NOTE:I do not, nor will not in the foreseeable future own Quantum Leap, Batman or any characters related to the two properties. Also, Chapter Two is unfinished, i apologize for just letting it hang like that, but i didn't want to wait until it was finished...lord knows how long that might take. Thanks for reading!
Chapter Two
The Detective in
The Waiting Room
Bruce Wayne considered himself many things, including a more than amateur detective. But of all the things he might have called himself presumptuous was not listed. And although he had always known to dissect his situation gradually, he found himself labeling his current position with one generalized word. : Hostage. He analyzed his surroundings.
He was in a decent sized room, though a little big for containing a person. The walls were white and blue; its amenities included a sink, toilet and an incredibly uncomfortable bench. For a hostage room this was quite "accommodating".
A few things, in Bruce's opinion, countered those listed above. For instance no mirror over the sink or any where for that matter, a video camera positioned (above and behind the toilet) so not to intrude on personal business. And the kicker that most easily disproved his theory was the fact that he was in no apparent way… restrained.
He had walked the room multiple times, taking notice of the door, which had no handle or knob; Just a slot big enough to fit a tray through. He returned to the bench in deep thought. The door rose open, releasing a man in a lab coat, and a woman (of African decent) carrying a clipboard and wearing professionally formal wear.
Their slightly relaxed strides told him they did not expect cooperation, but would much rather it. And depending on the questions inevitably asked, he would gladly give them that. The man approached the bench with slight caution.
"I am Dr. Gusheimer. Do you know who you are?"
Bruce being slightly confused at the simple question said, "Yes." His face was as still as a statue.
"Well?" The man asked, wafting bad breath in up Bruce's nostrils.
"Well, what?"
"What is your name?"
"Who wants to know?"
And just as the man started to turn red with fury, the woman, Dr. Verbena Beeks, interrupted to stop her college from loosing his top, and in a furious ramble, share too much.
"That's classified."
Bruce wasn't budging on this one. Oh, no. If they wanted information they would have to give him something to work with.
"Look," he said frankly, "I need to know what is going on. I am most obviously not a hostage. Unless you like your prisoners to be comfy while retained. Most wouldn't, so hostage is out of the question.
"Though your accommodations are similar to that of a tolerable motel, certain things don't compute. One: no doorknob. Just a slot sized for a tray. Two: this bench, though convenient, is incredibly uncomfortable. Meaning you don't think your guest will stay very long. Three: Controversial to number two, you have a toilet. So, you hope your guest won't stay long but you're not sure. And finally..." He said, subtly taking a breath. He had no idea why he was talking so much. After all, it wasn't in his nature to be chatty.
"Despite the bench, food slot, toilet, surveillance camera, yes I saw that too, the basic convenience of a mirror is nowhere to be seen." There was a pause of silence and then he continued.
"Why don't you want us to see our reflection?" That wasn't how he intended to word it. He had either referred to himself in the third person, or to a group of people in the third person. But why would he do that? He certainly wasn't trying to. It just came out wrong. It just came out.
Dr. Beeks sighed, "You are correct in thinking you did not come here willingly. However, we did not bring you here either. Let it suffice to say you are in no way in any danger, and that you were volunteered by a higher power to preserve the lives of others,"
"Little do they know," Bruce thought to himself.
"Or possibly your own."
"What do I have to do?" he said, in a mixture of confusion and concern.
"Just stay here." The man said gesturing his partner to follow. "When and if we are able to tell you more, we will." They walked toward the door, as Bruce flipped his legs to the opposite side of the bench facing the wall. He had noticed a very specific seal on their identification badges; one of a government status. Regrettably, he knew that he would have to make the first move. This was the U.S. Government.
"Wayne." He said lowering his head.
"I'm sorry?"
"My name, its Wayne; Bruce Wayne."
10 minutes later...
Al, Gushie and Mrs. Beckett stormed down the hallway in disbelief.
"ZIGGY!" Al screamed
"Uh-oh!" the computer moaned.
"If we know who he is why don't we have a lock?"
"Gotham City is a fictitious location."
"I know that! I mean has Sam leaped into a comic book or something? And how exactly did this happen?" His aspirin bottle was back by popular demand.
"Admiral, although we have recovered our data, it hasn't had the appropriate amount of time needed to recompile itself and sort things into their rightful places."
"So, the accelerator came on line without the rest of the necessary programming, and sent Sam anywhere!"
"Yes, as per your instructions, Admiral."
Al's eyes widened, and twitched as a vein in his forehead throbbed.
"You're saying this is my fault!" The surrounding people decided, for their own safety, to back away slowly.
"It is. You said, and I quote," When Ziggy spoke next; his words came out as a direct recording of Al. "'We need the accelerator back on line as soon as it's functional.' And so, the instant the necessary data was collected," He then played a sound clip of the activated accelerator, "…Told you." He said in a whisper.
As Al slowly, reached for a nearby soldering iron, Thelma stepped forward.
"Alright, let's all just calm down." She grabbed the tool from his hand and placed it harmlessly on a control panel. "Now, what happened to Sam?"
"Actually," Gushie said, "I have a theory." He paused for a moment, contemplating. "Well, I should say, I have Dr. Beckett's theory."
The group was impatient and annoyed. He had given ample time to comment, though, no one appeared to have anything productive to add.
"Dr. Beckett once told me of a set of data that contained abnormal figures. He had received it directly from Ziggy after testing the accelerator, which we later found out, was from a misfire. The error had somehow compromised the integrity of time itself!"
"What? What does that mean?" Al regretted asking.
"I had asked Dr. Beckett just that. He believed the misfire caused a time rip."
"Times rip? Like the paradox causing type?" Thelma panicked.
"Well, paradoxes are generally associated with time rips, but, no. The kind you are talking about, are most commonly caused by a drastic change in the past ultimately affecting the future, more specifically our present. It is fairly incredible we haven't caused a paradox yet. Then again, there are theories that state the past cannot be changed at all, though we obviously know that is not true. This theory, of course, is based in the inquiry of physical time travel, which we have not yet tapped into entirely. I mean project Quantum Leap has merely skimmed the surface of the-"
If they let him, this man would talk for hours. And so, they looked at one another and said in unison, "Gushie!"
"Oh! Of course; my apologies, I have a tendency to ramble if I do it again please simply tell me to-"
"Get on with it!" They chanted.
"Precisely," He said, knowing they had finished his statement. He brushed his fingers together, looking around for something. "Ah... One of you wouldn't happen to have a piece of string on you, by chance, would you?"
Al patted his pockets. Mrs. Beckett grabbed the bag sitting at her toes and cut a medium sized piece off of a roll of crocheting yarn.
"Here you are." She handed him the strand.
"Might I borrow your scissors as well?"
"You certainly may!" She handed him those too.
"Well, a person's life is like a length of string," He holds the ends up to illustrate.
"One end represents birth, the other represents death. If we tie the ends of the string together, this person's life becomes a loop." He ties the string and holds it by the curves of the loop.
"Next, by balling the loop together, the days in this life would touch one another out of sequence."
Ziggy interrupted and explained further.
"Therefore, jumping from one part of the string to another would allow someone to travel back and forth within their own lifetime, thus making a 'quantum leap' between each time period."
"Now," Gushie said, returning to the conversation, "Imagine my hands, represent the accelerator. They tie the knot, ball the string, and move said person within his own lifetime." He picks the scissors up once more.
"Then, say these scissors represent the accelerator misfiring. When the accelerator misfired," He opens the cutting device and inserts the ball of yarn in between its hinges, "It created not one, but, many" He snips at the yarn in enough places to drop small pieces onto the keyboard below, "separate rips, tearing the time stream apart." At that moment, Al gasped. He knew what had happened.
"Oh boy, it's the Confetti Theory." He was shocked he hadn't realized this before. As Gushie continued, Al compared the abnormal data in Ziggy's memory banks to the set recently recorded. It was a dead ringer, which could only mean one thing. Trouble was just around the corner.
"Precisely, Dr. Beckett believed the spaces between the confetti were gaps that a leaper would naturally have to pass over. However, he also stated that there was a possibility that if the leaper were vacuumed into that gap, it could lead to an alternate reality."
What if he gets sucked in?"
"Sam will be transported into the alternate realities, leap in, put right what once went wrong, and leap out. Just like every other leap."
"Surely, this is wreaking havoc on the continuum?"
"One would think so, but it is just the opposite. Sam said that with each run of the accelerator, the readings straightened out."
"We can't just launch the accelerator fifty times before it works itself out."
"No, no we can't. However, the computer's leaping process has not changed, so why should ours? We will track him down, find out what he must accomplish, and leap him out like normal. After he does his good deed and leaps out, it will be as though time is repairing itself. That is why the readings leveled off. There was no leaper to fix anything, so it fixed itself. Now, we will wait for Sam to fix it." He had been shifting shards of yarn around on the computer. The string was connected as a circle once again. All but one piece had been reconstructed.
"It's like a big jigsaw puzzle, fresh out of the box. All of the pieces are here. They may be jumbled up, but, they'll get sorted out, and after that it is just a matter," He pushed the final piece into its slot, "Of putting them into place." He looked up and knew that for once, something he had said made sense to someone other then himself.
"Well," Al questioned in confusion, "What do we do to find him?"
"That's . . . uh, a good . . . um, Ziggy?"
Even the super computer was, momentarily, stumped. "Might I suggest calling in the technicians?"
"Good idea!" He said, picking up the phone. "Perhaps they can sauce something out."
"And what do we do until then?" The concerned mother asked.
"Nothing," He replied, moving the mouthpiece away from his lips. "Dr. Beckett will be fine. For now, the less he has to worry about, the better. Hello," He moved the receiver back.
"Dr. Gushimer is right. Sam has enough on his plate already. I hope he can hold up till we find him." Al chattered on the keyboard again.
"What do you mean 'Hold up'?" Her hands were at her hips.
"Nothing against him, ma'am; It's just, Gotham City is gruesome enough on paper, but, in real life, why that would just be brutal." He cringed.
"Heck, even in the comics the authors had to limit the content in order to get seals of approval. But, a real life, no yellow tape Gotham City..." He stopped yet again, this time out of curiosity, "The man is crafty, but, this is gonna take a miracle."
And as everyone scattered to try to be useful, the bulky doors opened once more. This time to reveal a sleep deprived Donna Eleese.
"What's going to take a miracle?" She had that face on again. The Marine face, as Al called it. This called for back up.
"Gushie," The man popped up behind the clipboard holding a phone between his neck and shoulder, "Get over here will ya!"
"I've got to go Henry. Keep me updated." He hung up the device and ran. "Dr. Eleese, good to see you! What took you so long?" He greeted her, with the slightest bit of suck up in his tone.
"First, the only thing that worked in the house was the freaking phone. Second, traffic is backed out to the freeway. It took me two hours to get the power back on, and another two to get off of the expressway."
"Oh, I see." In his voice, he had a great deal of honest compassion to blend with the load of phony he was spoon-feeding her. What was even worse was that she was frustrated, and that meant now more than ever, she could see clean through him.
"Gushie cut the crap. What's going on?"
Yep, Al thought, this was definitely not going to go well. "Here we go again."
While the police inspected the crime scene, Sam wondered just who was under this mask. He knew who Batman was, every reader does. Bruce Wayne. "But what," Sam thought, "Did the real Bruce Wayne look like?" He reached for the mask, and in a brief moment of impulse, tugged at the cowl.
"Master Bruce," The statement halted him from revealing his identity. He looked around. It was just he, and the police. No one had talked to him, so who was it?
"Who-" He paused to rephrase, "Where are you?"
"Master Bruce. It is me. I am in the Bat-cave. I came to see if you perhaps wanted a snack that would tide you through the initial bore that comes with detective work. Before I reached the computer, I had noticed the Bat-mobile was absent. I then continued to the computer to track your whereabouts."
Sam was still looking around. Where was it coming from? He ran his fingers across the sides of the mask. He could barely feel it, but he then realized there was a small earpiece sewn into the hood.
"You've chased the Joker into a very nasty part of town. Do you require back up?"
"Back up?" Sam repeated, forgetting the line went both ways. If Sam remembered correctly, the voice on the other side was Alfred, faithful butler to the Wayne family. Who had taken the remark as confirmation and replied,
"Right then, Miss Gordon is at a dinner with her father. And I believe Master Grayson is at some sort of a sporting event." Sam could here the churning of the computer through the com link. "I will page them both and get back to you." The line clicked, he was gone.
"Grayson," he pondered, "I know that name." It was one of those familiarities that puts the food in your mouth, and then rips it away before chewing. He kept at it while pacing the alley, but just couldn't recollect. He tried the other name as well.
"Gordon," His first connection was the cop he just met, the commissioner. "Commissioner Gordon? No, why would he. . ." And finally the connection was made. Scenes of two masked vigilantes fighting at his side zoomed in and out of clarity.
The teen in the red, green and yellow attire was Robin. The mantle was currently held by the youngest, and last, of the Flying Grayson's. Dick Grayson.
The young lady in black and yellow was also wearing a cowl, Batgirl. Under the hood,
"Barbra Gordon." Sam realized. The images kept coming. The stunning combination of martial arts, and acrobatics were astonishing. This was a team not to be taken lightly.
"Barbra Gordon." He said again.
"What about her?" The commissioner asked, wondering what the Batman could possibly need with his little girl. "What about my daughter?"
"I, uh," How many more times would he have to forge his way through a conversation? "Once came to inform you of a potential crime. When I entered your office, I found her sitting at the desk."
"And," The commissioner asked yet again.
"Just couldn't remember her name. "He was talking too much. Batman wasn't chatty. Sam needed to shut up, or at least talk less.
Gordon was slightly suspicious, but wrote off the topic thinking he was having an off day. He pulled out his P.D.A.
"Only the best for a police force who does nothing." Sam thought. Then he retracted the statement. "That's not entirely true. Gordon has pulled his strings and gotten the cops back onto the streets where they belong. But, somehow incidences like these never seemed to cease.
"What do you know about the Arkham breakout?" He interrogated.
"Nothing." Sam stated frankly. Had he found out more info, he would let it be known.
The commissioner grunted. He must have received some bad news between now and the last time they talked or expected it. The palm pilot/phone vibrated and chirped to the midi ring tone.
"Odd." He murmured.
"What?" Sam retorted sharply, finally getting into the character that the Batman was.
"It's Barbara. Excuse me." He turned to face the concrete wall.
"Hello," He scratched his head.
"Again? This is the third time this month. I know th-" He paused and sighed.
"Barbara, please don't talk to me like a child I'm your father. Look I'll be back in a bit. I have something for you. Can you wait a few minutes?" His eyes deepened.
"I thought I heard a motor in the background. Alright, I understand." There must have been a bad connection, because he covered the ear opposite of the phone.
"No, go ahead. I'll see you next week." Sam turned away. He didn't want to intrude anymore than he already had.
"I love you too. Tell Wayne, he owes me three dinners." The police officer let out a halfhearted chuckle. The joke was just for comedic relief. It hadn't worked.
"Alright. Bye, bye." He returned to the previous conversation. And Sam once again faced his comrade.
"Something wrong, Jim?" That was his first name! It had just blurted out. The Swiss cheese memory was really toying with Sam this time.
"My daughter is interning as Bruce Wayne's personal assistant. Lives in the apartment above the Wayne Industries clock tower, goes to the office. Gets called in for a late night every dinner we have. This makes the third this month." This conversation seemed a little too personal to Sam. Then again, the commissioner and Batman had worked together for a very long time. Maybe this wasn't so odd.
"You were the first one here." Sam muttered.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you had to leave the table first." He was serious. How could Gordon be angry with his daughter for doing the same thing he had just done? Well, not exactly the same thing. But, still?
He grunted again, turned to his car, and said, "If you have any more information you know how to contact me."
"As do you." He replied, head towards the sky. The Bat-signal shined brightly in the night sky. It broke through the clouds and the newly pouring rain.
The commissioner walked a few steps and then came to an abrupt stop, as a blur of black and yellow landed in front of him, sprawling a cape out in a wide arching shape. The blur arose, and the cape pulled up to a normal length. It was Batgirl. She attempted to greet him as he got into the cruiser.
"Evening Commissioner." Her voice was a bit quieter than normal. Sam knew this was a reaction to coming face to face (or face to mask) with the father she had just lied to. The fact in the matter was they both ultimately left the dinner table for the same reason. Commissioner Gordon just didn't know it.
He grunted and shut the door. He was not a happy man at that point. This was very odd for Jim Gordon. Being a cop surrounded by corruption, greed and crime would have broken any new comers to Gotham within a few days. Not Jim Gordon though. He held tough through it all. But, apparently he had finally hit a rough patch.
Sam took this as a good thing. After all, no one is perfect and it was healthy to have some down time every now and again. He also took this, as a foreshadowing of the voice mail he, as Bruce Wayne, would face upon returning to the Bat-cave.
The car had trouble starting, and then burst to life after one last frustrated turn of the key. He waved out the window, turned on his headlights and windshield wipers then took off.
"He was in a decent mood wasn't he?" Batgirl asked, the shadow of a building hiding her concerned eyes.
"Yes." He said no more than that. She had only followed directions, as she was trained to. She needn't know how hurt her father was. Sam made a mental note to give her a few shifts off duty to visit with her dad.
At that moment Sam realized more of Batman's personality was bursting through over his. This had been normal; however, it had never happened so quickly. Why?
He started to ask Al, and was shocked to see that Al hadn't contacted him yet. He was late? No, Al was fairly prompt . . .sometimes. But, it wasn't like him to just leave him hanging either. Something had happened. The question was what?
"How did you get here so quickly?" He asked his partner, hoping she hadn't noticed the nod of the head that had happened due to habit.
"When he left, I expected a page from Alfred soon after. I just left, either hoping he would call me to cancel, or I would get back before he did."
Sam noticed the clenching of her fists. It was not out of anger. It was to relieve the tension in her knuckles. She must have used the grapnel. It had a tendency to jerk the fingers when it retracted. He made another mental note. Reinforce the support of the gloves and tinker with propulsion in grapnel gun. He wouldn't risk having to bench someone for a broken finger.
"Hurm." He said, embracing the dark and brooding side of the caped crusader.
"Are you alright? You seem a little off; more than your usual normal of off." As she approached him, her heels echoed down the alley.
"It's been a long night." He nodded ahead and then paced away from where he was standing. There was a playing card floating in a very shallow puddle. Batgirl picked it up, noting the oddly styled Joker on its face. This was something different.
"Hmm," She analyzed this. "Not a recent design, nor a classic one. I may have a book relevant to this in the clock tower." She reaches into one of the many compartments on her utility belt, pulls out a plastic baggy, and places the card in it. She then replaces it the same compartment.
"Alfred said you hadn't had the chance to finish your rounds. Care for some company?"
This was where Sam had to make a carefully made decision. Did he say "Sure", and stumble through a dangerous city without knowing what to look for, or go home and make his colleagues even more suspicious? Decisions, decisions...
"I'm going home." he said approaching the large vehicle known as The Bat-mobile, "I have to review these recent occurrences." He rubbed his forehead, because he was feeling the fatigue Bruce Wayne had left behind.
"Alright," she said following him to the car, "You don't look so good. Let me drive." She started to get in the car.
"No," he shoved his way in front of her, "The clock tower is in the opposite direction."
"I have to restock. My personal stocks have almost run out, and my belt is almost empty. At least follow me. You seem out of sorts."
"Follow you? How did you get here?"
"What do I always get here on?" Around the corner sat a purple motorcycle. This was hers to use freely. Robin also had a cycle of his own, if Sam remembered correctly. Why could he remember so much this time? It was all too familiar.
"Alright, I'll see you there." He entered the car. He pushed the ignition button and heard the intimidating motor growl to life. Before Batgirl mounted her cycle, she reached into the cockpit.
"I'm setting the car's auto pilot."
"Why?"
"This is going to keep you on track, should you doze off on our way home." She pushes a series of buttons and a small screen shows a map. Point "A" is his current location and point "B" was labeled "Bat-cave". She swung her right leg over the body of the cycle, put on a helmet resembling the same shape of the costume's standard cowl, and squealed out onto the main road.
He gripped the yolk as the jet engine blared behind him. The blazing engine was not necessary right now, so he attempted to shut it off. This backfired and made him double in speed. His eyes were heavy. He shut his eyes and let the white noise surround him. Tomorrow he had a lot of work to do, as Wayne, Batman and as Sam Beckett. He needed to find a way to contact his time. Yes, tomorrow would be a big day.
Henry Korwin sat at his console confused out of his skull. Dr. Sam Beckett had not only figured out how to break the fourth dimension, but unintentionally had also discovered the door to outside universes and alternate realities. While that astonished him, the greater problem was how the hell they were going to make contact. He rolled his chair over to, what had fondly been named, the "community chest".
In front of him were just simple things for tinkering with. A few pieces of scrap metal, an outdated notebook, a fried power source, the wire frame of the umbrella, a cell phone...it was a cluttered pile of junk. But when they had hit a block in the retrieval program, all they could do was program, and debug thousands of line of code. In their down time they would tinker and hope something they made would actually benefit someone.
He scanned the pile of junk over once more and attempted to think outside the box. At first the umbrella seemed like a waste of time, its only position in life was to make him think. It was just useless piece of junk, on an else wise useless pile of junk.
"And they wonder why the government wants to cut funding."
He grabbed the remainder of the umbrella and pushed the button rigged to open it. It opened. Then closed, and then opened again, and it kept repeating this cycle until Henry put it down. That's when it got stuck. He pushed the button again and it stopped fidgeting.
"Whose umbrella is this?" He shouted. Someone in the back of the room raised their hand quietly.
"How'd you do it?"
"It's quite simple actually," the woman got up silently and walked to the cluttered desk. Unbeknownst to her, a few of her colleagues followed behind closely, "I took the motor of an intermittent windshield wiper, and hot wired it to a garage door opener. All that was left was rigging the slider from the umbrella to the motor, which wasn't difficult to do, just hard to make look inconspicuous."
He pushed the button again before asking,
"Is the speed adjustable?"
The lady took no time to answer,
"Yeah, right here. Hence the intermittent windshield wiper motor. I had started this thing for a conceptual leaper locator. Of course that was before the imaging chamber was designed. Simply put, it would release-"
"It would release pulses of supersonic and electromagnetic waves."
"Precisely, it would work in a similar fashion to sonar. Unfortunately, I never was able to get the pulses to work. It's been sitting on this table ever since."
He stopped for a moment, and twisted the device in his hand.
"Maria, I need you to drop whatever you're working on."
"I'm not sure I can. Ziggy has been having minor circuitry shorts."
"Or so she thinks." The hybrid computer remarked.
"I've been monitoring a basic diagnostic analysis. As of thus, Ziggy's vitals all check out, but there is still much left to scan."
"Jake!" He yelped.
"No need to yell," he answered, scaring Maria, who turned around to see a mob of people observing the gadget, "I'm right here."
"I need you to do two things: One, find a technician to take up Maria's diagnostic scan. Two, gather the department heads and meet me in..." He finally realized that the mob was listening closely, "Get out of here! Go back to your work, come on folks," the mob scattered, "We're professionals!" He then returned to his previous conversation.
"422." He whispered.
"422? But,"
"Shush..." He hissed with his finger on his lips.
"But, sir, 422 is off limits. You need top clearance just to get into the elevator!"
"Don't worry about clearance. Do what I said and be there in 20 minutes. Maria, you go with him."
"You got it."
"Oh, and one more thing:"
"Sure, you name it."
"Order a pizza, this is gonna be a long night."
Meanwhile in the Waiting Room...
Bruce Wayne awaited his meal. He had been visited by Dr. Verbina Beeks a multitude of times in the last hour, for reasons of which he was unaware. Or so he let them believe.
"Welcome back, Dr." He graciously greeted her.
"Hello Mr. Wayne. How have you been keeping?"
"During the five minutes between visits?" He smiled politely, "Just fine ma'am, just fine."