Batman 2 - Batman Returns

by CRAIG SHAW GARDNER

  Sometimes, at moments of extreme stress or peril, they are even shared between human and animal. Master and pet, if you will, although the real dynamic is far more complicated than that.

  The woman who was Selina Kyle would have these thoughts later, after she was rescued.

  At that moment, though, she lay half-conscious, battered and bruised and about to freeze to death in the snow. It would be so easy, she thought, to drift off to sleep, and maybe to sleep forever.

  Something kept her from falling into that final sleep. There were noises, animal noises. The sound of cats.

  Miss Kitty?

  But it was far more than one cat. From all the meows and purrs that surrounded her, she must be in the middle of an army of cats, as if the whole feline population of Gotham City had come to her rescue.

  That was awfully nice of them. She had always liked cats. Now, if they would only calm down so she could get some sleep.

  But the cats wouldn’t leave her alone. Miss Kitty climbed upon her chest and breathed into her mouth. A Siamese purred meaningfully into her ear. Other cats rubbed against her legs and feet.

  An old tom bit her finger.

  Her eyes flew open.

  And she understood. She was Selina Kyle no more. She was reborn.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It seemed to take hours to get back to her apartment. Her bruises no longer mattered, nor her loss of blood, nor even the cold of the winter night. She would never again be a meek, self-deprecating administrative assistant.

  She entered her apartment with Miss Kitty in hand, but this place no longer suited her mood; it didn’t speak of her awakening. There would have to be a few changes to this place.

  So she set to work, with black spray paint, ending the pink and eggshell decor of walls and floor and couch. It was still not enough. She grabbed her stuffed animals and fed the smaller ones to the garbage disposal. The larger ones had to be done in with knives. A knitting needle effectively ruined the perfect order of the dollhouse.

  And, after that, she used some interesting black scraps to sew a very special outfit. And claws; she needed claws! Well, why not make them from common household implements? It was amazing how easily things found around the kitchen could be turned into deadly weapons.

  Miss Kitty roamed about the apartment, full of purrs and imperious meows, approving of every change.

  Now, there was one final task. With her bare hands, she tore at the cheerful neon sign, removing those two most crucial letters, so that what once read “HELLO THERE” was transformed to something much more appropriate:

  “HELL HERE.”

  For it would be hell for all those who had wronged her.

  With that, she sat down upon the floor in her new, special clothes, and watched the sunrise, for her work had taken the rest of the night. Miss Kitty purred at her feet. She thought the cat deserved a little reward after so much work, and fetched her a bowl full of milk. She placed the bowl before her feline savior and expressed herself for the first time in a new voice that spoke of a power and grace she had never admitted to in her earlier life.

  “I don’t know about you, Miss Kitty,” she said softly but firmly, “but I feel—so—much—yummier.”

  And with that, she stretched out to reach the rising sun; stretched out just like a cat.

  Bruce Wayne moved quickly through Gotham Plaza. It was still a mess. A group of workmen forlornly tried to shore up a bullet-ridden Christmas tree that seemed obviously beyond saving, while others boarded up the windows of the burnt-out stores. He knew some of those places wanted to open before Christmas. Right now, it looked hopeless.

  Bruce stepped forward to shake hands. He also took this opportunity to study the window more closely.

  “Hmm,” he grunted. “Primitive ventilation.”

  “Damn those Carny Bolsheviks the other night,” Max responded quickly, “throwing bricks at my window—”

  “No,” Bruce disagreed. He pointed to the evidence on the carpet. Or rather the lack of evidence. “No glass on the inside.”

  Max frowned at the carpet, looking a little uncomfortable. “Weird, huh?” he said after a moment. “Uh, why don’t we go into the conference room?”

  “It’s less well ventilated,” Chip added helpfully.

  Bruce agreed and allowed Max to lead the way. They stepped through a second doorway into a room dominated by a large, circular conference table. Max indicated that Bruce should take a seat. Once his guest was seated, the businessman sat down at the opposite side of the table.

  “I’d offer you coffee,” he explained hurriedly, “but my assistant is using her vacation time.”

  “Good time, too,” Bruce agreed. He pursed his lips as he added, “Everyone but the bandits seem to be slacking off until New Year’s.”

  Max turned to stare at Bruce. “Not sure I like the inference, Bruce,” he said with a smile. “I’m pushing this power plant now because it’ll cost more later.” He shook an authoritative finger in Bruce’s direction. “Time is money, life is short, and a million saved is a million earned.”

  Bruce snapped open the briefcase that he had set down on the conference table. “I commissioned this report,” he announced matter-of-factly. “Thought you should see it.”

  He handed it to Max, who flipped through it as if he really wasn’t interested.

  Bruce had had enough of this playing around. “Here’s the point, Max,” he said candidly. “Gotham City has a power surplus. I’m sure you know that. So the question is, What’s your angle?”

  Max jumped back to his feet. “ ‘A power surplus’?” he exclaimed as if those were dirty words. “Bruce, shame on you—no such thing! One can never have too much power!”

  Chip, standing behind his father, rapidly nodded his agreement.

  “If my life has any meaning,” Max insisted, “that’s the meaning.”

  “Max,” Bruce replied firmly, “I’m gonna fight you on this. The mayor and I have already spoken and we see eye to eye here. So—”

  “Mayors come and go,” Max shot back. “And heirs tire easily.” He put up his dukes and threw a punch at the air. “Really think a flyweight like you could last fifteen rounds with Muhammad Shreck?”

  “Guess we’ll find out, Max,” Bruce agreed noncommittally. “Of course, I don’t have a crime boss like Cobblepot in my corner.”

  He shut his briefcase and stood.

  “Crime boss?” Max shouted. He laughed harshly. “Shows what you know, Mr. To-the-manor-born-with-a-silver-spoon. Oswald is Gotham’s new Golden Boy!”

  “Oswald controls the Red Triangle Circus Gang,” Bruce shot back. “I can’t prove it, but we both know it’s true.”

  “Wayne,” Max insisted, “I’ll not stand for mud-slinging in this office. If my assistant were here, she’d already have escorted you out, to—”

  “Wherever he wants,” a female voice interrupted.

  Bruce turned to see a woman enter the room. And what a woman. She was very fashionably dressed, with a haircut that framed and highlighted her face. The only thing out of place was a bandage on her hand. She was very attractive, and also somehow familiar.

  “Preferably some nightspot, grotto, or secluded hideaway,” she continued as she sashayed into the room. She smiled at Bruce. “Nice suit.”

  Of course! Bruce thought. They had met in Gotham Plaza the other day. She was that same woman the clown had seized as a hostage. She had seemed so uncertain, then, compared with the way she looked at him now.

  Their eyes had met for an instant the other day. She looked nice then. Their eyes met again. She looked even nicer now.

  Bruce smiled back.

  “Selina?” Max looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Selina—Selina—” He sounded like an old record, stuck in a single groove.

  “That’s my name, Maxamillions,” the woman replied with the slightest of smiles. “Don’t wear it out, babe, or I’ll make you buy me a new one.”

  Max blinked and shook his head, as if t
o clear it of errant thoughts. “Uh—Selina, this is—uh—Bruce Wayne.”

  “We’ve met,” Bruce replied suavely.

  Selina looked the slightest bit confused. “Have we?”

  Bruce’s smile faltered as he realized that she hadn’t met him at all. She had met Batman.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I mistook me for somebody else.”

  “You mean mistook me?” Selina corrected.

  “Didn’t I say that?” Bruce asked.

  “Yes and no,” she replied with another of those fabulous smiles. But her hand was bandaged. Bruce stepped forward and gently took that hand with his own.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Yes, did—” Max hurriedly interrupted, “did you injure yourself on that ski slope? Is that why you cut short your vacation and came back?” He smiled at her. Somehow, Bruce thought, the smile did not look at all pleasant.

  Selina shrugged with the slightest of frowns. “Maybe that broken window over there had something to do with it—or maybe not. It’s blurry.” She bit her lip slightly. Bruce thought she looked even better when she bit her lip.

  “I mean,” she continued after a moment’s pause, “it’s not complete amnesia.” She frowned, then continued tentatively. “I—remember Sister Mary-Margaret puking in church, and Becky Riley said it was morning sickness.” Her smile returned as she talked. “And I remember the time I forgot to wear underpants to school, and the name of the boy who noticed—Ricky Friedberg!” Her smile had transformed into the largest of grins. “He’s dead now.” She glanced at Max. “But last night?” She shook her head. “Complete and total blur.”

  Max still smiled, although now the expression seemed a little frightened. “Selina,” he remarked as he glanced at his son. “Please show out Mr. Wayne.”

  Selina smiled at Bruce again and turned to lead him to the elevator. Bruce decided he could follow her anywhere. But the elevators were only two short rooms away. Much too short to have any sort of meaningful conversation.

  Selina turned to him once they were both out in the hall. “You don’t seem like the type that does business with Mr. Shreck,” she said frankly.

  “No,” Bruce agreed. “And you don’t seem like the type to take orders from him.”

  There was that smile again. “Well, that’s a—long story.”

  “Well,” Bruce volunteered. “I could free up some time.”

  Selina gazed into his eyes.

  “I’m listed.”

  Bruce gazed back into hers.

  “I’m tempted.”

  Selina took a step back toward the conference room.

  “I’m working.”

  Bruce took a step away toward the elevators.

  “I’m leaving.”

  She disappeared, back into the offices of Max Shreck and Company. Bruce turned to the elevator.

  “Se—li—na,” he murmured.

  He pressed the down button once for each syllable.

  The car arrived. She was listed. He stepped inside. He’d have to give her a call. Except—

  He leapt forward, forcing the doors apart before they could close completely.

  He was missing the most important information of all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The woman who was once Selina had taken off her bandage, and slowly, methodically, was squeezing blood from her finger into the percolating coffee.

  So, Max. Want some more of my blood?

  She looked up, and saw Bruce Wayne watching her.

  She tried to smile.

  “Pouring myself into my work,” she explained.

  Bruce smiled back. “I, ah, didn’t catch your last name.” Just like that. As if he saw people dripping blood into coffee every day.

  “Oh,” she replied. “Kyle.”

  She put her left hand to her ear, and made an exaggerated circling motion with her right index linger. “Rhymes with dial.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and disappeared.

  There was something about that man, she thought. Something that almost made her want to go back to being plain old Selina Kyle.

  She purred deep in her throat. Almost, but not quite.

  Max had to admit it. This Selina thing had him spooked. Her death would have been so much simpler. But he couldn’t let this little setback destroy his confidence.

  It was time to call The Penguin, and check up on Oswald’s new home. Not, of course, that Oswald Cobblepot knew anything about its real purpose. Yet.

  Chip looked at him as he picked up the phone.

  “You buy this ‘blurry’ business?” his son asked.

  “Who knows,” Max replied as he began to dial the number. “Women.” He glanced back up at his son, and he finished dialing. The phone on the other end began to ring.

  A gruff voice answered.

  “Yeah,” Max replied into the receiver. “Oswald, please.”

  His son waved in agreement and left the room as Max waited for The Penguin.

  This would work out fine.

  The phone rang in The Penguin’s warehouse.

  Oswald Cobblepot had to admit it; Max had come through on this one. His new headquarters had two different floors. Downstairs was big and brightly lit and still under construction, as if Max was planning to give The Penguin some sort of office. No doubt it would be a good place to meet the public, if The Penguin ever wanted to do that sort of thing.

  Upstairs, it was a different story: dirty, dingy, cluttered—a real working space. The Red Triangle Circus Gang hung out up here, practicing their acts and generally acting rowdy. They had opened a large ventilation duct up here that also opened up at the rear of the building, so that the gang members could come and go at will without the embarrassment of having to deal with those boringly legitimate people on the first floor.

  And The Penguin had his list of names, all on that pile of yellow legal pads. Now all he had to do was cross-reference every single one of them against the white pages of Gotham phone books. It was not a simple job.

  The phone kept on ringing.

  The Organ Grinder shooed his monkeys away to answer it.

  “Yeah?” he said. He held the phone out toward The Penguin. “For you, boss.”

  Now? The Penguin grabbed the phone and almost growled into the receiver. “Yeah? What is it? I’m busy up here.”

  “Good,” Max’s all-too-cheerful voice greeted him on the line. “Stay busy up there. I got plans for us below.”

  What did he mean? Down at the lower level of his new headquarters? Well, The Penguin supposed since he had made the deal, he had to put up with Max. He never realized how much it would interfere with his work here.

  “Plans,” he repeated halfheartedly. “Swell. Later.” He slammed down the phone. He’d deal with Max at the proper time. For now, he had to finish off the phone books and his list.

  It was a lot of work, but because of this, his final revenge would be that much sweeter. He returned to matching addresses with every single name.

  After all, all play and no work made a dull Penguin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was time to prowl.

  She could no longer stay in her den, even after it had been transformed. Cats were meant to roam the night.

  So she roamed.

  What did we have here?

  The dirty streets of Gotham seemed to have coughed up some more of their scum. And who is it today? Just your average, garden-variety mugger, who had grabbed a pretty young woman and dragged her back into an alley.

  “Help, Batma—” the woman began.

  Batman? Is that all the woman could think of?

  “Now, now,” the mugger smirked, “pretty young thing, nice and easy—”

  The victim cowered and held out her purse. “Please. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything—”

  The other woman had had quite enough of this.

  She leapt from the fire escape, landing squarely on the mugger’s back. He flew forward to the ground.

  �
�I just love a big strong man who’s not afraid to show it,” she mentioned as he rolled beneath her, “with someone half her size.”

  The mugger had managed to roll onto his back. He stared up at her in astonishment. “Who the—” he began.

  “Be gentle,” she replied. “It’s my first time.”

  Apparently he wasn’t listening, because he leapt up with a growl, intent on grabbing her.

  She darted out of the way, and gave him a savage kick. All the breath left him as he staggered back.

  Hey, not bad, she thought. But before he could recover, it was time for the talons.

  She jumped forward and set to work scratching up his face.

  The mugger screamed and fell to the asphalt.

  “Tic—tac—toe,” she murmured in triumph.

  The victim rushed up to her side.

  “Thank you,” she gushed, “thank you. I was so scared—”

  Her defender had had enough of this, too. She pushed the victim back against the wall with one of her claws.

  “You make it so easy, don’t you?” she asked in disgust. “You pretty, pathetic young thing? Always waiting for some Batman to save you.”

  The victim cringed again, quaking, expecting something even worse.

  She leaned forward to whisper in the victim’s ear: “I am Catwoman. Hear me roar.”

  And with that, Catwoman leapt away, cartwheeling out of the alley to disappear into the night.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  With all these interruptions, The Penguin would never finish!

  He looked up to see Max Shreck stepping between the members of the Red Triangle Circus, past the Tatooed Strongman, rippling those belly dancers he had tattooed on his biceps, stopping to let one of the acrobats walk past on his hands. Max grinned at The Penguin. Somehow, he seemed much too cheerful for a businessman.