All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.
Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold
Chapter 19: The Road Home
The Airco DH.4B was a British bomber and scout plane modified to satisfy the reckless daredevils of the U.S. Postal Service. Thirty-one feet long, this workhorse was the jewel of 1919 civil aviation with a range of 350 miles and an average speed of 115 miles per hour. The Air Mail pilots, most of whom had a crash or three under their belts by their second year, cut as glamorous a figure as any of the era. These were the rootin'-tootin', seat-of-the-pants cowboys of the early days, men who navigated by the wind in their face and checked their speed by the singing of the wires. They had a compass that failed to always work and an altimeter that always failed. If the helmet-and-goggles boys held one criticism of the craft, it was that ice had a tendency to collect on the wings, a problem not shared by the most popular plane of the time, the Curtiss Jenny, whose carburetor vibrated so badly the ice fell off.
Catwoman knew none of this. She didn't know the model or its history. She didn't know how to ease the stick along to ride a heavy crosswind. She didn't know that if you couldn't hear the wires sing or the fabric beat like a drum, that meant you were going too slow to maintain altitude. She had no idea just how quickly ice could weigh down a wing, even outside of a snowstorm, and she was only casually aware that the wind chill at typical airborne cruising speeds made the ground temperature seem a balmy September afternoon by comparison. In fact, she had never even been in an airplane.
Fortunately, she had seen biplanes started in the movies. It didn't look that difficult. They had the pilot turn a crack in the cockpit for the engine, while a hasty assistant yanked a propeller blade clockwise so it spun. Of course, she didn't have an assistant (or a pilot's license), but she could improvise. She turned the magnito crank and pulled the ignition.
The engine hadn't been oiled or degreased in two years; the gasoline in the tank was half as old and one-third full, and there was a nest of ants in the exhaust pipe, but somehow the engine started to cough and chug, sounding faintly like a diseased elk through the membrane of a timpani drum. Praying it didn't die on her or explode, Catwoman hopped out and tugged at the propeller. It wavered a little. She tried again. It shifted like she was pulling it through molasses. She jumped and hung onto the blade, letting her body weight drag them down. The blade resisted for half a second then spun freely like a pinwheel. She fell onto her back, the propeller nearly slicing open her knee.
She dragged the chocks from the tires. After a minute, the Airco DH.4B started to inch forward. Catwoman nimbly tumbled to the side. As a tire rolled over the edge of her cape, she realized the plane wasn't driving straight. As it gracefully curved towards a wall, Catwoman raced back up the cockpit. The craft's long tail swung around and knocked over a few boxes. She flung half her body into the cockpit and hugged the stick back and forth, struggling to correct course. The plane, rolling at a brisk foot per second now, started to turn at the speed of a small glacier. A crate broke open, spilling potatoes along the floor. Catwoman stood, stepped along along the fuselage, hopped atop the wing, and then leaped past the spinning propeller, landing in front of the overhead door. Its latch was locked to the floor, and even she couldn't pick it open it in time - there was a loud saw blade approaching, after all. So, resigned to the least glamorous of thieving techniques, Catwoman took her briefcase, lined its metal hinge up to the small latch, and gave her best golf swing.
Her arms shook on impact. The latch stayed. The propeller scooted closer. She hitched her arms and swung again. The lock popped off. She set her feet and pushed. The vast door swung slowly up. Catwoman turned and dropped to the floor as the plane rolled above her.
In the snowy dark outside, a loose semi-circle of troops faced the door at twenty paces. Three of these soldiers were Private Hershey, Private Denunzio, and their Sarge.
Sarge peered forward. "The door's opening!"
Hershey tilted an ear. "It sounds like a diseased elk!"
Denunzio nodded. "Yeah, from inside a timpani drum!"
Sarge held an arm out. "Now you boys remember, we hold our place. Look around for anyone using the plane as a distraction."
They tried to peer into the hanger. The Airco gradually picked up speed. In moments it passed them.
"It's empty, sir."
"Good eyes, Hershey. Keep looking."
A moment later, Catwoman clawed up from where she clung under the fuselage. With a few deft movements, she shimmied over the wing and slid into the cockpit.
Denunzio noticed some movement behind him. He saw her as she slid inside. "THERE SHE IS!"
Catwoman ducked, curled up under the lip of the cockpit, and closed her eyes. Five rifles opened fire. The fusillade ripped holes in the rudder and the wings. A bullet pinged off the steel tube around her. The next one punched through under her arm and cracked open the dashboard. More soldiers ran over, firing on the move, but the plane was too fast to catch. The margin of Catwoman's mind not preoccupied with being perforated remembered that the hanger entrance was perpendicular to the long dimension of the clearing. In other words, she was about to crash into the forest.
She reluctantly peeked above the cockpit and confirmed that, yes, her plane was about to cuddle a pine tree the size of her impending hospital bill. She grasped the stick and turned. Turning a speeding airplane on the ground was not the same as turning a car. It dipped as it turned, banking so low the wing nearly touched the ground. Still curled on her side, Catwoman had an instant of nauseous weightlessness. Sitting up would have helped, but the stragglers chasing behind her were still trying to bother her with high-velocity distractions, so she stayed put.
The snow on the path thus far had been soft and even, slowing the plane like a half-pressed brake. However, the turn aligned her with the direction of the clearing where plenty of vehicles had passed already. They had left scores of ruts through the snow, exposing the slick pavement. Catwoman dared to sit up and aimed at the widest rut. After a moment of skating, the Airco slotted into the grove in with a series of shuddering bumps. It caught the pavement and sped forward. It was in that moment of speed that Catwoman realized she had no idea how high to set the throttle; she had innocently pushed it to the limit to get going, not realizing the snow was slowing her down. At this pace it might stall out on the takeoff climb or do a flip or something. That would be bad.
She pawed around, trying to find the throttle again by touch (the blast of frigid wet air had effectively blinded her), until she suddenly felt the world lean back and heard the wheels leave the ground.
...
Private Hershey numbly reset the safety catch on his smoking rifle. Colonel Tanner strode up beside him, his expression unreadable. The Private hung his head. "Sorry, sir."
The Colonel let out a tired snort and slapped Hershey fondly on the back. "Don't apologize, son. You did your job."
"But that spy got away."
"What that spy got was an uncommonly fancy coffin, Private. If that wreck stays in the air three minutes, I'll eat my hat. 'Bout the only thing out there's mountains n' steeper mountains. Go get some sleep."
Amanda Waller covertly ran a finger along the passenger door latch. She scrunched her nose. It would hurt to jump out, snow or no snow, and she didn't like that at all. She didn't fear pain, but having to suffer was almost an insult. Amanda firmly believed that the point of being clever and cautious was that you could get what you wanted in life without much discomfort, or at least you could get someone else to suffer it. In her eyes, humanity was bad at this, and the armed forces were worse. She saw most of the military as a club of rowdy yahoos who crashed and stumbled from problem to problem like a donkey caught in a thornbush. This offered plenty of opportunities for a lady of her gifts to make herself useful, but it was embarrassing to watch. Even a somewhat sophisticated operator like this so-called Bat Man looked as beaten as a training dummy in a school of attack dogs. Who knew what wild dreams he was willing to suffer for? Long story short, jumping out of moving vehicles was a fool's game.
"Don't even think about it."
Then again, perhaps she wasn't as subtle as she thought.
Amanda took her taped hands off the door. "Just stretching."
"Uh-huh."
Batman drove slowly through the quiet back paths of the Fort. Neither conceded to face the other.
"So what's your endgame here, champ?"
He said nothing.
"You won't get past the gate, you know. I'm not sure what you think your options are."
"You're slow on the uptake, Waller. It's in your hands now."
"How?"
He turned a final corner. Sixty yards ahead was the camp gate, a sliding barricade flanked by lights and soldiers and a watchtower.
"Option one: you smile and spin a story so they let us though."
She lowered her voice. "And option two?"
"Option two: you hesitate and I step on the gas. Maybe I break through the gate, maybe we crash and burn."
"If you so much as touch the pedal funny, the-"
"Your guards will open fire? I've been shot at all night. Care to join me?"
She frowned but bit back what she was going to to say. Getting shot at was a fool's game.
"... Fine. Go."
He cut her hands apart and gave a short grunt of approval. It sounded a little too smug for her taste.
To call what Catwoman was doing piloting would be an insult to both pilots and words. The fairest description was that, in wrestling frantically with the controls, she managed to consistently miss the ground. For the first time in her life, she desperately wished she wore a big pair of goggles. The air rubbed her face raw. Breathing was a pain, but at least it was something. She couldn't feel any skin above the neck. Her ears were a distant memory.
The moon was her only guide. it offered faint monochrome silhouettes of the slopes and cliffs she struggled to rise above. The engine was weak, and the dancing crosswinds buffeted her down and sideways. She knew intellectually to head south, but that meant nothing up here. She could only turn and turn, racing towards the next gap in the jigsaw horizon. Once she caught sight of a gray ribbon snaking along the valley below. Could it be a road? She couldn't tell, and when she looked again it was gone.
As she crested a particularly harrowing peak, brushing the tops of the massive pines, Catwoman realized she heard nothing. It was a very loud and sudden nothing, and she didn't recognize what was wasn't hearing for several seconds: the engine had stopped.
"-so you see, Sergeant Connolly. I'm just escorting Capitán Alvarado here off the Fort to avert a diplomatic incident. The Mexican high command wouldn't take kindly if their visiting observer was hurt by a saboteur."
Sergeant Connolly and the seven other soldiers of the gate garrison traded glances. The Sergeant looked back into the truck's cabin. "Forgive me ma'am, I didn't realize we had a, uh, dignitary with us."
Amanda Waller nodded graciously. "That's quite all right, Sergeant. We've kept it very hush-hush."
"So you're escorting him back to ..."
"We'll stop at a hotel downstate where he can take a taxi to the consulate."
"And he's driving?"
"Oh, you know, Latin machismo and all that. And a lady like myself, well, could you imagine me behind the wheel of this dirty contraption? Heavens."
The Sergeant shone his flashlight through the open window and scrutinized Batman, who had eyed him steadily the whole conversation without shifting a muscle.
"And this is a Mexican Army uniform?"
Amanda chuckled. "Well, not standard issue. It's a special camouflage our two nations have been jointly innovating. I'm afraid the details are above your pay grade, soldier. "
"It doesn't look like camouflage."
"We're still working out a few issues."
"He looks badly injured."
"The poor man was caught in one of the attacks earlier. Didn't you hear it? That's why it's critical we get him to a safe place along with the prototype."
The Sergeant squinted closer at Batman. "And you're Mexican?"
Batman gave a slow nod. "Sí." He held out a hand. "Hola."
Sergeant Connolly accepted the awkward handshake. He looked at the gate and whistled uncomfortably. "Alright ma'am, we'll open the gate. Sorry for slowing you down. We're under orders to keep a tight lid on things."
"Yes, perfectly understandable, soldier. Keep up the good work."
"Thank you, ma'am. And drive safe, uh, sir."
"Gracias, mi compañero." Batman looked ahead and stepped off the brake. "Ahora, vamos."
When Catwoman got over her shock (her emotional shock, at least; she was still freezing), she realized that her airplane hadn't become an anvil, it had become a glider - a very bad glider.
Basic physics commanded that all flying surfaces maintained forward momentum when falling. A wing's surface was diagonal when descending: it's lift vector was partly vertical and partly horizontal. Consequently, pressure pushing under the wing both slowed a craft's fall (like a parachute) and pushed it forward (like a sail). The efficiency of this was measured by the equation of lift over drag, also known as L/D or the glide ratio. A glide ratio of three meant the craft would travel three yards forward for every yard it fell.
The glide ratio of Great War aircraft typically varied between seven and nine under ideal conditions and around five in practice. If a Sopwith Camel, for instance, was cruising at a reasonable 5,000 feet and turned off it's engines, a good pilot could expect to travel at least five miles before landing.
Catwoman was not a good pilot. The Airco DH.4B was a tad more modern than it's wartime cousins, but the particular bird Catwoman flew limited that advantage with the sort of regular upkeep one found in lost Aztec tombs. On a positive note, cold air was dense and helped to slow a descent, and this air was nearly broth. This broth merely delayed the inevitable, however, as she had no idea how fast she was traveling, her altitude, or where she was going. Her best guesses were: "A mountain every three minutes," "I can see the branches from here," and "Ummm."
The seat under her rumbled as she sped lower. Pulling up haltingly, Catwoman barely managed to clear a ridge, but that was the last ounce of climb she had: the nose dipped with a vengeance and she knew she wouldn't be able to rise over any more obstacles. It was all downhill now. The plane was gliding well below the peaks, slipping through the steep valley.
Then the valley opened up into a grand circle of mountains, and in the center was a moon-flecked field of snow, round and flat as a dinner plate.
Fueled by a new hope, Catwoman aimed down, hoping to gain enough speed to pull into a gentle curve that would run parallel to the ground just just before she ran out of altitude.
She discovered that this sort of precision was very difficult. The final stretch passed in terrifying silence.
She pulled up a moment early, leveling out twenty feet above the ice. Compensating in fright, she tipped the craft down. The plane stopped floating like a feather and dropped the last twenty feet like a bowling ball.
The Airco DH.4B bounced off the ice with a frame-bending shake, bounced again, then crashed into the lake beneath.
Batman and Amanda Waller traveled down the long switchbacks of Fort Morrison without speaking. It wasn't until they pulled onto the main road fifteen minutes later when he broke the silence.
"A Mexican military observer?"
She crossed her arms. "I'd like to see you invent a cover on short notice for someone as ridiculous as you."
"Mm."
"And what now? Are we off to some Podunk county lockup?" She chuckled. "Am I under citizen's arrest?"
"We both know that would be futile. Your case will be ready soon enough."
"Is this when you tell me to 'count my hours' and sprinkle in something about the wrath of God?"
"You think I resort to melodrama?"
"If the shoe fits."
He scoffed. "I know my audience."
"You do. So you know it's no use yelling at me, and it seems for all the hot sauce someone poured in your ear, you aren't going to slap me around like a self-respecting vigilante."
He glared, daring her to tempt him. "Even with the blood of two homicides on your hands, you have the hubris to act like your crimes were operational expenses. You deserve worse."
"Now look, for what it's worth, that poor vagrant couple wasn't my idea. I learned the details at the last minute. That's not how I operate. "
"If you're making a confession, I don't absolve sins."
"No, that was an argument that if you're out for justice, your efforts are misguided. We're-"
"Misguided? Were the murderers punished? Did you step down for letting it happen under your watch? Forget your so-called intentions, do you really think you can convince me you haven't nurtured a conspiracy to make your problems disappear by any means necessary?"
"Are you trying to shame me, boy? I don't have the blessed privilege of your private morality. The world's too small, and we're living in a neighborhood of warlords and mass graves. You have no idea how close Kriegsmarine U-boats are to turning our coast into a daily shooting gallery, let alone the webs of agents just waiting to carve us up from the inside. And those are just the threats we understand." Batman became very still at this remark. Amanda chuckled darkly. "Oh, you're a smart one. You've noticed the edge of the rabbit hole, haven't you? This nation is on the cusp of a great and terrible endeavor, and we've got our pants around our ankles. You think you have me judged? You don't know your rear from a hole in the ground."
"Enlighten me."
"Fact is, I'm the closest this little democracy has to a survival plan. I do what I must - never one iota less. Why? Because every kind of service necessary to the public good becomes honorable by being necessary. If the exigencies of my country demand a peculiar service, its claim to perform that service are imperious."
"Nathan Hale."
"You stayed awake in civics class, very good. So, to continue my original question, why I am I still along for your little ride? Hoping to make me bleat another secret before we get to town? Or are we in for another round of the silent treatment?"
"No. Bringing you're along serves two purposes. First, a chance to make one fact clear."
"All ears."
"At your old infirmary, you'll find a hole in the vault that holds the influenza cultures."
"How did you-"
"Do not speak." He silenced her with a glare. "The virus is still there, and it will stay there."
"Oh?" Her features pulled tight with scorn. "Pray tell why?"
"You and I aren't finished, but that just makes you one more scum on the corner of my agenda. I have other monsters to cage. But if you start weaponizing a disease or any program that threatens innocents on that scale, then it's over. You become my only priority. I hunt you to the ends of the Earth, and I won't be gentle next time. This is your only warning."
"Starting a plague is low on my to-do list. That said, if you sincerely believe you can coerce me or the United States government with a threat, then you've gravely misread your hand."
"Force my hand and we'll see."
"And what was your other purpose for keeping me this long?"
Batman stopped the truck. "A punishment in advance. Get out."
"Uh, what?"
"Get out of the truck now or I throw you out."
"Be serious, we must be three miles out by now.
"If you don't think I'm serious, you're an idiot."
"I'll be half-frozen before I reach the nearest outpost."
"If you're lucky."
"But-"
"Four seconds."
Amanda huffed and tightened the belt on her coat. She opened the door and climbed down. As she closed the door, she offered her final words in a smooth and level tone, "Sooner or later you'll recognize the real threats. When that happens, give me a call."
Most aircraft did not float in water. However, because they were lightweight in proportion to their surface area, they did not sink very quickly either. Just how long until they submerged was a matter of some debate.
Catwoman wasn't sure if she had been unconscious or merely blinded by the splash. All she knew was that there had been a great hurly-burly of motion, time had passed, and now there was a terrible pain on her right side - a deep bruise from her chest to just above her hip. She gingerly reached up and rubbed her whiplashed neck as she slumped back, wanting nothing more than to rest here in the warmth and stillness of not being airborne.
Then the plane wiggled and, with a low gurgling noise, she felt herself lowering.
Many words sparked through Catwoman's mind - few fit for print and none in complete sentences. She hustled to stand then winced and fell back again. Catwoman had never broken a rib, which was sort of miraculous given her lifestyle, and she wondered if this was what a broken rib felt like. Maybe it was just a sprain. She tried to remember if rib sprains were a thing, or if it was strains, and what the difference was.
The plane lowered again. A few sprays of water started to form puddles in the cockpit out of unseen cracks. Taking pride that her boots were waterproof, Catwoman looked around. Her landing had fractured the ice surprisingly little. There was slushy lake water for a few feet out, then a periphery of man-sized fragments of doubtful stability, and finally the edge of the ice sheet not nine feet away.
She took her briefcase by the handle and threw it before collapsing in pain. The briefcase spun through the air and skidded along the ice. Another four streams began to leak into the cockpit. Moving her wounded side as little as possible, Catwoman gently pulled herself up onto the fuselage. What remained of the lower wings had already sunk into the lake, but the upper wings were high and dry. She worked her way onto one and dragged herself to the edge. As she slid further from the center, the plane began an agonizing tilt. When she finally rolled off the tip, the wing was almost level with ice. It still hurt though.
The cakes of cracked ice under her were barely enough to hold her weight, but if there was one thing Catwoman knew it was crawling on fragile platforms. Catwoman gently moved toward the thicker sheet as chunks broke off behind her. When she could finally get to her feet, Catwoman found the briefcase and pulled out her flashlight. The beam faded at about ten yards, and it was at least a hundred to the nearest shore.
"Well, no rest for the wicked."
Catwoman slowly started walking. Her foot broke through a few times, but she kept her balance and pressed on. There was no wind on the lake, and the snow had nearly stopped. Also, no one was shooting at her. It was almost pleasant. When she reached the shore, she found some fallen branches and set about making a fire. Being a dyed-in-the-wool city girl, this turned out to be several orders of magnitude more difficult than she imagined. It figured that she was the one lady in in Gotham who didn't carry a lighter, not to mention the one member of the costume crowd who didn't own a degree in pyrotechnics. Nigma would know all the trees by sap content and a rhyming mnemonic for finding flint. The Joker seemed to make things burn by wishing hard enough. And Batman could probably start a blaze with sand and a wet stick, if he didn't have six gadgets to do the job already (a habit she found ironic for a self-proclaimed creature of darkness).
Eventually, after grueling experimentation, she managed to spark a few warm embers by rubbing the flashlight's battery against the steel of her claws. Catwoman huddled over her miniscule flame to hide it from the snow. There was nothing to do but wait as it grew. The stillness was almost meditative. She had made it. There was no big sprint to rest for and no obstacle to climb.
The silence gave her far too much time to wonder what had happened to her self-proclaimed creature of darkness. It was an odd discomfort, almost a cognitive dissonance. On the one hard, while she was the first to point out that Batman was "just" human, she really couldn't imagine him failing, not in the abstract. Sure, he had setbacks, but he was always hunting again the next night: the consummate survivor. That was half his mystique. Otherwise he would have just been a strange obituary.
On the other hand, she only escaped the Fort patrols by dint of the biggest chain of flukes in her career, and at least she had been trying to escape. He set out to do the opposite! Unless he suddenly grew wings, she couldn't imagine him punching his way past the whole camp. No, like all self-important renegades, he was looking for his blaze of glory. When he finally ... when it did happen, would they say in the news? Probably not. Too embarrassing. He'd be one more secret to sweep under the rug. She'd never hear the details.
Well, at least she could finish what he started. That was worth something. Catwoman put out her fire and picked up the briefcase. The frozen lake stretched out into the darkness. If she followed the shore, maybe she could find a river. Rivers led to civilization. It was better than the woods.
An interminable period later (no more than an hour in hindsight), she spied a strange shape along the water. A pier! No boats were moored, but with some searching she found a broad footpath up the hill. At the top of the hill was a dirt road through the foliage. There was a cluster of small buildings and a sign on a tall pole:
Hank's Tanks
Gas / Food / Ammo / Bait / Road maps
Souvenirs / More Ammo / Boat rentals
None of the windows were lit. The place seemed deserted. Catwoman walked up the the largest building. It had two gas pumps in front and a phone line running out along the road. That was promising. This was clearly the store; she could see lines of shelves through the windows. A snack would be nice.
On any other night, Catwoman would carefully pick the lock on the door. Her fingers weren't feeling cooperative tonight so she kicked a hole in the window. It was dark inside. She hunted for the phone. It turned out to be behind the counter, an old wall model with a cone speaker. As she reached for the rotary dial, she heard footsteps behind her.
"Might want to step back there."
Catwoman turned. A tall, lanky man in long underwear and untied boots was stepping through her hole in the window. He held a bright lantern in one hand and a rifle in the other. She bashfully turned off her flashlight.
"Hi. Who are you?"
The man placed the lantern on the counter. "I own the joint. Important question is, who're you?"
"I, uh ..."
"Cause you don't look like the kind of lady who'd steal things, but it is night and you did break my window."
"I don't look like ... right! Stealing? Course not." She coughed primly. "You must be Hank." He raised an eyebrow. The store name was painted in huge letters on the wall. She nodded awkwardly. "Right, well I'm ... a pilot."
"Pilots carry whips?"
"Oh, sure. This is a ... a pilot's whip. We use it for piloting things. Keeps the, uh ... wings ... tight."
"You don't look like an aviatrix."
"I'm a stunt pilot. they call me the ... Amazing ... Cat."
The man pulled at his lip thoughtfully. "Oh, like a barnstormer. Well, that would explain your fanciful get-up. Got'r impress the kiddies."
"Oh, the costume, yes. I wear this for ... the children."
"That's swell, but it still don't say what you're doing in my store."
"Big misunderstanding, Hank. See, I was pulling an all-nighter to get to Gotham City for a show, racing there like I stole the plane, and I had a little crash. I walked here to find help. I would have knocked but I thought your shop was deserted."
"You were flying through this big storm?"
"That's right."
He whistled. "If that's true then you really do belong in the City. But where's the wreck?"
"It sort of sunk into your lake."
Hank was skeptical. "It sunk through the ice, but you got out?"
She put her hands on her hips. "I am a stunt pilot, you know. We eat little crashes for breakfast."
"Hmm. I guess that would explain the smell."
"What smell?"
"Geez, is your nose deaf? You smell like smoke."
"Well-"
"And motor oil."
"I guess-"
"Cause boy, it's powerful. Did you take a nap in the exhaust pipe?"
She forced a laugh. "Well, I guess that shows I am a pilot. Who has been piloting. A plane. Recently. And not a thief."
"Hmm."
"Come on, would a thief have a briefcase?"
"Okay, I suppose you might just be a dame caught in a bad stroke of luck."
"Beautiful. Look, I'm very sorry about the window. I'll make it up to you. I just need to make a phone call. That's all."
Hank considered this and shrugged. "A'ight. Make the call."
"Thank you." Catwoman turned and dialed a number.
It rang. A voice picked up.
"Errr-llo?
"Maven!"
"... Selina? What's the- Don't you know what time it is?"
"Actually, I don't. Long story. Listen, I need some-"
"Yeah, and I need six more hours of sleep. My job's riding on a huge presentation tomorrow. Or today, I guess. It's a whole big thing. Try me in the morning."
Catwoman yelled into the receiver. "Hey! Hey!"
"Bye."
"Hold on! I'm calling in the Favor!"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Catwoman pressed the point. "Did you hear me, Mave? Remember the Favor?"
"... This had better be important, 'Lina."
"It is, it is, listen: get a paper and a pen. Write this down."
"M'kay."
"You have your car, right?"
"You want me to write down that I have a car?"
"No, just-"
"Yes, geesh, I have my car. Of course I do. It's parked out back."
"Good. At the end of this call, get in the car and go north on the Turnpike. Keep going until ... hold on." She looked at Hank. "Hey buddy, how do you get here from Gotham City?"
"Get here? Through those hills? If you're in a car tonight, miss, you don't."
"Okay, then where's the nearest route that can take a car?"
"Highway's 'bout seven miles down Baker's Mill Road. Ought'a be clear enough."
"Seven miles! I can't walk that."
"Shame."
"Hey, you live here. How do you get around?"
"Mostly I don't. Truck's in the shop."
"What about emergencies?"
"Well, I do have a haulin' tractor in the shed. Faster than she looks."
"A tractor."
"Yep."
"Well, thanks. I guess that's one relie-."
"Pfff. Hold on, I didn't say I'd taxi you around, Amelia Earhart. You think I want to be exposing my delicate self to the elements at this hour? For the lady who broke my nice window?"
Catwoman pursed her lips and eyed him dangerously. "You won't?"
"Nope. Nothing doing."
"Buddy, if you had any idea what I went through to get here ..." She reached discreetly into her satchel.
The owner leveled his rifle with a glare. "Now watch yourself."
Catwoman pulled out a few bills. "I'll give you twenty bucks."
He ran his tongue against his cheek. "Twenty-five. And eight more for the window."
Catwoman grinned. "You have a deal."
Grand old cities were home to many weird specimens of humanity. Some observers assumed they grew there, the dank urban conditions behaving like the soil under a bed of fungi. This was partly true, but it was just as common for oddballs and outcasts to come from elsewhere. To these pilgrims, Gotham was the center of the world. It rivaled the grandest and oldest towns on the continent, but it also had a certain cryptic quality that attracted the deviant like moths to a lamp. And among the human curiosities who found their way there, the most curious seemed to arrive by bus. And among those travelers who arrived by bus, the strangest of all rode the midnight line. Only the truly exceptional life ever reached a point when traveling cross-state on a rickety old bus in the wee hours of the morning in the middle of winter to the middle of Gotham sounded like a good idea.
Batman found a small town just north of the City, parked his snow-plow truck in front of a quiet fire hall, left the keys, and walked four blocks to the bus stop. When the bus arrived, he climbed aboard and paid his fare. As he found a seat, wearing his Batsuit and covered with bandages and dried blood, he looked around and found himself the third strangest person aboard.
