Chapter 10:

"Only The Beginning…"

Dick Grayson fought against his holders as if his life depended on it, acting like a delusional mental patient.

"Hold him down!" the doctor instructed.

Two big orderlies and one police officer in the hospital room tried to subdue Dick Grayson to his bed, first by force, then through other means, using velcro straps that were only used for extreme circumstances and obstinate patients. Although, not normal practice, it was used only as a last resort. In Dick Grayson's case, his recent unexplained fever had quickly developed into something unlike anything the doctor had ever encountered, causing Dick to experience delusions and hallucinations of such a violent nature, that Dick, normally a calm man, had tried to attack the patient he had had an encounter in the cafe only minutes before.

They had managed to take Grayson back his room after the police officer, who had been with the other patient, forcefully handcuffed him, saving the patient from a severe beating—Grayson shouting and acting like a madman. He appeared to calm down momentarily as he was escorted to his room, but once released from the handcuffs things escalated and Grayson suddenly attacked the police officer in a fit of rage. That was when the orderlies were called in to help.

The only person he didn't attack was Barbara. However, Dick seemed to see everyone else as an enemy, and no one knew why.

With both legs secured with velcro straps to the bottom lift-bars of the bed, as Barbara looked on with tears in her eyes, begging Dick to stop, Dick seemingly tried to defend himself from the police officer and the orderlies attack him, using every tactic in the book. And with his years as a crime fighter, it gave him a huge edge. But there was strength in numbers and as the officer held Dick down, and took being battered by strong elbows and punches, the orderlies first secured one arm to the bed and then the other.

Once Dick was secured, screaming bloody murder to let him ago, the police officer stood up, backed away and felt his head and back. The officer was in rough shape. And then the doctor prepared a sedative in the form of a needle.

"Hold him down," the doctor ordered again, "so I can administer the needle."

"Dick, stop!" Barbara cried out. "What's wrong?"

Dick's face looked to be that of an angry enraged individual on the verge of mental collapse. He was sweating profusely and spittle ejected venomously from the corners of his mouth as if he were rabid. He struggled violently against his strappings, even moving the bed. The bed's locks were engaged, but not even they could stop it from jarring out of position. The police officer was battered, but when ordered, he held the bed still as the two orderlies held Dick down by the shoulders for the doctor to insert the sedation needle.

Dick cursed, ranted and raved, threatening to kill them all, which was unlike him, until the sedation began to take effect, which wasn't long. Once his speech began to slur and his struggling eased almost to the point of non-resistance, the orderlies equalized their holds on Dick, until Dick weakened, and then fell into a deep unconsciousness, his head slumming to the side, his eyes shut.

The police officer breathed out a large breath as he left the bed. He said he was going to have to file a report and what Dick did amounted to assault. The doctor acknowledged, but asked that the man Dick Grayson had encountered in the cafe be held for questioning, and will be tested for unknown pathogens—since this started after their encounter. The police officer agreed.

Barbara put her hands to her face, then asked: "Doctor, what happened?"

The doctor shook his head. "I don't know, Ms. Gordon. I just don't know…"

x x x

Nightwing attempted to fight off three thugs, two large, buff, muscular men, and one slightly thinner. The two bigger men were strong and used a great deal of force to pressure Nightwing to submit, while the other one, not necessarily the ring leader, was aiding them. Nightwing didn't know where he had left his escrima sticks, but bare fists were just as good, and he had managed to deliver a hard punch to the thinner man, although not devastating enough to render him inert.

He didn't know how he got to where he was or the issue of why he was fighting these men—it was almost a sensation of just being here—but the reason was moot at this point. They were attacking him and he would defend himself to the hilt.

The two bigger men teamed up on him and forced him back and actually pinned him to the floor, holding both his legs and shoulders down, as the thinner man pounced on top of him, but he pushed back, and managed to free one of his arms and punched and jabbed his elbow into the thin man's back. The man cried out, but Nightwing didn't relent.

But neither did the thugs and they poured on the pressure. Nightwing then saw something out of his eye—his vision mostly obscured by one of the larger thugs as his free arm was once again immobilized, doubly held down—and he felt something sharp prick in his lower forearm. A needle-like instrument?

Nightwing couldn't see who was administering it—a fourth person—hiding behind one of the large thugs, his face hidden, but bent over, doing the poking, giving him some sort of drug. Almost immediately the effects began to take affect much like a sedative, and he felt his strength leave him, his eyes drooped, as the man who gave him the drug rose—

And he could've sworn it was—

x x x

The sound of an old style juke box blasted his ears, along with the smell of nicotine and cigarette smoke, along with the rank of human body odour. The kind of smell that one would detect only after someone hadn't had had a shower in days.

He found himself in a packed bar and in his hand was a glass mug of beer as he was standing next to pool table. He didn't much care for alcohol, it dulled the senses and contained a lot of fatty carbohydrates. He drank a beer on occasion, but he didn't like bars. They smelled bad and they did very little to help a phobia of his enochlophobia, which was the fear of large groups of people.

Alfred said it stemmed from his years of fighting and getting attacked by his enemies in large groups. Along with being the Wayne butler, Alfred was also the family Shrink. Dick had spoken about his phobia to Barb on occasion, but mostly kept it to himself. That's why he enjoyed the freedom of flying—swinging like a bird; a blackbird—because no one could catch him in the air.

Until he was shot.

"Your turn, Ric," said someone within earshot. Dick's mind was elsewhere trying to decipher how he got here, even where he was. He felt lost. "You gottem! Just make the last shot and the money's ours!"

He just noticed that in his other hand was a pool cue. He looked confused at the man who had spoken to him. Then he blinked. It was the same man whom he encountered in—

Where?

The flash of remembrance quickly faded and he suddenly found himself immersed in the game, and in the moment, forgetting everything else. He guzzled the beer down and handed the mug to the other.

"Right," Ric said, he then looked at the pool table and the shot before him.

Pixie, with her slender frame, buxom breasts, and pink hair came over and caressed his chin seductively. She was the bar whore, so to speak, going from guy to guy, siphoning off drinks and favours by using her charms and sexiness. And Ric was no exception. "Go gettem, Ric. I so love it when boys play with their balls. If you win, I might just let you play with my boys." She winked, then left to coax another guy into doing her a favour.

He watched her leave to work the bar. She made his heart beat faster. Her offer was enticing and an incentive to win, but for some reason, though she was sexy and willing, he didn't go for that type. He was more conservative. All Pixie wanted was his body, but he wanted—

The same guy who shook him out of his reverie spoke again. "Hey Ric, you're up! You can play with Pixie after the game."

"Sure, right," he said, blinking the confusion away, and then turned his attention to the pool table.

He had solids, and his opponent—a rustafarian looking guy with dreadlocks and a stringy beard—had stripes. The ONE and TWO balls kissed each other next to the middle pocket, while the EIGHT ball sat on the same side, but in front of the corner pocket. If he could sink all three balls in this shot, he'd win the game and the bet. If he recalled, each ball was worth $100 bucks, and he had won two out of a five game set. But they were in a dead heat. He had also lost two games.

He leaned over the table to get positioned, his cue settled, fingers poised in the perfect place to make the shot, making a couple of practise pushes with the cue, but never touching the White ball, which had settled near the middle of the table from the last shot.

"No pressure, Ricky boy," said his opponent, with a jeer, in a heavy African accent, giving him a toothy grin with a gold tooth two off the centre. He looked much like Bob Marley and Ric found it humorous that this guy dwelled in mimicking the Jamaican music singing legend.

Ric looked across the table and saw one stripped ball dead centre the opposite pocket of the EIGHT ball. If he missed this shot, he'd position the White ball for the other to make the last stripe and the EIGHT in succession, losing the game. But he wasn't going to let that happen. He gave a mocking smirk to his opponent, then said: "ONE in the side pocket, TWO to kiss the side and drop, and the EIGHT to fall to Dark in the opposite middle," announcing his intentions.

"No way, man—no freakin' way! Not possible at that angle, you gotta be some of trickshot artist to make that play," the man's name was Kilroy, Ric remembered. Kilroy had challenged him to a game and he accepted. Then after he lost, Kilroy upped the ante and said double or nothing. Then he said three out of five. So, Ric purposely lost the next two games to make it an even match.

Ric was ready to make the shot, when Kilroy suddenly brought his hand to hover over the White ball. With glowering eyes, Ric glanced up, not moving from his set position, hand and fingers on the cue. "Move your hand," his voice was authoritative.

Kilroy's head tilted slightly. "You playing me, Ricky boy?"

"No, now move your hand."

"I think you are…"

All of a sudden, one of his mates grabbed the back of Ric's shirt and yanked him to the floor. Ric's head hit against the lower edge of the bar. Then another "mate" grabbed Ric and tossed him afar, across the pool table—spoiling the game. Ric rolled and landed, rolling some distance afterwards into a table and chairs, forcing its patrons to bolt up and move away or get hit. Their drinks spilled, saturating Ric's clothes. He felt his head as Kilroy grabbed him, lifted him, and then slammed him against the pool table surface.

"You were swindling me," he said with distain. "I could tell. No one burns through two games like that after winning two games like a pro. Tell ya what. Not only do I get to keep all the money on the table, I get to take everything you came with for you cheating me. Or, I'll add to your pretty little head injuries."

Despite the suddenness of the scuffle, Ric felt invigorated by the confrontation. He felt his blood pumping excitedly and he glared at Kilroy with a sinister grin. "Bad move," he said, and without warning, he counterattacked by slapping his palms to Kilroy's ears.

Kilroy cried out and grabbed his head, staggering away. Ric grabbed him and thrust him backwards over the table into the bar into the pit. Then his two "mates" attacked. Ric picked up a cue stick, whirled it around his shoulders like a staff, and then used it as a weapon, hitting one in the side of the head, then jabbing the handle into the other's stomach.

A third "mate" attacked who had only been an observer and challenged him with another cue stick. Ric snapped his cue in two over a knee and then twirled both in hand like batons. He disarmed the third man with ease, then a fourth, and a fifth—when they joined the fray. When it the fight was over, he had laid out six people, including Kilroy.

All the while, the song: "I Shot The Sheriff" played on the juke box, which just happened to be a Bob Marley classic.

Ric twirled the batons and then, almost instinctively, crossed them over his back and let go. They dropped to the floor and clanged. He looked down, and for the life of him he had no reason why he had even done that, it had just did it on…instinct.

He went around and picked up all the money on the floor and counted it. He asked for a two-fingers of whiskey from the bartender; the bartender poured it into a small shot glass and Ric gulped it down as a victory prize. Then he caught himself in the mirror that was on the bar wall: shaven head, scars on either side of his skull; it wasn't a sight he was used to, and he didn't recognize himself. It was like he was looking at someone else.

And then he remembered

The bar's lights suddenly went out and he snapped his attention to the door. But what he saw was bizarre in its own rite. Lurking over the edge of the pool table was a sight to behold—no one else was in the bar now, Dick was alone—all except him and the villain known as Scarecrow, dressed as such, gripping the EIGHT ball in hand. He was one of the most wicked, most sinister, members of the Rogues the Batfamily had ever entangled with, and with everything else going on, he was responsible for what the authorities, and he himself called the "Fear Germ", that was sending Gotham City into a panic. Normal citizens were experiencing bizarre happenings that no else could explain or see, but only those who had been subjected to the germ were affected.

"They say people are most afraid of what they don't understand and what lies beneath the surface," Scarecrow's voice crackled with laughter and an eerie vibrating echo. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to project fear into his victims by voice pitch alone. "I say, what lies on top gives one more pause to think: What germs do I carry that can make me sick?"

"You're already sick, Crane," Grayson said. He remembered everything now. "Now what's going on? Where Am I?"

Scarecrow chuckled, and then rolled the EIGHT ball across the table. It stopped just before the far pocket. "You're in a place where one's mind can be broken or mended, depending on the strength of the individual."

"And I thought Edward Ngyma delivered the riddles? Am I dreaming? Or is all this an illusion?"

Crane didn't answer him. Instead, he opened his gloved hands and a 3D image of a blue human skull manifested in his right hand and a red one emerged in his left. Dick was immediately reminded of that sci-fi movie the Matrix when the main character was offered a choice: Blue Pill or Red Pill. But then Scarecrow balled his fists and the skulls sounded like they screamed when crushed into wisps of dispelled energy.

Suddenly, Scarecrow began to juggle with several more skulls, each of them screaming—as if in agonizing pain—as they passed from hand to hand. Dick was mesmerized by the imaginary, but what was Scarecrow trying to say?

From the darkness, and in the distance, a patch of light appeared—with a trapeze net, all set up like that in a standard circus. In fact, it was almost exactly like the one Dick used to swing on as a kid when he was in Haly's Circus with his family when a member of The Flying Grayson's. Dick knew Scarecrow was a master manipulator, he could make people see and think whatever he wanted, by using his mind control drugs on them. But Dick wasn't falling for it.

"This is where your story begins—from a net. Your entire life has been predicated on risk. You thrive on excitement like a daredevil, a bird forever in flight, swooping in and out, believing your wings will save you—never failing. But everything/everyone falls eventually. It is unseen and yet inevitable."

Dick suddenly felt himself falling into an abyss, but in truth, he had only dropped to the floor, to his knees. But the sensation felt so real, that he actually thought the ground beneath his feet had come away.

Crane only provided the sudden illusion of falling. Crane hovered above him, a look of sheer horror engrossing his mask, a sinister broken smile from ear to ear crossed his psychotic mouth. It was then, Crane raised a hand, pointed a finger and thumb like a gun at Grayson's head, and as Dick stared at him with unrelating wide-eyed anxiety and fear, and fired…

Crane said: "Bang! You're dead, hero. Everything you once held dear…is gone!"

Dick felt his mind slipping away, as if he was being drugged.

Then: "And this is only the beginning…"

To be continued…