Meanwhile, far from Gotham…
Ra’s al Ghul regarded the form in the mirror with satisfaction. He made a barely visible movement of his index finger and Ne’roal, the individual to his right, held up a black suit jacket. Ingar, the servant on his left, adjusted his tie. And Ko’rath stood behind waiting with a jewel-encrusted cloak.
By tomorrow, he would again have an Ubu standing by to fulfill Ko’rath’s role as his bodyguard and personal attendant. This would please Ko’rath no less than it would please Ra’s Al Ghul himself. For Ko’rath, while an admirable soldier and an adequate valet, had one personal habit Ra’s could not abide: he played the flute. It was galling to sense that his first attendant, the minion singled out above all others to serve his personal needs until the next Ubu was called, actually wanted to be finished with the day’s work and return to his own room. Ubu always stood by to listen respectfully to his master’s musings on the day’s events. Ko’rath positively rushed the evening toilet in his haste to be on his own personal time, and then, mere minutes after he retired to his room, the quaintly doleful music of the hill people would begin to seep through the wall separating the valet’s quarters from Ra’s bedroom. Ra’s considered moving Ko’rath down the hall, but that rather defeated the purpose of having his attendant’s room adjacent to his own.
Satisfied with the adjustments to his tie, Ra’s dismissed Ne’roal and Ingar and nodded to Ko’rath to step forward with the cloak and wrap it around his shoulders.
“No,” he declared as Ko’rath brought forth a golden clasp to fasten it, “the crimson diamonds today.”
The red diamonds he desired to fasten his cloak at the throat were the same scarlet as his tie. It was well to consider such things when he was leaving the compound to be seen by the people, for the peasantry would speak of this day and how he appeared for generations to come.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said absently, “Crimson diamonds. I came upon them over a century ago visiting a tribe in Zaire. A fascinating representation of the classic ‘diamond in the rough’ adage, as I could hardly believe that that particular tribe, extremely poor and savage, could possess a stone of such beauty. When they found it missing, they slaughtered all of the neighboring tribes in retribution. I had these two fashioned out of the original as a reminder of the brutality inherent in human nature. Appropriate, I think, that they are the color of blood.”
Ko’rath made the quiet grunt Ra’s had come to recognize as respectful acknowledgement, although its similarity to the Detective’s grunt nearly caused Ra’s to have Ko’rath killed the first time he heard it.
The Detective.
That the opposition of that one man could slow his march to world domination, it was intolerable. Every year wasted made it more intolerable. Perhaps the time had come to reassess the situation. He would have plenty of time to consider the question in the course of the day’s journey.
Ra’s had castles, compounds, and installations all over the world, but his principle base for acquiring and training personnel remained in the wild Fagaras Mountains of Transylvania. The wandering gypsies that came each year to nearby Bistrita brought a regular influx of recruits. The gypsies were outsiders in Romania; despised as thieves and vagabonds, they kept to themselves. If a few young men disappeared from their m idst as they made their pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Gregory, what could they do? Of course, the snatching of gypsies for the lower tiers of soldiers was beneath his notice. But today’s business did require his Imperial attention. Today he traveled to Sighisoara, a town almost perfectly preserved in its medieval heritage, to call forth the next Ubu.
If Sighisoara was known to the West, it would be as the birthplace of Vlad Tepes, commonly called Dracula. But Ra’s al Ghul had seen that the town never received that kind of notice, for that would bring tourists and change. And he wanted Sighisoara kept unspoiled. For that reason, he had kept them sheltered from the Communists, and the villagers were appropriately grateful. They showed their gratitude by sending every healthy born male who met the proper physical requirements to the special training compound outside Eger in Hungary. The fierce warriors of Eger were legendary in this part of the world. It was said 2,000 Hungarians of Eger once drove off 100,000 enemy Turks. The defeated Turks themselves spread the story of how the Egerians’ mouths were red; it was whispered they drank bull’s blood to gain superhuman strength.
This was the grand tradition in which his elite troops were cultivated… And still the damnable Detective thwarted his men at every turn! Since the spy Nethal was sent back to him in disgrace, no fewer than nineteen agents had been expelled from Gotham City. All had been bested, physically as well as mentally, and not all by the Detective’s own hand, but his followers: the upstart boys, that girl assassin, the Canary, and even the feline.
The Demon’s Head was still determined to have Batman for his heir. But in the privacy of his own mind, on this bumpy road to Sighisoara, he did begin to consider: perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to it than the blanket admiration he granted a worthy foe. There was something about that place that produced these people: not the Detective alone, but those others he gathered around him, that kept getting the better of all his minions. It warranted investigation.
When the time had come to depart the comforts of the transport for the stink of the village streets, Ra’s Al Ghul deigned to speak to his driver:
“Driver, send word to Ulstarn that I wish a teleconference as soon as I return to the compound. That will be after two o’clock Gotham time, but see to it that he is there well before three.”
Ra’s saw no need to explain to a subordinate that the timing was to insure the call would be done with well before dinner. Speaking to Ulstarn, his lieutenant governing the Gotham City operation, always put Ra’s off his food.
The Demon’s Head proceeded to the Goldsmith’s Tower, highest point in the Citadel, for the ceremony. The three young men deemed worthy presented themselves for consideration as Ubu. They prostrated themselves and gave the oath of loyalty—in the long form. This was appropriate to the solemnity of the ceremony, but Ra’s couldn’t help but wince, knowing Ulstarn would insist on reciting the long form once, if not twice, in the course of their upcoming phonecall.
As the three Ubu candidates performed the ritual trials of strength and bravery, Ra’s started to reconsider: Simply talking to Ulstarn was an annoyance. Did he actually want to travel to Gotham City and have to deal with his psychotically paranoid lieutenant in person? He did not. Nevertheless, it was necessary. If he was to solve this mysterious advantage the Detective seemed to draw from his city, it was necessary.
The trials concluded, and Ra’s had each Ubu-candidate step forward in turn. During this phase of the ceremony, he could question each man at length. But the details of their genealogy and training were already known to him, and there was nothing else to ask about. They had no lives or interests beyond the indoctrination to the DEMON Cult. He therefore asked each man how he felt during the previous trials and didn’t bother listening to their answers. Instead, he thought ahead to the difficulties of infiltrating the Detective’s city with his Imperial presence while delaying the Detective’s knowledge of said presence for as long as possible.
Eventually, the room went still. The last candidate had answered the last question, and all waited for The Demon’s Head to speak.
“Number three,” Ra’s al Ghul pronounced finally, “Number three that was born Corcea Porumbescu, son of Joseph Porumbescu of Sighisoara, I call you forth to serve me as Ubu.”
The first two candidates were immediately escorted from the ring and offered a variety of knives, swords, maces and chains. Each chose a weapon and then returned to the ring to attack. When the unarmed Ubu successfully fought his armed opponents to the death, the ceremony would be concluded.
Meanwhile, even farther from Gotham…
Batman hit the side of the Watchtower transporter tube with the full force of his fist. His costume was visibly ripped and torn, but that was nothing compared to the body underneath. The headstrong fools, they couldn’t do it his way, and this was the result. They had to make up their own plan—to use the word loosely—as they went along. What the hell was Superman trying to accomplish anyway? And Diana was worse. Everything he tried, they undermined. Everything! Whatever he did reverted back to… to whatever it was they was going for, and even now he couldn’t say what that was—nor, he guessed, could they. And this was the result. He was battered. His entire body was utterly, brutally battered! It was the most humiliating physical beating he’d suffered since Prometheus, and it was all because the queen bitch and her Kryptonian lapdog had to do it their way.
“Batman, you’re still here?”
“Yes!” he spat, “what is it, J’onn?”
“I wanted to thank you. That was a close call with the ion accelerator, if you hadn’t bought us the time to… well, Atom would be gone and Plastic Man—”
“Would be permanently trapped as a mass of unstable proton soup, I know. Next time—”
“Next time, I, for one, will vote to do it your way.”
Batman grunted. It was a little late for promises like that. J’onn’s abstaining vote had stung him far worse than that Gev/R beam. As much as Diana evangelized about leadership in the League (“Kal is the real leader”), Batman and J’onn were the only real strategists, and Batman had always felt that created a knowing bond between them.
є˜˜You realize,˜˜э he thought the rebuke rather than speaking it aloud, є˜˜Your vote would have made the difference. The brat pack follows your lead.˜˜э
є˜˜Don’t call them that,˜˜э J’onn thought back. It was true that Flash, Green Lantern and Plastic Man were apt to follow whenever Batman and the Martian jointly supported some strategy. But J’onn preferred thinking of them as Wally, Kyle and Eel, not as a voting block.
є˜˜They are a voting block,˜˜э Batman thought dryly, and only then did J’onn realize he had let his thought float over their telepathic link where an alert mind, such as Bruce’s, could sense it just as he might read body language.
є˜˜They’re friends,˜˜э J’onn argued.
є˜˜They’re friends, yes. Because they ’re young. Because two of them replaced older heroes. Because they have things in common. And all that means they can be influenced by the same appeals. They are a voting block, J’onn. I won’t stand by and let them become a faction.˜˜э
є˜˜And they’re a faction if they agree with Clark and Diana instead of you?˜˜э
є˜˜Yes, because Diana has an agenda. All she cares about these days is gaining back her prestige after that disaster last year.˜˜э
є˜˜And what is your agenda, Bruce?˜˜э
Batman’s eyes met the Martian’s, and he dropped the conversational tone of their telepathic exchange for the deep menacing gravel:
“Not to ever again take a beating like that because Princess got her hair mussed.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go home. Analyze what went wrong.”
“Wrong? We were successful… in the end.”
“Look at me, J’onn. With these bruises, it’ll be two weeks before Bruce Wayne can go out in public. I don’t mean to waste that time playing solitaire. I’ll be analyzing the battle, figuring out what went wrong, and planning a better defense for next time. Work the mind while the body heals.”
“I see,” he shrugged and started to leave, then turned back as an unexpected thought flashed over the telepathic link a nanosecond before Batman disappeared in the transporter. The Martian smiled. “Yes, I expect she will.”
Meanwhile, not quite so far from Gotham…
:: Great One, :: the cloying voice groveled over the satellite hookup, :: your lowliest and most humble servant begs to greet The Demon’s Head with the oath of loyalty! ::
“That will not be necessary, Ulstarn. This communication must be very short, you will soon learn why.”
:: Yes, my Master, your undeserving servant begs to know how he may serve. ::
“I will require lodging in Gotham City for myself and an entourage of forty-six. The top three floors of the Imperial Hotel proved adequate last time. And prepare a list of promising individuals who have opposed the Detective. Successfully, mind you, I shan’t waste my time with failures incarcerated in their prisons or asylums.”
:: My Master honors me with his orders. Sire, your servant begs to be allowed to sign off with the oath of loyalty… ::
Meanwhile, in the heart of Gotham…
Harley Quinn tossed her last bite of pretzel to a pigeon and shuffled out the east exit of Robinson Park. Alone. Forlorn and alone. She didn’t even know why she’d come to the park with Poison Ivy still incarcerated in Arkham. So alone. So forlorn and alone. Her Puddin’ had cast her off like so much used bath water. And Red! Her bestest buddy Red had cheered the news. Nobody understood her woes. Nobody understood her breaking heart. HER PUDDIN’! The one and only Mistah J! And he was done with her!
Unable to stand Joker’s pointed rejection in the rec room and Ivy’s equally pointed lack of sympathy, Harley gave one of the most astounding pretences of sanity ever seen within the halls of Arkham Asylum. It achieved her release in under two weeks, setting a new Arkham record, but it booted her back out here, in Gotham, with nowhere to go. Alone, alone, forlorn and alone. Her heart was breaking and there was no one to turn to. No Mr. J. No Red. Roxy Rocket hated her living guts. “A mere sidekick” that achieved such a prominent place in Gotham, whereas Roxy, a crook in her own right, couldn’t get into the spotlight if she did a striptease in Gotham Plaza.
Looking up at the lush parkfront condos, Harley realized that Selina lived in this part of town. Selina wasn’t a bestest buddy or anything like Red, but Harley had heard her use the phrase ‘estrogen solidarity’ one night at the Iceberg. That was worth something. It was worth a shot, certainly. Anything was better than being oh so alone, alone, forlorn and alone in her misery. With a new skip in her step, Harley trod under the canopy, past the doorman, and into the apartment building.
Approximately ten minutes later, she rushed out. “Scary man in Catty’s apartment,” she told the doorman. “Scary man from the Highland games, moving into Catty’s apartment,” she told the pigeon. “Scary man with Bride of Frankenstein hair!” she yelped to the coffee vendor, pointing towards the building.
Raoul looked at the fevered blonde, then in the direction she was pointing… the tall redheaded man who had bought a tall espresso that morning.
“What about a nice café au lait, Miss. You know, I’ve been on this corner for quite a while. In my experience, it doesn’t do to be a snob. Stand outside the park long enough, you’ll see just about everything. Just because someone is a little odd, maybe even looks like a dangerous crazy, that doesn’t mean they don’t have $5 for a cup of coffee.”
He handed her a cup, and held out his hand expectantly.
Harley looked at Raoul, reminded of the Starbucks clerk Puddin’ killed that time, and burst into tears.
It took a special kind of crazy to stand in front of the Flick Theatre, with its massive Comedy-Tragedy masks decorating the façade like gargoyles, and wonder if you were in the right place. Yet this is exactly what Harley Quinn did. She looked down at the sheet of paper for which she’d paid Oswald Cobblepot $50. She looked up at the giant laughing face, she looked up at the weeping face next to it, then down at the paper again. She reread the address and double-checked the street sign. Yes, this was the place.
“Hidilly, hodilly,” she called entering the enormous lobby of the former movie palace, “It’s Harley Qui-inn. Harvey? Twofers? You home?”
In answer, Harley found herself simultaneously picked up and pushed back by a strong masculine presence mere seconds before a piercing squeal split the air and green beams bathed the spot she just occupied in greenish-yellow haze.
“You should call first,” Two-Face said sternly. “Don’t just barge into someone’s hideout without an invitation.”
He turned and walked off; Harley giggled and followed.
“So whatcha doin’ anyways? Testin’ out a deathtrap for Batsy?”
“We have always equipped our hideouts with perimeter defenses, Quinn.”
“Oh, ‘cause if you were testin’ a deathtrap, I could help out with that. Mistah J always let me test out the springs and catapults and trapdoors…”
“Harley.”
“…and the chains and sacks and tanks…”
“Harley.”
“There was this one time I got stucked in this vat with leeches in it, and Mistah J said-”
“HARLEY! Stop. You’re an educated woman; pronounce the R! Mist-er J.”
Harley started to cry.
“Mistah J, oh my Mistah J. We’re splitzville, Harvey. My Puddin’ done throwed me away.”
Harvey regarded her for a minute, took out the coin and flipped, then looked at it in disgust.
“And while we’re at it,” he said standing, “try pronouncing the G. My PuddING, not Puddin’, Pudding.”
More sobbing wails followed.
“O-o-o-oh,” Bruce moaned, “Don’t stop. I’ll give you another room. Two if you want. Or another trip to Paris. Just… don’t… stop…”
Light, sure fingers worked behind the shoulders to the base of his neck.
“I don’t need another room,” Selina assured him, “but I do need more liniment. Hold that thought.”
Bruce watched her disappear into the bathroom and wondered if she really needed more, or was making an excuse to stop just because he said not to. “Impossible woman,” he told the cat pawing an extra bit of bandage.
He’d have to admit, so far, it wasn’t the worst recovery he’d ever undergone. She had found him in the cave only a short while after he returned from the Watchtower. The sharp gasp when she saw his condition she quickly hid in a light “Somebody forgot to duck.”
He gave a soft grunt—which hurt, somehow tugging neck muscles that were already punished beyond endurance. It must have showed because the glib ‘forgot to duck’ manner melted.
“It’s okay,” her soft voice soothed, “Kitten will make it better.” He headed instinctively for the cave infirmary, but Selina pulled him towards the costume vault. “No way. Not another ‘I’ll just stay in my cave and brood’ episode. Upstairs. Now.” It was a tone Batman knew well. If she was in costume, there would have been a whipcrack in place of the ‘Now’.
He’d started to object. Alfred was perfectly capable of tending these kinds of burns and bruises; he’d done it many times before, and always in the cave infirmary. Batman preferred to put in a little cave time after a lengthy JLA mission, if only to get caught up on the… status of… everything… Suddenly, it all seemed like an awful lot to go into. Especially since she’d taken a clawed glove from her shelf and was diligently tearing away the last bits of his costume. She was obviously going to do this, with his help or without it. And he knew he didn’t have the energy to oppose her. What was the point anyway? Upstairs or down, what did it matter?
Ulstarn began by tidying his desk. Then, deciding that really was not sufficient for the importance of the task before him, he cleaned the desktop completely. Then he found a towel and wiped it off. Then he arranged the intelligence reports in a neat stack on his left, perfectly parallel with the bottom edge of the desk. The status updates he placed with equal precision to his right, and, directly in front of him, he positioned a lined white legal pad.
“Prepare a list,” the Demon’s Head had ordered, “of promising individuals who have opposed the Detective successfully.”
Ulstarn lifted his pen and scanned the first report, eager to follow his master’s order to the letter…
…three hours later, Ulstarn regarded the pristine white pages still before him. A list Ra’s al Ghul had ordered, and a list Ulstarn would deliver. Individuals who opposed the Detective were in ready supply, and “promising” was a matter of opinion. The difficulty lay in that word “successfully.”
Ulstarn glanced at the intelligence reports again, sighed, and went to the filing cabinet. He returned with a thicker stack, repo rts for the six months prior to those he had started with…
…three hours later, Ulstarn returned the reports to the filing cabinet and went down to the basement. He emerged with a storage box of the previous four years of intelligence…
…two hours later, the pen, at last, wrote a name:
Catwoman.
Ulstarn regarded the word with distaste. ONE NAME? Eight hours, and he had unearthed ONE Gotham criminal that had never been captured?? He could not, he knew, hand Ra’s Al Ghul a list consisting of a single word. He returned to the files…
…six hours later, Ulstarn went to bed, dejected.
He awoke with a blessed inspiration! Ra’s al Ghul had decreed: “I shan’t waste my time with failures incarcerated in their prisons or asylums.” Surely that must mean criminals that were CURRENTLY incarcerated in their prisons. Anyone could be captured, but those that were and subsequently freed themselves were surely worthy of consideration!
Ulstarn recalled the Master’s precise words “…who have opposed the Detective successfully.” The master did not order a list of individuals “who defeated the Detective.” They merely had to oppose him—successfully. And could it not be said that any man who stands against another has successfully opposed him? Of course it could! Like the very first account Ulstarn had read last night: Two-Face, who so recently succeeded in kidnapping “the Upstart Nightwing” (as he was known in DEMON circles). The Upstart Nightwing was, in a way, the Detective’s second, his best lieutenant, just as Ulstarn was Ra’s Al Ghul’s. To succeed in kidnapping such a one surely was a worthy feat of opposition!
Ulstarn returned to his desk, happily slid the four years of old reports back into their box, and wrote the name Two-Face beneath that of Catwoman. Then he looked to the status reports to his right. He need only find any other individuals, now free, that had mounted a worthy opposition to The Detective.
Once Bruce had resigned himself to being led upstairs, the specifics didn’t seem to matter. He was surprised when Selina turned left instead of right in the upstairs hall, into her suite of rooms rather than his bedroom. There was an exciting strangeness to it, like those first visits to her apartment after patrol.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing him to the sofa. Whiskers looked up from his cushion and Bruce seemed to see Selina’s earlier comment echoed in the cat’s eyes: ‘Somebody forgot to duck.’
Selina busied herself gathering… just what she was gathering he couldn’t see… and when he stretched his neck to get a better look, the pain shooting down his chest was excruciating. He closed his eyes and leaned back, content to wait and see rather than aggravate his aching body further.
He focused on the chakra, which he preferred to think of as his center of gravity, to block out the pain… and he thought back to those first visits to Selina’s apartment when the relationship had only started to change. There was a hint of the forbidden, not infiltrating a criminal’s lair, but inviting himself, socially. He’d been slow, back then, to realize the true nature of her apartment. Catwoman might have hideouts just as Batman had the cave, but the apartment was Selina’s home just as Wayne Manor was Bruce’s. It had little to do with her nightlife. If he’d realized that at the beginning, he wondered if he would have entered so freely.
Back in the present, Bruce felt himself pulled from his memories by a rush of sensory inp ut:
-incense- He hadn’t noticed it at first; it was such a deeply imbedded sense memory from Tibet, even after all these years in which he seldom burned incense while meditating, his body and mind instinctively recognized the rightness of those subtle aromas while his mind focused on the chakra.
-music- Beethoven. That was nice. He knew Selina listened to jazz after a rough day, so the classical must have been specially chosen for him.
-fur- ?
Bruce’s eyes opened and he looked into his lap.
“Nutmeg?” he asked. The warm bundle looked up at him with that same ‘Forget to duck?’ expression.
“Pet the cat,” Selina instructed. “It lowers the blood pressure.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“I have rosewater, aloe balm, and liniment for your assorted wounds and contusions, and assuming there’s any part of you left unbruised, I even have some delicious herbal massage oil. Now, if you want a rub down and all the associated TLC, pet the cat.”
Harvey sat down a glass of water and a box of Kleenex before his guest.
“Now then, what can we do for you?”
“I need a lawyer,” Harley sobbed. “Puddin’ and I are splitzville. And I just have to get custody of the babies, Harvey; I have to. Puddin’ doesn’t know how to mix the hyena chow, and Slobberpuss likes a second walk after dinner, and—”
“The hyenas? You want custody of two pet hyenas??? You don’t need a lawyer, Harley; you need a leash.”
Harley blew her nose loudly.
“A leash?”
“Or some rope.”
“Oh.”
She blew her nose again, and Two-Face stood, nudging her towards the door.
“Not that we care, but what finally made that Joker-camel paraplegic?”
“Huh?”
“You and Joker. What was the final straw? What split you up?”
“Oh… bagpipes.”
“Ask an insane question,” Harvey muttered to Two-Face.
“Puddin’ got mad ‘cause I tripped over bagpipes when Red ‘n’ me went to those Highland Games, where she met the creepy guy that didn’t go fer the pheromones ‘n’ said he just looked at her to be polite.”
Two-Face stared. Harvey stared.
“Harley,” he said finally, “Why rush off? Stay a while. Let us buy you lunch. We will take you to our favorite restaurant.”
Then he paused, half his psyche railing against the wrongness of it all. No, regardless of how much he wanted to hear the Ivy story, Fate should decide who bought lunch.
“On second thought, heads we’re buying; scarred-side it’s your treat.”
Ulstarn considered the picture of a small, weaselly looking character in a large hat. The Mad Hatter. Certainly he opposed the Detective a number of times, and certainly he was free. But the Master distrusted madness, and this character put the word right in his title. Pass.
The Scarecrow. Another impressive resume of opposition… but there was this odd notation in the margin of the psychological profile, next to the paragraph about bullies. “Introduce him to Ulcer. Ha, ha.” Ulstarn recognized the handwriting as that of Ish’koan, a particularly difficult disciplinary case sent to Gotham last year. Ulstarn regarded the photo of Jonathan Crane critically. Pass.
Catman. Especi ally daring if not downright reckless due to belief that magical properties of his costume endows him with nine lives of… no. That would only offend the Great One, whose immortality was celebrated daily in the loyalty oath… which reminded Ulstarn, it was time to make the morning report to the most Glorious Demon’s Head even as his plane flew towards Gotham, a city now twice honored by a personal visit from the Imperial Presence.
Ulstarn looked down at his list. Three names. It would have to be enough.
“So,” Selina said finally, once her patient seemed suitably relaxed by the massage, “tell me what the other guy looks like.”
“The other guy was a Gamma-Gorgon,” Bruce murmured, “Hideous… even before the fight.”
Selina laughed.
“Not funny. Sixteen feet tall, wings, claws, scales, fangs, and this vicious snake tongue that whipped out radioactive—Hey, that hurt!”
The massage had ceased and Selina rapped irate fingers across his bruised shoulder.
“A sixteen foot radioactive snake thing!?! And you couldn’t let one of the invincible wonder-schmucks fight it?”
“I could have, if there had been any sort of advance assessment of what we were getting in to, if any of the ‘invincible wonder-schmucks’ thought that was necessary, but it seems stopping to consider that something calling itself the Absolute Bal-Sagoth just MIGHT have something nasty guarding its Neolith of Power, that’s just a quirky little fetish of mine…”
“Bruce, sweetie, calm down.”
“…undoubtedly caused by the fact that if my skin is hit with a beam of ionizing radiation, it burns!”
“Bruce?”
“And if I’m punctured with a fucking two foot fang, I’ll bleed!”
“Bruce!”
“WHAT!”
“Calm. Down. Now. You’re scaring the cats.”
She pointed. Behind the plump mass of velvet and moiré that was Whiskers’s favorite cushion, a mass of Russian Blue fur was imperfectly hidden. Behind that, the tan and white points of Nutmeg’s ears were clearly visible.
“Sorry,” he mouthed silently.
“Don’t tell me; I’m used to your tempers.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not suggesting I apologize to a cat.”
“No, I’m not suggesting; I’m insisting.”
“Selina.”
“Did you enjoy your massage?”
“Selina.”
“I think you mentioned Paris before.”
“Impossible woman.”
“Meow.”
:: Would The Great One permit his most unworthy servant to mark this most revered day by closing my report with the oath of loyalty in the long form? ::
“Ulstarn, we will be arriving in Gotham City in a matter of hours; surely you will prefer to wait and use the long form to greet us in person.”
:: My Master, I will be only too happy to repeat the long form at that time… ::
Ra’s sighed and cautiously turned down the volume as Ulstarn launched into the long form of the loyalty oath. He really couldn’t complain about an excess of devotion, however trying it might be at times, as long as Ulstarn continued to perform his duties as expected. Certainly the man succeeded in keeping Gotham City a posting that all DEMON followers recognized as punishment. And this report assured him that three promising individuals had been located who all perfo rmed successfully against the Detective. It only remained to meet and test them to determine which best embodied the indefinable something that enabled Gothamites to succeed against him where all others failed. Having identified such a person, full of fire and ambition, he would draw them to his vision that they would devote their life and sacrifice it if necessary in the Demon Head’s service.
There only remained to devise a suitable test.
“Now, isn’t this better than cave brooding?”
Selina sat between his legs, her back against his chest, head resting on the one unbruised spot on his shoulder.
“It’s not brooding,” Bruce insisted, kissing lightly around her jaw. “It’s a sound, constructive exercise after a setback: deconstruct it, analyze what went wrong, make sure that never happens again.”
She purred, and Bruce added a checkmark next to kissing from her temple to jaw as an effective means to make his point without argument.
“So what does this ‘deconstruction’ consist of?”
“Well,” his hand slid over the front of her body to the tie of her robe, “last time, with Prometheus, there were security tapes from the Watchtower; that made it easier. I could actually watch the battle over and over instead of replaying it in my mind. It worked. The second time I fought him…”
The purring abruptly stopped.
“Prometheus was the last time?”
“Yes, and it worked; the next time I fought him… Hey, Kitten, you listening?”
“I really didn’t like him.”
“I know,” he cupped her chin and turned her face to meet his, “your entrance with the bullwhip is my favorite part of that tape.”
She emitted a low menacing growl Bruce knew was the Catwoman equivalent of his disapproving grunt.
“Selina, Prometheus burbled every bit of strategy he used against us at the Watchtower. He spelled out everything he had done, out loud, on those tapes. I studied them. I studied the battle. And I beat him the next time. It’s okay.” He leaned down for a slow, tender kiss, and winced in pain. “I’ve got a lot to live for, Kitten. And I know how to learn from these things… Meow?”
She searched his eyes for a long moment, then smiled, reluctantly at first, then wider, Cheshire style.
“Meow.”
Whiskers trotted across the Great Hall of Wayne Manor like a cat on a mission. He trotted up the grand staircase, down the hallway, and made a brisk turn into Selina’s suite.
ººFOUND IT!ºº he declared with such a gleam of feline triumph, Nutmeg actually lifted her head several centimeters from the cushion where she napped, and looked at him.
ººI found it!ºº the cat repeated, ººI found that cave smell!ºº
Nutmeg yawned.
ººThe cave smell,ºº Whiskers insisted, ººDamp. Clammy. Rock. When Bat-Bruce is Two-Foot in Boots.ºº
Nutmeg licked a paw, unable to share Whiskers’s enthusiasm for their new quarters. Most of the furniture had come with them to this new place, but not Selina-cat’s bed, and hence, not Nutmeg’s war room underneath Selina-cat’s bed. All of Nutmeg’s prized trophies: the plastic milk ring, the crunchy envelope, the paper ball, the pantyhose egg, had all been lost along with her special place for keeping them. Whiskers suffered a loss as well: his terrace and the prize spot behind the planter where he pretended to be the stalking jungle cat of death. But his special cushion was here, so he didn’t mind so much. Indeed, he seemed to look on the new place as a great adventure.
ººSo,ºº Nutmeg said finally, deciding to give Whiskers his moment of glory, ººyou found the smell?ºº
ººBehind the tick-tock. Tick-tock opens up into big dark. Damp. Clammy. Rock. Lots of mousy squeak-squeak noise.ºº
ººNot interested.ºº
ººHow can anyone not like mice?ºº he asked. Whiskers was a life-long enthusiast of the gentlemanly sport of mousing. He didn’t understand how anybody could not enjoy it.
ººWoof.ºº came the reply, the ultimate expression of feline disdain.
Whiskers shifted his back legs in a telltale signal that he was ready to pounce. Then he hopped up to the sofa, rolled Nutmeg onto her side and nipped at her ear while her paw swatted his muzzle. When the brief wrestle was over, Whiskers touched the tip of his nose to Nutmeg’s, just as two martial artists might bow after a match. Then he sat up.
ººIf you don’t explore,ºº he told her sternly, ººyou’ll never find a new territoire.ºº
ººI explore,ºº Nutmeg said proudly, ººI followed Standing Softpaws today.ºº
ººAeiou!ºº Whiskers exclaimed in delight.
Both cats were equally fascinated by the two-foot they called Standing Softpaws. He was almost catlike in his ability to appear from nowhere and stare—which he did a great deal in their first days here. It seemed that he was keeping an eye on them, which they found insulting. They were certain he was the keeper of their new living quarters, for he had a wonderfully feline way of moving about the rooms, putting every little thing in its proper place. Few two-foots were so precise about where objects belonged. If only he would get over this idea that they had some grudge against his breakables.
“Adorable creatures, Miss,” they had heard him saying, “but I do fear for the Meissen and the Ming.”
That led to outrageous suggestions that they be locked in Selina-cat’s suite. They overheard Bat-Bruce veto the idea:
“Alfred, I’ll admit I don’t know all there is to know about cat behavior. But I have learned one thing: If you let them know you don’t want them to go in a particular place, it absolutely guarantees that will become the mission of their lives.”
“Respectfully, sir, is it not possible you are letting your experiences with Miss Selina cloud your-”
“No, Alfred. It’s not.”
“I see, sir.”
“Selina says leave the door open, and once they see they can come and go freely, they’ll probably stay in there with their familiar things after the preliminary explorations.”
“Very good, sir.”
Both cats thought Bat-Bruce should be rewarded for such admirable behavior: Whiskers did so by rubbing his head into the pantleg, while Nutmeg determined to claim one of his socks just as soon as she found a new war room in which to keep it.
She also resolved to settle the matter of Standing Softpaws.
Ubu had never seen anything like the view from the Royal Suite of the Gotham Imperial Hotel. The opulence of the suite itself, while equally unknown, he had been trained to expect. Brought up since birth to become Ubu, bodyguard, personal attendant, first and last disciple of the Gr eat and Mighty Demon’s Head, it was understood that he would serve in settings of ultimate luxury. The suite that comprised the whole of the 28th Floor of the grand hotel with all of its palatial furnishings, frescoes, and Roman style bath/jacuzzi, and even its 2,000-bottle wine cellar, did not faze him. But the spectacle of the cityscape beyond the bulletproof glass windows, that was truly dazzling. Not that Ubu would permit such wonders to distract him from his duty. Fate and the Master’s wish had decreed that his first days as Ubu would take them into the heart of the enemy’s power. This city was the stronghold of He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken, and Ubu took this threat to his master most seriously. He replaced the bulletproof glass, closed-circuit video cameras, and other safety features the hotel provided for the unimportant celebrities and prime ministers that normally occupied these quarters, and installed DEMON equipment and personnel in their place. He himself would stand watch at the doors to the private elevator, that none could gain admittance to the Presence without his knowledge. And the three Gothamites granted an audience had been hand-picked by Ulstarn, the master’s most loyal lieutenant, entrusted with heading operations in this heart of enemy territory.
With continued vigilance, the bodyguard felt sure he would soon look back on this difficult first assignment as Ubu and know he had served with distinction.
Puddin’ always said the difference between the star villains and the wannabes was the evil laugh. The problem with these new action movies, he said, despite all the bright red blood and colorful guts thrown around the screen, was all these smooth sophisticated villains that thought they were Alan Rickman. Nobody let loose with a really good Mad Scientist cackle anymore!
Nobody, that is, except Two-Face. To please her Puddin’, Harley had tried to perfect a chortle of evil glee, so she considered herself something of an expert on the subject. And Harvey/Two-Face’s joint reaction to what happened to Ivy at the Highland Games certainly qualified as what Puddin’ would have called ‘a classic Margaret Hamilton.’
“You’re comparing us to the Wicked Witch of the West, and you expect us to consider it a compliment?” Two-Face asked menacingly, pointing to his scarred cheek.
“It’s your laugh, Twofers, it’s really world class.”
He flipped the coin, and then smiled. “Just because I look at you when you speak, you shouldn’t assume I’m listening—how did it go again—shouldn’t assume I’m listening to or care about what you say. That’s just something I do to be polite... Oh my, we must meet this man one day. What did you say his name was?”
“Galen MacDoogles. I think.”
“Excellent.” At that moment, and without benefit of a coin toss, Harvey Dent and Two-Face officially formed the Galen MacDoogles Fan Club—Membership: 2. He would have shirts made up and a mug, with that wonderful quotation. On the walk back from the restaurant, he wondered if he should pluralize the quote (“Just because we look at you when you speak…”), but decided that would be a desecration of MacDoogles’s triumph.
He and Harley stopped abruptly when they reached the entrance to the Flick Theatre and saw an oddly dressed man standing the door.
“You are Harvey Dent/Two-Face?” the stranger asked.
“What’s it look like?” he replied, pointing again to the scarred side of his face.
The stranger bowed then snapped upright and spoke in a clear, distinct voice:?“A Missive from the great and power ful Ra’s Al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West, Apex of the age of Oneness through One Rule by the most worthy Demon’s Head, Anointed of Anubis and Osiris, Chosen of Ra, whose greatness is not desecrated nor destroyed by death or grave, he who dies not but arises phoenix-like from ashes to rule again, whose dominion is Yea the entirety of the world of Man. To Two-Face, Gotham City, North America. Dear Sir…”
Two-Face looked at Harley, who looked right back.
“And WHAT, pray tell us, are you?”
The stranger stumbled over his words, as no one ever addressed him directly.
“I… I am a message, sire.” Then he cleared his throat and began again, “A Missive from the great and powerful Ra’s Al Ghul, Light of the East—”
“Yes, yes, we got all that. Mr. ‘Dead and Loving It’ has sent us a singing telegram. Get to the point.”
Unable to fast-forward past the header on pain of death, the messenger launched into it again. “A Missive from the great and powerful Ra’s Al Ghul…”
Two-Face waited… yawned… then glanced at his watch.
“…summoned to an audience with the most illustrious Demon’s Head at the Gotham Imperial Hotel promptly at one o’clock.”
“Did you say ONE o’clock?” he asked, skeptical that even The Cadaver could be so deliberately rude. He had already decided that the answer was no. The coin toss, when the time came, would be one of his special tosses. (Unscarred side up: Harvey would politely tell the man ‘No,’ and send him on his way. Scarred side: Two-Face would shoot him in the kneecaps—twice.) But THIS, this outrage did not deserve so much as a courtesy coin flip. One o’clock indeed.
“Oh Twofers!” Harley jumped up and down clapping, “Why not go; it sounds like FUN! Puddin’ always said he wanted to meet the hairdo again—and pants him!”
Two-Face looked from Harley to the messenger… to Harley… to the messenger…
“Tell Lurch,” he said finally, “that if he wants a meeting with us, then he had better make it at a time more suitable to our… needs.” And with that, he walked with great dignity into his hideout to see about ordering t-shirts and coffee mugs.
Nutmeg observed that Standing Softpaws had again appeared at the door to the room. He was, Nutmeg would have to admit, almost as silent as a cat. Neither Bat-Bruce nor Selina-cat were as quiet as they seemed to think. Like all two-foots, their ears were simply too far from the ground to be able to move with true stealth. But Standing Softpaws was the exception to the rule: here he was, staring at her, and Nutmeg had no idea how or when he arrived.
She stared back, politely.
And he walked away.
This struck her as unforgivably rude, even for a two-foot. She had interrupted her nap in order to return his stare, and he walked away. She decided right then that he should be taught a lesson. She would follow him to his own nap-place and look at him, see how he liked it!
She followed down the hall, down the stairs, and down another hallway. She followed through the bright room and the drafty room and the room with all the books. She stopped long enough to rub her scent into the doorway. She liked books, they had a warm, crisp smell and were fun to curl in when Selina-cat tried to read them. Then Nutmeg trotted faster to catch up with Standing Softpaws wherever he had gone to… she rounded the corner and… gaped.
It was the Land of the Can-Opener. It was the biggest, grandest, sparkling Land of the Can-Opener any cat had ever seen! And Standing Softpaws was its king???
Instantly, Nutmeg decided she had misjudged this wise and noble two-foot. She would find him and make amends at once.
Ra’s al Ghul knew that from the moment he set foot in Gotham City, time was his enemy. The Detective would learn all too soon of his presence, and from that instant, Ra’s would be forced to play a defensive game rather than an offensive one.
He had determined to delay the Detective’s advantage as long as possible by bringing a large, conspicuous entourage to the same hotel as before. Surely the Detective would learn of this before the luggage was even unpacked, and surely the Detective would assume so obvious an arrival must be a decoy. He would assume it was all a ploy, that Ra’s wanted him to believe he had returned to Gotham City for some reason as yet unknown, and for that very reason, he would be slow to realize the truth of the Demon Head’s Imperial Presence in his City.
Ra’s al Ghul was certain that this, like all his stratagems, was sound. And yet, he did not wish to remain in this city longer than necessary. He would meet the three candidates Ulstarn had gathered and choose one. The chosen Gothamite would then be tested.
The testing itself would provide an opportunity to leave this cursed city promptly. There was a traditional method of examination that would serve the purpose.
Ra’s reminded himself that the test in question was a proven one, he had used it with both the Detective and his one-time successor, the Imposter Azrael. It was an established method. Let it not be said that Ra’s Al Ghul chose one test over another simply to minimize his time in Gotham City. He did not fear the Detective or any man. It was simply an appropriate and proven means of assessment.
He had already contacted his daughter and had her orchestrate an abrupt, unexplained absence from her duties at LexCorp. “A personal day” she had called it, whatever that meant. He had ordered her to obtain and send him the necessary photographs, which were now in his possession.
His daughter Talia, he would say, had been kidnapped. He would present the photograph of her tied up, sent as proof of her capture. The criminals of Gotham City were, by definition, not so heroically inclined as the Detective and the Imposter, so Ra’s would offer some incentive, a great bounty for his daughter’s rescue.
Yes, it was a sound plan. Ra’s awaited with eagerness the arrival of the first candidate.
Nutmeg was not actually able to locate Standing Softpaws to make her apologies until the harsh squeal led her to his location. She recognized the sound—it was a teakettle, and it meant there would be little plates with cake and sometimes sandwiches. She saw Standing Softpaws take just such a plate into a little pantry-like room off the kitchen. There he sat, in a hard-looking chair that offended Nutmeg’s feline sensibilities. Beside him was a little table. From her position on the floor, she could not see onto the table, but her nose told her the steaming hot tea was on there, which meant the cake would be too.
She walked up to Standing Softpaws and treated him to the “aren’t I precious” look.
“Good heavens, who let you in here?” was the less-than-welcoming greeting.
Nutmeg switched her posture from “aren’t I precious” to “what can you be doing over there that could possibly be more interesting than admiring me?”
He appeared to ignore her, then glanced down twice as he sipped his tea. Nutmeg waited for the third glance, readying herself to perform the ultimate act of feline beguilement: the silent miaow.*
The moment came—Standing Softpaws reached for his tea, brought the cup to his lips, and glanced downward. Nutmeg opened her mouth as she would for a fully articulated meow, but emitted no sound. Standing Softpaws watched this, as all two-foots do, as if pondering what possible burden could so plague a little creature that she could not even give voice to it. He set down his cup, and bent to take Nutmeg into his lap.
“Now then, little fellow, it can’t be as bad as all that, can it? I suppose this house is rather large and daunting for someone like you to get used to.” He touched his fingertip to Nutmeg’s nose, which she permitted, as it seemed like a friendly gesture, and also because it smelled like tea. “But I assure you,” he went on, now stroking her fur as he spoke, “that you are not the first newcomer here, and, thus far, all new residents of Wayne Manor have made the adjustment.”
He gave her a morsel of cake and told her of Master Dick and Master Jason, and his efforts to make them welcome when they came to live here. They sounded, to Nutmeg, like two of the sorriest cats she ever heard tell of.
Bruce had never allowed injuries such as those suffered at the hands of the Gamma-Gorgon to impact Batman’s routine, and he wasn’t about to start now. Bruce Wayne would, of course, be “out of town” until his injuries healed cosmetically, but Batman could always continue his nightly patrols, no matter how banged up he might appear. Indeed, he preferred to be conspicuous after a JLA mission, often rousting suspects near the Iceberg for the sole purpose of being seen. He knew it was unlikely anyone would have noticed his absence of a night or two, especially as the Batmobile’s automated appearances around the city were calculated to give the impression of an active and vigilant Batman. But just in case any criminals had noticed and been emboldened by his disappearance, he liked to make a striking and fear-inspiring reentry.
In preparation for this, Bruce returned to the cave, noticing as he went the gray cat Whiskers’s curious interest in the clock passageway. He made a mental note to bring some catnip oil from the cave and smear it on other objects in the study to draw the cat’s attention away from the clock, and perhaps find a coating for the base of the clock itself to act as a deterrent. Menthol or camphor should do the trick.
Not feeling up to a full workout, Bruce warmed up with a few low-weight curls… then a dozen tricep pressdowns… and finally an abbreviated Tai Chi cycle.
Feeling invigorated, he took a bottle of water from the cooler and logged into his workstation. He began with the Oracle summaries of Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl and Spoiler’s activities—they weren’t nearly as thorough as his own log entries, but that was expected—there was a curious note:
SpecSurv Gig-G.B. still at I despite S - reassigned Bouncer/Doorman.
Batman easily translated this as a Special Surveillance they were conducting of someone designated Gig or G.B. at the Iceberg Lounge. The individual was “still” at the Iceberg “despite S” which Batman deduced meant still working there despite Sly’s return – “reassigned as Bouncer/Doorman.” So Gig-G.B. must have been the interim bartender.
He wondered why Oracle was ordering this special surveillance—this was the first he’d heard of it. And he wondered more about the follow-up comment:
Good news or bad? Now BG can keep him in sight without venturing ? into the I.
Normally he would call Oracle immediately and get a full report, but there was still too much to get caught up on. He simply made a note to look into it once he’d finished the news clippings and download summaries…
Arkham was reporting that Joker regained his sight. The brief lip-twitch was almost immediately replaced by calculations as to when the madman would take action now that his vision was restored.
The At Large list was an obscenity, and Bruce swore at it obscenely. Harley Quinn—released from Arkham already. Two-Face—released already. Mad Hatter, Scarecrow, Roxy Rocket, Catman. Why didn’t they just change the name and get it over with: Arkham Bed and Breakfast for the Criminally Insane, Convenient to City, Office open 24 hours. Call for reservations or visit our web page…
As he always did when he became agitated with the At Large list, Batman started to multi-task. He opened the JLA database and made his entry for the Gamma Gorgon—and added an addendum to Clark and Diana’s entries before closing the file.
Then he pulled up the summaries of the autodownloads. There were four flags:
A restaurant opening in NoHo, executive chef: Carol Lewis.
The inversion of the name Lewis Carroll could pique Mad Hatter’s interest.
The regular armored car pickup at the establishment Fleurey’s, scheduled for every second Thursday this month, occurs on the 22nd. Obvious Two-Face target.
The Gotham Imperial Hotel: Top three floors booked by foreign…
Batman read no further, recognizing the name of the establishment instantly. It was where Ra’s Al Ghul stayed when he dared come to Gotham City in person.
“Computer,” he snapped, “VOX Enable. Defcon 4 Protocols activate.”
With great care, Jason Blood set the photograph of Claire on an honored spot on his bookshelf. The little box cut from green amber, he moved from the 16th century mahogany desk to a more prominent position on the Spanish carved entry table. The move into this new flat made a welcome diversion, and he found himself in no rush to complete the decorating. Indeed, one of the more pleasant aspects of being back in Gotham City was the plethora of galleries, antique shops and auction houses. He wondered, as the doorbell rang, if Selina might like to accompany him to a few auctions. She was certainly knowledgeable about art, and he felt he should make some gesture to thank her for signing over her beautiful flat to him… He opened the door—and sucked in his breath sharply.
The man before him looked no less surprised than Jason himself.
“Łąqųęųş vęŋęƒĭċįųm,” Blood ordered, “Øßŧįςęřę.” Instantly, the visitor was struck immobile and mute, and Jason regarded his prisoner coldly. He had had many dealings with Ra’s al Ghul, the faux immortal that had to dunk himself in a toxic pit to buy another handful of years. And Jason recognized instantly the dress of a Demon’s Head messenger. That Ra’s would dare approach him this way—any way in fact…
“ßųŁŁą rħðmbå,” he said, encasing the messenger in a magical bubble, “Mąġưş mąĮųşċųłųş đęxţęŗę. You may speak now. Do so. What is your message?”
The messenger was silent, reluctant to de liver his missive to any but the intended recipient.
“łmþęŗĭųm ċǿŋłǿqųǿŗ,” Blood ordered.
“A Missive,” the messenger recited, “from the great and powerful Ra’s Al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West, Apex of the age of Oneness through One Rule by the most worthy Demon’s Head, Anointed of Anubis and Osiris, Chosen of Ra, whose greatness is not desecrated nor destroyed by death or grave, he who dies not but arises phoenix-like from ashes to rule again, whose dominion is Yea the entirety of the world of Man. To the Catwoman, Gotham City, North America. Madam…”
Jason Blood laughed heartily.
Defcon 4. Was there ever such a beautiful word?
“No unnecessary traffic between the house and the cave. Any time spent in the cave is in costume, no exceptions…”
He’s adorable when he goes all batty like this.
“All secondary access points, like the elevator in Alfred’s pantry, are deactivated.”
I realize that’s a minority opinion, but it’s how I feel.
“Alfred won’t be going into the cave anyway—or the clock passageway.”
See, that’s the guy I fell for.
“Satellite cave is shut down.”
Segue into the bad-ass technophile coming up fast.
“JLA transporter is shut down.”
It’s not that I was panicky about moving in.
“OraCom is restricted to VH priority transmissions only, of no longer than 15 seconds, anything that goes into the buffer will be random-scrambled to mimic alpha hiss.”
I’ll admit it was an adjustment. How could it not be?
“Non-resident operatives—Robin, ‘Wing, and Batgirl—may enter the cave only through exterior entrance B…”
But Whiskers and Nutmeg settled in so easily, I must admit that shamed me into pulling myself together.
“Final laser disable must be keyed from their transponders 30 to 60 seconds before the vehicle crosses electric eye omega.”
I was uneasy that first day once the furniture got here. I’ve been sleeping in his bed, most nights, for months. And Alfred has been setting the day’s menus next to my morning coffee for almost a year.
“Digital signatures on the transponders will be recoded every 12 hours.”
But technically, I wasn’t LIVING here.
“Workstations 3 and 4 are dedicated to analyzing the feeds from the high-def digital cameras monitoring known Demon agents, and scanning the closed captioning on all television & satellite broadcasts for the keyword matrix, respectively.”
Living in HIS HOUSE.
“Those high-def cameras have a 36 hour backup, although we’re downloading every hour…”
A reaction was natural, I said. Cats are fiercely independent creatures.
“Jet fuel and other W-tagged supplies won’t be restocked, so usage is strictly as-needed.”
But the one fiercely independent creature was sitting in his lap licking a paw while the other snuck off with one of his socks.
“Now, security on the manor grounds…”
So much for it being a cat thing.
“…surveillance cameras, and, of course, the alarms on the windows…”
I did pull myself together. I’m living here now. This is my home. His house is my home. And it’s good.
“Bruce Wayne is out of town until the bruises heal anyway…”
But it’s awfully good to see that other guy. Get ground ed again in where we began.
“…no reason to expect visitors, but if someone did arrive…”
Defcon 4. Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.
The Royal Suite of the Gotham Imperial Hotel had one feature Ra’s Al Ghul found particularly gratifying. The 6,000 square feet meant nothing to him; the five bedrooms, five and half baths, and two livingrooms were of little interest, nor was the wine cellar. But the “jacuzzi”, situated like a Roman bath with its cupola and tromp loi frescoes, bespoke of an ancient empire when royalty meant power. Not like these modern kings that might stay in this suite who were mere figureheads for elected governments. No, this was the room of a Caesar!
Ra’s had ordered the jacuzzi covered with planking and Persian carpets. This lush area would be the throne room in which he would receive his guests. As the hour grew near for the first summoned criminal to appear, Ra’s became impatient. He wanted to meet these paragons of the Gotham City X-factor. Every moment he spent in this wretched city made him more eager to learn its secret. In particular, every moment he spent with devoted but ineffectual minions like Ulstarn and Ubu made him more ready to welcome a different type of follower. Consider his new Ubu:
“It would be the greatest honor to give my life protecting yours, My Liege. But if we are in the company of three different individuals who might pose a threat, my sacrifice may not be enough. If it is your Imperial wish to test the three Gothamites Ulstarn has summoned, it is prudent we have two additional guards accompany us.”
Ra’s grimaced. It was true there were times when the intrigues and stratagems of the Demon’s Head were too cunning for mere mortal understanding. But THIS was not one of those times. His plan was simple enough: Gothamites had something, he knew not what, that set them apart. He wanted to employ one to bring that quality into his operation. There were three candidates; he would interview each, just as he had questioned the prospective Ubus, and then he would choose one. That one, and only that one, would then be tested. Nothing about it was difficult to understand.
Yet Ulstarn, Talia and now even Ubu seemed to misconstrue his intentions.
First Ulstarn came to him inquiring if he might have the honor of indoctrinating the new recruits. Ra’s explained (with a patience that proved the Demon’s Head could be as benevolent as he was mighty) that not all but only one candidate was to be brought into the fold and that the traditional indoctrination should be postponed, as brainwashing might interfere with the Gotham X-factor he sought in this person.
Then Talia called with a list of housing and diet requirements for her “imprisonment.” Ra’s explained (with a patience that proved the Demon’s Head could be merciful as he was great) that he did not need her physical presence as a faux captive, only the photographs. He would, as he had in the past, tell the chosen individual that his daughter had been kidnapped, show them the photographs, and offer them a great bounty to recover her. He and Ubu would then accompany them on their search and observe how they progressed through a series of trials. Once he saw how the candidate reasoned and fought, he would know if they were worthy to serve him—and in this case, he would begin to know what it was that made the Gothamites so special… There was a curious hacking sound when he said this. (With a patience that proved the Demon’s Head could be as lenient as he was fierce,) Ra’s chose to believe that noise was, as his daughter claimed, static interference caused by thunderstorms over Metropolis.
First Ulstarn, then Talia. And now it was Ubu. Ra’s explained (with a grimace that proved however benevolent, merciful, and lenient the Demon’s Head could be in the normal course of events, his patience was not, in fact, as limitless as his might and was, in fact, fraying fast, and if his minions did not cease riling him with their willful misconstructions, blood would be spilt and heads would roll!) that they would be putting one and only one Gothamite through the trial.
And thus it was an uncharacteristically flushed and exasperated Ra’s Al Ghul who sat in the Roman bath/jacuzzi/throne room of the Gotham Imperial’s Royal Suite, waiting for his 12:00 appointment with the first of three Gothamites that might save him from his devoted minions.
Alfred Pennyworth was from a country that kept their theatres open during the London Blitz, so breakfast at Wayne Manor that first morning of Defcon 4 was laid out as usual: baskets of bagels, muffins and fresh fruit, a toast rack, pastry, juice, tea, coffee, and a covered dish warming eggs, bacon and kippers over a tiny flame. Next to Bruce’s place at the table lay a sheet from a loose-leaf dayrunner, listing any appointments for the day. Next to Selina’s lay a similar sheet with the day’s menus.
As was customary, they served themselves at breakfast. This was fortunate, for it meant Alfred did not have to watch as Selina drew floor plans and schematics all over his menus, proving conclusively that there were seven routes into the Gotham Imperial’s Royal Suite and not four as Bruce stubbornly insisted.
Finally, Alfred was forced to interrupt to announce they had a visitor. The butler noted only that Master Bruce was too engrossed in the argument to question why a visitor was admitted when Bruce Wayne was “not at home.” That reason became clear enough when they reached the drawing room and saw who the visitor was.
“Jason Blood,” Selina cooed, “the man, the myth, the legend.”
“What the hell have you brought into my house?” was Bruce’s greeting.
“Selina, I have some of your mail,” Blood said politely, ignoring Bruce and pointing to the DEMON messenger floating beside him in a 5 foot pulsing orb of light.
“Jason, things like this come to the cave, not the front door. What is this—”
“Relax, Bruce. He is in a ßųŁŁą rħðmbå; he cannot see or hear anything but what I will him to.” Jason’s voice shifted to channel even the minute amount of magic necessary for the spell: “łmþęŗĭųm ċǿŋłǿqųǿŗ, Herald of Ra’s Al Ghul. This is Catwoman. Deliver your message.”
Bruce Wayne’s eyes grew dark and foreboding as the messenger in the bubble recited his speech. First, there was Ra’s daring to come to town—No, FIRST, there was Ra’s having agents in his city—No, FIRST BEFORE THAT, there was Ra’s Al Ghul’s existence! But once you accepted that this sociopathic megalomaniac existed at all, that he had agents in Gotham City, and that he kept sending agents into Gotham no matter how many Batman ferreted out and sent packing, that he would dare—DARE!—come here in person—AND THIS WAS TWICE NOW!
“…summoned to the Imperial Presence at twelve o’clock precisely.”
And NOW on top of THAT, he was sending come hither candygrams to SELINA!!!!
“Well now,” she purred when the message concluded. And she wore that damn little catsmile that was so inappropriately amused by all the wrong things, “Now there are eight ways into the royal suite.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” he warned in the Batman’s deep gravel. Then he turned to Jason and spoke with a focused intensity that was no t quite human. “Tell me everything you know and I don’t about Ra’s al Ghul. Everything. His history, his allies, his strategies, victories and setbacks—”
“Bruce,” Jason answered, “You’re talking about 800 years of material. You sure you have that kind of time?”
“Try me.”
Ubu could not understand what was happening. The Master’s 12:00 appointment seemed to be… late. It was unthinkable. How could anyone summoned to the Demon’s presence be late? The idea of a no-show was even more unimaginable; so when a woman appeared for the one o’clock audience, Ubu figured it must all be a misunderstanding. Gotham City was six or seven hours behind Romania depending on something called Daylight Savings Time. Ubu decided that, in his inexperience, he must be misreading the clocks. It was not actually 1:00 but 12—and this good woman was, of course, on time for her appointment with Ra’s al Ghul, for who would ever flout the power of the Demon’s Head?
Her appearance did not quite tally with the description he was given: she was blonde, not brunette. She looked about 5’ 3”, not 5’ 7”. And her outfit was red and black, not purple. But she was here for an audience with Ra’s al Ghul, and if she wasn’t the 12:00 appointment then she must be the 1:00, and she clearly was not a 6’ 180 lb man with two faces. So Ubu opened the door for her and intoned:
“The great and powerful Ra’s Al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West, Apex of the age of Oneness through One Rule by the most worthy Demon’s Head, anointed of Anubis and Osiris welcomes The Catwoman of Gotham City, North America into his most Imperial Presence.”
Harley Quinn and Ra’s al Ghul simultaneously freaked out—or to be more precise, Harley freaked out while, at the same moment, Ra’s underwent a transformation that, for one not imbued with the timeless dignity of the Demon’s Head, might be called freaking out. This transformation involved a rapid reddening of the face, a bulging of the veins in the neck, and a kind of gurgling sound kept at the back of the throat to minimize the volume. It was this last that fascinated Harley Quinn, and she complimented it. It was very close, she said, to what Mistah J called a dry spittake. Why, her Puddin’ used to sit for hours watching Whose Line is it Anyway with a glass a Gatorade and… *sniff* Her Puddin’… *sob* Her Mistah J!
While Harley wept all over the fine furnishings of the Royal Suite, Ra’s tried to fathom why Ulstarn and Ubu had, between them, delivered him the laughing man’s concubine in the mistaken belief that she was the Detective’s concubine… and also he left orders to have his suit dry cleaned since the mad clown’s mistress was blowing her nose on his lapel.
“Well that was a waste of time,” Bruce grumbled once the door closed behind Jason Blood.
“I thought the Renaissance years were entertaining,” Selina demurred, “and even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t have killed you to offer him a chair.”
“He can sit down without being asked,” Bruce spat, heading for the cave.
“It’s called being polite,” she countered, following him.
“Selina,” he stopped and turned at the clock entrance, “Kitten. Love of my life. I don’t think you appreciate how serious this is.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment and then touched his cheek.
“Bruce, my dark knight, my dearest love. I don’t think you appreciate how serious this ISN’T.”
“He’s here in Go tham.”
“Yes,” she agreed, pausing to let the admission sink in before adding, “and he’s a hairdo.”
“The same hotel as before. Sending out invitations! He’s not even trying to hide that he’s here.”
“I’m not worried. Bruce, you’re ten times the man he is. You’ll take him.”
They walked silently to the cave… to the costume vault… and wordlessly began changing into costume. He had gotten as far as the leggings, chest plate, boots and belt when he started speaking, quietly, as if to himself, but still loud enough to be heard.
“There are three unbreakable rules for dealing with an enemy like Ra’s: Never let them know where your buttons are. Never let them know your real objectives or what you value. Never take what the enemy gives you. With Ra’s, I’ve broken all three.” He turned, completely in costume but for the cape and cowl, and those he held in his hand. And yet the man standing before her wasn’t Batman. This was that searching vulnerable soul she first recognized in that other vault.
He stepped towards her, just as he did that night before he kissed her. Their eyes locked, and when he spoke, it was that same strangely intense whisper.
“Selina. The JLA mission went to hell because they wouldn’t use my tactics. I’m the strategist. I don’t have a meta gene or a power ring. I’m the thinker. Ra’s came close to taking out the JLA—Ra’s ‘the hairdo’ came close to taking out the JLA using my protocols. Do you understand? I’m that good, Selina. I am, as you said, twice the man he is.”
“Ten times,” she corrected.
“And still, I’ve broken all three rules with him. He knows where my buttons are. When he attacked the JLA, he got me out of the way by…” he shuddered, unable to continue. When he did speak again, his voice quivered on the words, “he dug up my parents and hung their coffins over the Lazarus Pit. He knows how to push my buttons. He knows what I value: justice, this city (he’s here, in my city, WHY?), my family. He took you last time to get me to come to him. Now he’s sending you invitations and—”
“Three rules, you said,” she interrupted, “never take what he gives you?”
Bruce paused and turned away.
“It was necessary,” he said softly. It was a long time ago, and they had talked about it. But he could see even that distant allusion to his past with Talia hit a nerve. He wondered if the Defcon 4 protocols needed to be revised now that Selina was in his life (“Examine thoughts for demonspawn subtext before opening your mouth”).
“I know it hurts you to hear about it, and I’m sorry for that. I encouraged her; I admit it. I never trusted her and I never loved her. But I let it play out because she was the only way inside what he was doing, and this is life and death.”
She said nothing, but her fingertips traced the insignia on his chest. He inhaled sharply, that one simple action reawakening the bat, banishing the doubts and ambiguities for a time.
“So you broke a few rules,” she said finally, looking up at him with daring eyes, “that’s what they’re for.” Naughty grin. “You’re still ten times the man he is. He’s still a hairdo. And you’re still going to kick his sorry ass all the way back to Nepal.”
Ra’s was fuming as he went back to the bedroom to change his shirt and tie. He was at a loss to rate the exact degree of his outrage. Not just any of these criminal vermin’s concubines did they send him, but the mad clo wn’s! That that lunatic called Joker was allowed to live was testament to the failure of the Detective’s methods and the need for global order Demon rule would bring. Indeed, when the Detective finally came to his senses, embracing his destiny and agreeing to wed his beloved Talia and become his heir, Ra’s fully intended to present him with the laughing man’s head as a wedding gift, on a platter, with an apple stuffed in the mouth. He already had the platter, made especially by the monks of the Tharlam Monastery in Tibet.
By the time Ra’s returned to the throne room, Harley Quinn had been removed, and Ulstarn and Ubu quaked in fear—as well they should. Ra’s was seriously considering if that Tibetan platter might not be put to better and more immediate use to present himself with the gift of Ulstarn’s head. Were it not for the difficulty of disposing of bodies in the Detective’s city…
“My Master,” the excrescence groveled, “mere words cannot begin to express my mortification at this unfortunate series of misunderstandings—”
“SILENCE,” Ra’s ordered. He had listened to enough oaths of loyalty—in the long form—from this repellent toady, that he was not about to sit and listen to an equally prolonged apology. “There can be no excuse for this appalling incompetence. Ulstarn, if there were any man readily available who could take over this important Gotham City operation, you would be, at this moment, on a boat back home.”
But no, that would never do. For Ra’s remembered he had placed Ulstarn in Gotham to keep him on the far side of the world.
“There is still one individual remaining, who this unworthy servant ventures to hope The Demon’s Head may find suitable…”
There would be no cushy exile to the compound in Nepal or Romania for him.
“…he has excellent credentials…”
No, he would have to be sent somewhere equally remote from the heart of DEMON operations.
“…fought bravely against the Dark Knight on numerous occasions…
He would be sent to… to…
“…the Upstart Nightwing as well as fighting the Imposter Azrael when he was so foolhardy as to take on the Detective’s mantel…”
By chance, Ra’s eyes fell on the photographs acquired to test the chosen candidate, photographs of his daughter…
“…extensive and detailed knowledge of the criminal classes of Gotham City…”
That was it!
“—and unlike the other summoned Gothamites, he has arrived promptly for his 2:00 audience…”
His daughter! METROPOLIS. He could transfer Ulstarn to Metropolis and let him annoy Talia for a while!
“Ra’s al Ghul, Light of the East, Terror of the West…”
Yes, he would exile Ulstarn at once.
“…welcomes to his Imperial Presence…”
If only there was someone fit to replace him.
“Greg Brady of Gotham City, North America…”
From his position atop the corner of East and Worth, Batman could survey the eight city blocks that were the core of Gotham’s Chinatown. It was never as dark as other parts of town. Canal Street especially—awash in neon and brightly colored banners -remained bright and busy long into the night. More and more shops stayed open late, many setting up sidewalk displays to attract passersby. Many items for sale were mundane, knockoff watches and handbags, but there were plenty of other stalls, especially on the south side, offering unique Chinese items: curious fruits, roots and herbal remedies; authentic rice bow ls, tea services, and chopsticks. And of course there were the restaurants, hundreds of them, filling the air with thick tangy odors that made the mouth water.
Behind him, Catwoman lay stretched out, flexing her leg slowly in a half-speed version of her warm-up exercise. Then she lifted the leg entirely and swung it over her body.
“Do you have to do that; it’s distracting,” he remarked, adjusting the amplification on his night vision lenses.
She stuck out her tongue but said nothing.
“That’s distracting, too.”
“What do you care,” she laughed, “you’re facing the other way.”
“I know you’re there; I know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t believe you’re still upset about it, that’s all.”
“I am not upset.”
“Just because it worked—”
“I am not upset about it.”
“—and you didn’t think of it first.”
He grunted. He couldn’t deny that it appeared to have worked, that the conditions necessary to make it work had been in place for over a year, and that technically he had the key item in his possession since that very first encounter with Ra’s Al Ghul—if only he’d thought to use it as Selina had.
She was on her stomach now, arching to grab hold of her ankles behind her back.
And he realized his self-recrimination was pointless. Nobody—NOBODY but she would ever have thought to do such a thing, and it was pointless pretending otherwise. “I’m the strategist,” he had told her, “I don’t have a meta gene or a power ring. I’m the thinker.” Which was true. He wasn’t the only thinker, that was all.
Activity in the storefront drew his attention back to the surveillance.
“There he is,” Batman murmured, watching the new man in this DEMON cell, the one who was clearly in charge now, the one who replaced that paranoid psycho Ulstarn. Batman remembered him. He was a Joker henchman, a bruiser.
This is why Ra’s was in town, the sick bastard. He was recruiting.
It was hard to think of a Joker henchman as “an innocent,” but at the moment Batman could not think of him as anything else: a Gothamite, one of those he was sworn to protect, drawn into Ra’s al Ghul’s perverse clutches. Joker henchman or not, that man was a victim who must be freed.
Recruiting. Ra’s al Ghul coming to Gotham City to recruit men. It was obscene. But the evidence was undeniable. Batman thought back to the night of the discovery…
Shortly after Jason had left the manor, he and Catwoman had gone into town. When the time came, he would assemble the full team for an assault on Ra’s Gotham headquarters, but for the preliminary fact-finding, the two of them were more than sufficient. It was a rooftop much like this one, opposite the hotel. Catwoman had stretched out behind him and yawned while he refocused the night vision lenses.
“Any change?” she had asked.
“None.”
“Only eight men?”
“Yes. Last time, he had fifty with him. This is wrong. No sign of Ra’s himself. No Ubu. Only eight men left. And it looks like they’re… packing up.”
His earpiece chirped. ..:: Boss? ::..
“Go ahead, O.”
..:: You’re won’t like this. ::..
“I know.”
..:: Gotham Imperial has Sheik Ziad Bin Manakh booked into the Royal Suite starting tomorrow. ::..
“Noted. Batman out.”
He looked again towards the listless activity of the eight DE MON flunkies that remained in the royal suite. But he saw only the nothingness of night air between him and that building across the street. “He’s gone,” Batman said softly. “He came into my city, did exactly what he wanted, and left almost before I knew he was here. I don’t even know what it was about.”
“Then let’s find out,” a seductive voice purred while a clawed finger crept into his peripheral vision pointing towards the hotel, “Eight droogies; no waiting.”
Two-Face read over the blueprints for a second time. An armored car made a pickup from Fleurey’s every second Thursday. This month that would be the 22nd. That gave him exactly two days to finalize his plans—which was exactly how he liked it. This particular model had A2 double thick armoring with double-bonded windows, icing on the cake. The only disappointment was that it would enter through the 25th Street Parking Garage and not an even number.
Harvey the goody-good proposed a coin toss because of that little wrinkle, anything to try and derail his crime. But Two-Face was not about to risk a tailor-made heist like this. He reminded Harvey that there had already been one coin toss in relation to this robbery, in deciding to commit it or not, and the bad side won. If Harvey insisted on a second toss because of this 25th Street business, that would be two. Two coin tosses. That meant when they hit the car and the time came to kill the guards inside or not, there could be no third. No coin toss for the guards: Bang. Bang.
Harvey couldn’t argue with that. He had to allow those future guards the 50-50 chance of keeping their lives. He retreated to the back of Two-Face’s mind while the other resumed studying the plans.
Or he tried to.
A low hum from the Phoenix console told him his perimeter defenses had been breached. Glancing up to the monitor he saw the intruder blithely traipsing into the theatre lobby—just as she had before—heading straight for the lasers and the gas. He cursed and rushed off to intercept her.
Batman knew she was holding back. There were eight DEMON agents remaining in the hotel, and Catwoman took out two, obviously leaving six for him to work out his frustrations. It was… satisfying… for exactly 1 and ¾ minutes.
Catwoman had left her two goons incapacitated but conscious, so he questioned them. Like all Ra’s flunkies, they were useless as informants. Either because they were brainwashed zealots that would die before they betrayed their master, or else, more likely, because they didn’t know anything, they remained steadfast and silent through threats and thrashing.
“Useless,” Batman growled as the last man fell insensible. “We could wait until one of the others wakes up and try again, but it’ll just be more of the same.”
There was no answer, so he turned. Nothing. She had left.
He found her in one of the living rooms… and for the first time since DefCon 4 was declared, he felt that pleasant tug at the corner of his mouth.
Catwoman stood at the far end of the room before a Louis XVI desk. True to form, she’d found the suite’s safe—behind a portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte, now removed from the wall and leaned against the desk. She’d opened the safe and spread the contents out on the desk. Whatever they were, she was looking down on them with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.
“Bad kitty,” he chided, crossing the room and smacking her bottom as he reached the desk. Then he sucked in his breath when he saw what she was looking at.
“Well somebody has certainly been bad,” was Selina’s amused murmur, before breaking into a full laugh.
Batman looked down at the photos, fully aware why Selina found them so entertaining, but unable to share her enjoyment. They showed Talia, bound and gagged. He’d seen images like this before. It was his first encounter with Ra’s al Ghul: Dick had been kidnapped. Within hours, he received photographs of his son tied up in just this way. Then Ra’s showed up with similar pictures of Talia—kidnapped by the same people, he claimed. The “loving father” proposed they work together. It was a test. Four countries, nine booby traps and sixty assassins later, the truth was revealed. Batman was Talia’s first pick for a husband and this was all Daddy’s way to decide if he was worthy.
Several years later, he used the same test, minus the second kidnapping, to test Azrael for the League of Assassins.
And here once more were photos of Talia, “kidnapped” yet again. Ra’s was testing someone. Someone in Gotham had been shown these photos and was even now stepping into that first booby trap. The sickly certainty that Ra’s was here recruiting was mixed with a gnawing uncertainty: Was Ra’s al Ghul a hairdo? He was using the kidnapping bit again. His last visit, he stole his master plan from General Hospital, and before that, the actions he took against the JLA were taken from Batman’s own protocols. Even the blackmail scheme he launched last year bore a striking resemblance to the intrigues Jason related from the Renaissance court of Lorenzo di Medici.
Just when was the last time the Demon’s Head had a new idea?
“Quinn!” Two-Face roared after he rescued her, a second time, from his lobby lasers, “We told you already: you don’t need a lawyer, you need a leash. In fact, you need two. One for your hyenas and one for your asinine self.”
“Oh Twofers, it’s not the hyenas this time, I wanna sue somebody. See, I wentta see the Cadaver afta you said you weren’t intarested an—oooooh, big gun.”
“The correct word is ‘double-barreled’. Much like the correct pronunciation is ‘I want to sue somebody… I went to see the Cadaver…’ See how that works? If we cannot prevent you finishing that story, we will insist you do so without further assaulting our ears and the English language. Understood?”
Harley nodded.
“Good. Then proceed: ‘after we said we weren’t interested…’”
The Batmobile was equipped with a bulletproof windshield, infrared/thermal imaging, ejector seats, and an autopilot that freed the driver to give his full attention to an arsenal of defensive weaponry. And for all that, Batman felt he had no protective shielding for what he faced on that drive home from the Gotham Imperial Hotel. The waves of unease coming from the passenger seat were a palpable force, capable, he felt sure, of jamming the OraCom, melting the windshield, frying the autopilot, and firing off the ejectors. He decided the only defense was a strong offense:
“Selina, what did you make of those photos you saw?”
She paused. It was a pause he knew, a rooftop pause. She was formulating a bit of felinity.
“Kinkier than I would have expected,” she pronounced finally, “from someone who talks like Theodoric of York.”
Bulletproof windshield, thermal imaging, ejector seat—nothing to deal with felinity.
It was pointless to pretend the situation wasn’t what it was. Ra’s al Ghul was in his city recruiting. In Gotham City. Like it was Bulgaria or Kurdistan. Talia was involved, or at very least knew something. It was clear what he had to do. Selina knew that as well as he did. Hence the brave sho w of heedless felinity—followed by a deafening silence. It was clear what he had to do. Still, he said nothing until they reached the cave.
“I’ve got to go to Metropolis,” he said, unable to face her as he spoke.
“Sure.” It was a flat voice, her best bluff: ‘You should have waited until I’d opened the vault and had the goods on me’ when she’d already been inside and had the Hapsburg Ruby tucked neatly into her cleavage.
“You have to go to Metropolis,” she repeated his words, “That’s where they keep her, isn’t it.” It was so matter-of-fact. The whip had never stung half as much as that flat, controlled tone. She was being so careful not to give anything away. It hurt like hell. They were lovers, they were living together, it was more than a year since the masks had come off. And now she was shutting herself off from him, being guarded and careful.
Then came worst blow of all; she let him off the hook.
“Oh, by the way, if you’re going in Wayne One instead of the Batwing, I left a jazz CD and a Paris Vogue in the cabin, maybe you could bring them home.”
“Sure,” he said, carefully lifting his voice out of Batman’s octave into Bruce’s more casual tone, “I love you, Kitten. I won’t be long.”
Harvey Dent took two aspirin, and then Two-Face took two more. The latter was all in favor of ditzy blondes in red and black leather hanging around. But the former couldn’t help but notice that Harley Quinn had an awful lot of energy, and all of it dedicated to being annoying. She wanted a lawyer. Again. She was here on his doorstep with her tassels bent out of shape (literally), wanting to sue Ra’s al Ghul. While Harvey’s first impulse was to rip open his shirt revealing a blue vest with the letters DA in gold type, his second impulse was to smack her upside the head for being such an idiot. She went to the Cadaver in his place!! She thought it would be FUN?? And now she wanted to sue for damages because his goons roughed her up a little?!?! “Tassel Twit” is what Selina called her, and never had the label seemed so apt.
He was about to return the aspirin bottle to the medicine chest, when he decided instead to keep it with him for the duration of her visit. It was just a hunch, but he felt having 200 painkillers in his breast pocket would be a wise precaution. When he rejoined Harley at his desk, she was looking over the armored car specs.
“This is a Chevrolet Suburban,” she said with uncharacteristic savvy and proper diction, “the Ford E-350s are more common. And the new Navistars would give you a lot more bang for the buck.”
“This one suits our needs,” he assured her. “It matches the vehicle we will be replacing. Besides, we prefer to buy items like these second-hand, so newer models are not an option. Also, this is the only vehicle which comes in black and white.”
Harley shook her head sadly. “Or. Black or white. See, right here.” She pointed to the printout. “But that’s okay, Twofers, I can run down to the 7-Eleven and getcha some spray paint.”
He frowned, not because he would have to buy a black or white van and do the detailing himself, but because clearly Harley meant to stay. The whole need-a-lawyer routine, he realized, was a ruse, maybe a conscious deception or maybe not, but a ruse nonetheless. Because she was lonely and aimless without Joker or Ivy to guide her, she was attaching herself to him.
He had to find something constructive for her to do—not going to the 7-Eleven certainly. Besides being two odd numbers, Two-Face was pretty certain the 7-Eleven did not sell spray paint. But something, something to kee p her occupied—either that or get her and Joker back together… which would cause Ivy to kill him…
In his mind, he again ripped open his shirt, this time revealing a new t-shirt with the words “Just because I look at you when you speak, you shouldn’t assume that means I’m listening to or care about what you say…” He pictured himself pulling off the remains of the dress shirt and twirling it in the air like a Chippendale’s dancer before tossing it across the room and turning to reveal the words on the back “…that’s just something I do to be polite.”
What did he care what Poison Ivy thought! He would do as he damn well pleased, and if that meant getting Joker and Harley back together so he could plan his robbery in peace, then that is what he would do.
::Good Evening, Mr. Wayne,:: the assured voice of Captain Leffinger greeted him over the intercom after takeoff, ::I hope your business in Metropolis was concluded successfully. We’re looking at clear skies all the way back to Gotham. You can expect a very smooth flight, sir. And we’ll be touching down at the Executive Airport at 8:13 local time.::
Bruce set his watch back to Gotham time rather than grunting at the intercom. Captain Leffinger was a superb pilot, but Bruce hated not being in control. He would have much preferred flying to Metropolis himself in the Batwing, but he really had no choice after Selina concocted that story to ease the tension about his going. He’d even picked up a Paris Vogue and a jazz CD to extend the charade. It would be an in-joke between them, to show he understood and appreciated what she’d done.
Like many private planes, Wayne One was tastefully appointed in burl wood and white leather. A center aisle divided the cabin in two, an overstuffed sofa on the left, two equally deep chairs on the right facing a small table, this inlaid in lighter wood with the WE logo. At the rear, a tiny but efficient kitchenette enabled travelers to help themselves to espresso, cappuccino, spring water, or several bottles of properly chilled champagne, the former to be drunk from WE-embossed Lenox china and the latter from WE-etched Steuben crystal.
A covered hutch beside the sofa concealed controls for the media center. A 2 x 2 video grid mounted in the front wall served up movies and satellite programming, high-speed internet, video conferencing, or the feed from a camera mounted in the nose of the plane. Bruce had watched the takeoff this way, but switched it off now that the landing gear was raised. He took a few grapes from a bowl of fruit on the table. Then, on an impulse, he popped the new CD into the media center.
Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong…
♫ I thought I’d found the man of my dreams.
Now it seems, this is how the story ends:
He’s going to turn me down and say, “Can’t We Be Friends?” ♫
Bruce shuddered and looked at the CD sleeve in distaste.
♫ Never again. Through with love, through with men.
They play their game without shame and who’s to blame? ♫
If there was anything Bruce hated more than not being in control, it was not understanding what was going on. And he definitely did not understand what was going on with Talia.
♫ I acted like a kid outta school, what a fool… ♫
It was not his past behavior with her clouding his perceptions, of that he was certain. She was acting odd. She had been… helpful. No evasions about Ra’s being in Gotham. No transparent lies about what he was up to. No thin excuses for her own involvement as far as supplying those photos. Bonus information he hadn’t asked for that the former Gotham ops leader, Ulstarn, had been transferre d to Metropolis.
♫ I should have seen the signal to stop ♫
He hit the stop button angrily, then selected a new track. Appearing to cooperate usually meant she was playing a part for Daddy, but if the info she gave him was all part of Ra’s scheme, Batman could make no sense of it. What was Ra’s game? What was the point in letting Batman know he was recruiting in Gotham or that he’d transferred Ulstarn?
♫ April in Paris…♫ a sultry piano tinkled and teased before an aching, wise and lustrous voice soothed from the speakers …♫ April in Paris… this is a feeling… no one can ever reprise… ♫…
Bruce sat back on the sofa, letting the music pour over him. Maybe what he needed was to step back from it for a few hours. He’d been consumed with thoughts of Ra’s al Ghul since the moment that alert flashed.
…♫ I never knew the charm of spring, never met it face to face ♫…
It was a two-hour flight back to Gotham. If he could put it all out of his mind until he got home, then approached the problem with a clear head, the answer would probably jump out at him.
…♫ I never knew my heart could sing ♫…
Home. Selina.
…♫ never missed a warm embrace ♫…
Now that Metropolis was over with, that strain would be gone. It might be helpful talking it through with someone.
…♫ Til April in Paris ♫…
A fresh perspective.
…♫ Whom can I run to ♫…
He checked his watch—still an hour and a half until they touched down.
…♫ What have you done to ♫…
And even if they didn’t brainstorm the Ra’s question together, he would think better at home.
…♫ my heart. ♫
“The problem,” Harley Quinn declared, “with trying to conduct a relationship with someone like Puddin’ or Pammy is that they’re what we in the psychology game call ‘high maintenance personalities’.”
“Damn straight,” Harvey agreed, flipping his coin. Checking it, Two-Face added “She’s not a natural redhead, you know.”
“It’s natural,” Harley recited loyally, “it’s a henna rinse.” Then she burst into one of those Jokeresque cackles to show she didn’t believe it.
Harvey considered her carefully. His first attempts to learn what happened to bring about ‘Splitzville’ between Harley and Joker were not successful. Any question, comment, or overly wide grin led to tears. But he could sneak up on the subject, he found, by discussing his own romantic woes. Harley would listen attentively, and often as not, make an empathetic nod or ask a leading question that showed she really was interested.
His feelings could not be called romantic; she was far too flaky for that. But she was good to talk too. She had a therapist’s training, but she was too loony to be seen as detached or judgmental like Dr. Bartholomew.
It was certainly nice to have someone to talk to and maybe even unburden himself of a few conflicts. Two-Face didn’t seem to mind, though his dark side normally kicked whenever Harvey had such thoughts at Arkham. Bartholomew would not look nearly so fetching in red and black leather, even if he were inclined to wear it to sessions.
When I got home, Alfred said Selina was taking a walk. Nine o’clock at night with DefCon 4 measures in place on the grounds, and she went out for a walk. Not that the grounds security was much of a de terrent with her. On the way to the cave, I wondered if I should hire her to revamp it like she did Wayne Enterprises. Or maybe ‘hire her’ wasn’t the proper word, now that she was living here. I should just ask. Casually.
Even from the cave monitors, it took a few minutes to locate her. She was on a footpath near the stables, walking back towards the house. I went out to meet her, and for the hundredth time had to wonder if maybe she does have some special cat-way of seeing in the dark, because she spotted me immediately, almost like she had a sense I was nearby…
“You’re back,” she said. Simple enough thing to say, but she sounded so… pleased. It was understated, but it was there and it threw me. I’m still not used to this. Having someone waiting, having someone so genuinely pleased to see me come home.
“Yes.” It was Batman’s voice. I don’t know why.
We started walking back towards the house. It was quiet except for the crickets, a comfortable quiet. When we passed the alpha zone motion sensors, it reminded me to ask her about revamping the manor security. The words weren’t out of my mouth when she stopped walking. I turned to see why and, even in the dark, could feel those green eyes boring into me. Suddenly, the cricket quiet was a lot less comfortable.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked, “I figured you’d like the idea. I thought you’d feel appreciated.”
“Last time you wanted me to tighten your security, it was because the demonspawn was sniffing around Wayne Enterprises. Just what the hell happened in Metropolis, Bruce?”
Oh.
Master Strategist, I.
“Not a lot,” I answered, truthfully. “She admitted Ra’s was here, confirmed that he was testing someone. He’s decided there is an X-factor Gothamites have that his minions lack and he wants it on the payroll.”
Her eyes gleamed for a second.
“DEMON. Ask about our superior med/dental, 401k, and vacation packages,” she joked.
Impossible woman. Still, I felt my lip twitch. But it wasn’t funny and I felt I should put my foot down: Nothing about Ra’s al Ghul is funny.
“He should know that someone born and raised—or at least who lives—in this city is not going to be easily swayed to the DEMON method and—”
“Yes, dear.”
“The presumption that he can just waltz into Gotham and start having his ‘pick of the litter’—”
“Yes, dear. Anything more?”
“A bit,” I sighed, “Talia admitted her own complicity as far as sending the photos. That seems to be as far as her involvement went, unless it’s all a ploy and all the information she gave me is part of the scheme. He could be toying with me; that’s always a possibility.”
“No, not this time. I think you can assume what she told you is accurate, for once. Anything else?”
I couldn’t see what she was basing that on, or what she was pushing for. But I knew the best way to find out was to answer her question.
“Ulstarn is transferred.”
“The raving paranoid? That’s overdue.”
“I agree. But he was useful. Better ‘the devil you know’. There’s no telling who or what might replace him.”
“She didn’t mention that?”
“No.”
“Hm. I guess maybe she doesn’t know. Oh, well. Anything else?”
“No. Selina, what the hell are you driving at and… wait a minute, actually…” I heard my mouth stumbling while my brain st ruggled to nail down the thought. Yes. There was one other thing. I didn’t even realize it until that moment: Beloved. I don’t hear it anymore, it’s like Alfred’s ‘sir’… I looked at Selina and, mask or no mask, that was Catwoman looking back, an exceptionally pleased Catwoman, a curiously and unnervingly triumphant Catwoman.
“…She only said it once,” I finished my thought out loud, “Only one ‘Beloved’ in a ten minute conversation. And that almost seemed like a slip, because she sort of bit her lip after.”
I suppose any man should be glad to see his girlfriend happy, it means life will be easier for a while. But if the better part of your relationship with a woman was adversarial, you never entirely shake those old associations. At that moment, it was impossible for Bruce Wayne to see a happy girlfriend because all Batman could see was a hungry cat. Scratch that—all Batman could see was a fed cat. A happily well-fed cat.
“Selina, what have you done?”
“Shh,” she held up her finger like she does at the opera for her favorite aria, “Some moments must be savored.”
“Selina,”
“Like a fine merlot.”
Ah, my mistake, not the opera savor, merlot.
“Selina. What did you do?”
I gave her my best glare. It is less potent without the cowl, but being outside and in the dark did seem to boost its effectiveness. It produced a naughty grin, which meant she was finally ready to tell me:
“Remember that fascinating little concept you stumbled onto last Halloween? What was it called: Talia Wolfsbane? Well… I found it.”
“You… what?”
“I found it. And I faxed it to her.”
I cursed myself for wasting the glare prematurely. But she continued without further prodding:
“I faxed a little note with it, explaining that you were coming and that I was sure you would be given her total cooperation—without all the nauseating badinage. And if not, then the wolfsbane would be forwarded to the appropriate parties, leading to such epoch-making bylines as: Wallstreet is buzzing today about those illicit bondage photos of LexCorp CEO Talia Head. No comment from the White House.”
In the years since I dedicated myself to avenging my parents’ murder, I have seldom been left speechless.
-The time Harley Quinn bound me up in plastic as an “action figure” to give to Joker as a birthday present…
-The time Oracle caught me testing her security…
-“The easy way or the hard way, Catwoman?” “Why Batman, how hard to you want it to get?”
-And this.
Ra’s thinks there’s an X-factor that sets Gothamites apart.
For once, the hairdo might be onto something.
“MMM. MMMM. MMMMMPHMGRLMMMM… Fellas, next time we order, definitely more of the barbecue spare ribs. You guys gotta try these.”
The DEMON agents all stared at Gr’oriBr’di, trying to fathom this new test. The removal of “The Ulcer” Ulstarn was certainly welcome, but they trembled to learn what sort of man The Great One would have sent to replace their fearsome taskmaster. They knew from the prestigious second apostrophe that the Demon’s Head must hold Gr’oriBr’di in high regard. But beyond that, the man was a mystery. He questioned them, not as Ulstarn had about their movements and conversation when he left the room, but about the menus of the local restaurants: “Boy, look at this. Shredded pork with black bean sauce, ginger shrimp with subgum wonton, ma po tofu, bean curd homestyle& hellip; In my neighborhood, it was mostly a Cashew Chicken and Fried Rice kind of thing. So what’s good?”
None knew how to reply to this, so they stood respectfully to await their orders. That led to more pointed questioning about the Pan Fried Noodles and Peking Duck.
In desperation, M’varone brazened to say that once on his afternoon off, before Gr’oriBr’di’s most revered predecessor Ulstarn thought it best to discontinue the practice, he had partaken of lunch at the Ho Sai Gai restaurant down the block, and that he found the chicken with snow peas very satisfying.
Rather than being rebuked for his insolence, M’varone was sent to fetch a menu from the Ho Sai Gai.
Across the street and several stories up, Batman watched the proceedings while, behind him, Catwoman stretched her legs, partially because she was bored and partially to tease her companion.
“Do you have to do that?” he remarked, “It’s distracting.”
After enough banter that she felt acknowledged and appreciated, Batman focused again on the surveillance. “There he is,” she heard him murmur as he snapped a digital photo of the new DEMON leader. A predator by nature, Catwoman’s interest in the stakeout increased exponentially with the sighting of prey. A nimble slink brought her to Batman’s side, looking towards the storefront.
“Oh,” she blurted, surprised.
“What?” Batman asked, using a palm-size console to send the photo to the Batcomputer for analysis. On a point-for-point comparison of thirty facial features and measurements, a search through the full criminal database could take hours. Since he knew it was a Joker henchman, that narrowed the field considerably, but if Selina had more precise information still…
“It’s Greg Brady.”
“Kitten, there are times when your sense of humor leaves a lot to-”
“Oh, give it a rest, will you. His name is Greg Brady. Took over the bar at the Iceberg when Sly went 404.”
As she spoke, the console in his hand beeped, indicating a match. Batman looked at the file scrolling on the console, then at Selina, then at the storefront, then back at the console.
Greg Brady, a.k.a. Giggles, height, weight, scars…
Batman hit escape several times, then punched the screen feverishly with the stylus, frustrated at the limited interface of the mobile console compared to the cave workstations. In the time it took him to consider swinging down to the Batmobile to use the car’s VOX controls, the little palm console had accessed the logs.
There it was, the notations that had puzzled him right before he discovered Ra’s arrival in Gotham City.
SpecSurv Gig-G.B. still at I despite S - reassigned Bouncer/Doorman.
Oracle’s special surveillance. Giggles/Greg Brady—still at the Iceberg despite Sly.
Now BG can keep him in sight without venturing into the I.
What was going on???
A deductive mind sparked into action, locking onto the question with the force of an electric magnet and reaching to grasp hold of every known scrap of information—and every known source to obtain more.
He catalogued them: Catwoman, Oracle, Brady himself—and in all probability, Batgirl.
Then he prioritized them:
-Oracle. Was always only a comlink away, and having ordered the special surveillance was the most promising.
-Catwoman. Physically closest, she could not only provide immediate answers, she would overhear anything said to Oracle if he called the latter first. Oracle, on the other hand, would know nothing of the conversation if he questioned Catwoman first.?-Brady. A hostil e informant, at best. Batman preferred to know as much as possible before confronting the opposition.
-Batgirl. How she figured in, he would have to learn from Catwoman and Oracle.
Batgirl slumped visibly when she made her regular detour patrolling through NoHo to check activity near the Iceberg Lounge. Again, Gregory was not in his usual position as doorman. She couldn’t guess what had happened to him. The only two methods of finding out were to disguise herself again and infiltrate the bar—unthinkable after her last misadventure—or to attack some Iceberg scum once they’d left the bar and beat the answers out of them.
That was easier said than done.
What would she ask? The language of intimidation Batgirl spoke fluently. She could make any scum understand that they better ‘fess up or they would taste their own spleen. But demanding answers was one thing; asking the question was another. What could she possibly ask? “What became of that handsome bartender who fought like a panther?”
She ground her boot into a tin can and kicked a broken Pepsi bottle into a trashcan lid.
Love sucked.
Harvey Dent and Two-Face were, for once, able to agree without resorting to a coin flip. What they felt for Harley Quinn was not romantic. Two-Face lusted. And Harvey was availing himself of a little free therapy, much like everyone he knew prodded him for free legal advice.
The price—there was always a price—was this sidekick business.
Her costume, at least, was suitably divided in half, both horizontally and vertically. No trip to Kittlemeier’s necessary for a new outfit, just a wig. The wig was divided down the center, black and platinum blonde. Harvey couldn’t understand why she refused to wear it. She didn’t squirm at wearing tassels with bells on the tips, but two-tone hair made her look silly?
Then there was the matter of her aim. When Harley pointed a gun, it seemed, the victim would always have a 50-50 chance… and so did everyone else! Maybe Joker didn’t mind the odd stray bullet taking out an easy chair or a hapless henchman, but Two-Face liked a bit more order in his random violence: The coin went up, the coin came down, scarred side said: Kill!; unscarred said: ‘Shit, 2 out of 3 then.’ ‘No cheating, Two-Face.’ ‘Shut up, you.’ ‘Sore loser.’ ‘Lawyer.’ ‘Gangster.’ ‘Ivy-whipped.’ ‘Ditto.’
“Look Handsome, I really have, from the beginning, considered this to be an inter-bat situation. You should take it up with Oracle, not with me.”
“Humor me,” Batman insisted. He could feel her reaction to the deep, gravelly voice. There was no outward sign, no purr or sigh or blush. But they had shared that unspoken physical connection for so long, his body could sense her response: She liked it. It turned her on.
“You’re here now,” he pressed, a crustier edge on the ‘r’s meant to convey menace. “Tell me.”
Chinatown is not as dark as many parts of Gotham. The neon glare from Canal Street diluted the gleam of thrilled feline eyes cutting through darkness. But it couldn’t diminish the slow magnificence of a catsmile creeping over parting moist lips.
“Or?” she challenged, daring him to complete the threat.
A gloved hand gently brushed back her hair at the shoulder, then grasped the back of her neck firmly while the other hand touched a single fingertip to her lips. He licked his own lip for an instant, considering the options… then shook it off.
“Selina, there isn’t time. Tell me.”
Her eyelids flickered downward, a pouting cat, one of those moments she truly seemed to be her namesake.
“OK,” she sighed, “You’re no fun, though.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Long story short: Batgirl saw him punch out some lowlife BC was trailing, and she’s a little smitten.”
“Smitten?” he pronounced the word like a disease.
“Oracle roped me into it because it was Hell Month, so I asked around the Iceberg.”
“Smitten?”
“He seems mostly harmless, as decorative henchmen go.”
“SMITTEN? I can’t have operatives smitten with someone that high in the DEMON organization.”
The neon glare from Canal Street did little to dilute hostile feline eyes flaring through the darkness.
“Yes, that would be a sticky little problem, wouldn’t it. Look—”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Obviously.”
“I just meant: DEMON or Joker, it’s all fraternizing with the enemy and…” He slowed, realizing that implication was no better than the other. “Damnit, you know what I’m getting at.”
“You don’t want Batgirl chasing after Greg Brady.”
“Right.”
“Fair point.”
“Thank you.”
“QUINN! That chest Duo and Ditto are attempting to carry from the armored car weighs approximately six hundred pounds. It will weigh less if you STOP SITTING ON IT!”
“But Twofers, if I hop down—”
“AND DON’T CALL US TWOFERS!”
“Oracle, this is not an unreasonable question. I am not an unreasonable man.”
Batman paused, knowing the woman on the other end of the comlink was smirking at his words exactly like the woman in front of him was. He shot a ‘behave’ glare at Selina, then spoke again into the OraCom:
“Why didn’t you tell me about this? Batgirl was… socially… tracking a member of the rogue community, and you thought it wasn’t my concern?”
..:: …thought it was something best handled by the girls… ::..
He grumbled at ‘the girls’ as the quacking in his earpiece continued.
“And when exactly,” he interrupted, “were you planning on telling me about this?”
..:: When she turns 30, ::.. came the cheeky reply.
He grunted. “Fine. At least you’ve put a stop to it, right?”
There was interference on the channel that sounded suspiciously like Barbara scraping a fingernail across the mouthpiece.
..:: You’re breaking up, Boss. Will check in later. ::..
“Oracle. ORACLE!”
A lightning move, his hand flared out and grabbed Selina’s wrist. Ignoring her outrage, he took one of her clawed fingers and dragged it methodically over the mic.
“Yes, O, confirmed. I’ve got the very same interference going on here. So we’ll cut this short. Just give me Cassie’s location. NOW.”
Two-Face groaned, not with the pain of a concussion but from the grim certainty that he was again bound for Arkham Asylum. Another splendid crime spree cut short by that vicious baby bat with the killer right hook and a penchant for driving her dainty boot into his skull.
Not to mention the fact that he was bound for Arkham—for the second time—in the company of a female accomplice, not Poison Ivy, when Ivy herself was in residence. The thought of yet again being referred to as one of “the triangle at Arkham”…
The thought of being one of the triangle was quickly and horribly exorcised by the realization that it was not a triangle this time but a rectangle—for Joker was ALSO currently in residence at Arkham. Two-Face took absolutely no consolation from the addition of a fourth, and therefore an even number of participants in the relationship tangle. “Divisible by two” is small comfort if you’re snorting SmileX.
In desperation, he bit his tongue until blood seeped through his lips, fell to the floor, convulsing horribly, and when the guard bent down to help him, Two-Face rammed his heel into the crouching man’s groin.
He liberated himself, his coin, but not his accomplice, and charged the van doors, rolling neatly to a stop on the apron of Interstate-2. He smirked at the roadsign, flipped his coin, and began walking back to town.
“Just give me Cassie’s location. Now.” Telling, isn’t it. Cassie. Not Batgirl. He tried to pretend it was all business, that it was the DEMON investigation and nothing more, but I knew better. ‘Cassie’s location’ meant it was personal. He cares more than any of them give him credit for. I’ll never understand why they don’t see it. Just because he grunts. That’s his way.
So… he pretended it wasn’t personal. And I let him…
When we caught up with Batgirl, she had just polished off a Two-Face/Harley Quinn robbery. What that pair were doing together is anybody’s guess. Cassie wouldn’t know; she doesn’t follow the interpersonal plotlines as a rule. All we could gather was that there was an armored car, a couple goons, a couple guns, and then there was a wailing and weeping and gnashing of tassels. Fate, yet again, doing its little tap-dance on Harvey’s colon.
The paddywagon had just left, carting them all off to Arkham. Worse luck for me. If there were rogues or cops still around, I would have watched the proceedings from a safely distant rooftop. But since there was no one but Cass to see me with Batman, I stuck around.
He started off with the “information” angle: What do you know about this Greg Brady? What are his habits? How did he get the Ra’s assignment? Etc.
That last one was big news to her. The Ra’s assignment: “Is that where he went? Where did he go? Where is he now?”
THAT just set off the battitude: “No, I’m asking the questions. What do you know?”
And THAT just set off the teenager: “NOT asking questions until answer mine.”
As I said before, an inter-bat situation. I could have been safely across the street, watching from a rooftop. But no, I was in the middle of it.
“He is wonderful, much to learn from him, vicious like a panther fighter, but still handsome with soft sandy hair—and sensitive—and funny—and smart—and he sings and plays racquetball and—”
“Enough. This isn’t a conversation. You will NOT continue searching for this man. Understood.”
“…”
“Answer me.”
“…”
“Madmen with enough C4 to put a hole in the world, no sweat. Gamma-Gorgons, not ideal but manageable. But a 17 year old crushing girl…”
It’d seen that look before. Usually at Tiffany’s. The flubberdiwhat look: What am I going to do with you, you incomprehensible, female thing?
“…there’s just no hammering teen-infatuation-angst into the round hole of rational thinking…”
I knew right then he had never had anything like this with the boys. Hormones, of course, there would have been raging hormones with teenage boys. But he probably has standard protocols for that by now: Robin notices Catwoman’s cleavage—initiate memorization and quizzing on the periodic table of elements.
But he had nothing prepared for this current scenario. That would bug him, something he hadn’t anticipated. He’d hate that—which meant a shitload of trouble for Batgirl. Working him into a state like that is not something to be done lightly. I do it, of course, but I know what I’m doing and I know I can handle him. But Batgirl? She’s a vicious little thing as far as the crimefighting goes, but she is just a kid, more so than the boys ever were. She was so unequipped to handle something like this, I actually thought about stepping in.
I know. Soft touch.
But before I could decide either way, I noticed the fuming had stopped and he wasn’t even looking at her anymore —he was looking at ME? Like it was all my fault! Or—maybe not my fault, but something—the bat wheels were turning and I couldn’t fathom how.
“Come on,” he said; fired the ascender and that was it.
Weird.
Gr’oriBr’di, a former henchman himself, decided that the first change that needed to be made was this time-off business. Why this “Ulcer” wanted all his men underfoot 24/7, Greg couldn’t imagine. There was nothing for them to do but stand around, and having apparently no lives at all outside of the job, they didn’t even have anything to talk about while they stood around.
He promptly gave the two senior men the night off, instructing them to go out and have some fun. He suggested the Iceberg if they had no better ideas of where to go. Say ‘Hi’ to Mr. Cobblepot, he told them, mention his name and Sly would surely take good care of them.
That left him with the three remaining agents. In the interests of passing the time after they made their brief reports, he tried making conversation on the only interest they had: the job. He demonstrated some favorite moves, a block against high kicks, a chokehold, an upper chop. It opened them up a bit. It was an okay way to spend the evening, swapping techniques and stories. Still, he looked forward to the day, once they had all experienced an evening off, when they would get some interests besides fisticuffs and join him in the Ho Sai Gai’s delicious spare ribs.
Two blocks shy of his hideout at the Flick Theatre, Two-Face stopped in a 7-Eleven. He still didn’t like the name, but he was not so fanatically opposed to making a purchase (or two) if 1- he thought they had what he wanted and 2- it was his idea and not the suggestion of a pathologically annoying twit.
He searched the aisle thoroughly, and finally found what he was looking for after the grueling walk back to the city from the interstate: blister pads.
He didn’t say a word about it until we got home. He went straight to his workstation and made his log entries, I went to the worktable, heated some cocoa on the Bunsen burner, and set a mug by his elbow. Instead of the usual thanks/grunt, his arm shot out and settled on my waist.
“Don’t go up to bed yet. I want to talk about something.”
Come, Sit, Stay, I thought reflexively. He’ll never learn. Still, I let him pull me onto his lap. I can’t help it. I just love the look of him this way, in costume without the mask.
“Yes?” I said, stroking his hair.
“Got a favor to ask. About Cassie.”
“I already told you, this is an inter-bat…”
“N o. This is the Gotham City X-Factor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Look, about Cassie: Isn’t there some kind of Haagen Daaz thing you women do?” While I sat there, stunned, he picked up the mug and sipped. “Good cocoa.” Twitch.
I take it back.
He does learn.
Because this was new.
New for him. Others do it. Harvey. Eddie. Oswald. Dick does it beautifully: It’s the Clueless Guy appeal: “We are but poor simple creatures living out our lives in a testosterone fog. Allow us, oh good and gentle lady, to partake of your special female wisdom and see our way to the light.” To be followed by: “Oh for pity sake, Dickey, FINE, I’ll install your new video card for you, but this is the last time!”
It’s a maneuver, I’m certain, as old as Ra’s al Ghul himself. But it’s new coming from him. I am vengeance, I am justice, I am a poor clueless tripod? No way. When the Dark Knight is reduced to “Isn’t there some kind of Haagen Daaz thing you women do?”, what choice does a girl really have but to smile, nod, and agree to help him out.
David Cain raised Cassie to be an unthinking killing-machine. The moment Batman took her off that path, teaching her not to kill and giving her new direction as a crimefighter, the seed was planted. She was a person, not a machine. She had a choice.
The killing machine David Cain programmed could never have disobeyed her sensei. His word was all there was. She could not even think to do otherwise, even to reject the idea.
But the girl Cassie had become could think beyond her sensei’s will. She could, in the great tradition of rebellious teens, think to examine Batman’s precise words, searching for a loophole: Batman had said she was not to continue searching for Greg Brady. He did not forbid her to patrol, he did not tell her to stop being Batgirl. She was a crimefighter. And Chinatown was as likely to suffer crime as any other part of town.
Yes, she knew Ra’s al Ghul kept his Gotham base there. Yes, now she knew Gregory was working for Ra’s. But surely that did not mean she should let crime happen in Chinatown. She was not “continuing to search” for Greg Brady, she was simply doing her job. Fighting crime. In Chinatown.
That was her thought swinging south through the West Village, through Soho, through TriBeCa, and finally reaching Chinatown itself. The thought froze at the entrance to the Canal Street Subway Station… for there, looking down to street level, she saw the sleek, eerily silent black of the Batmobile.
The greatest weapon in Batman’s arsenal is fear. It is a simple concept, one that can penetrate the psyches of the most insane madmen: do wrong in Gotham and you risk the wrath of the Bat.
Under the law, a criminal is judged sane if they can distinguish right from wrong. And yet many an Arkham inmate would be in Blackgate Prison if the courts could look into their hearts and do the math: They all feared Batman. They knew Batman only punished wrongdoers. Q.E.D., they knew their actions were wrong.
Similarly, Batgirl’s awareness of her own culpability may be judged by her reaction to sighting the Batmobile. She thought she had convinced herself of a loophole: She was not disobeying Batman, she was just patrolling in Chinatown. Yet the sight of that sleek, silent car turning towards the DEMON base made her blood run cold. Guilt was a new experience for her: an agitation similar to the adrenaline that drove her in battle, but colder and claustrophobic. It held her back when it usually spurred her on. She didn’t like it. Much as her curiosity burned to follow Batman and see what was to transpire between her mentor and Greg Brady, she could not bring herself to continue.
She left the vicinity of White Tiger Curios just as two DEMON agents rounded the corner at Ginseng Imports.
M’varone had enjoyed the evening at the Iceberg Lounge more than Clafong had. He had been in Gotham City longer. He remembered when DEMON agents were allowed some time off—before Ulstarn saw that Omar character wave at Ishmael and decided there was a plot behind the messenger’s suggestion that his friend see Star Wars: Episode 2. But even before that crackdown, when they all had nights off from time to time, the DEMON operatives kept to themselves. They might observe characters like Scarecrow or Hugo Strange, but they would not go drinking with them. M’varone found it fascinating seeing those figures from the intelligence reports in a different context.
Clafong found it all a little overwhelming. Too many faces, too many voices, too many drinks to choose from, too many songs on the jukebox. A woman called Magpie asked him to buy her a drink. A man called Jervis told him stories about the bartender’s love life.
Being less preoccupied on the walk home, Clafong was the first to notice the car. He pointed in dread and whispered to M’varone: “He whose name must not be spoken.”
“Batman! Been a while, what’s shakin’?”
Greg Brady was aware this was not a stellar opening. Whenever the Masked Manhunter appeared at the Hacienda, Joker had done all the talking. Giggles’s job was to: smile—politely. Then smile—like you know something about his sister. Then telegraph a right hook and jab, jab, jab with the left.
So “Batman! Been a while, what’s shakin’?” was new. But still, it was words, that’s what mattered. It let Batman know who was in charge of the operation, where to direct all the threats and venom.
“Batman! Been a while, what’s shakin’?” The opening hadn’t been stunning, Greg knew. Batman was certainly not stunned by it—but curiously, his new underlings were. Gr’oriBr’di had spoken the unspeakable name! Right in the masked vigilante’s face! No wonder he rated a second apostrophe.
“Step outside, Brady. We have business to settle between us.” With frightening economy of movement, a gloved hand shot outward and knocked U’skal into the wall. “Or do I have to go though the formality of stepping on these cockroaches to get to you.”
Greg Brady was, at heart, a henchman: first into the fray and not one to stand behind while other men did the fighting. Still seated at the desk, he smiled—politely, held his hands up, curled them into fists and squeezed until the knuckles cracked his assent. Then he stood and smiled again—like he knew something about Batman’s sister.
“After you,” he said simply.
Only partially recovered from the Gamma-Gorgon, it was easier for Batman to prolong the fight with Brady without blatantly pulling punches. A flurry of kicks knocked him backward against a decorative stone lion and the impact enraged his injured shoulder. Then the creative bugger broke through a store window and improvised a weapon from the lid of a metal steamer.
Batman realized, to his dismay, he had a real fight on his hands. But that would serve his purpose better than a sham.
“Look at you, Brady, you’re no DEMON drone. You’re one of us, a Gothamite.”
This as a broken pane of glass bit into body armor and Batman was forced to backhand his opponent onto the pavement. Recalling an earlier battle with “Giggles”, Batman repeated an Oi-Tsuki, a lunging punch, followed by a Sanbon-Tsuki series of three strikes, then a Hirakin flat fist punch—which Brady blocked soundly and responded with a magnificent Mawashi roundhouse that sent Batman sprawling backwards into the already broken window.
“See what I mean,” he said dryly, hurling himself clear of the window and his charging adversary. “You fell for that last time. Didn’t now. You leaULGHNG—”
A finger thrust to his throat made the point better than the words they cut short. By necessity, Batman devoted the next minute to a silent exchange of blows, until a poor crescent kick gave him the opening he wanted. A knifehand block, reverse wedge and Kosa pin later, he could speak to his opponent at length without stopping to block more attacks.
“How did you like the trip to the Philippines, anyway? That would be where the trail for poor kidnapped Talia led, right? A cave in Samar, Ubu let you go in first that time instead of making you defer to Ra’s. A dozen more assassins were waiting inside. Which would have been a problem, except they all fight the same way, and by that time you’d licked forty of them. You know what that cave is called, Giggles? Can-Yawa Lungib, ‘Devil’s Cave.’ That’s the level of intellect you’re working for. No imagination. Hasn’t changed his act in 1200 years.”
In disgust, Batman released Greg from the pin, tossing him forwards.
“And the last round of the test would have been fighting Ubu. Right? And here’s what Ubu did.”
Batman jettisoned the karate style he had been using and lunged to execute Ubu’s Greco-Roman body throw. Brady dodged, as expected, and Batman wordlessly progressed to a double-leg tackle. Again Brady dodged. And finally, attempting to set up a hopeless belly-to-back souple, Batman at last heard the words he was waiting for.
“Okay, okay. Stop that shit, will ya?”
Batman did stop, but laid a finger ready on a Batarang, just in case Brady was fool enough to run.
“I made my point?” the crimefighter asked in a voice deep with derision.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, it went just like that.”
“Wasn’t even the same Ubu that I fought. That was the last one.”
Back at the manor, in Selina’s room, she was again rubbing his bruised shoulder.
“You told him Ra’s al Ghul is a hairdo?”
“I didn’t use that word, Kitten, but I did try to make him see he has something Ra’s lacks. Brady can think outside the box, adapt to new circumstances. They can’t. So they’re feeding off him like vampires, using him to breath a few more years of life into their hopeless, dead end quest to conquer a world that’s passed them by.”
“You should have said Ra’s was a hairdo and left it at that,” she murmured, “because that ‘you can do so much better that this life of crime’ routine isn’t nearly as compelling as you think.”
“Selina, I’m not saying Brady is in your league, but he was smart enough to stay alive henching for Joker. And for a smart man, I don’t think it’s too subtle a point to grasp: if Oswald Cobblepot is the best boss you’ve ever had, you’ve made some serious vocational errors.”
Selina couldn’t suppress her laugh, and Bruce took this as a victory.
“So, in your opinion, was Greg Brady convinced by this argument?”
“I think so. No way to be certain, of course. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“What about Ra’s? You said you couldn’t let him get away with coming into town lik e that and doing what he pleased. If you don’t get Brady away from him, how do you…”
“How do I drive it home to Ra’s that he lost?”
Selina nodded, and Bruce’s lip twitched.
“Simple. I identified the Gotham X-factor. And I faxed it to him.”
“My lord,” Ubu announced with a deep bow, “One of Ulstarn’s messengers, formerly of the Gotham City operation, has arrived with a communiqué.”
“Very well, Ubu,” Ra’s al Ghul ordered with a bored expression, “admit him to our Imperial Presence.”
Ubu shrugged and opened the door, permitting the five-foot pulsing orb of light to float into the throne room. Within the bubble, the messenger prostrated himself as was customary before delivering a communiqué to the Demon’s Head. And yet, because he was encased in Jason Blood’s glowing ßųŁŁą rħðmbå, the effect of groveling homage was somewhat diminished.
“A Missive,” he recited, “from the Batman, Dark Knight Detective, Guardian of Gotham City, Caped Crusader, Champion of Justice, Founding Member of the Justice League of America, He who will not suffer injustice in his city, nor tyranny nor tyrants, but banishes the despot and his minions time and again from his borders, that they might know the depths of their failures. To Ghul –comma- Ra’s, Fagaras Mountains, 3rd Footpath after the gnarled tree on the left. Dear Sir,
“Having examined three representatives of the DEMON organization—yourself, your daughter, and Ulstarn—I regret to inform you that all were found lacking in a fundamental ability to grow beyond a narrow and outdated mindset. While I applaud your desire to join the modern world and enjoy the benefits it offers, I regret to inform you these limitations will forever prevent your doing so.
“As Gotham City cannot serve your needs, you will, of course, not be returning. I am therefore shipping your operatives back to you by the usual method.
“Yours truly, Batman.”
©2003, Chris Dee