CHAPTER 43:
"Trouble for Drake"
Tim Drake awoke severely groggy. His senses were only beginning to emerge like he had been drugged. His mind wasn't fully aware of things yet. But, suddenly, like a spark, his mind recalled the events that transpired with KGBeast.
His eyes snapped open and he found himself in a strange place and in a room completely foreign to him with walls painted a drab, faded yellow. There was also a Spanish flag hanging on one wall.
He was in a bed with a white sheet covering him from the chest down. The bed was soft, like something found in a hotel room. But this was no hotel room unless chains came complementary. He whipped off the sheet and found that he was chained to the bed with both his ankles and wrists in shackles and there was a chain across his stomach that came from underneath the bed.
He pulled at the stomach chain, but there was little give. His arm chains gave him just enough movement for basic things, while his ankle chains gave him less maneuverability. It was obvious he was not meant to leave the room.
He also noticed something else. He wasn't wearing his costume. And he had been stripped down to his underwear.
Tim Drake leaned back and sighed into the pillow provided. He breathed out. Oh, great! They know my secret identity.
He recalled his fight with KGBeast, or rather his humiliation, just after he deposited Hugo Strange back to Arkham Asylum.
He didn't have a chance against the mercenary after he was thrown from his motorcycle, KGBeast shooting out its front tire. Then the vicious onslaught began and KGBeast beating him to bloody pulp. The last thing he remembered when he succumb to his injuries was suffering from bruised ribs, a broken left ankle, and two busted fingers on his right hand. With injuries to his face.
Alfred must be really worried about me, he thought. I told him I was on my way home before I was attacked.
Even though the rest of the Batfamily were off the continent batting Jake Handles, Drake did have other allies. Unfortunately, from last he learned, most, if not all, were out of contact, and were engaged in their own projects.
Suddenly, Stephane Brown's face flashed in his mind and it brought a moment's comfort to his battled ego.
She had been badly injured when they both fought a villain named Johnny Warlock whom Drake was forced to kill. He blamed Steph for a time for that, things happened during that fight that he could never forget. But the anger eventually faded after he reasoned that there was no other choice. The only thing that angered him was that he had to kill someone. But he had made a choice when he became a crime fighter, and he knew, eventually, there would come a time when he would have to make a decision. Either save his friends and kill the bad guy, or let the bad guy win and cater to Bruce's cardinal rule of no killing.
On this occasion, he ignored that rule. He had to. It played with his morality, but he was working his way through it. They say, the first kill is the hardest and it got easier. But he didn't want it to get easier. He didn't want to kill anyone. And that's why with Bruce's help he and the others learned ways to win their fights without having to take the final step.
The last he knew, Steph had survived her injuries and was off doing other things. She had been a missionary in Africa during her recovery process, but later left to engage in other pursuits.
He thought she had no inclination to return to the crime fighting world, and he didn't blame her.
But later she did came back and with another pseudonym: Spoiler.
After a short period together, however, and still dealing with issues regarding the battle with Warlock—him not wanting to get close, literally pushing her away emotionally, because he didn't want to see her hurt again—he officially broke off their relationship. And she left again. Telling him to basically screw himself.
He hadn't seen her since.
Drake lay in the bed and he found his eyes tearing up. Throughout their hardships, he cared her. He missed her more than she would ever know. And he wished he had expressed his emotions better when they were fighting side-by-side. They had kissed, but he wanted their relationship to be more involved. But he had followed Bruce's example, never get too close. And now he regretted it.
He pulled back the sheet to cover himself. He felt a little chilly, but that was to be expected only wearing a pair of black speedos. The room wasn't exceptionally cold, but it gave off a cold feeling that gave him a temporary shiver.
Why wouldn't they just kill me? And why don't I feel any pain?
They must have sedated him after he was brought here and gave him something for pain. They also bandaged him up. His left ankle was wrapped, they did the same to his broken fore and middle fingers on his right hand. He saw a little bruising on his chest, but that would quickly heal. He felt his face and the plasters on it.
Just then, the door to his prison room opened, and the last person he ever hoped to see stood at its threshold—Harley Quinn, wearing her black and red jester, palindrome costume. Where ever she was Joker was sure to be near by.
So, now I have to deal with yet another super-villain? He sighed dejected mentally. Oh, god, whose next?
"Hola, Drakey-poo! As the Spanish would say," she said with friendly hand greeting. "Finally awake, I see? Welcome to El…demon—something or other. My Spanish was never that good. Translated: The Devil's Playground, Bane's little hideaway in Gotham's Hispanic neighbourhood."
"I know of it," Drake said back. "A recently developed Hispanic division in the not so favourable part of the city. Financial records didn't make it clear who revamped the area, now I know Bane fit the bill. He would definitely have the collateral to do so."
Drake covered himself more. Harley's costume was tight in all the right places that his imagination didn't need to work hard and he felt subconscious with his lack of attire.
"Aw, no need to hide from me, snocums," she said, venturing over, checking first that he was still chained up. "Besides, I've already took a peak at the goods when I was told you were here and unconscious."
She winked at him at him seductively and he felt his face flush.
Drake frowned. "Nice to know modestly isn't your statute," he said. "Your costume is obviously an example of that."
She cocked her head slightly. "Well, when you got it—flaunt it." She followed the curves of her body with her hands, as if to taunt him. "But hey, that wasn't nice to say just now. I complimented you, but then you insult me? I came here all friendly like, hoping to be BFF's, but now you've got my goat!"
"Best Friends Forever? We'll never be that or anything else. And the term is: You've got my goad, not goat."
Harley pondered for a moment with a finger to her lips. "Yeah, that does sound a bit weird. Why would I give you my goat?"
Drake shook his head and rolled his eyes in disbelief. Harley was his age, but her education was greatly to be desired. "Where's Joker? Wherever you are, he's close by. You're never anywhere without him."
"He's still in the slammer, I got out on good behaviour. I promised to be a good girl." She smiled. "Anyway, how do you feel?"
"Apart from being chained up like some animal and stripped to the basic necessaries, oddly enough, okay, I guess." He looked around, but didn't seen anything like an IV drip for morphine. "Why don't I feel any pain with all my injuries?"
"The doc gave you a suppository," she said with a serious face. "He said, the pain-meds will absorb faster that way, up the butt."
Drake's eyes widened shockingly.
Harley then laughed. "Nah, just kidding! But the look on your face was priceless. He gave you something like a mikey and slipped it under your tongue. Better than a drip line. And he gave you the really good stuff."
"Hydromorphone?"
"Something like that. That does sound familiar."
Harley sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and then extended her hand outward, moving a finger from Drake's chest to his pelvis, rather seductively. He grabbed her wrist to stop her from going any further.
"Don't," he said.
She didn't take offence to him grabbing her. She almost treated it like playful fun and being chained up was like a fetish. "You have some really good muscle, Tim Drake. All that training with the Caped Crusader has obviously done you well. Pity we can't explore certain aspirations together. Get to know the other better. I'd be fun."
He let go of her hand. "Not interested, Harley. I have strict rules about getting romantically involved with criminals. And frankly, it wouldn't do my reputation any favours if I was seen hanging around with the likes of you."
This time, she did look like she took offence. "The likes of me? Why, you son-of-a—"
She lifted a hand, and went to strike Drake across the face, when a voice came from the doorway. It was a firm tone. "Harley, that's enough! And stop harassing my patient," said a young looking doctor-figure with brown hair wearing a white lab coat and glasses. Drake looked at the door to the room as the young doctor adjusted his glasses. "He needs to save his strength."
Harley pouted and then stood up from the bed. "I wasn't going to do anything to him, honest. Just play a little before…"
"You can play with him later."
Harley jumped up with joy, clapped her hands, and said, "Oh, goody! Thank you, Dr. Helfern."
Drake looked at the doctor. He was very young looking to be a doctor—but a doctor of what? Or, perhaps, he was someone who flunked medical school? It was typical these days for some criminals to have fake practises. Hugo Strange was a prime example, forever barred. This must have been the 'doc' Harley had mentioned. Then he had a revelation. "Helfern? I know that name…" But he stopped short of revealing anything of a sensitive nature related to a case.
Dr. Helfern came to stand at the base of Drake's bed. "Perhaps you are referring to my late father, Dr. Karl Helfern. I am his son, Marx. I also had a brother who died tragically in the Middle East, but I am unaware of the exact circumstances of his death. I believe he was a soldier. Regardless, I'm the son my father never knew he had. I was told he had a sexual liaison one night with a prostitute that he picked up at a bar, before he began his tests with bone density and strengthening. Nine months later, I was given up for adoption. It was much later that I learned who my father was, and about his erroneous demise, and his encounters with the Caped Crusader. My father's expertise was in Osteoporosis and Bone Density, while I major in Bio-Chemisty and Genetic Engineering."
Oh, wonderful! Another mad doctor, Drake thought. Batman seems to collect them like I collect figurines.
"Your father tried to fiddle with human nature, to create a way to strength bones so they wouldn't break," Drake said. "While noble, in the end, according to medical records, his skull eventually crushed his brain after he turned into some grotesque, walking monster."
"Quite," Dr. Helfern said, not offended with Drake's description at all. "While I am slightly perturbed by my father's actions, I am not ashamed of his attempts to help people. He miscalculated, and paid the ultimate price, going mad. I won't make the same mistake."
"That's what they all say. But eventually, history repeats itself."
Harley had moved to stand next to the doctor as Drake spoke with him. "Doctor, would you like to tell him about the surprise?"
"What surprise?" Drake said. "That I'm not dead? That was a surprise when I woke up. And why heal me? Bane wants my whole family dead."
Dr. Helfern nodded. "And his reasons are his own," he replied. "He has a deep hatred of you all, and from what I hear, there are quite a lot of you running around. The strategic players of the Batfamily, as I believe you call yourselves, are active, while some have left the crime fighting scene with good reason. Others await on standby living their own lives." The doctor raised a finger. "Bane wanted to play with you, but you were too severely injured to play in the manner he wished."
Like beat the crap out of me, Drake thought. Sorry, but KGBeast got to me first.
"You're healing quite nicely with the genetic modifiers I've given you to speed up the process, but some injuries will take a little more time," he added. Dr. Helfern cleared his throat. "You've presented us with a bit of a conundrum which may have saved your life. A possible solution to a problematic issue I've been struggling with for weeks. A person's genetic heritage is a funny thing and we never do know it fully. Suffice to say, we're all mutts. I took a sample of your DNA from your stomach because that is where a purest sample can be obtained, and then compared your genetic markers with Bane's on a whim. Surprisingly, your DNA is comparable to that of Bane's, unaltered by the healing modifiers. I was quite pleasantly pleased when I learned this."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means," Harley began, "that you're going to be the next contestant on the Wheel of Misfortune." She ended with a big smile.
Drake looked at her strangely.
Dr. Helfern sighed, annoyed. "What she means is, that your bio-chemistry is positive for the parameters I have been looking for as a test subject for a new drug. You're going to be my guinea pig. And hopefully with you, my formula will finally begin to bare fruit."
"What formula?"
Two large men built like over-muscled Spaniard wrestlers came into the room. Dr. Helfern handed one of them a key to unlock Drake's shackles, while the other stood at the ready to secure him after he was released.
Drake struggled despite his injuries, but to no avail, and he was caught in a bear hug by the closest Spaniard, secured tightly within the man's massive tree-truck arms. His feet dangled loose. Every time he kicked in protest, the Spaniard whipped him around, disorienting Drake. He was then carried out into the corridor and was escorted to an unknown destination.
Harley was close behind. "I don't know why, but seeing two men together embrace gets my womanly juices pumping," she said.
"Young people these days," Dr. Helfern sighed, and followed.
To be continued...
