This was tricky.
Dick had seen Batman lose his marbles before. There were the good old-fashioned sanity killers: lack of sleep, lack of food, poisons, toxins (thank you, Professor Crane)...and then there were times that the general insanity of Gotham seemed to get under Batman's cowl and throw him off balance for a few days.
Let's face it, Dick thought, settling uncomfortably into the big chair in front of the monitors, you can't be totally sane and decide to dress up like a bat. And really, was dressing up in a costume to commit crimes any more insane than dressing up to stop them?
Batman...Bruce...would be home any minute now. Alfred was in the stairwell, readying a syringe full of tranquilizers (just in case, he'd assured Dick, as if the prospect of facing a two-hundred-pound madman who could best any ninja master hands down was a minor concern that ranked just under smudged silverware).
A sudden gust of cold air burst silently over Dick. That would be the door to the outside slamming shut. Dick slowly limped over to the edge of the vast canyon in the floor. The car should be in sight...now.
And on cue, Batman roared up the narrow, twisting pathway that led to the interior of the cave, screeching to a halt precisely in the middle of the X that marked his usual parking spot. Dick waited until he'd slid out of the car, and then said as casually as possible "Did you, uh, get the bootleggers?"
Batman gave him one of his patented Dick's-an-idiot looks. "No. Alfred?" he called into the darkness.
"Yes, Master Bruce?" Alfred appeared from the stairwell and glanced at Dick, who shrugged back at him. Bruce seemed fine to him, and he'd acted like the bootlegger thing was some kind of bad joke.
"You said there was an urgent matter?"
"Oh. Yes." Alfred glanced back toward the stairs. "I lost radio contact with you for a while. Is everything all right?"
"No. There's something very peculiar happening in Gotham."
"Does it have anything to do with speakeasies?" Dick offered.
"Yes and no." Batman seated himself in the big chair. "Gotham's being pulled through history. The entire city's in some kind of time bubble. I started the night chasing meth dealers and ended it by catching a rum runner from the thirties. Everything changed - the dealer, the car, the buildings, even my clothes. Even my thoughts." He tapped a few keys on the keyboard and the massive screen of the computer filled with static. The security camera feed from Arkham was down.
"Wait, so Gotham's gone back in time?" Dick hopped over to Batman's side and seated himself next to the keyboard. He'd seen enough weird things in his tenure as Robin to be totally unfazed by the thought of a time-traveling city. "I want to be absolutely clear about this. Are you telling me that in Gotham, right now, there are flapper girls? I'll just go get my coat."
"Flapper girls were a product of the 1920's, Master Dick," Alfred interjected.
"Well, the thirties had to have something, didn't they?" Dick demanded.
"Prohibition, the Dust Bowl, and Herbert Hoover," Batman answered, pulling off the cowl.
Maybe it wasn't all bad that his foot was broken. "Great. So who's doing it?" Dick called after Bruce, who had disappeared into the little room where Alfred kept the Batsuits.
"I've got to go to Arkham to find out," came the muffled reply. Bruce emerged, adjusting his sweater. "Tomorrow morning."
But Batman didn't go out during the day. "You're not going as Batman?" Dick demanded.
"Yes and no," Bruce shrugged, heading upstairs.
"Yes and no? What does that mean?" Dick protested, limping after him. "You're going as you? Then I'm coming too!"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"What's ridiculous? I can help! What if they recognize you?"
"You're injured and you're off duty until further notice." With that, Bruce trotted up the rest of the stairs, leaving a fuming Dick to hobble back down alone. He was so frustrating sometimes!
"It's probably for the best that you stay here, Master Dick," Alfred said as he locked up the Batsuits.
"Not you, too! What's the big deal?"
"From what Master Bruce has said, it seems that everything shifts to its time-appropriate counterpart. Do you really want a modern air-cast on your injured foot suddenly turning into a bit of wood tied with string?"
That was a surprisingly good point. "I guess not," Dick said, swiveling idly in his seat. He brightened. "But just because I can't go with him doesn't mean I can't help!" He clicked the computer into life and began searching for any hint of a clue about what was going on in the city.
The train that ran from Albany to Gotham had had a two-hour delay at the station for reasons that no one saw fit to pass on to the passengers. Barbara Gordon had tried to call her father to let him know she'd be late getting back, but he hadn't answered his cell phone. Or his work phone. Or his home phone. She hoped he wasn't planning on waiting for her at the train station.
She'd called him several times once the train got going. There hadn't been an answer. And then, shortly before the train pulled into Gotham, she'd noticed that she had a text message waiting for her. It was from an unknown number, and she knew only one person that would be able to pull that off. Batman.
The message, when she opened it, was like all of his communications: short, to the point, and totally frustrating. The message in its entirety read Stay home. She slumped moodily in her seat on the train and scowled at her cell phone. Stay home? She was part of the team, whether he liked it or not, and she'd be damned if she stayed home while they had all the fun -
shift
-Ow! A chorus of yelps dominoed their way down the train as every woman suddenly discovered herself in a very tight corset under what felt like three hundred pounds of petticoats. The cell phone was now a short, engraved note that read "Stay home" in neat cursive letters.
Miss Gordon folded the note and stowed it in her bag. She wasn't sure why she had the note, and she wasn't sure why she seethed with the need to disobey it, but she also didn't know where else she had intended to go.
Bruce had Alfred park the car just outside the invisible Time barrier. He was uneasy about facing the rogues unmasked. Oh, he'd done it before, certainly, but there was just something about facing down a horde of people who would love to see him dead, and facing them unarmed, that was giving him the willies.
He suppressed them. He could and would do this. The main problem was the Time bubble altering his thoughts. He couldn't go to Arkham to look for a culprit when he forgot the crime the moment that he stepped into the bubble!
He braced himself and walked through. He was Bruce Wayne and it was nineteen ninety...no, eighteen-ninety...no! Nineteen ninety-five! He mentally sank his teeth into that thought and held on tight. It was the present made up to look like the past. He could deal with this. It was like standing on top of a runaway horse (something that he'd thankfully only had to do one or two times in his life). If he lost concentration, he'd find himself thrown into the olden days and thrown hard. So...he just wouldn't lose his concentration.
He stepped back across the barrier and climbed back into the car. "Okay, Alfred. Let's go."
Alfred eased the car forward across the barrier. As the front of the car passed through the bubble, it transformed into a rather startled horse. Alfred hit the brakes, and the horse squealed with displeasure as the reins jerked its head back.
"What's the problem?" Bruce asked from the back seat.
"Master Bruce, there appears to be a horse attached to our car," Alfred said, staring at it as it flicked its tail back and forth.
"And?"
"I'm not accustomed to horses."
Well, no, he wouldn't be, would he? Bruce chuckled. "Just keep going, Alfred. You will be in a minute."
"How comforting," Alfred muttered, creeping forward again. The rest of the car shuddered and blipped into a fancy cart.
Bruce gave him a few moments to let the history change exert itself on him. "How are you doing, Alfred?"
"Splendid, sir, why do you ask?" Alfred said, skillfully maneuvering the horse onto the main road leading into town.
Bruce grinned. "No reason."
He had been prepared for a very old-fashioned asylum. He had not been prepared for this.
A flock of people were clustered outside the doors, chattering excitedly to one another. Women in petticoats clutched the arms of their paramours as they described with delicious horror what lay inside the walls. Lone women with an alarming amount of makeup leered invitingly in his direction as the carriage slowed to a halt. Men with large coats sidled toward him, preparing to offer him any one of a range of untrustworthy items at reasonable prices.
Alfred tended to the horse as Bruce threaded his way through the crowd. They weren't there to visit, surely. Arkham's inmates didn't generally attract many visitors. As he politely dodged a fat woman with a corset that creaked alarmingly as she moved, the door swung open.
"Pennies, folks! Only a penny a piece to see the price of moral indecency and overindulgence! Just a penny apiece, thank you sir, thank you sir-" The man gasped as Bruce appeared next in line. "Mr. Wayne! I never expected to see a gentleman like you here!"
"I'd like to speak with the man in charge," Bruce said casually.
"Right you are, sir, right you are." He kicked a young man on the floor next to him with a metal plate on his shoulder. "Go fetch Dr. Arkham immediately!" The young man lolled to his feet and shuffled down the hallway, returning in a matter of minutes with a smart-looking older man at his heels.
"Mr. Wayne! What can I do for you?" Bruce stepped into the asylum, letting the horde of people brandishing pennies flood past him.
"Good morning, Dr. Arkham."
The doctor bit his lip. "Oh. I'm terribly sorry, but Dr. Arkham is busy with a patient. I'm the associate administrator, Dr. Pierce."
"Well, good morning, Dr. Pierce," Bruce said with a smile. "I'd like to talk to you about donating some money." He could almost see the dollar signs lighting up in the man's eyes. "But first, I'd like to inspect the premises, to see where my money may do the most good."
"Oh, of course, of course," the doctor twittered. "We'll start with the administrative wing - it's ever so drafty in there, you know..." And Pierce tugged Bruce along into the depths of the wing that he really didn't have time to look at. But still, to maintain his cover, he nodded and agreed with the needed repairs as Pierce made sure to show him every single indignity that he personally had to endure - a drafty window, a creaking set of floorboards, a door that didn't latch unless you pressed the knob a certain way...
"But what of the inmates?" Bruce asked at the end of it.
"Them? Oh, well, if you care to see them..." The doctor said, flapping a hand. "Really, they wouldn't notice improvements. Most of them are beyond help."
"I'd still like to see them."
"A true humanitarian," the doctor beamed, "no matter how misguided. Come on, then. We'll start with the Incurables."
Bruce's heart began to thump a little faster. The doctor led him through the twisting passageways down to the main floor, where a viewing gallery had been set up. The passage was full of people, giggling, laughing, and Bruce was startled to note, armed with long sticks. "Do the inmates regularly attack the visitors?" he inquired, pointing at one gentleman with an exceedingly long stick.
The doctor looked a little embarrassed. "No, no, the people just like to get their money's worth. They enjoy...erm...stirring them up a bit, if you take my meaning." At Bruce's dumbfounded look, the doctor hurried on. "I know it's a bit...er...well, frankly, Mr. Wayne, we need the money that they bring in. We made nine hundred and sixty dollars last year from their entrance fees, and surely a man like you can appreciate that kind of money."
Nine hundred and sixty dollars at a penny per person meant that ninety-six thousand people had come here last year to poke the Joker with a stick. He was almost amused.
Bruce ran his eye over the row of prisoners chained to the wall. Most of them were screaming obscenities at the visitors or angrily carrying on debates with open air. A lone, slim figure leaned against the huge grey stones, glaring malevolently at anyone who dared to approach him. The chain from his iron collar, attached at the wall near his ankles, jingled as he shifted away from his drooling neighbor.
Bruce sauntered up to him. Before he could say anything, though, that glowering gaze was trained on him. "Come to gape at the lunatics?" Jonathan Crane asked icily. "That's hardly done among men of your stature."
"Actually, I'm here on business," Bruce said casually.
"What business could you possibly have here?"
As Bruce was about to reply, the woman chained to Crane's left shrieked "The demon, the demon!" and flung herself at Crane, clutching him around the waist and sobbing into his ragged shirt.
He tried to shove her away, but she stubbornly clung to him and wailed even louder. With a look of long-suffering patience on his face, Crane leaned down and muttered something into her ear. She glanced fearfully up at him and he nodded, solemn as a priest.
She screamed with renewed terror and threw herself backward, scraping at her skin with her fingernails. Crane settled back into his lounging pose, watching her shriek with a little grin of satisfaction on his face.
But Bruce had already begun to move on. It was difficult to tell the inmates from the visitors - they mixed freely in the halls and everyone was talking and laughing exuberantly over the occasional scream of terror or howl of anger. The clanking of chains rattled in a constant counterpoint to the cacophony of voices.
Ah, that looked like a door that would lead to the Rogues' Gallery - it was the one with the most bars and ironwork soldered into place. The doctor trailing behind Bruce cleared his throat. "I really would advise that you not go down that corridor - it can be rather dangerous."
Bruce watched a lone woman in a pale green dress disappear through the door. "If that young lady can go in, then so can I." He shoved his way through the jostling crowd and went in.
It was quieter here, though not by much. Bruce walked slowly down the little hallway, peering into every room as he passed. Edward Nygma was busy scraping a question mark into the wall using a sharp edge on his manacles. Harvey Dent sprawled on a well-worn cot and sneered at the doctor as he scurried past.
The next room contained a knot of men clustered around something, jabbing it with their sticks and chuckling to each other in rough voices. Bruce cleared his throat. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said quietly. The cluster of men parted to reveal Pamela Isley curled on the floor, her green skin mottled with bruises. "Leave the girl alone."
"We paid our pennies," one of them said mutinously.
As Batman, he had a vast selection of weapons that he could have used on them. As Bruce Wayne, he had only one. Bruce pulled a handful of change out of his pocket. "Would you like them back?"
The men snatched the change like starving chickens attacking a sack of corn and fled. "Miss?" Bruce asked. Pamela didn't respond. Being attacked with dead bits of her precious babies had probably been too much for her to handle.
"That must have been a whole dollar," the doctor muttered to himself, watching the pack of men escaping with their loot. "A whole dollar!"
Bruce sighed and left Ivy curled up on the floor. He could help her more by fixing this time mess than by doing anything else. At least in their proper time, the staff cared a little bit about the well-being of their patients.
"For I love thee so sincerely, none could ever love again..." He followed the sound of singing down the hallway, where he found Harleen Quinzell perched upside-down on a hard wooden bench. She seemed not to realize that the heavy iron chain attached to her ankle was slapping her in the face as she air-danced along to her song. "Fondly my young heart receiv'd him, which was doomed to love but one. He sighed - he vowed - and I believed him, he was false - and I undone."
"I hate that song," someone called from the end of the hall.
Harley obligingly switched tunes mid-note. "Life's a toil, and love's a trouble, beauty will fade and riches will flee, wages will dwindle and prices will double, nothing is as I would wish it to be!"
"Better," the voice grudgingly complimented. Harley beamed and wiggled her shoulders happily as Bruce passed her and approached the source of the voice.
The Joker was lounging in a little metal cage at the end of the hall, feet crossed on the bars that held him inside. He was cooing gentle entreaties at the girl Bruce had followed inside. She stood just a few feet from the cage, obviously uncertain about going further. "Come here, darling, I just want to talk," he said coaxingly.
"Don't," Pierce advised the girl in an abrupt voice. "He's violent."
"Me?" the Joker said, holding a shocked hand to his chest. "Violent? I would never harm such a pretty young thing..."
"He's incorrigible," the doctor informed Bruce with a scowl on his face. The Joker winked at the girl and beckoned her closer with a sly jerk of his head. "I said don't!"
But it was too late. The girl had crept within arm's reach of the Joker. His pale hand lashed out between the bars and dragged her up by the hand. Wrenching her arm through the bars, he drew her thin little hand to his mouth.
And then, with a soft, gentlemanly kiss on her ring finger, he let her go. She backed away, twisting her hands together, eyes wide with fear. The Joker, chuckling, favored her with another wink.
"Stupid girl," the doctor muttered. "Have you seen everything you wished to see, sir?"
"Yes," Bruce said, locking eyes with the Joker for a brief moment. "Yes, I have."
"Then allow me to escort you back to the front."
Bruce mentally ran down the list of rogues. Everyone was there, with the glaring omission of two names: Jervis Tetch and Temple Fugate. And since Lewis Carroll wasn't due to write Alice in Wonderland for another fifty years, it was unlikely that he'd find Jervis inside.
Of course it was Fugate who had constructed the time bubble. Who else in this town would have a deep, abiding interest in controlling what time everyone lived in? Well, the Joker would probably think it was funny to see everyone all gussied up in the hottest trends of 1814, but not if it meant he had to be crammed into a little cage and poked with a variety of blunt objects.
Bruce hoisted himself into the back of the carriage. At least he finally had some idea about what was going on. He slid forward, trying to get comfortable on the hard little bench -
shift
- and was promptly hurled backward in his seat as the hovercar zipped merrily through the air. "Alfred?" Bruce called, prying himself off of the back windshield.
"Seatbelts were invented for a reason, Master Bruce," Alfred reminded him in calm tones as they did a barrel roll around a slower hovercar. Bruce finally fumbled the advanced harness into some sort of order as they ducked under a bridge.
A very unpleasant thought made its way into the forefront of Bruce's mind. What if they were fifty feet above the ground when they zipped through the bubble? "Alfred, land," he said hurriedly.
"Master Bruce, I am in full control of this vehicle."
"Alfred, go lower." The edge of Gotham was in sight now and they were going very, very fast indeed. Seatbelts would not help in a vertical crash landing. "Alfred, go lower right now!"
Alfred sighed and aimed the hovercar toward the ground. "Really, Master Bruce, I'd imagine that with your night job you'd enjoy a normal car ride for once."
They were still ten feet above the ground. Bruce closed his eyes and braced himself.
shift
"Have you discovered who's behind the time problem yet?" Alfred asked.
Bruce opened his eyes. They were on the ground. They hadn't crashed in a fiery spiral of death. That was almost reassuring. "Yes, I did," he said in answer to Alfred's question. Now all he had to do was find him.
(to be continued)
Author's Note: I apologize for the late posting. I had to stop for research after every two sentences, so this chapter took far longer than I anticipated to write. (But I still squeaked in under the deadline!)
Speaking of research, Arkham is based on Bedlam (Bethlem Royal Hospital in England) circa 1815. Everything that happened in this Arkham - the visitors with sticks, the chains, the licensed beggars (the young man with the metal plate on his arm), the young ladies of negotiable virtue hoping to pick up customers - really happened in Bedlam. It almost makes modern-day institutions seem homey, doesn't it?
Harley's first song - 'Crazy Jane' - was written by Matthew Gregory Lewis. I don't know the author of the second, but it's called 'Life's a Toil'.