in confusion. "Of course, if she endured that, my earlier strikes shouldn't have caused a mark at all, which makes even less sense."
"I suppose that chemical's ignition explains this horrid burn on your hand?" Alfred was busy tending to Bruce's wounds.
"Yes, I had lost my glove at that point. Speaking of, I haven't mentioned that I lost two teeth. Just fakes, fortunately. When you're finished the more urgent limbs, I'd like you to take a look at them. I used some strong antibiotics but my gums are beginning to show inflammation."
"Tell me you didn't take a giant dose all at once again, did you?"
Bruce frowned defensively. "I had been exposed to sewage. It was an emergency decision."
Alfred sighed. "Naturally. I suppose that's ruined your appetite all day then."
"I've eaten a little."
"Accolades. Now, I must reset this finger. This may hurt."
A burnt finger popped and turned.
Bruce didn't flinch.
Nonetheless, Alfred winced in sympathy. He knew deep down why Bruce tried silly, reckless diets. The boy wasn't yet thirty, but his injuries were adding up. He was getting old. Bruce had always kept records of his exercises, announcing whenever he beat a personal best of any athletic feat. His adolescent days had been a steady march of better numbers, but he hadn't announced a new record in years, not since he started his crusade. It was clear how desperate Bruce was to maintain what he still had. If he felt a week of steamed vegetables could help, Bruce didn't hesitate.
Bruce was still talking, breaking Alfred from his thoughts."- is why I suggested the paranormal. Perhaps just as worrisome, I have a source who says the government is involved. If I'm right, either they found or created her. I may have to delay my campaign against syndicated crime to investigate further."
"Incidentally, how did that go, Bruce?"
"Hard to say, Alfred. As you might imagine, I had to improvise, but I believe I found where Arturo Bertinelli kept the location of the Ukrainians. I passed it on to the police."
"Good. And?"
"I don't know. As soon as I passed the information along, my priority was to find my source on the Woman. We'll see if it went well for the cops in the morning."
Hours later. The morning.
The post-surgical recovery ward at Charlotte's Grove Hospital rarely received visitors before noon, but the nurses didn't say a word when the large stranger passed by. They didn't gossip when the doctor on call let the visitor see a patient who was supposed to be resting. They didn't remark how strange it was that the dapper man was looking for the one patient with a guarded room, or that the guards weren't there when the man walked in.
Harvey Bullock was asleep. His chest rose and fell very slowly. Much of his lower face was covered in gauze, patching a new hole that ran clean through his right cheek. There were three patched holes in his abdomen as well, though these couldn't be seen under his loose hospital clothes and blanket. Harvey was very pale, and his features were more gaunt than yesterday, an incongruous sight on such a portly figure.
The visitor, Marco Bertinelli, didn't appreciate these fine points of Harvey's appearance. He merely confirmed that the body was alive then locked the door behind him. Marco bent over and glared at Harvey's gently snoring face. He flicked Harvey's nose. "Hey."
Harvey didn't respond. Marco recalled the doctor saying something about sedatives. Marco wanted to be here; had begged for it, in fact, but he had a train to catch. He covered Harvey's nose and mouth with one hand and lightly backhanded him a few times with the other. "Harv. Up."
Harvey briefly stirred, though his eyes only opened to slits before closing again. Marco pulled out a switchblade and held it against the flesh over Harvey's collarbone. You feel that, buddy? I don't need a rapt audience here, but I have to be sure you can hear me in there. Tap your hand three times, or I'm going to cut you."
A long moment passed. Harvey's left index finger twitched twice. Marco pocketed the knife. "Close enough." He paced around the bed.
"You are one tough sack 'a fat to kill, you know that? Ha. Sure you know. Look at you, wearing that badge since Noah built his ark, and what'ya got to show for it? Still hustlin' down alleys. Dodgin' bullets. Or not dodgin', I see. Working the next best thing to street patrol. Aren't you supposed to have your feet on your desk in some corner office by now? And yet you've still alive. Hell, you made it four whole years in the Skeleton Crew after you broke my heart with that Manzetti business. Ain't many who could swing that."
Marco shook his head and chuckled. Then all of a sudden, he turned serious.
"You slug. You sleezebag. You all-singing, all-dancing human dump. What's that? No wisecrack? Is that silence? It took a shot to the face and three to the gut to finally shut you up. Well, that's priceless. Worth every penny, which is saying something. See, those Hargrave rounds ain't cheap, and that's just one of many reasons why my colleagues and I ain't supposed to have to fire them, capisce? Your people and my people, we had an understanding. You wanted to go down the straight and narrow. We said 'fine', provided you didn't step on our toes. Those toes used to feed you, see? But you had to go and make a mess of things.
"Now, it's supposed to work like this: you break the rules, and I make a nice example of you." He picked up a pillow and fluffed it, as if seeing how it would fit over a face, then put it down and kept pacing. Soon afterward he picked up a syringe, flicked the needle, but returned it to its tray. "Seems to be a lot of dangerous things in a hospital, huh? Ironic. 'Specially when ham at the deli can put up more of a fight than you now. But no, you and your posse have made such a mess of things that they said I can't whack you. You ain't to be touched. I'm just supposed to ruin you and drive you out of town.
"But that's the other funny thing. Your life is so rotten, so miserable, you got nothing left to ruin. That trashcan you call your apartment is a cockroach away from collapsing, and you might be kicked out soon anyway. You don't own anything I could pawn for a dollar. Debts out the kazoo. No wife. No real sweetheart in years. Your friends already pity you. I can't even work you over with a roll of nickels since it'll probably kill you. I mean, I hate you and all, but sheesh.
"So here's the new deal, and I suggest you take it before I'm forced to get creative. Don't say a word about yesterday to anyone. You never saw me. Pretend you got amnesia if you have to. Rest up. As soon as the doctor says you can walk, you leave this hospital. I'll give you one day to pack whatever sad bits are left of your life, then you get out of Gotham and don't ever return."
