by Peter David
Well, he’d found out.
He pulled the package out and handed it to Dick, muttering, “I’m sure to be fired for this. Perhaps I could find a position at Buckingham. Always liked the Queen . . .”
One thug charged Batman, but the crimefighter heaved him overhead, throwing him into a display of stacked Boxes that crashed down all around him. Then he moved toward a thug who was trying to rip Chase’s pearls from around her neck. “Excuse me,” he growled as he head-butted the thug, knocking him cold.
“My place . . . midnight,” Chase whispered to him.
Batman spun, raced across the tops of chair backs, and engaged another group of thugs. He saw other guests starting to rally, pulling their courage together and trying to go up against Two-Face’s thugs. However none of them were wearing armor or had trained for years in various forms of martial arts combat or battle strategy. Consequently, someone was going to get killed. He had to do something—fast.
He yanked gas pellets from his belt and hurled them. They exploded at the feet of several thugs, and immediately those went down from the fumes. But more of Two-Face’s endless supply of such goons leapt to replace them.
And that was when the distant sounds of police sirens began to fill the room.
Upon hearing them, Two-Face holstered his guns. “Okay, boys. Phase two.”
As Batman continued to battle, Two-Face and the nearest thugs dashed for the service elevator. The doors closed behind them . . . shutting out Sugar and Spice, who arrived seconds too late.
“We gotta vacate,” said Spice.
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” retorted Sugar. “I’m here legit.”
Spice fired her a look. “Babe, if my sorry ass gets hauled in, I’m not going down alone. Read me?”
“We gotta vacate,” Sugar immediately said. “And fast. Where’s the stairs?”
“Thirty stories? In these heels?” Spice said incredulously. She flipped open a portable phone. “I know a guy with a helicopter.”
Batman pulled several small cuffs from his belt and threw them toward the thugs who were advancing on him. The cuffs homed in on them, whipping through the air, securing themselves around the thugs’ ankles. They went down hard.
Batman ran in the direction that he’d seen Two-Face go. He skidded to a halt in front of the elevator and watched the electronic readout reach the first floor. Could be they’d gone down to the lobby to escape. On the other hand, maybe they’d gotten off somewhere along the way. Second floor, perhaps.
He dashed out onto the balcony, looked out over it and yes, sure enough, Two-Face had indeed gone to ground. He and his thugs were just vanishing into an open manhole in the midst of the construction site across the street.
“We’ve got a gopher,” muttered Batman. He threw his arms wide. Glider rods snapped up, drawing his cape taut and into place. He stepped up onto the railing of the balcony and leapt off, hurtling down toward the manhole at top speed.
The Gotham subway museum was planned to be an ancillary part of the new hotel, which was built atop a subway station that had fallen out of use thanks to cutbacks on service. The enterprising hotel builders were also funding an underground museum that gave an overview of Gotham’s history of transportation. Plans called for a genuine old-style train to be rolled into place on permanent display, refurbished along with the rest of the station. Workers would be dressed in uniforms of the period.
It would be marvelous. And profitable.
And doomed.
Work on the station had already begun. Half of the station had been washed down, repainted, and retiled. The other half was still dank, dirty, and disgusting.
Crouching on the tracks below, Two-Face felt right at home. And what better way to make someplace a home . . . than with company?
“Boys, welcome our guest.”
Upon the command, the thugs hoisted translucent red plastic industrial air-conditioning tubing, its maw matching precisely the diameter of the open manhole.
Not wanting to lose any time, Batman folded his “wings” just as he arrived at the manhole, plummeting straight in, feetfirst. He only had a split-second warning that something was wrong, and in this case it wasn’t enough. Not even for the Batman.
He plunged into the red vinyl connector, skidding into the darkness, out of control.
The world spun around him. He tried to slow himself down, to find purchase, but there was none. He grabbed at his belt, about to draw a grappling hook that he would slam down right into the plastic to stop his descent.
By that point, though, it was too late. His amusement park-like ride had ended, and ended abruptly. He hurtled out of the tube into a blackened tunnel filled with scaffolding and supports from the work under way, and smashed squarely into a wall.
Staring into the darkness of the tunnel from the far end, Two-Face grabbed an aging valve wheel set into the crumbling wall. “Nothing worse than a bad case of gas.” He spun it enthusiastically, and was rewarded with—in the distance—the sound of gas pouring into the tunnel.
There was no motion from within. Perhaps Batman was unconscious. Perhaps he was floundering around. Perhaps he was already dead. As one of Two-Face’s thugs handed him a grenade launcher, he mused that it didn’t matter. Whatever Batman’s present status . . . his future status was now finally assured.
He aimed the launcher into the tunnel and said, “The Bat hath flown. Now shall be done a deed of dreadful note.” He paused a moment, waiting for his thugs to remark on the quote. “Macbeth? Shakespeare?” He sighed. “Never mind. Fire in the hole, gentlemen.”
The thugs scrambled to get out of the way as Two-Face fired the launcher. The grenade slammed into the gas main, and a flaming white fireball erupted, spiralling down the blackened tunnel and searing everything in its path.
Two-Face watched with rapt attention as the far end of the tunnel turned into an inferno. There were more explosions, and the glorious sounds of debris falling. It kept on going for several moments, the tunnel thick with smoke, residual flame burning here and there.
And no movement.
“Finally,” whispered Two-Face. And then he raised his voice in song. “We are the champions, my friend. We’ll keep on fighting to the—”
Then his smirk vanished.
Rubble was being shoved aside and, phoenixlike, a caped figure was rising from it. It was completely enveloped in its dark cloak. There were a few minor flames here and there, but they were quickly sputtering out, unable to do any damage to the fireproof material.
Slowly Batman lowered his cloak and began to move forward.
Consumed with rage, Two-Face started firing wildly at the scaffolding supporting the ceiling and walls. “Why don’t you just die?” he shrieked, making what seemed to him to be a perfectly reasonable request.
And someone up there, or perhaps down there, apparently decided to oblige him.
The scaffolding cracked and fell, and the already overburdened structures of the tunnel gave way. Rock and sand collapsed inward on Batman, knocking him to his knees, pouring in from everywhere. He was driven back from Harvey by a storm of wreckage. It was as if the tunnel had come to life and decided to celebrate that miraculous event by committing suicide . . . and taking Batman with it.
Plaster and rubble fell around Two-Face as well. He didn’t seem to notice it, so riveted was his attention on Batman. His henchman started pulling nervously at his jacket, but he shook them off. “Now the air is hushed save where the weak-ey’d Bat, with shrill short shrieks . . . dies.”
And he continued to watch, unmoving, unblinking, as the ground beneath Batman sucked him down into a quickly filling pit of sand. He managed to yank his grappling gun free from his belt and fired a cable into the air. For a moment Two-Face held his breath, but then the grappling hook clattered back down, nothing above for it to grip onto. Sand continued to fall, entombing Batman, covering his mouth, his eyes . . . and finally, in a moment of transcendent glee for Two-Face . . . the tippy tops of Batman’s p
ointed ears.
Hell took him back thought Two-Face, and then he noticed that the ground directly in front of him was starting to develop cracks of its own. Sensing this would be a good time to depart, he called out cheerfully, “Boys, let’s go have us a party. Anybody else feel like donuts? Maybe the chocolate kind with the little sprinkles . . .”
Buried alive . . .
The screeching filled his ears and the blackness filled his soul. From down below him, although he couldn’t see them . . . because he couldn’t see anything . . . he sensed his parents’ hands reaching up for him. Desiccated, skeletal, clawing at his feet, pulling him down with them into the grave that he had once stood in front of and sworn that he would dedicate his life to . . .
To what?
To fighting crime? He could do that through the Wayne Foundation. To vengeance? Why did killing grate against his soul, then? Why not an eye for an eye (eyes filled with sand) tooth for a tooth (mouth spitting out dirt)
To bring them back? Nothing could. To make them rest easier? They were dead.
To join them?
Yes, of course . . . that was it . . . it wasn’t about anything so noble as doing right and seeking justice . . . this whole thing was just a massive death wish, suicide on a spectacular scale. He’d worked for it. He deserved it. And now all he had to do was lean back and enjoy it.
The only problem was that, although it made so much sense to his mind, his instincts, his damned instincts, were still fighting, still battling. Screeches filled his ears, and they were his own except that he couldn’t speak, and he thrust a hand upward, his air running out, his life running out, like sands trickling through an overturned hourglass . . . his hand clutched at something and it was air, but air was notoriously difficult to find a handhold in, and in his darkening mind he could see that hourglass, see the last grains of sand running through it. A few more grains and that would be it, finished, done . . .
A hand gripped his.
It was a strong, unwavering grip. The grip of someone who was not accustomed to letting go of whoever or whatever it was holding.
It provided him with all the support he needed. Although the sand continued to slide under him, he was nevertheless able to dig in the toes of his boots, drive himself upward, up and out. His head broke the surface, sand pouring out of his mask and giving him back visibility.
He was able to make out the hand that was holding his. It was green-gloved. Trembling slightly from the strain now, but still unyielding. He looked up.
Dick was dressed in his Flying Grayson costume. A black mask covered his features. His legs were hooked around some scaffolding that had fallen in such a way that it was wedged solidly.
“Don’t worry,” said Dick through gritted teeth. “Just think of it as a day at the beach. A really . . . bad . . . day at the beach.”
In the depths of the Batcave, Alfred was busy bandaging up Bruce as Dick paced.
Bruce’s reaction had been far less than what Dick considered the acceptable one, which would be at the very least a heartfelt “thank you.”
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
“You have a real gratitude problem.” Dick stopped, struck by the vision of himself at Batman’s side. “You know what, Bruce? I need a name. Batboy? The Dark Earl? Nightwing? What’s a good sidekick name?”
“How about Richard Grayson, college student?” He stood, flexing his aching muscles. “This conversation is over.”
“Screw you, Bruce. I saved your life. You owe me. I’m joining up.”
“You’re right. I do owe you. I owe it to you to get you to change your mind. Dick . . . I’ve been dragged into a pit long before tonight. How would I be fulfilling my obligation to you if I let you get dragged into it with me?”
“And how can I fulfill my obligation to my parents, and to myself, if you don’t!”
“You’re totally out of control. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“I’m going to be your partner.”
Bruce laughed at the ludicrousness of it. He turned to Alfred, waiting for him to say something.
Alfred simply shrugged.
“That’s it? A shrug?”
“If you insist, Mister Wayne,” Alfred said, “then I must point out that if it weren’t for this lad, you would most likely be deceased. And this lad would be vowing even more vengeance, set to tear off on his own and very likely wind up just as deceased. All I’m saying, sir . . . is that you might be stronger together than apart.”
Bruce shook his head. “There’s no way—”
And Dick realized that he had lost interest in the conversation. It was he, not Bruce, who was dealing from strength. “Whenever the call comes, I’ll know. Whenever you go out at night, I’ll be watching. And wherever there’s a Batman, I’ll be right behind him.” He smiled sadly. “How are you going to stop me?”
Bruce held his gaze, and there was something very flat and very dangerous—a contained animal—in his eyes. “I can stop you.”
For just a moment, Dick realized that he had stepped over a line. He skittered back across it and, feeling embarrassed for having to do so, he covered it by turning his back and storming out of the Batcave. Glowering, Bruce watched him go, and then turned to Alfred. “And you’re encouraging him.”
“Sir,” said Alfred with the air of one who knew precisely what he was talking about, “young men with a mind for revenge need little encouragement. They need guidance.”
Bruce shook his head, discouraged . . .
. . . and thought about his sinking in the sand . . . thought about how he’d never needed someone to save him before, and now this kid had shown up and it was true, the great Batman owed him his life . . .
He couldn’t keep doing it alone . . . but did that mean that he brought in a partner, a teammate . . . or did that mean that he should . . .
. . . stop . . .
He glanced over at a TV screen, which was playing the news. There was that wonderful station owner editorializing again, and there was the Bat symbol with the red international prohibit sign through it.
Bruce reached for the volume.
“Don’t,” suggested Alfred.
He turned it up anyway, to be graced by the comforting words, “. . . subway tunnel will take weeks to repair. Batman is a magnet for so-called supervillains. Only when Batman hangs up cape and cowl will Gotham be spared these evildoers’ violent vendettas . . .”
Bruce Wayne started to laugh.
Alfred looked at him worriedly as Bruce’s laughter drowned out the rest of the editorial.
“I was . . . I was wondering how they’d do it,” Bruce managed to gasp out. Slowly he regained control of himself. “That’s what our society is all about, Alfred. We build up heroes. We create them. They spring from the media, or movies, or television, or full-blown from our brows. And once we’ve got our heroes in place, we look at them and see how little we are in comparison. How meaningless our own lives are. And we start to tear them down, bit by bit, drag them ‘down’ to our level rather than raise ourselves up to the level we’ve established for them. We always destroy the heroes we create, Alfred. Always.”
Very quietly, Alfred said, “Even those we create for ourselves to inhabit?”
Slowly, Bruce nodded. “It seems that way, doesn’t it. Are they right, Alfred? Is it time for Batman to retire?” As much to himself as to Alfred, he addressed the question, “Why do I keep doing this?”
Alfred reached over and put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Your parents are avenged. The Wayne Foundation contributes a fortune to anticrime programs. Police handle much of the villainy. Why, indeed?”
“Chase talks about Batman as if he were a curse, not a choice. What frightened me the night of my parents’ wake? The Bat? Did I create all this”—he gestured around the cave—“just because a little boy was scared of a monster in the dark? I thought I became Batman to fight crime. But maybe I became Batman to fight the fear.”
“And inste
ad you became the fear.”
He stared at the screen, which was now running photographs of Two-Face. “If I quit, would Two-Face end his crusade? Could I leave the shadows? To spare Dick. To have a life. Friends. Family.”
“Dr. Meridian . . .”
Bruce looked up at Alfred, pain in his eyes. “She loves Batman. Not Bruce Wayne . . .”
“Go tell her. Tell her how you feel.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How do I tell her, Alfred? As Batman, knowing she wants me? Or as Bruce Wayne and hope . . . ?”
Bruce stared at the phone, then punched in Chase’s number. Alfred watched expectantly as Chase’s voice came over the speakerphone.
“Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Who is this?”
Bruce started to reply . . . and then stopped. To Alfred’s dismay, Bruce reached over and disconnected the phone.
“Who am I, Alfred? I don’t think I know anymore.”
“Where . . . are they . . . ?” said Gordon slowly.
The others of Two-Face’s thugs whom they had questioned had remained tightlipped, refusing to give Gordon and the other cops standing nearby the slightest hint of Two-Face’s whereabouts. This one, though, a burly one named Taylor, seemed to be sweating profusely. “Look, you don’t understand,” said Taylor. “I’d like to cooperate. I’d like to save my own butt, don’t think I wouldn’t. But if I spill the deal about Two-Face and Riddler, I’m toast. I’m cooked.”
“How? How are you cooked?”
“I dunno, but that’s what they said. They said if we ever squeal, we’ll regret it. And they weren’t kidding. I’m sure of it.”
A heavyset detective named Bullock grunted, “Gimme a few minutes with him, Commish.”
Gordon ignored him. “We can protect you, Taylor.”
Taylor considered it a moment, and then said, “No jail.”
“I’m not sure I—”
“No jail, and I go into the Witness Protection Program. In exchange, I give you Two-Face and the Riddler. That’s the deal. You don’t like it, then that’s the end of this conversation. I ask for a lawyer, he tells me to shut my yap, and that’s it. This offer has got a shelf life of exactly thirty seconds.”