The next morning found Jonathan up early and frowning down at his suitcase. He had overpacked when he'd planned his trip to visit Bruce, knowing he should only stay a couple weeks and, yet, not knowing how he'd feel on any given day. Therefore, not wanting to limit himself, he'd brought double the amount of clothes, enough for all sides of him. And while he'd never been dysphoric before, just mildly uncomfortable when he'd fluidly slipped between genders during the day, right now, dressing as Sugar wasn't a preference. It was a survival strategy. As Sugar, Jonathan felt much stronger and in control.
But, overprepared or not, that did not mean his suitcase was infinite. He was running out of underwear and stockings. The neckline of one of his dresses had torn, and there was a jelly stain on another. It was nothing that a needle and thread and washing machine couldn't fix. But, for the moment…
With great reluctance, he pulled out a full powder blue skirt scattered with white flowers, a white blouse, and blue cardigan. It was one of his nicer outfits that he'd only brought hoping that Bruce would feel well enough to appreciate the effort and much too nice for the wreckage Bane had made of the city. But he hadn't worn it yet, so it was clean without any wear and tear. It made him feel safe.
He had just finished putting on his makeup when someone pounded on the bedroom door.
"Yes?" Jonathan called.
The door opened, and Angel bounded in. "Hey, come on! They need us downstairs."
Jonathan put the cap on his lipstick and picked up a tissue to blot his lips. "Why?"
"They didn't tell me. Just to come get you and say we're going."
"Did they tell you where we're going?" He threw away the tissue, fluffed his hair and adjusted his headband.
Angel crossed his arms over his chest. "I swear to God, if you don't stop it, I'ma gonna tell Basard that you're being resistant."
Just for that, Jonathan spent an extra minute on his hair. "I don't think he'd believe you."
The kid stomped his foot.
With one final touch of his fingers to his bangs, Jonathan turned and smiled serenely at Angel. "I'm ready."
"Fuckin' finally." Angel turned and thumped down the stairs. "She's ready!" he hollered when he reached the bottom.
The two guards were waiting, rifles slung over their backs, ammunition vests strapped to their chests. They were armed to the teeth with pistols and knives, and as they gestured for Jonathan to follow them outside, he asked, "Should I have something to protect myself, too?"
The taller one smirked. "You'll be safe." He ushered Jonathan out to a Humvee parked in the alley.
Angel vibrated with excitement next to Jonathan in the back of the car. His fingers drummed on his thighs, toes tapped together, and he bounced in his seat. As they drove through the rubble of the city street and flipped cars, the kid got even more visibly excited.
Ah. To be young again.
They made a right onto the recently renamed Harvey Dent Boulevard when they were joined by three of the tanks Bruce drove when he was the Bat Man. Jonathan believed they might be called Tumblers. They most definitely weren't called the Batmobil, although the result when Jonathan called them that to Bruce's face was delightful.
His heart twisted, and Jonathan's breath caught. He pressed his hand against his chest and forced himself to breathe slowly.
Hold it together, Sugar. You can do this.
Blackgate prison came into view. The Humvee pulled to a stop just outside the small crowd of reporters that had gathered outside while the Tumblrs pushed their way through. A moment later, Bane climbed out of one and stood atop.
"Behind you stands a symbol of oppression," Bane shouted.
I wonder if he's really that loud or if he's got some sort of amplifier in that mask. Jonathan listened as Bane began talking about Harvey Dent, false idols, corrupt city, blah blah… He started to tune Bane out until Jonathan heard him say, "Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent. In the words of Gotham's Police Commissioner, James Gordon…"
Intrigued, Jonathan sat forward, eyes fastened on the terrorist. He couldn't help the smile that curved his lips as Bane read a letter that Gordon had written about how Dent had gone on a killing spree and then tried to kill Gordon's child. About how Bruce had taken the blame for Dent's crimes.
Deep down, Jonathan knew that Bruce, if he was still alive, would be devastated that the truth had come out. It had meant so much to Bruce for Harvey Dent to be thought of as a hero, and for all of it to come tumbling down…
But Jonathan didn't feel the same. If his boyfriend had to be a do-gooding vigilante who fought crime and saved people, then Jonathan felt he deserved to get credit. Bruce …the Bat Man deserved be a hero while Dent deserved to have his picture burning on the sidewalk, his reputation in tatters. So Jonathan watched with fierce pleasure as Bane tore down the lies that had kept Bruce from doing what he loved and not allowed him to take credit for all he had done for this city.
After the Tumblrs had blown the doors to the prison open and the terrorists had armed the freed prisoners, Jonathan's guards opened the doors to the Humvee and escorted him to the steps of the prison where Bane and Basard waited.
There were still reporters and cameras around. Jonathan noticed that Bane moved as Jonathan was brought to him, angling them so that Jonathan would be facing the cameras.
He hoped he looked okay. Not pretty okay; he could care fuck-all how he looked right now. But if Bruce was watching, Jonathan hoped he looked calm, collected, and in control. The last thing he wanted to do was add to the stress and pain Bruce was going through right now.
Jonathan tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows imperiously as he was brought before Bane. The other man's eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked down at Jonathan. He tilted his head in greeting.
"How have you enjoyed the festivities, Dr. Crane?"
"They're interesting. How long are you planning on dragging this out?"
Despite the mask, the amusement on Bane's face seemed to deepen. "Whatever do you mean?"
Jonathan studied his captor a moment as he moved words around in his brain, trying to figure out how to phrase his query. "I'm assuming that you don't plan to hold the city hostage indefinitely. You did say I'd have my chance to play right after you'd brought the city to the brink of destruction. I don't believe it's there yet."
"No, not yet. Not for some time. Don't worry. In the meantime, you mentioned you no longer had the formula. Where might it be?"
Every muscle froze as Jonathan tried not to react. He knew exactly where his notes were. Bruce had liberated them from Arkham Asylum, who'd confiscated the notes from Jonathan when he'd been committed. Now, Lucius Fox had his formula hidden away somewhere in "safe" at Wayne Enterprises.
When he trusted himself to speak, Jonathan said, "Logic would dictate that the police have it."
Bane studied him for a long, lingering moment. Then he reached out an arm and waved his hand.
Basard peeled away from the jagged hole the Tumblrs had blown in the prison.
"Take Dr. Crane to the GCPD. Make sure it's safe. Take as long as you need to look for your formula, Doctor."
He allowed a small smile. "Thank you." He turned to Basard.
Basard was beaming. Not as in smiling, at least not right now, but his face was lit up and his eyes soft as he looked at Jonathan. He placed his hand on Jonathan's lower back as he led him back to the Humvee. Jonathan's guards fell into place behind them.
"No Angel?" he asked.
"He's with his brother having fun. He'll be back." He helped Jonathan into the Humvee like it was a carriage and Jonathan was a heroine in a Jane Austen novel.
Jonathan moved so Basard could climb in next to him. "I forgot that his brother was in Blackgate." He looked out the window as the Humvee started and they drove away from the prison, further into the city.
Even with the streets blown to hell, cars littering the asphalt, and prisoners armed with automatic rifles swarming, they made it to police headquarters quickly. Basard helped Jonathan out of the Humvee and led him up the stairs.
The doors to the police station had been blown open. Smoke still billowed and bits of ceiling and concrete fell as electric wires sparked. Dead officers lay on the steps and inside. Jonathan carefully stepped around them, wincing when he slipped slightly in a puddle of blood.
Basard caught him and actually lifted him out of the puddle before setting him down on a clean space. "You all right?" His face was very close to Jonathan's.
"Yes." He realized he was clutching Basard's arm. Flustered, he let go and stepped away.
Gunfire sounded from somewhere in the building.
"Come," Basard said. He led Jonathan into the building, pushing open doors whose locks had been broken through.
"Wait," Jonathan said as they passed the commissioner's office. "I want to look in there."
Basard glanced at the broken window on the door where half of James Gordon's name was still visible. "You think your formula is in there?"
"No. But…" He found he couldn't explain his impulse.
"Basard!" someone shouted from down the hall. The sound of gunfire echoed.
Basard grimaced, looking toward the voice and back.
Jonathan smiled. "I'll be fine if you need to go. Unless…" You don't trust me.
More gunfire and then a small explosion that shook the building.
"Stay in the building." When Jonathan nodded, Basard unslung his rifle and took off running towards the commotion.
"Last stand of the desk jockeys," Jonathan muttered as he pushed open the door to Commissioner Gordon's office.
The office had already been ransacked. Glass littered the ground, the file cabinets were open, papers spilled everywhere. All the drawers on the desk were slightly open. The computer had been smashed and it looked like someone had masturbated on a framed photo of Gordon's daughter in her lovely prom dress.
Wrinkling his nose, Jonathan picked up the frame and flipped it over. He pried open the back, pulled the photograph out, and turned it so he could see the image again. Although the frame had been cracked, it didn't look like anything had gotten through the seams in the glass, so little Miss Gordon remained pristine and unsullied. Jonathan smiled and slipped the picture in the pocket of his skirt. He had no idea why he did it, but the image of the fresh-faced redhead beaming at the camera in her purple gown deserved a better home than the wreckage the police station had become.
That done, Jonathan sat in Gordon's seat behind the desk and studied it. Although it had clearly been searched, he opened the drawers and rifled through the various junk inside, unsure of what he was looking for. It wasn't until he found it that he knew: a hidden compartment, found as the false bottom of the middle drawer on the right hand side of the desk.
"Jim Gordon's secret vices," Jonathan muttered. He picked up a half pack of cigarettes and set it on the desk. There was a prescription bottle, which he opened. When he saw the blue pills, he grimaced at first, but upon pouring them onto his hand, realized he'd been too quick to judge. Rather than shoring up the commissioner's lacking virility, the drug proved to be Klonopin. In retrospect, the unmarked bottle and location made much more sense for anti-anxiety drugs than Viagra anyway.
Jonathan tucked the bottle into his pocket with the picture of Gordon's daughter and continued to dig. He found several versions of Gordon's confession about Dent, the first one dating back to a few weeks after Dent's death. As in all junk drawers, there was some spare change, a few rubber bands and…
His breath caught.
With trembling fingers, Jonathan carefully lifted the silver, bat-shaped object at the bottom of the drawer. He'd never seen one close up, although Bruce had told him about these. Batarangs, or some silly name like that. It was hefty in weight, hard, and metal. He knew it was a weapon, but he didn't know exactly how to use it. And having one wasn't enough to defend himself. But that wasn't why he wanted it.
Jonathan closed his eyes and released a breath. Squeezed the Batarang harder, feeling the edge bite into the palm of his hand.
He didn't want anyone to know he had this. While he doubted it'd be taken away from him, Jonathan didn't want to risk it. Right now, Basard seemed to be choosing to believe that Jonathan had been some kind of captive of Bruce's and that Bane had liberated him. And while Jonathan didn't believe for a second that Bane bought that story, the mercenary at least seemed to be willing to play along. As long as Jonathan behaved.
So Jonathan would behave.
He rose from the desk and put the Batarang into his pocket. Then, fighting for control of his breath, he made his way downstairs to the Property Room.
Jonathan had managed to escape Arkham once before he'd decided to leave Gotham entirely. It was on that breakout he'd discovered the Property Room, where the police kept evidence that they didn't know what to do with from closed cases. In his case, that meant his mask and maybe a can or two of toxin. Not the good stuff, of course; not the toxin he'd created for Ra's al Ghul. That Jonathan had stashed well away from prying eyes and managed to keep secret until Bruce caught him in Chicago. But the police had some of the less effective (read, fun) stuff on hand.
While he had absolutely no intention of making anything for Bane, Jonathan also didn't want Bane to be forced to use any persuasive techniques on him either. Which meant Jonathan was going to have to put on a good show, at least until he ran out of medication, started hallucinating, and became useless. Until then, he could pretend to use the old toxin to help formulate the better one.
His section of the Property Room was easy to find as everything was stored alphabetically. He found his box and got it open quickly. Inside, right on top was his mask.
He sighed as he picked it up. "Doesn't really go with my whole aesthetic, does it?"
The mask stared soullessly back at him, not answering. A tiny part of his being purred to see it, however, remembering the good times he'd had while wearing it. With a shrug, he turned it over and checked to make sure the filter was still in place. Also inside the box were four cans of toxin, his briefcase that he had rigged to release toxin when needed; his toxin dispenser, which consisted of a harness that held the can, a length of tubing that ran up his side and arm, and the release nozzle that rested under his wrist; and a broken pair of glasses.
Jonathan took the glasses out and sighed as he looked through them. He didn't often wear glasses anymore–he'd grown too vain about how pretty his eyes were–but he'd always liked this pair.
With a shrug, he set the glasses back in the box. Then he unbuttoned his cardigan, set it down, and began the painstaking process of putting on the toxin dispenser without actually stripping. The last thing he wanted was anyone walking in while he was half dressed.
He managed to get everything in place with a can of toxin strapped to his thigh and the tubbing hidden under his cardigan. He placed the rest of the cans in the briefcase and was about to set the mask in there as well when he heard a terrified scream echoing off the walls just outside the Property Room.
Jonathan turned, head cocked. Bringing his mask, he left the Property Room to investigate.
"No, no, please!" The woman's voice shook, hardly comprehensible around the gasping sobs.
Jonathan heard the crack of skin on skin. The woman cried out, and a man laughed. Another smack.
He turned the corner, entering a locker room.
There was already blood on the floor, a trail of it. Jonathan followed it, pulling his mask on. As he did, a sort of daze fell over him. Everything seemed dreamlike and hazy. Even his body functions didn't seem part of him. He could hear his breathing as if it came from far away. His heart beat, but it felt distant.
"Get back!" A gun fired.
"Fuckin' bitch!" This time, instead of a smack, there was a thud. The sound of something heavy hitting something hard.
Jonathan turned the corner and came upon the scene. One of the Blackgate prisoners, his orange jumpsuit hanging from his hips. He had a rifle in his hands, the butt of it facing a very pregnant officer slumped, unconscious in the showers. She'd been shot in the leg, Jonathan could see, blood flowing freely from the wound.
The prisoner laughed and dropped the rifle. "You're quiet now, just how I like my whores."
Jonathan sighed loudly. "Really, must you be so cliche?"
The man turned. His head reared back. "What the fuck are you?"
He pulled his mask up just enough for the man to see his face. Batting his eyelashes, Jonathan said, "Why don't you come over here and find out, big boy? Or is pregnant and unconscious the only thing that gets you hard?"
His face contorted. "You want to play that game? Fucking fine, I'll tear you up first and finish off with her."
Jonathan backed away, allowing his mask to fall.
The man growled and lunged at him.
He brought his wrist up. Fired.
The effect wasn't as immediate as with the good toxin. The man stepped back, shaking his head, confused. Then, after rubbing his eyes a moment, he got a look at Jonathan and started screaming.
A thrill rushed up Jonathan's spine. A tight, cramped space that he hadn't known was there unfurled.
The prisoner clawed at his eyes. Stumbled back, crashing into a wall of lockers.
A keen, visceral pleasure spread through Jonathan. He began to sink down to the floor, unable to look away from the prisoner.
"Got you."
Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan's waist, holding him up.
Startled, Jonathan turned his head.
Basard held him, smiling down at him. "You found your toxin then?"
Jonathan pulled the mask from his head. Feeling shy, he tried to pull away from Basard, but found he was too unsteady on his feet. Adrenaline and other emotions he didn't want to examine flooded his system, making him feel overwhelmed.
"Not exactly," he said breathlessly. "It's an old version. Something I can work from, though."
The prisoner let out a horrific screech. He ran into a row of lockers, slamming his head hard against them. His head hit the corner of one, gouging a deep cut in it. The blood only seemed to frighten him more, and his screams rose in pitch.
With a grimace, Basard pulled a pistol from his belt. He aimed at the man and fired, shooting him through the head.
The screaming ceased.
"Did you find your notes?" Basard holstered his weapon.
Jonathan began trembling. "Ah, no. They weren't here. Perhaps Arkham?"
"We'll go tomorrow, then. Do you need anything else from here?"
"Just my briefcase from the Property Room." His eyes strayed to the officer in the shower, who was stirring, regaining consciousness.
Unsure of what, exactly, Basard would do, Jonathan allowed his legs to go completely limp. The mercenary caught him before he fell.
"Are you all right?"
"Of course." Jonathan lowered his eyelashes as he clutched Basard's ammunition vest, pulling him so his back was to the shower. "It's just been a lot of excitement."
Basard nodded. "You're right. Let's get your things and go. We'll be moving locations tomorrow, anyway, so you'll want time to get ready."
"Again?"
Basard grinned. "Darling, the city is ours. Tonight, I'm going to find you the perfect place. Beautiful, elegant, lots of space. Fit for a queen." He ran his knuckle down the slope of Jonathan's nose. "You're going to want for nothing."
Right. But for how long?