Title: The Suit (pt 8)
Genre: fanfic (Batman Beyond)
Setting: sometime early on in the series
Rating: still G, la di da
Notes: Still not my characters. And Bruce, I am so, SO sorry, but I just couldn't help myself!
VIII.
It's dark and cold, and he has a headache to end all headaches. He's relatively certain that it was induced by a blow to the head with a blunt object – a vase from the living room, if memory serves. Something ugly and pointless in his mind, but Alfred liked it. He's a little sad to think of it gone: so few of Alfred's touches are left in the manor these days.
But other things are more immediately important than an old man's sentimentality. He needs to know where he is, get an idea of his surroundings, piece together what happened and what needs to happen. As his eyes get used to the dark and the pounding in his head fades to a dull ache, he realizes he's in the back of a truck, and if the bouncing is any indication, they're on a highway.
And he's not alone. There are seven other presumably unconscious people-shaped lumps around him, all bound and gagged, as he realizes he is. This is going to make getting out a bit more complicated, particularly as he can't seem to find his cane anywhere. Being beaten, gassed, and thrown into the back of a truck has done nothing for his aged muscles. For a moment he lets himself fervently, angrily wish he were thirty years younger. But it won't do any good to dwell. He hauls his protesting body up sitting position just as the truck screeches to a halt, nearly throwing him down again.
The abrupt stop appears to have nudged the others into wakefulness, if the moaning and groaning is any indication. Bruce has barely managed to face himself toward the back of the truck before it's suddenly swung wide open, and two piercing flashlight beams temporarily blind him.
"They're awake already," says a familiar voice as the beams sweep over Bruce and the others. "I told you this was a bad idea, man."
From the lights Bruce can see the other captives a bit better, and he realizes he recognizes them vaguely from television and the society pages. Their names mean money: Vreeland, Hill, Van Dorn, Fallbrook….He finds he can place an illustrious name with each face. These are the cream of the elite crop. So it's really about ransom. Bruce idly wonders what the kidnappers thinkit's about.
"You've already messed us up once, and I had to bail you out," says a second voice, this one thoroughly annoyed. "What do you know?"
"I know socialite scum, man," says the first voice petulantly. "Shoulda just let me blow them all up."
"Right," sneers the second, "because that worked so well last time. Listen, Stan, if you want justice you've gotta come at it from the right angle, you know?"
Right. Justice. Bruce groans inwardly.
But it's worse than that. As they lower the flashlights, Bruce recognizes Mad Stan, his wrists bearing broken handcuffs from his adventures last night. The other man is older, sandy-blonde hair liberally laced with gray, and just as mean-looking as Stan. Inexplicably, he's wearing army camouflage pants, a black mask across his eyes, and a red, white, and black sports jersey with letters spelling out "Nite-Wing" across his chest.
It's then that Bruce realizes he's been kidnapped by the two most idiotic criminals known to man.