A/N I'm sorry this is a shorter chapter than usual, but the next set of sequences need to come together and they add up to their own chapter. 19 days until The Prestige comes out! Yay!
Thank you to my bat-beta, IcyWaters, who was particularly helpful with some rough edges on this one.
Disclaimer Rock-a-Doodle is not my creation.
(Disclaimer courtesy of Stormbringer by Ellery Nocturne)
Chapter 40 (!)
The worst is not so long as we can say "This is the worst."
- King Lear
Slightly earlier that evening…
"A dance at five o'clock in the afternoon?" Gordon demanded as they sped through the streets, siren screaming.
"It's a conservative school. All official functions have to be over by ten o'clock. Anyway, in this part of town, you want your kids home by ten, if you know what I mean," Fiskers responded.
Even with the help of the lights and siren, it was some minutes before they made it through rush hour traffic. The entrances of the school parking lot were cordoned off, and the entire building was surrounded by squad cars.
Gordon jumped out of Fiskers's vehicle and ran up to Captain Stark. "What's the situation?"
"There's over two hundred kids in there. One girl was in the bathroom when it happened and climbed out the window, which was how we knew what was going on. They've got a megaphone in there, and they shouted that they'd start shooting students if we came any closer. They did that to emphasize their point."
Gordon followed Stark's pointing finger and saw a windshield decorated with a bullet hole. "No demands?"
"Not yet."
There was the sudden blare of a bullhorn and then an amplified voice crackled over the parking lot. "Esteemed members of Gotham's police force, it has come to our attention that Lieutenant Gordon is now on the premises. If the good lieutenant would kindly come to the front door, we have a few requests we'd like him to convey to the rest of you. If Lieutenant Gordon is not here in five minutes, something very unpleasant is going to happen to a young woman named Keishe Baker."
Gordon and Stark exchanged glances, and then the lieutenant began unbuckling his shoulder holster. "I've got a vest in the car," muttered the captain, popping open his trunk. Gordon strapped the bullet resistant panels around his chest. "Be careful, Jim. I won't be able face Barbara if anything happens to you."
Gordon nodded and ran toward the entrance of the school.
- - - - - -
After double checking that the walkway railing was solid, Batman secured his grappling hook over it and swiftly lowered himself down the two stories to the factory floor. As his boots settled on the cement and he released the hook, a sudden explosion ripped apart the walkway above him. He dove toward the center of the room, feeling bits of debris rattle off his suit as a continuous series of explosions around the building signaled that the whole second level was destroyed. As the last reverberations of the blasts faded, the bright tones of circus music jangled through the dusty haze.
He crouched beside a piece of machinery, waiting, but aside from the music, a tinny, eight bar melody that repeated endlessly, there was no other sound or evidence of inhabitation. Cautiously, he moved away from his shelter, and as he did, the plate of sheeting on the side of the machine gave way with a soft groan of metal. He lunged forward, just escaping the edge of it as it thundered down, cutting off the way he had come. Again he crouched in the shadows; again there was nothing but the music as the echoes of the crash died away. He began creeping toward his left instead of moving closer to the middle of the room but had only gone a few steps when the concrete under his feet suddenly cracked and gave way. Only a desperate leap saved him from falling.
He retraced his steps and tried going to the right, and discovered the same problem with the floor. He was being driven inward; someone appeared to have been waiting for him for a very long time.
There were three choices – he could keep trying to fight his way back out, braving an unknown number of traps and giving away his position with every one he set off; he could stay where he was and hope to ambush whoever came after him; or he could go in faster and harder than they expected.
He charged forward, vaulting over a low conveyor belt and ducking under the lowered arm of an ancient forklift. Behind him, a series of belated crashes began, and he guessed that going back now was absolutely impossible. A tall partition rose in front of him, with a low doorway in its middle. The floor beneath his feet vibrated, and he leaped through the doorway just as the entire section of concrete gave way.
Light sprang to life, thousands of watts worth, multiplied a million times against the maze of mirrors he now stood in. Lifting a gauntleted hand to shield his smarting eyes, he ran, half blindly, buying time until his eyes adjusted to the glare. He smashed his fist against a mirror as he rounded a corner. The glass cracked but the wall held, surprisingly sturdy for a temporary structure. His mind mapped as he ran, and by the time his eyes could tolerate the light, he knew he had covered the entire structure. There was no exit other than the one he had come in by, but in the center was a square not accessible by any of the short corridors. He reached into his belt and withdrew five capsules, and with quick flicks of his wrist tossed four of them into the air, over the tops of the ten-foot walls. The fifth he tossed to the ground by his own feet, and within moments the mirrored mouse maze was filled with choking black smoke – thirty precious seconds of darkness in which to act. Holding his forearms up to protect his face, he crashed through the walls, slivers of glass flying around him, until he broke through to the inner box.
The music stopped. The square was empty except for a speaker on a low stool that stood on top of a door.
"I had hoped you would take a little more time to appreciate my handiwork," the Joker said, his high-pitched voice crackling out of the speaker. "I spent a lot of time on it." He sounded aggrieved. "However, here you are, and that's the important thing. I suppose you're wondering what I want." There was an expectant pause from the speaker, but Batman made no response. He had shifted the stool and speaker and was examining the door, which appeared to be locked from beneath.
"I'm supposed to be killing you, of course," the Joker continued, "and I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy it, you didn't exactly do me any favors during our little encounter at the chemical plant, but it wasn't my idea, and I do so hate using other people's ideas. Who's idea was it?" he asked, apparently having decided the dark knight wasn't going to hold up his end of the conversation. "It was Gatsby's idea, just like my face was Gatsby's idea. I don't like Gatsby's ideas."
Batman shoved a small explosive into the crack over the door latch. "Gatsby?" he finally rasped.
The disembodied voice took on tones of patronage. "My dear bat, this is Gatsby's show from start to finish. He owns this town. His people are everywhere. And you seem to have become something of a thorn in his flesh, so he brought me in for the job, which, I flatter myself, proves that he doesn't underestimate you. No doubt you're wondering why I don't just get on with killing you? To be quite honest, I'm not certain that I can. You got through the maze a lot faster than I thought you would, and I am consequently not as far away as I had planned to be. I dare say you could find me if you tried."
The explosive went off, leaving a hole in the side of the door where the lock used to be. Batman pulled it up to reveal a low crawl space that descended into darkness. It looked as if it had once been a large drain.
"Or you could go through that door you just opened and kill Gatsby, which is something that would make us equally happy. We can finish our own business at a more convenient time. Either way, that maze is going to blow up in five seconds, and while I don't think it…"
He dropped into the hole and pulled the door shut over his head.
- - - - - -
Morales led them back through the project graveyard to a set of narrow stairs that wound up and up. Cecilia and Richard's captors propelled them onwards with narrow rifle muzzles, while intermittent explosions echoed through the stairwell. At last they exited onto the roof of the building – flat and uninteresting except where the smokestacks jutted up out of the concrete.
Another man met them, well bundled against the freezing night. He produced a rope, and at Morales's curt command tightly lashed Cecilia's hands together behind her back, all the while under the watchful guns of the other two thugs.
Morales stepped closer, his bright eyes intent on her face. "It took me many hours of laborious thought to devise an adequate punishment for you, Señorita," he said. "Fortunately, you yourself provided the answer."
She forced a half smile. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me. After all, it was just business. Nothing personal."
"You misunderstand me. I am not speaking about the business, but about my granddaughter. Do you remember Samara, Señorita? You should. You murdered her."
Samuel burst back into the office, something cupped in his two hands. "Abuelo, this will frighten her," he promised, and transferred the white mouse to his grandfather's possession.
"You are afraid of mice, Señorita?" He didn't need to ask. The moment the creature had appeared, her eyes had fixed on it, focused despite their glaze of pain. Genuine and uncontrolled panic suffused her face, and she shrank back against Alberto who held her roughly by the shoulder.
"Give me your hand," Morales ordered, moving forward.
She whimpered and tried to move back, eyes darting back and forth like a cornered fox.
"Alberto, use your pistola to ask Señorita Perez to give me her hand."
Keeping one arm locked around her chest, Alberto obediently pulled his gun from his waistband.
The office door slammed open.
She didn't know that it was opened by a little girl who was angry because her brother had taken "Mees Meennee" without permission. She only knew that there was a wavering in their attention, creating a brief moment between her own pain and fear in which to act. She twisted, grabbing for the gun. There was an explosion.
And Samara lay on the carpet, the scarlet bubbling softly from her chest.
Cecilia closed her eyes. "I didn't murder her."
"She is dead by your fault. In Colombia, we call that murder." He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her over to the edge of the roof, while one of his companions balanced a sturdy board so that half of it stuck over the side of the building. Morales shoved her onto the end of the wood so that her weight held it in place. "Bring me the boy," he called and another of the guards shifted his rifle to one hand and hauled Richard to the edge. Richard tried to kick him, and the man struck him on the right side of his face. Morales grabbed the dazed boy and shook him. "If you do that again, mocoso, we will shoot her." He jerked the boy's red backpack off and tossed it to one of the guards, then lifted Richard and set him sideways on the opposite end of the board, the part of the wood that stuck out over the parking lot. "Don't worry, Ricardo, you won't fall. Not as long as la señorita holds down her end of the bargain. But if you move, this man," he gestured to one of the armed guards, "will shoot her. Do you understand?" Without waiting for a response, he turned away and walked back to Cecilia.
"There must be something that you want," she offered desperately.
"Nothing," he said simply. "Nothing but to know that for the next thirty minutes you will suffer."
"Only thirty minutes?"
"In media hora you will be dead. I do not presume to know whether you will suffer after that or not. Until then, you have the freedom of the roof. You may stay with the boy or not, as you choose."
The man who had met them on the roof approached, holding a small box. Morales opened it and with a quick snatch, caught the mouse by the scruff of its neck and held it up. "Interesting how all white mice look the same."
"Hey look at this!" The guard who had been given Richard's backpack had unzipped it and investigated the contents. Now he held up a struggling Rachel Jr.
Morales smiled. "Do not scorn that which heaven sends." He took the gerbil and held it in the same hand as the mouse, so that the two animals were cruelly pressed together. "Do not move. It would be a pity to commit a mortal sin when you will have no chance for confession." He tore open the collar of the shirt she wore beneath her suit jacket and thrust the rodents inside her clothing so that their furry bodies writhed against her skin.
"Adios, Señorita Cecilia."
To Be Continued
A/N I just realized… I responded to the wrong lot of reviews. I was supposed to be responding for two chapters ago, and I responded to last chapter. smacks self on forehead I am such a ding-bat. (A very different thing from a hero-bat.)
Ok, here's what we're gonna do: Instead of writing responses for those now quite old reviews (reviews are kind of like chocolate chip cookies – they're best responded to when fresh out of the oven), I will write a piece of fluff and post it by the end of tonight. Is this a fair trade for one chapter's worth of review responses?
Also, if there is anyone who did not get a response for their review to Chapter 39/#40, please let me know. If there were any burning questions in your Chapter 38/#39 review, please repeat them in your review for this chapter so that I can answer them. Everybody clear? Any questions? Good.