In memory of Bob Hastings, original voice of Commissioner Gordon in Warner Brother's Batman: the Animated Series. A great actor, a great voice, who died today at the age of 89. He will be remembered.
Chapter Six
Rebecca awoke in a cold, dark place. Her eyes had been covered by a blindfold, and as she squirmed she realised her wrists and ankles had been bound. She breathed out unsteadily, uncertain. She remembered, and grew afraid. She had been abducted, probably by a vigilante of some kind, one who seemed to have no face.
She shuddered, the terror and uncertainty of her situation hitting her. She'd told no one where she'd been headed, or what she was doing. She was alone. It could be hours or longer before anyone thought to check on her, days before a missing person report. She knew exactly how slow and corrupt the GCPD was even in matters like this. She'd helped fudge such investigations in the past herself, taking her cut when the Black Mask needed the police to look the other way when he disappeared someone.
Now it had happened to her. Panic gripped her heart, as a thousand terrible scenarios played out in her head.
She struggled frantically at her bonds, squirming about on a cold, hard floor. Stone, of some kind. She could hear a drip-drip noise from somewhere, and feel the wind. She was outside somewhere? Near running water?
As she struggled, she heard the sound of booted feet approaching. She froze, her heart hammering, waiting, unable to see what was coming next.
Pain exploded in her side, a steel-toed boot slamming into her kidneys. She coughed, retching on to the stone floor beside her, her whole body quivering in pain.
"Awake yet? Good. We're just getting started." A cold, pitiless feminine voice spoke.
"Please! I'm an officer of the law; you've made a mistake-"Rebecca tried, babbling incoherently. Another swift kick silenced her.
"Shut up. You will respond only when spoken to. You will answer my questions, concisely and truthfully. Do this and I might let you go."
Rebecca shuddered, and waited, the stench of her own vomit assailing her nostrils, her whole body throbbing with pain, her wrists and ankles chafed by their bonds.
"My first question. When did you first start working for the Black Mask?"
"I don't know what you're talking-" Another boot, this time stamping down on her foot with force, pain shooting up through her, cutting her off with a howl of pain.
"Start co-operating. Or do you need more of an incentive?" Before Mulcahey could think to respond, an engine started, somewhere in the darkness. A loud, throaty roar, probably belonging to a large truck.
"My friend there needs to back his truck up into this loading bay. Every time you lie or evade one of my questions, I'm going to let him drive back another few inches. You don't have any idea how far away it is, or how many chances you might get. So co-operate, or you're road-kill."
Rebecca sobbed, terrified, as she heard the truck rumbling in the distance. "Please, I swear, I'll never do anything bad again-"
"Back her up buddy!" the questioner yelled. There was a roar, and the sound of tires crunching gravel, the tell-tale beep-beep of a truck reversing slamming into the captive's ears.
"Ah! I started working for him three years ago! It was Jim Corrigan! I swear!" She yelled out, and felt great relief when the truck's noise stopped, dying down to a low, constant rumble.
"Good. But none of the bullshit. Just answer my questions. How many cops did you pass on? How many did you sell out to the Black Mask, and his pal the Joker, mmm? How much did they know about the Major Crimes Unit?"
"What? No, we didn't do anything like th-"The truck roared into life, and Rebecca quickly shouted "All of it! The current rosters, names! He wanted to know everyone! Their weak-points, everything!"
"Just as I thought. You were their weasel weren't you? What did they buy you with, mm? Was it drugs? Money? Power?"
The truck rumbled on, and its noise was becoming deafening. Rebecca shouted as loudly as she could, feeling blind panic.
"No! No! Nothing like that! Stop the truck! Please! I was...I was Jim's girlfriend, OK? He was already with the Black Mask! I had to work for them or they'd kill me, I swear!" She sobbed, fear of death overriding everything.
"I see. Last question. You better hurry up, it's almost here. Who else reported to the Black Mask?"
The trucks' rumbling was surely no more than a few inches from her head. She could hear the sound of tires crunching down, and could feel the heat of exhaust fumes creeping on to her face.
"Ah! No one, I swear I swear! Jim and I were the only ones who knew the MCU! He, he had others working the other units! God, no stop!" She screamed, as she suddenly felt the slight brush of tire rubber against her hair, and she convulsed with pure terror.
The noise stopped completely, the truck's engine turned off.
"That'll do for now. But I'll be watching you Rebecca. Don't even think of leaving Gotham City. You're resigning from the police force tomorrow. You tell anyone about what happened, you try to complain or hide anything in any way, I will find you, and I –will- squash you, like the cockroach you are."
The figure hoisted her up with a strong grip, hauling her and walking steadily. She felt herself thrown roughly into the back of the truck.
"Good night, Mulcahey. Pray you never have to answer my questions again."
She felt hands reaching down, a cloth covering her mouth, and then darkness.
The Question looked back over her handiwork. The truck had been reversing into the bay next to where she'd put Mulcahey. A simple hairdryer to simulate exhaust-fumes and a spare tire had been more than enough to convince the cowardly lieutenant of the danger. The Question sighed to herself. She'd never be comfortable with shenanigans like this. And she knew that somewhere, out there, someone was going even further, killing Jim and everyone who was corrupt in Gotham's justice system.
She'd started months ago, but the killings by this new would-be Vigilante, this "Judge" that Bullock had identified...they'd forced her hand. Jim Corrigan's death had closed down a promising lead on who'd sold out Gordon and his family, who had made it possible for the Joker to kidnap Barbara and lure Jim to his death. With Jim dead, that left this weasel she'd just done squeezing. Next was the Black Mask.
But she couldn't ignore this rival vigilante.
She didn't know who it was, or how they were getting their information. But she was determined to get Justice, not just Revenge. She wasn't going to let this Judge get in the way.
She nodded to her friend and accomplice, a homeless man she'd paid to simply reverse the truck at her signal. She gave him a fifty bill, and told him to scram, while she fired it up. She was going to dump Mulcahey on the outskirts of town. Let her walk back in shame. She'd rather throw her in the slammer, and she absolutely should have turned this woman over to the police.
But she also needed to find her rival. She wasn't going to just watch Mulcahey to make sure she'd gotten everything on the Black Mask. She was watching to see what this other vigilante would do.
She smiled, briefly, as she drove into the night. It was a damn good thing that had worked, otherwise she'd have been up shit creek, all right. Her smile hardened. Next time it was unlikely she could rely on tricks. She would have to get her own hands dirty for sure. The thought soured her mood. But she would have answers to her questions, whatever it took.
Thomas Wayne sat up long into the night, a glass of bourbon, its ice long-melted, resting on the table in front of him. He stared out into the darkness, watching the wind whip the long, skeletal branches of the trees on his estate, and the way the full moon's light bathed the gardens in a ghostly ambience.
The grandfather clock continued to tick, and he barely turned around when he heard someone enter the room behind him.
"You're late. Again."
"I'm sorry, father. Business as usual..." A sad, but polite voice, masculine and firm, but tinged with uncertainty.
The old man sighed, and slowly turned to face his son. The painful scars that dominated the young man's face, the lidless and red right eye, all of this had long since ceased to shock or disgust him. But it was always what he looked at first, a constant reminder of how he had failed his wife and son, a single moment of fear ruining two lifetimes and ending a third.
"Wayne Enterprises can survive a few hours without you, Bruce. You needn't push yourself so hard at the office." Thomas said, kindly. He knew this was a white lie. He knew where Bruce had most likely really been, what he had done.
Bruce's left face twitched, half-smiling, the most he could do. He sat down where Barbara had sat a few hours earlier; putting aside a brown leather suit-case he had carried.
"Yes, thank you father. Did...did you see Barbara today? Alfred told me about a rather indomitable woman he met today, which was suprising. I didn't think he 'd find anyone to feel that much affection for again."
Thomas grinned. "I don't think the woman Alfred was talking about was young Barbara, Bruce. Her nurse maybe...But Pennyworth's personal life is none of our business, Bruce, even if we do have rather too much sentiment for the old fool."
Bruce nodded. "I see you're evading my question, father."
"It's none of your concern."
Bruce's eyes lit up, and he curled his left lip. "The hell it isn't. I know exactly what you are thinking, dad. How can...how can you think she is ready?" His words were hot, but full of obvious concern.
"I don't. The girl may never be ready..." There was an unmistakable disappointment in his voice.
Bruce softened, picking up on his father's mood. "You...want her to be ready, don't you? You...even after all this time, you still think a Gordon can do it better." There was no bitterness in Bruce's voice, only a deep regret.
"Bruce..."
"No...I'm sorry. It's me who's let you down, father. I...I know I can never be the Dark Knight you want."
The old man reached forward, hugging his son without hesitation. "You have never let me down, son. I'm sorry; its me who has been unworthy of you."
They broke the hug awkwardly, and Bruce poured himself bourbon steadily. "Let's...let's drink, father. Like old times."
Thomas smiled. "I'd like that. To the future." He raised his glass.
"To forgetting old ghosts." Bruce responded, and they drank together, and sat in silence for a few moments, before turning the conversation to more trivial matters.
Deep within himself, Bruce Wayne had come to a resolution. His father clearly still saw his old friend in the young woman, Barbara. He wanted his father to feel happy, and having a Dark Knight again, a Gordon to patrol the streets, would make him feel that comfort again. He would please his father, whatever it took.
The scarred part of his face twitched, smiling in unison with his unmarred left-face. If Barbara wasn't ready, they would make her ready.
Barbara yawned, awakening in her bed, rolling over and looking at the time. It was already nearly eleven. She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. Another morning lost to fatigue. Once she'd been content to simply sleep her days, weeks, months away, each day blurring into the next. She could scarcely remember a time when she'd actually done anything meaningful with her time.
She struggled to rise from her bed, and all her excitement and energy about her meeting with Wayne had melted away. She was still stuck with a body that experienced near chronic agony. She sank back into the pillows, tears of frustration spilling from her eyes. Her limbs felt leaden. How had she fooled herself for even a few days into thinking she could really move past this.
She cried, the abyss overtaking her. A black mood fell across her like a pall. Even when Patricia came to help her up, she was reluctant, sour, and inward looking, her tone once again dead-pan.
How could she ever hope to amount to anything, experience any sort of life, normal or otherwise? She'd not spoken to real human beings about normal things in months. Even without her permanent grin, she was still impaired, exhaustion even after a full night's sleep making it impossible for her to rise from her bed without help. Another shower where a woman had to help her stand, help her hold on to a rail while hot, scalding water washed away dirt and make-up alike.
She was always afraid to look at herself in the mirror after the shower. Afraid of what she'd see. A corpse with wriggling red-worms for hair on her gaunt and shrivelled skull. Her black circled-eyes, their once bright blue irises now a murky and faded colour. Her sunken chest, exposed ribs, scarred, pallid, maggot-like skin. Her small, flabby breasts. Everything about her seemed washed-out, diminished from how she had used to be.
And yet, she couldn't tear her eyes away. She felt in some way as if she deserved this pain. That somehow her ugly body reflected her dead, empty soul within. Patricia yanked her listlessly away from the mirror, encouraging her to get dressed and come down for lunch.
"You ought to start seeing the therapist again, Barbara." Patricia had said later.
Barbara blinked, returning from her bleak reverie. She had been idly stabbing her cold, limp meal with a fork, barely eating anything. Patricia had looked at her with obvious frustration and sympathy, warring in her eyes.
"Dr. Whistler thinks you could make the most progress of any of her patients, if you simply applied yourself to the therapy, Barbara."
Barbara slammed the fork down, and seemed like she was about to say something, but then sighed.
"No need for such displays of temper, young dear. We're simply trying to help."
"I know! Ok? I...I know. I...just... God damn it, why can't I be normal?" She yelled with frustration, anger bubbling up. Anger was good, she knew. Anger let her do things she couldn't otherwise.
Patricia looked at her sternly.
"Barbara, if you need a time-out..."
"Time out? Time out? I'm not a fucking child, Patricia! I'm a woman of sixteen. People talk about me going to university or starting a job, but I haven't even finished High school! Its been a year since I've even had a...had a real friend, who wasn't just there out of guilt or some obligation." She tried to remember how she had channelled her anger before, using it as fuel. She remembered Ray's words. Make a fist of the pain.
She clenched her fist angrily, but did nothing with it, not yet.
"I want...I want to want things, and to be able to do them, and...and to make a difference." She mumbled, lamely.
Patricia looked at her. The stern black woman sighed, and sat back in her chair.
"Barbara, I have been by your side almost this entire past year. I have bathed you, I have fed you, I have cleaned up your sickness. I've let Wills visit you, even though he isn't family, because frankly, you needed someone to come visit you. But did you ever once consider why –I- was here? Do you think I could ever be paid enough for the time and effort I've put into looking after you?"
Barbara looked at her carer's sudden outburst with astonishment. She'd...she'd honestly never thought about it.
"I'm not just a city employee doing a chore, Barbara. There's plenty of others who'd do that, who've offered, but I alone have stuck by you. Maybe thats unprofessional, I don't care. But every day you're alive, you're making a difference. I know you don't want to hear about being an inspiring example or any of that, but let me tell you.
I'm here because I want to be. I can quit anytime. And Barbara, if you let this...this selfishness consume you, I will quit. Maybe you don't care. But I've watched you waste away, and said nothing, but I won't let you destroy yourself.
I want you to see Dr Whistler in a few days, and I want you to start physical therapy again. I know you want to be normal again, but there's the fast way and there's the right way. I want you to do it the right way, Barbara. You're sixteen. You have time, and you should use it. Stop pushing, and let us pull you up a bit."
The woman's words were well-meant, and the teenager felt sudden shame that she had overlooked the carer, that she had treated this woman as a constant, some robot-like assisted living machine. It hurt to know that she needed this woman, but this carer was a woman too. She could talk to her. She could...do something.
"Its...hard, Pat. It's so hard." She said, suddenly cold, bowing her head.
"I know. I know it's hard. But you do have hope, dear. You have to work through the pain. Your life is not over." The nurse said, encouragingly.
Barbara frowned, clenching her fist and grinding her teeth. She wanted control back, but she was still powerless. She'd been given something to want, she'd been given...answers, of a sort. But she'd also been reminded how impotent she was. She was impatient now, to escape the state she was in, to just...stop being the corpse she saw every day in the mirror, and be someone again. Thomas Wayne's words rang in her mind. Could she even consider living a life like her father had? It was dangerous, demanding work.
Yet, a part of it continued to enthrall her mind, to make her turn herself outward. A story that appealed to every part of her, her love of grand, spooky stories, her love of being the centre of attention, her wish for thrills both physical and intellectual, to push herself to her limits. A story that gave her suffering a dark kind of meaning.
I hurt because they wanted to hurt my father. He saved me.
If she had been on her own, she knew, she'd have long since collapsed and given in. Thoughts like that, the support of Patricia and Ray...they made it worth going on. But at the same time, she couldn't help but feel that all these people, so earnest and keen to help, were holding her back.
But they –did- care, she knew. Just because Patricia had been assigned to her, just because neither of them had much choice in this situation, doesn't mean there weren't choices that could be made. Barbara had made a choice to ignore her carer without even realising it. Patricia had made a choice to go far above and beyond the scope of her official duties, had made a choice to become something close to a surrogate parent to the girl.
It was something Barbara had to respect.
"All right. I'll do the therapy again. Let's...go see the doctor at Arkham again." She said, with great reluctance. She was sure that Harley would be happy to see her again. But every time she passed those grim, frowning walls, she couldn't help but be afraid that she'd never leave, that she'd just...start laughing again, and never stop, and be thrown into a padded cell, never to see daylight, never to be Barbara Gordon again.
The fact that she'd have to do group therapy with some people who'd had basically that happen to them was...not comforting.
"Can we...can we order some takeaway in? I want...I want a bit of spice in my diet." Barbara said, pushing away her cold, drab lunch. Patricia looked at her for a long time, and then consented.
"We can work together, Barb. Don't be afraid to talk to me."
Barbara nodded. The carer was right, for now. It galled her, but she had to co-operate.
She would return to Arkham Asylum.