All claims are DC. Please enjoy. Reviews humbly appreciated.
Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold
Chapter 20: Being Cold
As the miles passed and the hills steadily grew to hide the moon, Maven Lewis began to regret getting out of bed. Parents across America told spooky bedtime stories about the sinister things lurking in the alleys in Gotham, but locals just called those anecdotes. When Gothamities told spooky bedtime stories, they were about the sinister things lurking in the woods when your car broke down. Maven frowned as she struggled to glimpse the road. The snowfall had stopped, but the path was only just clear enough to navigate in her Plymouth. Every other mile seemed to run alongside a gully or cliff for her to slide over. A deer crossed the road minutes ago and gave her half a heart attack. She wore two sweaters and a coat but still shivered the whole ride. Maven couldn't imagine any sane person being outside in this weather.
Which brought her back to Selina. If it wasn't for the sacred invoking of the Favor, Maven would have sworn this was all a prank. The set-up might be more elaborate than her past pranks but not by much. It wasn't until an hour into the drive that Maven was awake enough to remember this was the night Selina intended to sneak into that base.
Why does she need a ride? She has a car - that gaudy honking Phantom she's so proud of. Yugh. How could she lose her car? What could possibly- Wait! Maybe she lost her car because she's on the run! What if she's been captured? No, they wouldn't give her a phone if she was captured. Dumb thought, Maven. But what then? If she is on the lam, what if they catch up to her before I arrive? What if they catch her as I arrive? Could I just drive past and pretend I'm not involved? Sure, that's the prude- No, the Favor. But then what? Would there be a chase? Am I about to be in a car chase? Better not be. My insurance is high enough as it is. This is not the set of wheels you want in a car chase. And I will not be an accessory again; that's the first rule of our friendship, after all. I am going to lose my job. Why doesn't she have anyone else that can help her? Didn't she go along with -
Maven nearly swerved off the road.
- Holy gosh! That's right, she went with Batman! Oh, gosh, oh gosh, am I going to see Batman? Am I going to give Batman a ride? I shortchanged the hotdog lady last week; maybe he can still smell it on me - the guilt, not the hotdog. What if he doesn't like my car? What if he doesn't fit? I guess he can just ride on the roof. Wait, I thought he flew. Or teleported. Doesn't he just show up wherever he's needed because of some ancient curse? Like, a spiritual thing? Wait, Batman being there sounds like the sort of thing Selina would have mentioned on the phone, and she certainly did not. Was there a betrayal? Did he turn on her? Or did she turn on him? Who started it? I mean, Batman is the bloody predator of the unjust with an unslakeable thrust for vengeance, but Selina can be really annoying sometimes. They might be fighting when I show up. Am I going to have to fight Batman? How? I didn't bring a roscoe. I don't own a roscoe. I don't even know a Roscoe.
As her thoughts frothed out her ears, Maven finally caught sight of her instructed destination: an abandoned diner about fifty miles north of what her dad called "the boonies". She rolled to a stop and stepped out, keeping the engine running.
Maven yelled, "Hello?"
Munching from a bag of off-brand cookies, Catwoman walked unsteadily through the diner door. "Maven, are you a sight for sore eyes. I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Oh my gosh, Selina, you're white as a sheet! What have you been doing? And why are you wearing a cape?"
"Look, Mave," she coughed. "I'd love to talk, but maybe a little later. Be a dear and grab the briefcase on that bench. I've been carrying it for about a year and if I have to touch it again I'm going to hurt someone."
"Sure, we can talk on the way home."
"That sounds lovely, but I'd rather catch a nap."
"What happened?"
Selina winced as she crawled into the passenger seat. "See, that's the paradox: if I told you, I wouldn't have time to sleep. Wake me when we hit the city. 'Kay?"
"I don't think that's what a paradox is."
"Great. G'night."
Detective James Gordon sat at a booth in the corner of Shucky's Bar beside a pile of crumpled paper. All bars stank - this was a cosmic constant, like the speed of light - but along that stink spectrum, Shucky's was slightly worse than most. There was the classic spilled beer, the dead rat in the corner, the ashtrays being put through their paces (not his own for once), and whatever dust and grime rolled off the coats of the dockworkers who shuffled in every night save for the Sabbath.
Gordon didn't like bars. He preferred his drink at home. He did hold affection for a few Scottish pubs his dad had introduced him to as a young man, though he never had time to visit. If he was the sort to indulge in more self-interest, he would try responsible watering holes like McHaggasey's or the Duchess and the Gentleman: the two cop bars in his precinct. His popularity on the force was ragged at best, and making a few new friends would do wonders for his career. But more often than not, Gordon ended up here at Shucky's or one of the other dives that found it useful to have an off-duty cop around for the hours before last call and were willing to compensate him for the privilege. He missed the sleep, but Barbara was going to get an education if it killed him.
Speaking of killing him, the balled notepad papers beside Gordon were rough drafts for an unofficial press release to announce the case of the stolen cadavers and the murder of Wendell and Alice Dupree. He wrote here because this dirty, tepidly unpleasant corner was the closest he had to a sanctuary. At work he had to work, and at home he had to provide, but here he could merely be. The pile of rejects was because Detective Gordon had no gift for tact, and this case already caused more professional damage to its investigators than most he saw in a year. It wasn't even open, but detectives in the GCPD could follow their own trails off the books and slide hints to the press from time to time. That was one advantage of the Department: some rules were so bent they even let a outcast like him slip by. If everything went smoothly, the brass tended towards a "no harm done" attitude. Of course, this liberty also meant he was on his own. If he provoked whoever was handing down censures - and he was certain he would - then the whole mess would all be on his head.
Gordon had agreed to wait one more day before taking his few leads public. That meant one more day to edit and second-guess, so he didn't write with any particular haste. He rubbed his eyes and checked the clock: nine minutes until he could leave.
The place was nearly empty. His last three drafts had more misspellings than words. He turned to the bar, "Hey, Shucky!"
The shlub manning the taps looked over. "Yeah, Jim?"
"Mind if I cut out early?"
Skucky shrugged with a loose jaw, "Ehhhhhhh. Yeah, alright. Get out'a here."
"Thanks." Detective Gordon ran a thumb under his loose necktie and pulled the knot. "See you next week?"
The barkeep had already turned back to his drink. "Mm."
"Thank you."
Gordon slouched into his tan longcoat and buffed his glasses poorly on the sleeve.
Shuffling outside, James Gordon took a moment to appreciate that it had stopped snowing and began his seven blocks home. Two blocks later, he heard a gentle 'clink' as he passed an alley. An empty bottle slid out of the darkness and rolled to a stop against his foot. He glanced around, dangerously awake in an instant, and palmed the top on his holster. He leaned forward, struggling to glimpse beyond the the hazy edge of the moonlight. Nothing moved.
A voice beside him said, "Detective Gordon."
"Jeez!"
Batman leaned against the brick alley wall with his arms crossed, much closer than Gordon expected a person could hide in the dim. The Dark Knight's outline only became clear when he offered a small nod.
"Let's talk."
Gordon exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, alright."
Batman turned and led deeper into the alley. Gordon checked the street then followed. He had accepted long ago that Batman could apparently find him anywhere at any hour, but it still terrified him. It was like being followed by a stray dog that could read minds and used its endless cunning to hunt people. Sure, he was friendly now, but a stray could always turn and bite. Gordon needed a smoke.
They stopped at a dead end around a corner. No windows faced the alley here and no starlight passed below the eaves far above them. The snow was piled high against the tight corners.
Gordon pulled his collar up to his ears. "Glad to see you made it back. By now I had my doubts."
"You haven't announced the case?"
"No, no. I kept my word."
"Of course."
"What's the news? Anything solid this time?"
Batman paused. That was a bad sign. "Fort Morrison is housing a clandestine research program that experiments on cadavers. They used our streets as a source for corpses when the legal supply dried up. The program is sanctioned by at least one intelligence service and a pair of cabinet departments. "
Gordon was too tired to curse. No judge could issue a warrant for 'The Whole Blasted Government'. He winced and looked down.
"And the Duprees?"
"Not sure. I suspect it was either an isolated move from the field team to cut corners or a deliberate attempt for fresher test subjects."
"At least we know the score, and these cutthroats are none the wiser. Now let's pin 'em to the wall."
"My associate and I ... our operation fell apart. We were seen. I was briefly apprehended and questioned."
"Please tell me you didn't announce who you were."
Batman frowned. "I said nothing of substance. My appearance is message enough."
"So someone finally got the mask off, huh?"
"They couldn't see my face. I took precautions."
"As curious as I am how you did that, let's talk evidence. If they know they're being hounded by you, they're gonna send some boys to put an ear to Gotham. We'll have to sit on the goods till the heat dies down. Where are you keeping it?"
Batman paused again. "I don't have it."
"Pardon?"
"We were surrounded, I set a distraction so my partner could get the evidence to you. But it didn't-"
"To me?" Gorden grabbed Batman's shoulder and snarled. "You told someone who I am?"
"It was the surest way."
"Do you have any idea of how far I stick my neck out whenever we work together? Are you trying to put a little more grease on that guillotine?"
"I'm sorry, Detective."
Gordon stepped back and pounded the wall. "No, you're right. I'm off base. Paranoid type like you wouldn't trust someone without a good reason." He gestured to the empty walls. "But no one's met me tonight. When's your pal arriving?"
"My partner tried to escape on an aircraft, but-"
"He's a pilot?"
"No."
"Oh. So you split up and now your friend's buried halfway into a peak somewhere."
"The Kahontsi Range interior."
"Then we're back to square one! No, worse! Now the government's going to be breathing down your neck, your buddy's dead, Lord knows you can't have many of those, and we still don't have a case to build."
Batman waited patiently for him to finish. "The soldiers only cornered me on their home turf. They won't get lucky twice. Now I know the faces of the conspiracy. I don't need to raid an armed camp. I'll find them when they move, when they sleep. The murderers have other programs."
Gordon appraised him with a look that might have been disbelief once, but now was closer to pity. "So it's come to this, huh? If you're starting your own little war, you know I can't help you."
"I know."
Gordon had a family and a job and a face. He could be hurt in so many ways that the Dark Knight couldn't be. Batman had never doubted which of them was braver.
"Then I guess I'm out till you find more proof. We sure can't make a release now, not with you in the picture. I've heard stories of guys who push against the Feds without tying their own loose ends. It isn't pretty." A weak eddy of wind whispered up the alley and spun some snow. Detective Gordon sighed. "Mind if I light up?" It was a perfunctory request. He pulled out his pack of Chesterfields and a lighter. With a flick, he saw Batman in the full glow of the flame and recoiled.
"Holy Moses, did you fall in a wood chipper?"
"It's not as bad as it looks."
"It couldn't be. You're still standing."
"Mm."
"What exactly did you do up there?"
"I survived."
"I wouldn't speak too soon. The hospital might give a discount on blood if you buy in bulk."
"I'll tend to these wounds and start work on my new leads this evening. You should go home."
Detective Gordon nodded, cupping his cigarette as he walked around the corner. He muttered to himself and the universe, "Good luck."
The Dark Knight had hidden nine vehicles around the city in case he was ever stuck on foot. The nearest was parked in a partially-collapsed maintence basement in the south abutment of the Old Cleveland Bridge a third of a mile away. Climbing would be foolish with the icy roofs and his pulled muscles; walking was enough of a challenge. But staying on the ground meant facing the wildlife. The safest route to the bridge would take him through Sweethearts territory and a few properties protected by the Moonshine King. They wouldn't feel very territorial in this weather, but Batman didn't want to risk an encounter. He had no friends here, and his condition might force him to do something drastic. So he crept covertly through the side-streets and abandoned stores. The trip to the bridge lasted an hour but offered no witnesses.
Finding a gap in the low fence, Batman slid down the steep embankment to the rocky shore of the frozen West River. The looming span of the Old Cleveland Bridge above cast a giant shadow over the shore. Here a moisture-warped door hid in the huge wall of rugged stone masonry. It was a challenge pushing the small motorcycle up the short staircase. Fortunately, the steps had worn down to almost to a ramp over the decades. The bike was his own hand-customized machine: light, but twice the engine its size promised. He warmed her up and cruised along the shore to the massive drainage pipes beside the river. The pipes were built to handle the week-long storms of the wet season; it was practically a train tunnel now. Batman knew every route by heart.
To the unfamiliar, it was a challenge to physically leave Gotham City. Even ignoring the senseless road design, there were many points where the urban sprawl seemed to thin but only led to another zone just as congested. Because the Gotham colony was built on a marsh, the only space to grow was up across the low surrounding hills. Viewed from downtown, these hills tended to conceal their neighborhoods, so a traveler would reach what looked like the open road three or four times before actually crossing the city limits. Batman knew better. The tunnels led into a shallow drainage ditch in the meatpacking district close to the city's edge.
Soon he had left the townhouses behind and cruised the coastal road that hugged the bay. Several quiet roads looped through these woods like long fingers on the hand of the city. He passed the brick drives of million dollar estates nestled in the pines. Traveling gently uphill, the properties grew more isolated and opulent. A minute past the latest home, Batman turned onto a pebbly fire break in the woods. Down a small dip was a line of boulders spread amongst the trees. He parked and pulled at a certain branch which slid inorganically and clicked back into position. One of the boulders began to hum with the movement of heavy gears. A door slid open revealing the mouth of a cave.
Alfred Pennyworth sat reading an old issue of The Saturday Evening Post disinterestedly when he heard the tintinnabulation of the trauma bell. In the old days of this strange war, the poor man used to keep vigil every night so there would be no delay when Master Bruce arrived needing an arm sewn on or any of the other calamities his nightmares suggested. But time passed and Bruce, though rarely untouched, also rarely arrived in a state that demanded sudden care; it took a minimum of fitness to make it home, after all. So Alfred, with more than a little prodding from his tentative patient, decided that at least one of them needed regular sleep.
Still, on certain nights Bruce went forth to face a mission that seemed especially grave, and on these nights Alfred maintained the vigil. At the lonesome sound of the bell, he rose from his chair in the study and strode swiftly to the secret chamber and down the stairs, pulling his robe tight against the draft.
There was something primordial about the Cave, something ancient and unformed. It was a hollow Earth in unhallowed ground, a Chthonic afterlife. The two men had only visited a few of the more accessible chambers, but Bruce suspected it was one of the most extensive subterranean systems east of the Mississippi. In the early days, the young master often insisted that if only the site didn't suit his purposes so well (and, Alfred noted, his temperament), he would invite every geologist and explorer in the state to study the place. He was a man of science, after all. But as time wore on, Bruce voiced this regret less and less. The endless caverns had won his favor. Alfred could scarcely describe it, but on some level the man had become the place, or perhaps the place had become the man.
As it was, Batman's inner sanctum was a makeshift affair. It took weeks of part-time carpentry for the two men to install the most basic stairs and footbridges so they could safely reach the flat stretch of rock Bruce choose as the center. Every month or so they brought down another tool or cabinet to furnish the operation. It was still about as sophisticated as a large campsite in Alfred's eyes, though he admitted their little camp couldn't be outdone for isolation.
By the time Alfred reached the foot of the final staircase, Bruce was sitting mostly undressed at the medical station. Even at a distance, Alfred could see that this would be a long night.
Bruce's face had the sticky appearance of a recently unglued mask. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow.
"Hello, Alfred."
Alfred looked him over clinically. "Well?"
In well-drilled staccato, Bruce recited, "Three inch laceration: lower ribs, deep but not intestinal, sanitized, stitched twice. Bruise: base of the skull, concussion uncertain, fracture to occipital bone unlikely. Broken right hand: second and third metacarpal fracture, aggravated by repeated impacts longitudinal and dorsal. Moderate hypothermia: multiple exposures, no current symptoms. Cushioned stab wound: upper jaw, no puncture but severe bruising. Strained shoulder muscle ..."
He finished two minutes later.
Alfred got to work treating the wounds, asking occasional questions as necessary. When these were satisfied and much of the work was done, he had Bruce sit up and brought him a glass of water. Bruce sipped carefully with an ice pack on his cheek held in place by a band around his head.
"I see you arrived on one of your squirreled-away motorcycles."
Bruce stared dully ahead. "The Ford's destroyed."
"And your suit seems beyond repair. I could mend the rips, but the padding's shot."
Bruce head-shrugged. "I have ideas for the upgrade. Ask the question, Alfred."
Alfred looked him in the eye. "Legal status?"
For the first time in a year, Bruce didn't have a comforting reply. "I've incurred the wrath of the United States of America."
Alfred offered a wan smile. "Take heart, Master Bruce, I hear it's a phase all young men go through."
Bruce didn't respond. He continued staring at the wall.
Alfred checked a clock. "Well, you've best to bed. Everything looks better in the morning. You can tell the tale then."
"Catwoman's dead."
Alfred's soft grin bled away. Bruce continued, unblinking. "I was spotted. Interrogated. She helped me out. We hid, but security had the exits. I planned a diversion so she could leave with the evidence. But she didn't follow the plan. She ... she found an aircraft."
"This Catwoman is a pilot?"
"No."
"Oh dear."
"Those mountains have no fields to serve as a runway. I've tried to imagine another outcome, but even if she survived the landing, there would be no shelter. The Army will find the crash when the sun comes up. Either she's dead or she's facing a grand jury by the end of the week."
"Bruce, I'm-"
"You're right, Alfred, a body needs sleep." He stood. "Consequences to consider. Unrelated threats to gauge. Can't afford ... fatigue." He steadily walked to the stairs. "Thank you for the treatment. Suspend my wake-up call. Start ploy seven for the orthopedic consult or your best judgement if impractical. Tell Lucius no on the Havershem proposal. Hold my calls."
Five hours later.
Detective James Gordon opened his front door and straightened his hat. He went to the elevator and headed down. On the way, he pushed his tongue around his gums and reminded himself for the thousandth time not to brush after drinking orange juice. Exiting the elevator, he tipped his hat to Mrs. Swenson from 3A and petted her huge dog, Percival. Percival slobbered affectionately on his shoe. Gordon walked out of the building and quickly rubbed the slobber off on a paving stone. The purple-gray of the early morning cast shadows from the rooftops. He yawned and crossed the street to his car.
On the passenger seat of his locked vehicle, he found a heavy briefcase covered with dents and scuff marks.
On top was a note. It read:
Our mutual accomplice wanted me to get this to you.
I don't think he made it. Sorry.
The next section was crossed-out several times. The final version read:
If you knew him, perhaps you can imagine what he went through
to gather the contents of this case, but I doubt it.
He seemed to trust you. Please don't waste this.
I've seen the bodies.
P.S. There were details he didn't catch; I'll leave my own testimony soon.
I know an anonymous note won't be any good in court, but neither will I. Hope it helps anyway.
Twenty-seven minutes later.
In the empty study of stately Wayne Manor, the red phone rang. Bruce originally named it the Bilateral Auxiliary Test phone but decided to call it by its color once he wrote that name down. The red phone was not especially loud, but it had a unique ring that could be mistaken for a cicada or a bad furnace. It echoed subtly across the Manor through speakers at the far end of the building and on the lawn and in the Cave.
Alfred Pennyworth swiftly awoke and made his way to the study, passing tall windows shining with the too-bright gleam of sunlight off fresh snow. He arrived on the seventh ring. Circling the desk, Alfred pressed the hidden button inside the bust of Shakespeare to connect the call then, pausing to harness the mighty powers of the thespian, he picked up the red phone.
It was Detective Gordon. "Batman!"
Alfred scowled dramatically. "What's the news, Detective?"
"There was a briefcase inside my car this morning. From your lady. She's alive!"
"Describe it."
"Oh, it's got to be the one. I've looked inside, and, boy, you don't do things halfway, do you? I don't understand most of the technical papers, but the other files are awfully intriguing. I'll have the photos developed by this time tomorrow. Ha, when those dirty feds see this mother lode missing they'll be running around like a flock of headless chickens!"
"Detective, what did you mean, 'she's' alive?"
"Yeah, clever job trying to sneak that by me. Guess I should be reassured you'll go the extra mile to keep a secret."
Alfred had not been aware there was a secret. "... What?"
"Please. The handwriting on the note was too nice, and she was all sentimental like a dame. Wasn't your slip, if that makes you feel better."
"I-"
"Whoever she is, she's smart too - knew how to use a semicolon. Not sure what lady'd be convinced to go with you, Batman, but she came through. Oh, and she thinks you're dead, so I suggest you find her and let her know otherwise."
"Of course."
"My shift's about to start so I better wrap this up. Keep your head down." The line went dead.
Alfred returned the receiver to the phone's cradle. He left the study and went briskly up to Bruce's door. Alfred gave a sharp knock. There was a hesitation of several seconds before a semi-cogent moan uttered from inside, "Alfred, I declined a wake-up call."
Alfred replied loudly through the door. "A crying shame, Master Bruce. Detective Gordon called. He just received your evidence."
Lying in bed, Bruce Wayne blinked and shot to his feet. When a normal man's joints were worn from a long night of work and laid to stiffen, there were certain noises he made upon trying to stand. To his credit, Bruce only made most of them. He hobbled to the door and flung it open.
"What did he say?"
"That your companion left a briefcase of documents in his car sometime early this morning."
Bruce stared ahead at nothing. "She made it."
"It seem she did."
"Was that all?"
"He suspects your compatriot is a woman by virtue of-"
"Her handwriting."
Alfred closed his mouth and gave a long-suffering nod. "She believes you to be dead."
Bruce, clad in nightwear, stepped into the corridor and pressed a hand against the wall, patting down his unkempt hair with the other. "I see."
"But surely you can find your Catwoman again without much trouble."
Bruce snorted and turned back. "She wouldn't be happy you presume that." Alfred looked perplexed. Bruce gestured for him to forget it. "I'll resolve this. We've planned to meet tonight."
"Ah. Good. You can close this long chapter properly and move on."
"Yes." Bruce hobbled to a bright window and looked out, talking mostly to himself. "Next is subverting the killers' privileges. Study the evidence. Need time. Hm. Keep the meeting brief ..." He continued to mumble quietly until he lapsed into silent thought.
Alfred watched pensively. He noted the dressing on Bruce's head needed changing, and the bruise on his neck had turned a dark indigo. His patient didn't seem concerned and, in fact, had stopped moving.
"Sir?"
Bruce looked back. "Mm?"
"Are you well?"
Bruce tilted his head quizzically and touched the large wrap bandage under his nightshirt. "I ... believe I'm stable, Alfred."
Alfred moved beside him. "An ally just rose from the dead, Master Bruce. I thought you'd be a notch more jubilant."
Bruce exhaled and said nothing for a moment. "It is wonderful news. A miracle. But it's the ..." He bit back a thought and tried again. "I've made grave mistakes."
"I don't understand. Mistakes in thinking you lost her?"
"No. Well, yes. but I accept that was likely unavoidable."
"Then what mistakes?"
"Too many, I suppose. She reminds me of so many. And when I make mistakes, it causes the sort of misery that-"
"Stop that, sir! You're being maudlin."
"No, I can't ignore that people die when I fail, Alfred. That's the truth. I fail and they die." Bruce looked down. His voice was grim. "Claiming anything less is rationalization."
"Even if I accepted that lurid claim, there's been no harm this time. You prevailed against your captors, brought home the prize, and the young lady sounds hale and chipper. Her only aliment is a concern for you, a sentiment I can understand. Now what's this about?"
"I'm relieved she survived. Of course I am. But in a perverse way - and it's a wretched thought, I know -but she ..."
"I can't read your thoughts, Master Bruce."
"Last night when I knew she was lost, on the path home I sought a sense of closure. I had to."
"There's no shame in dealing with grief."
"It would've driven me mad, so I found an acceptance of her being gone. Frankly, I was so numb that it wasn't a challenge. I closed those thoughts and buried them. But now she's back," He balled his fists. "to tear the callus open."
"Master Bruce!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It wasn't just an act to stave off grief for the sake of my composure. There's been something else that I-"
In his bedroom, the phone rang.
Bruce paused mid-syllable, his body corded with tension. The two men shared a look. With a grimace, Bruce went to his bedside and picked up the phone. His voice rose half an octave and dropped two letter grades.
"Heellooo? Bruce Wayne speaking."
He heard an airy woman's voice. "Bruce dear, it's Beverly. Good morning."
Bruce put on a saccharine smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Beverly! We haven't talked in ages. How is every little thing?"
"Oh, I can't complain. How are you?"
"A lot better now that I've heard your voice."
"Hahaha. Oh Bruce, you wonderful cad."
"Anything new with Tom and the children?"
"Everyone is just divine, thank you. I'm calling to see if you'd like to have an early supper tomorrow here at the Molyneux residence. Tom just had a new Badminton net installed, you see, and he's been ever so eager for a game."
"Badminton ... great."
"Oh, goody. Then it's a date. Can't wait to see you there."
"Beverly, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that, well, it wouldn't really change my account much."
"Oh ho ho. You take care now, Brucie. Too-da-loo!"
Bruce hung up the phone. Alfred stood behind him. "I'm sorry, Master Bruce, you were saying?"
Bruce looked annoyed but finally empty of tension. "Forget it. Maybe later. I think I'll take a walk around the grounds."
That evening, near midnight.
Like last time, it was a piece of cake breaking into the King Leopold Academy of Arts. Catwoman walked through the dark and quiet of the painting classroom, her calf-high boots the only muffled sound in the stillness. Shafts of weak moonlight painted stripes on the floor. She had slept through most of the morning, waking on her couch just before noon with a cat on her face. She had a hour-long bath and spent the remainder of the afternoon in a daze, finishing little chores as slowly as possible and trying to banish the flashes of bodies on slabs. It was a close-run decision, her choosing to come. Part stubbornness, part dark curiosity, part whim, Catwoman wasn't in a mood to self-analyze, but most of the reasons she finally came were the same reasons she did anything.
Still, those alone wouldn't have been quite enough. The difference tonight was that those impulses were guided by an uncomfortable sense of duty. She had a promise to see though, even if that meant walking a stupid lone vigil through a stupid empty room.
Off in the distance, the bells of Makepeace Tower rang. It was midnight. Catwoman quickly glanced over her shoulder. She was convinced Batman was gone, but there was a difference between knowing something and letting your guard down, and slipping in under the noise of a bell was exactly the sort of thing Batman did.
The room was still empty.
Catwoman frowned and rubbed her neck. That morning she discovered whiplash was apparently one of her injuries, though she couldn't remember for the life of her how she earned it. She gave another careful look then turned around.
The air behind her spoke, "Catwoman."
Straining her bruised ribs, Catwoman twisted and aimed a fierce kick at the voice. Her heel connected with Batman's jaw. He rocked slightly from the blow, unfazed. He stared down at her, saying nothing. She looked back, thoughts tumbling over each other and falling down. She remembered that a staring contest with Batman was like trying to out-wait a glacier.
Catwoman gently cleared her throat. "Hi."
"My associate informed me you made it. I'm glad."
"Heh, I'm just glad he got it." She rubbed her neck. "I thought you were in prison. Or worse."
"How did you make it back?"
"I heard orders on the radio for the guards to deal with that fire I assume you set, but a patrol was there when I got out. They saw me leave the infirmary and chased me though the woods. I made it inside one of the garages and locked the door."
"And the aircraft?"
"It just so happened that, uh, the garage was a hanger."
"How did you know the procedure to start it?"
"Luck, I suppose. Turns out they aren't that complex. The tricky part was taking off."
"I'm surprised they didn't shoot the plane."
"Oh, they did, but those turkeys couldn't aim. They only hit the rudder and the wings and the instruments." She grinned. "But those aren't important, right?"
He looked at her gravely.
"That was a joke."
"Hm."
"I mean, the fact that they shot the plane wasn't a joke. That happened."
He grunted. "Then?"
"Turns out I'm not very good at flying. I landed on a frozen lake. Actually, I landed in a frozen lake."
"Let me guess, the ice was just thick enough for you to come to a stop, then it broke and the plane sank, neatly hiding all proof from anyone who might look later."
"Yep, that's about it."
"Then, stuck randomly in the huge forest, you quickly found a gas station, or the home of a kindly widow, or a park ranger's post - somewhere to call for a ride. Is that right?"
"How'd you know?"
Batman closed his eyes tiredly. He had dealt with night-types for a long time. "Call it a hunch."
"By the way, your green poncho-cape was sort of ruined. I hope you didn't want it back."
"Don't worry about it."
"So what about you?"
"I did set the fire as a diversion."
"How'd you start a fire that fast?"
"I flipped a car and burned it."
"Of course."
"At the camp, I eavesdropped on their headquarters and learned my diversion wasn't successful. They were still after you, so I took extra measures to draw their attention."
"What did you blow up?"
"Just a watchtower."
"Nice, but I don't think it worked. They kept me surrounded the whole time."
He nodded. "The bureaucrat in change mentioned that when I kidnapped her."
"You what?"
"I tried to convince her to let you go. She was surprisingly defiant. She counter-offered with ... unacceptable alternatives."
"What do you mean? What did she offer you?"
"Nothing reasonable. Doesn't matter. Your escape ended the stalemate before you forced me to do something drastic."
"Hold on, what do you mean, 'I forced you'? What did she ask you to do?"
"It's unimportant."
"Call me crazy, but you sound like my life was some sort of burden you were coerced with. You can imagine how a girl might take that the wrong way." She played it off with a hollow chuckle but eyed him carefully. "But that's silly ... right?"
"I didn't mean to imply you were a burden. It was nothing like that."
"Great. Then what did she say?" Catwoman took a two steps forward and stopped beside his shoulder. "I think I'd like to know."
Batman stood motionless. After a moment he produced a small envelope and handed it to her. She looked inside and found twenty-four hundred dollar bills. He spoke coldly, "That concludes our arrangement." He turned to leave.
Catwoman looked up from the payment. "That's it? No words?"
He didn't respond.
She crossed her arms. "I used to think it was funny, people cracking wise about the Big Grumpy Bat, but your act is really starting to wear thin."
He stopped and glanced back at her. It was a dismissal as much as a question.
"I get it. You're not nice. You're not … happy. And you obviously never liked me very much. But after all we've been through …"
"What?"
"After all we've done, you still treat me like some tagalong you barely tolerate! Like dirt!"
This got a rise out of him. "I never said-"
She got in his face. "I'm not expecting some big show of camaraderie, but are you truly this damaged? I'm not joking, I sincerely want to know: are you so beyond the rest of us that you don't feel empathy? Or any reaction besides your damn grim stoicism? God, you almost died ten times." She gently grasped the glove of his broken hand. "Does anything affect you at all?"
He repressed a twinge and pulled the hand away. "I manage."
"Fine. Numb away the world." She let go. "But you don't fool me. I used to think you had these high walls inside, that you didn't let anything through, but I don't believe that metaphor anymore."
"What are you possibly talking about?"
"It's not walls. The world does get to you. You're not that perfect. No, what you have is a pit, deep as the Grand Canyon. You start to feel something? Oops, better shovel it into the pit. Anything that might hurt you, that might challenge those twisted things you call your convictions, you bury so deeply that it never sees the light of day. And I say fine! Ignore it all. That's your business. But why do you despise me so much?"
"I don-"
"What have I done to offend you? Is your moral code so puritanically hidebound that you're still bitter over some missing jewels? After the fires I pulled you out of, can't you at least pretend to care?"
"You don't know the first-"
"Every marginally nice thing you said, every pleasant gesture was an act, wasn't it? Just enough string to keep me in the game because you needed your little tool."
"Stop!" Batman rose to his imposing height and glared down. "You helped me pursue a killer, and my gratitude is sincere, but I don't justify myself." He paused and dropped in volume. "Not to you."
"Excuse me?"
Batman continued in a level voice. "I promised you a truce. I won't pretend I can redeem you, but as long as beasts use my city to hunt, I'll have bigger concerns than petty larceny. Consider that my best-"
"No," Catwoman shoved her way past him and walked briskly to the door. "You don't get the last word. Not tonight. Keep your self-gratifying platitudes. I'm out of here."
Cities had homeless communities. This was a universal fact, and its recognition was a fine sign of the century's progressive spirit, but what precious few cared to learn was that every homeless community was just that - a community. And in the streets of the East End, Peggy Newton was the closest the local homeless had to a mayor. If an unfortunate soul was newly dispossessed, she would teach them the rules and help them along for a spell. When a dispute arose or someone needed to talk to the cops, she was their mediator and advocate. No one had elected her, and she never asked for the job. As far as Peggy saw it, she was just a friendly neighbor doing a favor from time to time.
One of her neighbors was Catwoman. In the winters, Peggy slept in a certain condemned building in a secluded courtyard that Catwoman often used as a shortcut. They occasionally stopped to chat, trading the sort of useful gossip and observations that each woman was uniquely privileged to know. Tonight, Peggy was relaxing in front of a small fire on her building's stoop when she saw the Leading Lady of Larceny pass by.
Peggy called out. "Hey there, fancy lady. Where'r you up to this night?"
Catwoman was so caught up in her fuming thoughts that being called was a surprise. She chuckled despite herself. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Peg."
"Suppose not. Just you look unhappy though. Care to warm y'self? Can't imagine it's too nice in those pajamas."
"Heh, sure." Catwoman took a seat on the crate and held her hands to the fire. After a moment of simple pleasure, she remembered what she was holding and had a spark of inspiration. "Hey, Peggy?"
"Yes?"
"Sorry to bring this up, but did you hear about a couple who disappeared around 8th street recently?"
"Mmmmmmm, yes I did hear. Shameful bad news, that. Had everyone scared. It was the, uh, the uh-"
"The Duprees."
"Yes, that's it. What brings them to mind?"
"Well, nothing I suppose. I just had a question."
"Shoot."
"You know all the people around here right?"
"That's what they say."
"You know whenever people really need help? You try to help them out, right?"
"I know folks. What'r you getting at?"
"I want you to do me a favor. This winter's tough. Whoever needs a little boost, I want you to pass along a gift. Spread it around." Catwoman handed over a small envelope.
Peggy opened the envelope. "Oh my stars!"
Catwoman smiled and stood up. "Just remember that you didn't get it from me, Peg. Merry Christmas."
After showering and reapplying his dressings, Bruce was determined to catch on work he missed from resting all day. He paced through the dim Manor in no mood to sleep. As the quiet darkness of the early morning made mirrors of the windows, he reached his favorite room of the home, the great Wayne Library (not to be confused with the various Wayne Libraries of the public and university sort). He found a few legal texts that might illuminate his options with what he was tentatively calling the Waller cabal. As he read, a quiet record player in the corner crooned Glenn Miller, Bing Crosby, The Andrews Sisters, a concerto by Barber, and a symphony by Bantock. Bruce thought it prudent to keep up to date musically. Some pieces were a chore, and some he enjoyed.
When Alfred visited him after a respectful interval, he was writing the recent mission's report with both hands (the wrapped and splinted fist was just the right shape to hold a pen). Usually Bruce used a typewriter, but every so often he tried two pens instead: it was almost as fast as typing once he found his pace, writing different pages simultaneously was wonderful mental exercise, and it keep his off-hand in practice. Bruce was naturally left-handed, but he used his right in the rare cases that he needed to jot down a note in disguise.
Alfred placed a mug of tea in front of him and began to sip his own, an old tradition of theirs.
"Thank you, Alfred."
"My pleasure, sir. If you've reached a spot to pause, I was hoping to hear more of your thoughts that were interrupted early yesterday by Mrs. Molyneux."
Bruce nodded absently, having expected this sooner or later. "Alright. Where was I?"
"If I recall, you expressed dismay that your Catwoman managed to make it home, and before that implied it involved the guilt you felt at some mistake."
Bruce gave an amused eyebrow twitch. Alfred's memory for old conversations was awe-inspiring.
"Yes, that's right. Of course I'm relieved she made it."
"Then what was the concern?"
"I act on principle. Otherwise, I'm the beast my worst slanderers paint me as. Without principles, I'm nothing."
Alfred nodded encouragingly. His young ward liked to sound dispassionate and objective. He had a habit of waxing philosophical when he drifted near any deep emotion. For Alfred, it was as revealing as a blush.
"That makes sense, sir."
"I am my principles, and a part of me worries she can break them."
"How do you mean?"
"It was ... the second time we met, at the painting classroom in September."
"Last September?"
"Over a year ago. I had cornered her. For anyone else, it would have been a forgone conclusion. I would have restrained her and called the authorities, but you have to understand that she was ..."
"She was what?"
"As I stood in front of her, I realized that she was too elusive. Even then I suspected how skilled she was. If I left her alone, no restraint I carried would hold her for long. And if I stayed, the police would have shot me on sight, certainly back in those days. I didn't have the time or the means to carry her to Blackgate myself. I had caught what I couldn't hold."
"A perplexing dilemma."
"In an instant, I realized the only alternative. It was ..." Bruce paused and looked down at his mug. "I had to hurt her. Just enough. Something minor. I've hurt men and women before, all justified. It wouldn't even be unprovoked. She would fight if I approached. But I wasn't willing to do that Alfred. She beat me without even trying. She won."
"So you fear that you acted with mercy?"
"No, that's not it. It- It changed me. I've second-guessed that night a hundred times. She didn't deserve to walk away. It's crippled me."
"Come now, sir."
"There have been at least a dozen instances since then with other targets when I've held back out of this ... this mistaken notion of gentleness. I can't afford to doubt like that. If I hesitate, someone dies, probably me. Before that moment of weakness, before her, I was decisive. I acted with certainty. Now I never know if I might lose my nerve."
"Are matters really so stark? It's not like you've been avoiding her since then."
"I've been bluffing. When I confront her, it's just to scare her off, hoping one night she makes a mistake so I can arrest her safely." Bruce shrugged. "I've also attacked her fences and customers. That's worked fairly well."
"Accepting your grievances for a minute, Bruce - though I'm surprised now is the first I've heard of it," Bruce looked away at this mild rebuke and sipped his tea. "The matter sounds settled. You were even willing to work with her. What about her sudden survival has you discomforted?"
"There was a point last night when I confronted the leader of the Fort's project. She-"
"She?"
"The leader was woman."
"Of a military operation?"
Bruce nodded that he would share the details later. "This leader is some sort of spymaster. She showed me that Catwoman's life was in jeopardy, then she offered an alternative. She wanted to recruit me."
Alfred frowned. "I see."
"That's when I broke. I almost did it, Alfred. I almost agreed. If Catwoman hadn't escaped at that moment, I would have given it all up to save her. Even joining a band of murderers."
"Surely, you would have found some gambit to give this woman the slip when the opportunity arose."
Bruce frowned. "I know that now, but that didn't occur to me then. And that's the problem, don't you see? I was ready to sacrifice everything."
"To save a life."
"I've saved many lives, Alfred, and sometimes that means pretending to give up, but I've never actually surrendered, not in my mind. No matter how bleak the circumstances, it was always a longer plan to get away clean - a ploy as you said. But this time I was truly ready to surrender. I was saved by dumb luck."
"And you feel you surrendered because she was the victim?"
Bruce held his mug to his forehead. "I don't know. I think so."
"Why?"
Bruce closed his eyes, lost in a memory. He was back to that September night in the classroom, brasher and a few scars lighter. Catwoman was re-hanging the painting in front of him. She knew he was there. Amateurs panicked around him; only the diehard pros took their time.
With a final adjustment, she turned with a smile, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
He stared back impassively. Their original meeting was brief and chaotic, this was his first close look at her. The Dark Knight was the furthest thing from sentimental, but he was in his own way an artist, a genius of motion and control, and genius in any art recognized beauty.
She planted a jaunty hand on her hip and stepped forward. "Batman, right? I don't think we were properly introduced last time."
A raw corner of his mind whispered that she could have modeled for Vargas. Of course, Bruce Wayne met elegant ladies all the time. He wasn't unappreciative, but static loveliness rarely got under his skin. He only had eyes for motion. Years of self-improvement had honed his appreciation and whetted his passion for grace in movement. That was the acme. That was perfection.
She took another step, arched an eyebrow, "Cat got your tongue?"
There was a quality in ballet called ballon - the appearance of being lightweight and effortless while jumping. The dancer with ballon would float through her motions, never faltering, a master of her form. He wondered if she had been a dancer. He told himself to step forward. He told himself subdue the threat. He waited for his impulses to agree, but for once his demons were silent.
Bruce opened his eyes, the memory banished. "I'm not sure. First I let her go and now I lose my cool when she's threatened. I broke a man's arm last night for hurting her, did I mention that? It was a moment of rage. I thought I was beyond that." He flashed a sneer of bitter contempt, "Beyond that weakness."
"Rage was always the millstone 'round your neck, sir. I fear a man's lower nature can rise long after he thinks it's been laid to rest. And you've had far crasser excuses for your sin than protecting a lady."
"It's no excuse. You asked why I've worried? I suppose I have an odd sympathy for her, and that disturbs me. I compromised, Alfred. I gave in."
"Then what will you do, sir?"
"What I always do. I'll try harder tomorrow." He exhaled slowly, grimacing at a soreness in his ribs. "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow."
Alfred recognized the line and continued, "Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death." Alfred gave a wan smile. "You know, Master Bruce, Macbeth was a tragedy."
"Yes." Bruce nodded. "Yes, it was."
Five days later.
Washington D.C.
Amanda Waller never drank. She learned that lesson after an ill-advised boat trip with Hemingway a few years ago. But right now she was awfully tempted to head down to the lobby bar for something high-proof and distilled. The Fremont Hotel was decent enough, but she couldn't wait her new housing in Washington to be arranged. Waller never spent longer than a month at a time in the capital. She liked to manage her projects in person.
She learned back in her chair and stared at the sloppy collection of notes and depositions about the Fort Morrison debacle on her desk . Most were in an open manila folder titled:
*Top Secret*
Department of War Case File #V183: Project Galen
[suspended pending review]
Special Investigator A. Waller
Addendum C – Trespasser Dossier #1
She had to give a report tomorrow in front a panel of senior officials. Waller could count on one hand the number of her operations that ended in an investigative review, at least half as many of anyone else at her level. Her performance wasn't an accident. She couldn't just be good, she had to be beyond reproach.
For the fifth time in an hour, she turned on her tape recorder.
"Another thing I should mention, if a bit unrelated, is that the presence of portable radios was exceptionally useful. I know the Army can't hope to supply every company with one anytime soon, let alone every platoon, but some day small radios will be so commonplace that every squad will carry one. I expect the entire infantry doctrine will have to be rewritten to take advantage of this strategic nimbleness.
"But back to the Bat Man. Nationality: unknown, presumed American given his accent. He speaks English and at least modest Spanish. Age: unknown. Height: six feet and between two and five inches; his costume is deceiving on this point - probably by design. I'm told he weighs just over two hundred pounds, naturally also an estimate. He clearly has an athlete's body. He's white. His eye color is unknown. His hair color is black, unless he dyes the hint of stubble I managed to glimpse. Frankly, that's not a precaution I would put past him. We can safely assume he now has a deep scar along his lower abdomen.
"Above all that, his knowledge is the fascinating factor. Not only is he educated, university-level certainly, he's informed. He sees the big game. Good gracious, that's rare for an operative. Every lesson in the book says that you can't reach his level of field sophistication without backers - a proper government, or at least something respectable like a fruit company. No good Samaritan actually runs around trying to single-handedly enforce their worldview and gets that far. I don't know what to think. We still don't know how he faked that gas attack.
"Officially, our trespasser is a John Doe. He could be lying or mentally ill, but I'm strangely convinced to accept his story, at least for now. Naturally, I looked up this Gotham Bat myth my first day back, borrowing a few assistants to compile every clipping that mentions him. They've been busy as beavers, of course. There's plenty of chaff to sort through and very little wheat when it comes to urban legends, and that tendency seems to run tenfold in Gotham. The twopenny rags are fascinated with their little wonder and mention him monthly, but they also have the journalistic integrity of fever dreams. Meanwhile, to the respectable papers he might as well not exist, just a few hesitant mentions in his early days. This disparity begs the question: is his audacity a ruse so that no authority takes him seriously? It sounds preposterous, but I honestly can't say. I'm starting to think it's almost brilliant. There's no consensus over who he is, who he works for, or even what he is. Half the witnesses think he can fly. Don't get me started on what they think the cape can do.
"After all this, I'm almost morbidly eager to hear the GCPD's opinion. Lord, do I pity the soul who has to manage that case file. Of course, I haven't approached them yet. City cops can be very tribal around Washington operators like myself. It's been challenging enough pulling strings with the Justice Department to stop their case on Project Galen's loose ends. I'll have to find a worthwhile gift or threat before I say hello for something this size. They're supposed to hate the guy, but everyone knows how dirty the force is in Gotham. That's the funny thing about dirty cops, they might be friends with anyone. We'll see.
"Regardless, what I've read confirms what I heard in the past. The Bat Man habitually assaults criminals of every stripe, including the police, usually catching them red-handed. Never known to kill. What's curious is that he hasn't paid attention to the government besides local authorities, and there's been no account of him leaving the city. Perhaps he noticed Project Galen's collection teams, fine, but is this the first time he's followed a trail beyond the city? Why the Fort? Is he escalating or has he already attacked us in the past and we didn't notice? Nothing in the papers contradicts what he claims his motivation was, but this is still the biggest question mark of all as far as our next action.
"For now, he and his accomplice are wanted felons. We're still bickering on what exactly to put on the wanted posters. Some of my peers, and I use that term loosely, are going to call them foreign agents. That entirely contradicts what we know, though admittedly, we know very little. I'm going to recommend domestic anarchists. It's not true, at least not in the sense the brass will interpret, but I think that's the cleanest label we have. As a bonus, if I do manage to turn one or both of them, the paperwork is slightly easier under 'anarchist' than 'spy'. Funny that.
"Speaking of turning them, I'll admit I was impressed. These Bat stories are fancified claptrap, but if even a ounce of them are true, well, that's awfully something. I saw enough in person. The gloves, for instance. I have to mention this in case I forget. His hands and forearms were covered in a heavy glove, either a leather or a very stiff fabric, with a spine of metal points along the outside. Anecdotes from Gotham as well as my subordinate's encounter make it clear that these gloves are designed to catch and ward off blades and other weapons. The notion that anyone would seek to confront a dagger with their empty hands astounds me, but I'm told a few martial experts do specialize in this sort of lunacy, the main vulnerability being cuts to the hands and arms. My subordinate claims that Bat Man is something of a virtuoso, and the Lieutenant isn't one to exaggerate. This, of course, begs the question: why practice so many extra hours for such an obscure skill? Even if he faced blades every day, why not carry a simple parrying weapon of his own? Perhaps the extra challenge or danger is some perverse thrill. He seemed too purposeful to be that kind of thrill-seeker, but I think it's safe to say his psyche isn't predictable by any common model.
"It's a shame our operation at the Fort was breached. Those missing files have me in more hot water than a Turkish bath. I wouldn't be surprised if Hoover sends a dozen extra boys to the local branch to turn over some stones. There would already be a proper dragnet if we didn't think he was hiding in the least governable city in the country. That said, I'd almost call the night a net win for the novelty alone. That's always been my vice, I suppose. I still haven't heard any credible theories on how he entered the Fort in the first place. Imagine sending someone so gifted to go plant a mine on Mussolini's toilet. And he doesn't seem to have any resentment about working on a team. In fact, now that I think about it, it might be worth the effort to find the partner again just for his sake. Won't be easy, but I'm sure there can't be too many ladies even in Gotham who prance around at night. Not off a stage, anyway.
"Of course I don't want to sound too cavalier. He's obviously a hostile, and it won't do to underestimate him. Who knows what scores of allies he has? He's lasted this long, after all. Using him is an intriguing idea, but as a matter of practicality someone's probably going to have to stop him sooner or later. A shame. Let's just hope they don't ask me to do it before I can make a deal. I hate to waste good talent."
