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Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 16: When It Snows, My Eyes Become Large


At the scrap heap formerly known as the Ford.

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens, Private Benjamin Greene, Private Elroy Jenkins, Corporal John Grimes, and Sergent Franklin "Tubby Frank" Thurber were ... alive, for lack of a better term.

A simpleton might think that, since hot and cold were opposites, second-degree burns could be healed by snow. This was untrue. In fact, skin was meant to insulate, so burned flesh actually made issues like hypothermia and frostbite worse. On the other hand, the weather did numb the pain, and when burns covered a fair fraction of anatomical real estate, a man had to appreciate the little blessings in life. For example, much of Lieutenant Stevens' pants had melted into a waxy substance that straddled the line between clothing and plaster and had flash-glued to his butt and precious regions. However, the air had cooled the new substance almost instantly, which was great because the worst possible thing for a pair of pants to be was molten.

Tubby Frank had come through much better than the others, which was remarkable considering he was the slowest runner and the biggest target. When he dared open his eyes, the first thing he saw was a bent steering wheel gently smoking beside his head. He wiggled his fingers and his toes to make sure everything was attached, then slowly rose to his feet. The car was trash. There weren't many parts large enough to recognize. This was visible to him because a few pieces were still on fire. It helped that there was a great deal of new moon-glow around: the blast had stripped all trees in a six yard radius down to the trunk.

Frank wasn't a people person, even by engineer standards, but after a minute he decided he should probably see if anyone was dead. They were not, although Corporal Grimes was the only soldier willing to stand at the moment. Grimes carefully took off his radio and discovered that the backpack had several long shards of glass stuck in it. He took this as a fortunate outcome since it meant they weren't stuck in him. Grimes toggled the device's transmitter and found he was lucky again - the radio still worked.

As Corporal Grimes tried to bend the antenna flat and signal camp, Sergent Thurber pulled an apple out of his pocket and offered a bite. The Corporal waved it away. The Sergent shrugged and ate some himself.

He mused as he chewed. "You know, in the hard-boiled detective stories, they always say that life is cheap."

Corporal Grimes was busy trying to hear through the static on the handset. "Huh?"

"That's a quote they always use. They say 'Oh, look at this ugly town, where justice ends at the barrel of a gun and life is cheap' or something to that effect."

"I've read a mystery or two. What of it?"

"What I want to know is, where ain't life cheap? They never say that."

"So you want to know where life is, what, expensive?"

"Well, valuable. Wherever it is, I'd like to move there."

Grimes put the handset down and shrugged. "Where ain't life cheap? I dunno. Switzerland? Connecticut, maybe?"

Thurber nodded. "I'd live in Connecticut."

Private Greene, laying on the ground beside them, pulled a twig out of his arm and groaned, "I'd live in Connecticut."

Grimes chuckled. "Who wouldn't?" There was a hissy squawking from the radio. "Hold on guys, I got something."


The Fort Morrison bridge.

Batman stood still and quietly rode his bolts of pain. Four of the threaded stitches in his side had snapped, and he felt warm blood seep through the yellowed gauze. He had pulled a muscle in his shoulder. There was a new puncture wound in his wrist, courtesy of Catwoman. Then he had the dozen other aches and bruises accrued tonight that didn't bear mentioning. He lowered his chin, letting the wet snow slide from his cowl.

They stood before the crashed motorcycle, it's front suspension fully broken. Catwoman carefully opened and closed her hand, trying to get the feeling back.

"I guess we're on foot."

He grunted.

They set off at a sprint. Catwoman quickly pulled ahead. She was typically a hair faster, but now the difference was stark. He moved with an uneven gait to keep the rest of his stitches from tearing, while she ran with the poise of an afternoon jog. He marveled at this. Obviously, she hadn't been wounded as deeply as him, thank God for that, but she ran like she hadn't been touched. She ran like she hadn't been clubbed in the back with a wooden rifle stock, like heavy hands hadn't wrenched her arm out and crushed her face in the mud. She ran like it was nothing, like she flew above it all.

Batman didn't share her peace of mind. He had seen her in pain. That memory and the realization of what it made him do burdened him more than all his other wounds combined.

The adult skeleton was made of two hundred and six bones. The methods to fracture them were similarly legion. Bone was superbly strong for its weight, but even the strongest was vulnerable to the force another human body could produce. Batman was a a scholar of bodily mechanics and could, in theory, fracture all two hundred and six had he reason. If this theory were held to more realistic standards, Batman judged that he would only target a hundred or so. The rest of the skeleton would either be too challenging, like the pelvis, or too debilitating, like the vertebrae. But in practice, the number of bones Batman broke in any fight rounded to zero.

He didn't remember the day he decided this, but that was where he drew a line. There was nothing special about bones among the organs, bruises and scrapes could be worse, but fractures took far too long to mend and were rarely the only option. To resort to them would be an excess, and this he could not abide. Batman was human, and he knew humans were capable of anything in the heat of the moment if they didn't police their intentions. In his case, he hated injustice, and he would do what it took to stop injustice. But he couldn't hurt the unjust beyond that, because then he wouldn't be hating injustice, he would be hating people. Down that path he would lose his soul.

Of course, combat wasn't surgery (and even surgeons made mistakes), but it was a tactic he only knowingly resorted to in moments of gravest need. He certainly didn't need to break an arm to subdue an unwitting target from behind. Yet when he saw the leader of that squad assault Catwoman with the blunt end of a gun, knocking her to the ground, making her cry in pain, it was no decision at all. A dark part of him rationalized that a fractured humerus rarely needed surgery. The discomfort wouldn't be exceptional. Put it in a sling and it would be healed in a few months. He hadn't ruined a life. But the quorum of his conscience knew none of that mattered. He had broken that arm to punish. For an instant, he had been nothing but a beast.

Catwoman knew none of this. She could only tell that something was wrong.

He caught up to her at the end of the bridge. They moved off the road to a scattering of bushes, working their way towards the infirmary. At this slower pace, they could talk.

"Hey, you alright?"

Batman naturally swept past what was actually on his mind until he found an issue he felt was safe to share.

He grunted. "Pulled stitches climbing back on the bridge."

"Ouch. Sorry."

He dismissed the sympathy with a head-shrug.


Colonel Tanner's office, the makeshift "War Room".

In the field, Amanda Waller did what she wanted, and she had little regard for the procedures and niceties that tied down other civil servants. That said, she had her own brand of professionalism. One of her rules was to not sit in a person's chair. It didn't matter whether that person was the President or a junior mail sorter from Omaha. It didn't matter if no one would ever know. You did not sit in a person's chair.

So she deigned to deposit herself in one of the less-cushioned guest chairs and not the Colonel's own. A few mid-level officers hovered around her, each with a few aides and functionaries hovering around them, making the room somewhat crowded but mostly quiet. The officers whispered to each other and drew new movements on old maps. Most of the aides were posted at two-way radios, trading reports and orders with stations and mobile operators at every corner of the camp. Waller was content to sit and watch.

They had heard shots fired outside several minutes ago. A broadcast announced that a runaway truck from the Brick had been used for target practice and thereafter found empty. Then things quieted down. That is to say, quieted down in the office. The troops heard the shots as well, and as far as they knew the Nazis had parachuted in. It wasn't long before two guards at the Brick detail were discovered semi-conscious, claiming the last thing they remembered was catching a fleeing burlesque dancer. This wouldn't be the first wild sighting a man made after long hours in the snow, but two witnesses gave the story odd credibility.

While this was puzzled over, more shots were reported near the rear camp entrance. Responders found Idaho squad looking like they had been mauled by a gang of bears. The on-site radio operator could hardly keep pace with the claims: a huge caped monster had jumped into a wall, then some purple or green lady or maybe several ladies came down from the sky and started attacking. When a few troops managed to catch her, another intruder or possibly three crept up behind and struck them down with a heavy club - a wrench or a lead pipe perhaps. The only certain fact was that Sergent Getty's arm was broken. The origin of the shooting was eventually sussed out: it wasn't Idaho squad or the interlopers; nearby Cooper squad had seen a strange pair leaving on a motorcycle and opened fire. Opinions varied on whether they hit anyone, but Watchtower C announced a motorcycle racing though the rear gate and into the forest.

Waller didn't bother asking what numbskull left the gate open. Transports had been ferrying troops around the Fort all night. They were only supposed to have one intruder, and their one intruder was supposed to be stuck in the Brick or walking out to face a wall of sentries. Leaving the gate open was the prudent move. It sickened her to say so, but this wasn't anyone's fault. It was simply that every single factor was failing to make sense tonight. Waller's frown deepened. Only minutes ago, she thought she had either one or two intruders trapped in the Brick and possibly dead. Now she was dealing with between two and eight intruders neutralizing patrols at a whim and commandeering vehicles that were supposed to be under lock and key. At least two were outside the camp altogether.

Making an effort to keep her cool, she considered the facts. Unless the interlopers could sprout wings, they were still only on a motorbike. Fort Morrison sat in the middle of a mountain range, nine miles from the nearest gas station and fifteen from the nearest town. Every road outside the Fort (and many in it) was covered with five inches of snow. She still wasn't sure how they entered the Fort, but even if they somehow made it down the mountain, where could they go? She could plug in the phone and have every sheriff in three counties combing the woods before breakfast. The storm wouldn't hide them forever.

That would be a last resort, of course. It was always best to handle such things internally. Involving the military was a tiresome necessity; involving law enforcement would be a nightmare.

Though it was a comfort to know this farce would end soon enough, Amanda had seen far too many surprises to relax. She pondered how this "Batman" and his posse might slip through her net again. Then she remembered the car. That's how they had arrived. And the interlopers had no way of knowing the Army had found it. The team at the Ford hadn't sent an update in awhile, but last time they hinted at finding all sorts of wild things - hidden documents and strange tools. If the car were modified for snow, they could be in St. Louis by tomorrow morning.

She was about to order a status report when irony struck.

"SSzzzszzzZZzz - Uh, B - SSSsszzz - camp. Base Camp. Do you r - SSSss - over?"

Specialist Haverford picked up the radio. "This is Base Camp Alpha. Please identify."

"SSSSZzzzzzzzz - wit - zzzszzzz - help - szzs."

"You're fading out. Please identify. I say again, please identify."

"ZZzs - the best we c -SSzzSSS - signal's shot to H - Zsszzsssssss."

"I say again, please identify. We can't hear you."

"ZZzzzz - I alm - ssssszzzZzzz - requency. Think I got it. How's this? Can you hear this? Hello?"

"Reading you five by three. Please identify."

"This is Corporal John Grimes wi - SsSSzzzs - he Special Reconnaissance Team."

Amanda Waller dashed over and took the handset. "Corporal, this is Amanda Waller."

"Oh! Miss Waller. Um. Can - SSzzz - help you, ma'am?"

"Proceed with your report, soldier."

"Uh, wel - sSs - I guess what I'm trying to sa - ZZZzzzzss - um ..."

"Spit it out, Corporal."

"SSSSZSSzzSS - car blew up, ma'am. It's gone. The car's gone."

"Excuse me?!"

"We need medical assis - ZZssszzz - ight now, ma'am. We have two immobilized. I repeat, two immo - ZZzzzzzzss."

Amanda Waller snapped her fingers and pointed at Specialist Haverford. He nodded and picked up an open radio. "Help is on the way, Corporal, sit tight. If you have any way to signal the rescue team, use it."

"Already done, ma'am. Sergent Thurber's started a fire."

"Good. Now, who destroyed the Ford? Have you been attacked?"

"Not exactly, ma'am. No one's attacked us. I'm not one to - SzzsSZzz - easier to explain in person."

"You're babbling, Corporal. What happened to the car?"

"ZZzzssssz - utenant Stevens might want to tell you himself."

"Then put him on!"

"He's one of the incapacitated, ma'am. He can talk, but mostly he's just crying."

"I'm getting impatient, Corporal Grimes. What happened down there?"

"There was a case of equipment in the trunk. All sorts of things."

"Yes, you informed me last time."

"Well, - SsssszzzZss - case was some dynamite."

"I see. And you triggered the trap."

"Not exactly, ma'am. It wasn't as a trap. There w - ZsszsSS - a few sticks of dynamite in the back. Like for storage."

"Then what? Did you light this dynamite?"

"No! I mean, no one - sSSss - to light it. The Lieutenant was carrying a stick when h - SSzSssZZzzZ - the glove compartment."

"... And?"

"Well, that part was a trap. Or a really damaged engine block. But probably a trap. There were these papers insi -ZZzzzZs."

"Yes, you mentioned that last time."

"Well, after a minute, the Lieutenant touches something - I couldn't see what - and this flash of sparks lights up all the papers."

"Are you telling me he left dynamite in a glove compartment, and this was the one glove compartment on Earth that bursts into flame if you leave it open too long."

"I, uh, I think so ma'am."

"..."

"Ma'am?"

"Is there anything left of the vehicle, Corporal?"

"Nothing worth a cent. It's rust and dust. Just a - ZZZZZZZzzzZZZZZZZZZZZzzZZZZ - hole in the ground."

"Very well, Corporal. Take care of the wounded as best as you can. And be on the lookout for hostile operatives. They may be coming your way."

"What!? Say again, ma'am? What do you mean by hostile opera-" Waller put down the headset and sighed. She would have a lot of explaining to do in a few days.


The infirmary was the first building Catwoman had seen in the Fort with windows. They were large, two-story panes meant to let the light in. The place had an austere quality, but not at all in the rugged military way. It was like an empty church, somber and silent, though not unwelcome. The walls were white plaster and the roof was peaked. There were chimneys every ten yards. To her eyes, the buildings in camp had looked like places to merely exist, but this looked like a place where a person was meant to live. As an infirmary, she couldn't decide whether that was ironic.

They stopped at the door for a moment, watching their breath in the air, straining to hear anyone inside. It seemed deserted. There were no steps in the snow: no one had passed through in at least half an hour. The lock was barely a hindrance, but Catwoman didn't mind. She wasn't in the mood for a challenge. They gently entered.

It was a huge open hall, large enough for a hockey rink. The filtered moonlight of the windows illuminated long stripes of the floor. The whole room was filled with neat rows of bed frames.

Catwoman walked up to the nearest and swept a finger across the side. The dust was thick and layered. It hadn't been touched in years. She looked back at Batman.

"How many people did you say worked at this Fort?"

"Around one hundred and seventy."

"Then why does this infirmary have more beds than a furniture store?"

"It used to be a field hospital for-"

"Let me guess, the Flu."

He nodded. "They kept it out of the main camp for a reason."

Catwoman looked around, uncomfortable. "Uh-huh."

A sudden beam of light swept past the windows. The pair crouched and whispered simultaneously, "Truck on the bridge."

Catwoman glanced over. "Maybe they'll stop to check the Harley."

He frowned doubtfully and locked the door behind them. They kept low and crossed to the other side. This fed to a hallway of smaller examination rooms.

Catwoman asked, "Any idea where these samples might be?"

"If they're here, someone low. Secure. A basement. They won't be subtle."

"Good."

There was a distant hammering. Someone was trying to open the door.

She grimaced in disbelief. "There's no way those dolts had the chops to track us."

He looked annoyed. "They didn't. They're sweeping every building."

While they heard voices slowly spread through the rooms behind them, Batman and Catwoman slipped through the maze of paths until they found a stairwell. They descended in pitch darkness. Two floors down, there was another hallway. Here, they risked flashlights. Offices, offices, a corner, more offices, and then ...

A heavy door with a sign that read: hazardous containment.

Wordlessly, Catwoman started on the lock. It was leagues ahead of the other locks she had seen that night, though not ahead of her. She just needed time. They heard footsteps on the landing of the staircase. Both cut the lights. Batman turned around. A lesser person might beg her to hurry up. He merely waited, a calm man prepared for violence.

As the boots neared the corner, the lock clicked. Praying the hinge was smooth this time, she eased the door open. It moved like oil on glass. They slipped inside. This room was cold. Deep, bitter, choking cold.

The footsteps approached and then stopped. There was silence. The rim of a lamp's light lit up the margin of the opening. A man in a helmet peaked his head inside. The pair pressed against the opposite corner of the door.

A breath.

Then the soldier shivered and shut the vault door behind them. The steps outside faded away.

They exhaled. Batman found a switch. The room was cramped like a walk-in closet. There was a harsh clinical smell. The walls were metal. The bulb was dim. A sheen of frost covered every surface. There were shelves and boxes stored around them. He noticed a nigh-inaudible humming from the center. It was a freezer. Catwoman held back, wrapping her cape tightly around herself.

An old proverb said to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Like many old proverbs, he agreed with half of it. He opened the lid.

Vials. Two dozen. No slots were empty. He lifted one and read the label: Influenza.

He lowered his head in the slightest gesture of relief. "It's here."

Catwoman shivered. "Great. Let's scram." She turned and paused. "There's no knob."

"Hmm?" He put the vial back and closed the freezer.

"This door has no knob. Look."

He went beside her and examined the shut door. Indeed, the inside had no knob or lever or any feature at all. It hardly had a seam.

Batman laid a hand on the door and closed his eyes as if in pain.

Catwoman elbowed his arm and chuckled half-heartedly. "Wow. Locked inside a vault. Don't I feel dumb." She smiled modestly and looked over at him.

He glanced sideways at her for a moment then closed his eyes again.

"Nothing? No reciprocal self-deprecation? No tiny share of empathy?"

His remained a statue.

She sighed, "Nope, no empathy from the Batman. Fine, get it over with."

"What?"

"Look, I don't carry explosives. Making noise and getting caught is your cup of tea, so use a flashy Bat-bomb and melt a hole in the ceiling."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"We're not under another floor. This ceiling is well below thaw depth; at least twenty feet underground. That causes two problems. One: even a perfect cavity charge detonated upward would dislodge the tons of stone and soil above us, along with any masonry." They looked at the ceiling together. He frowned reproachfully, "And two: no, I don't carry enough explosives to displace twenty feet of stone." He thought a moment and added in a growl, "Yet."

Catwoman raised an intrigued eyebrow. She shivered again and clutched her arms to herself, trying to make it look casual. "What about the door? I'm not eager to meet the locals waiting on the other side when they hear it, but that seems to be our only option." She bit her lip in frustration, "If they just had the lock assembly on this side I would've cracked it like a First National safe and been out five minutes ago."

He gave her a deadpan look.

"I mean, we would have been out five minutes ago … to do more good deeds in the world." Catwoman nodded enthusiastically. "Guiding old ladies across the street or saving orphans from bears."

"Or helping kittens caught in cellars."

There was silence. Catwoman cocked her head incredulously.

"Do you … Did you just make a joke?"

"No."

She coughed. "I mean, it wasn't a great joke."

"I did not make a joke."

"It was a really bad joke but still, meow for effort."

Trying to change the subject, Batman leaned an ear to the door and tapped a knuckle on the metal. "The ceiling is just wooden studs covered in tin, but this door and the walls are sheeted with three-sixteenths inch mild steel." He considered this for a moment. "If we create a half-inch diameter hole in the steel here-" he pointed at a point on the door, "-we could reach a cord through and unlock the bolt. But puncturing that much steel requires about … eight-point-nine force tons on impact."

Catwoman didn't have the energy to hide her shivering now. She spoke quietly. "Can we make eight-point-nine force-tons of impact?"

He said nothing.

The last hints of mirth fell from her face. "Batman?"

"I can, but a room this size," he paused, "We'd be caught in the blast."

She said nothing.

He offered an afterthought, "So would the freezer."

"Pff. Would that be so bad?"

His voice turned darker. "Depends on how carefully they clean it up." He glared at the door. "I also have a corrosive solution, but it's not quite enough. It would just soften the metal."

She stared quietly at the ground.

Finally, he looked at her. "It's well below freezing. How long will you be alright?"

Catwoman tried to laugh but it came out as a cough. "You do have a shred of sympathy."

He head-shrugged indifferently. "You operate outdoors in winter; I assume your … outfit is moderately insulated?"

"Hey buster, my outfit is fine for what I do. Running around keeps a body warm. I don't hide in a dumpster for six hours a night."

"I'm prepared for-"

"No wonder you aren't cold, wearing a hardware store wrapped under a circus tent like that. Extra fabric is extra weight, dear, which is why I'm the quick one," she shivered too hard to talk for a moment, "... and I've proven it all sixteen times I've seen you."

"We've met fourteen times."

"Exactly."

He thought for a minute. "September 4th, mezzanine of the Opal Hotel."

"And that makes fifteen, one to go." She brushed the ice crystals off a crate and sat down, hunching under the cape like a blanket. "Heh, this must feel right at home to you."

"Why is that?"

"Sorry, just another theory my friend had. She thinks you must be a deranged sociopath hiding in some dank basement as you wait for nightfall.

"You have an interesting choice in friends."

"It's a compelling argument. You don't seem the type to need creature comforts. Or human contact. Or, you know, light."

"But you don't think so."

"I'm an open-minded sort of gal. You could be a sociopath hiding in a clock tower. Maybe the cellars beneath an opera house."

"Flattering."

"Don't take it personally. Her main theory is that you're a ghost."

"Hm." Batman looked at the walls around him. "Closer than she knows."

She patted the spot beside her. "Come on, tell me another joke."

"Why?"

She rolled her eyes, "Well, if we're going to die, we might as well go out doing something ... unbelievable."

He carefully sat, something he never did in field, and winced slightly as his sword wound burned. "I don't tell jokes."

Her voice started to slur. "Please, everybody knows a joke. You're must have overheard one at some point. Don't be a stick in the mud."

"No."

Of course, party-boy Bruce knew a hundred jokes canned and had the wit to play off any topic one could ask. But the strain of even admitting that to himself while in the cowl could force an embolism. There were things that Batman. Did. Not. Do.

Her shivers turned briefly into a spasm and she leaned forward. He saw her lips were turning pale. She laughed faintly. "F-f-fine, I'll start. And I have the perfect one for this place."

He said nothing. She took this as a request to continue. "There's this military base. A young soldier is standing guard one night, when out of a tent comes the old general walking his dog. The soldier salutes and tells the general that he has a nice dog. The general smiles and says 'Thank you, he's a Labrador' and the soldier says 'Yes, sir'. Then the general says 'Labradors are the best kind of dog' and the soldier says 'Yes, sir'. Then the general says 'I got him for my wife' and the soldier says 'Good trade, sir'."

Batman's expression didn't change a micron. He was busy looking at the faded color in her cheeks.

She shrugged. "Well, I thought it was funny. I usually don't like dog jokes."

He said nothing. She continued to shiver. He looked at his hands.

Catwoman stared at the floor. Her voice was very slow now, "Sure you don't know any? Seems like we're going to be together for the rest of our lives. Might as well make the best of it."

He looked at her puzzled.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant."

"I did think of a joke once."

She mock-gasped. "Really? Thought of it all on your own?"

He frowned. "It seemed funny. You may not think so."

"Oh, now I have to hear it."

"Fine." He spoke deliberately. "What do you call a criminal falling down a staircase?"

"What?"

"Condescending."

She looked at him blankly for about three seconds, then it landed.

"HA! Condescending. Con. Descending. Condescending." She wheezed a laugh, her eyelids fluttering. "That's a good one."

"You liked it?"

"Heh. Yeah, I really did."

She fell silent for a moment. Her breathing was shallow. He could feel his own senses numbing, but he wouldn't be as far gone as her for another hour. After all, resisting the elements was why capes were invented, and he was nearly twice her mass in muscle, but that was only part of it. The dangers of temperature were psychological and psychosomatic long before they were strictly physical - a pair of twins raised apart in Finland and Panama would attest to that. There was no such thing as a superpower, but there were methods to build a tolerance of the cold. A man could will himself warm for a time if he had the training, and she did not.

With her eyes heavy-lidded, Catwoman spoke again, "Now that we're having so much fun, do you want to see a movie sometime?" She sounded very tired. He decided to humor her.

"What do you have in mind?"

She shrugged, eyes now closed. "The Philadelphia Story is out in a week or two. Heard of it?"

"I've seen a poster."

"Just think, Cary Grant: the quintessential leading man. Then Jimmy Stewart, oh! Always a gem. And Hepburn, naturally. Katherine Hepburn. Isn't she beautiful? That lady is a national treasure."

He nodded. Her skin was nearly white. She had stopped shivering.

"It's going to be a laugh and a half. Should be grand." Catwoman started to nod forward, half-awake.

She was going into shock. He knew she gravely needed heat. Batman lifted a hand and moved it toward her shoulder. He frowned and stopped. Then he began to put an arm across her back, but paused and pulled it away before he touched her. He went to do it again, but again retreated. He sat in thought. Then he unfastened his cape and leaned over to gently wrap it around her shoulders.

Fed up with his indecision, she feebly grabbed his arm and pulled it around her.


Time passed.

He wasn't sure how much. Twenty seconds or ten minutes, it didn't seem to matter. A faint corner of his mind berated him for such ill-discipline. He was usually so good with time. The chill must be getting to him.

He had faced death before, usually quick, but a few just as slow. He didn't want to die. He still feared death, still felt despair and dread as keenly as anyone. But even so, this was an odd feeling, a strange way to go.


When the answer came, he didn't have energy left to hate himself. He still called himself an imbecile, a child, a fraud saved by the dumb luck of inspiration. He told himself that he deserved to fail. A half-wit would have thought of it sooner. But there was no passion behind this. Self-loathing that mild was reflex.

He stood. Catwoman was asleep by this point. Thinking sluggishly, he double-checked some equations. Guesses, really. Eight-point-nine force tons. How much would it be reduced?

... Enough. It would have to be enough.

Trembling, he pulled a small glass container from his belt and poured a powder into it. Then he pressed the container opening against the door. The solution frothed violently and the point of contact started to smoke. Batman held his breath and turned away until it was done. He fanned the last fumes and put away the container. There was now a circular pockmark in the door, not quite a hole.

He settled himself, drawing his body low, balancing his frame. He moved his arms through a few poses, harnessing their flow, steadying his pulse. He inhaled and drew his shoulder back.

With a harsh bark, his muscles uncoiled. Every proper joint engaged. His body weight turned like a triphammer and launched the middle knuckle of a perfect fist through the steel.