by Marv Wolfman
Bright white rings and comets crackled one after the other in a steady, deafening stream. There were repeater cakes and falling leaves, dragon eggs and flying fish.
Batman waited. The mercs rushed to the opposite window to see what was happening, and there they were transfixed by the glittering bombast of fireworks.
“We set it up last month for this year’s Independence Day festival,” Fox said. “We’ll have to report an industrial accident, but we can always redo it—perhaps even better.”
Silence.
“Mr. Wayne? Do you hear me?”
But Batman was too busy to reply. He jumped from the tower and, once he was far enough out, fired a grapple to the roof. The cord snagged the parapet, tightening, then arcing him back to the window. He tossed a gas grenade inside and lowered his oxygen mask into position a moment before the grenade exploded.
The mercs choked and coughed as their lungs burned hot and their eyes swelled with tears. Batman landed inside the tower and drove a fist into the closest one’s chest, taking him out, but not before he fired his weapon. The shot missed, but the explosion would certainly alert the thugs outside.
The clock was ticking.
He whirled, grabbed the second merc’s head, and slammed it into the tower wall. The soldier fell unconscious to the ground.
The men outside would be entering the tower. It would take them less than a minute to race up its narrow, winding stairs.
Batman found the control panel for the antenna, attached the Batmobile’s power conductor to it, then started the car’s engine. Power surged through the cable and into the antenna.
“Oracle, everything’s in place, but you need to do this fast. Trouble’s coming.”
“I can see,” Barbara said from inside the Clock Tower, where she would be able to watch the heat signatures climbing the stairwell. “Unfortunately I can’t hurry technology.”
Batman ran to the tower door as the soldiers raced up the stairs. Fortunately, the stairwell was narrow so they couldn’t run side by side, and it didn’t have a handrail. He’d only have to deal with them one at a time—those behind the leader couldn’t fire their weapons.
He launched himself at the first soldier, and the impact slammed him into the soldiers behind. Like a human battering ram he kept pushing at them, forcing them to tumble back down the stairs. Without anything to grab, they flailed helplessly as they fell.
“Batman.” Barbara Gordon’s voice came over the comm. “I need another sixty-seven seconds to establish the satellite link. Can you keep them busy?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
“There’s your answer.”
The hindmost men fell to the first landing, stacking atop each other. One of the goons struggled to pull his gun free, and succeeded. He obviously didn’t care who he killed as long as he got Batman, too.
Batman slammed his foot into the top goon’s side, forcing him to roll over as he instinctively reacted. That exposed the merc below him as well as the goon with the gun. He grabbed the second merc’s head and slammed it into the third one’s face. The man’s nose exploded in a fountain of blood and he squealed at the sudden pain.
“Thirty-four seconds, Batman,” he heard Oracle say. “You can do this.”
The lead soldier pushed himself to his feet and grabbed him from behind, his arm wrapped around Batman’s throat, tightening, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. The fourth merc watched the struggle and decided to turn him into a human punching bag—his fists pummeled Batman’s mid-section with rapid-fire delivery.
His arms held behind him, Batman lashed out with his feet, kicking at anything in their way.
“Nine seconds, Bruce.”
He let them hit him. Instead of wasting energy resisting, he took the punishment. In his head he counted down the seconds. Eight… Seven…
A fist smashed into his face, cutting open his lip.
Four… Three…
Another fist slammed into his solar plexus.
Two…
“Batman, I have it.”
This was it. Batman breathed in deeply, the cold air invigorating. He closed his eyes, gathered his strength, then lashed out.
His legs wrapped around the merc trying to strangle him. He twisted and sent the soldier flying down the stairs, into two others. He leaped over the next closest assailant and landed on the three who had fallen.
Three quick jabs made certain they wouldn’t get up for at least an hour. He whirled and confronted the final merc, kneed him in the groin, then drove an elbow into the back of his neck.
“Barbara, let the police know they’ll need to take out the trash,” he said. “I’m out of here.”
“Will do. Why don’t you come by the Clock Tower? I should be able to figure out where the radiation is coming from while I help patch you up.”
“There’s no time,” he said, heading for the roof. “Besides, I’ve been hurt much worse than this. But get me the info asap.”
“Okay. But hold on. It’s coming through. Coming… and there it… Well, look at this. Definitely not a surprise.”
“What? Where is Scarecrow’s fear toxin being manufactured?”
“Our old stomping grounds, emphasis on stomping. The Ace Chemicals warehouse.”
He remained silent for a moment while the information sank in.
“Thanks, Barbara,” he said. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“I bet you say that to all the Oracles.”
* * *
“Lucius,” Batman said into his comm.
“I’m right here,” came the reply. “What do you need now? Fireworks weren’t a big enough show for you?”
“They were perfect, but we now know where the fear toxin is being manufactured—it’s at Ace Chemicals.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Oracle said the same. But it does mean there’s a definite danger posed by the toxic radiation.”
“One radiation-resistant suit, coming up.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Let’s say I can predict the future. And by that I mean I’ve already prepared such a suit for you, assuming you’d eventually find the radiation source. A Batwing will deliver it to any location you request.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Lucius.”
“Does your praise also come with a substantial raise?”
“Let’s not get too crazy. Batman, over and out.”
13
Jim Gordon tried calling Barbara—for the thirteenth time since Scarecrow issued his threat—and once again the phone answered with a high-pitched whine followed with the by now repetitious drone of, “All circuits are busy. Please hang up and try again later.”
All he wanted was to make certain his daughter was safe, and yet the technology that she so embraced was preventing him from getting an answer. For a brief moment he thought it would be better if everyone went back to sending smoke signals, but as he looked up at Gotham City’s perpetually slate-gray skies, he knew that was implausible. All the sky here was good for was reflecting the Bat-Signal. No matter what time of day or night it might be, there’d always be a dark cloud on which to project it.
When his wife—the former Barbara Kean-Gordon—suddenly and without warning left her husband, their daughter Barbara, and son James Jr., Gordon’s world had unraveled. Even in the bleakness that was Gotham City, he had believed that family and love provided the light and hope he needed. As long as he had his family together, anything was possible.
Yet his wife left, and James Jr. fell into a world of darkness, only to emerge in the role of a homicidal killer. Only his daughter remained with him in Gotham City, her wide, honest smile keeping him a believer that things could work out. That life didn’t have to slowly and systematically destroy everything that was good.
Now, thanks to a psychopath who sought to displace hope with fear, he was unable to make certain his final hold on sanity was out there, safe and well. Gordon swo
re Scarecrow would be stopped, quickly and permanently.
Just like the Joker.
A phone buzzed on his desk—the one Batman had given him—and he tapped “receive.” Batman’s voice sounded urgent.
“I’m heading to Ace Chemicals,” Batman said. “Meet me there with as many officers as you can muster.” The phone went dead and Gordon stared at it. That was Batman. No pleasantries. Here in an instant, then gone just as fast.
Gordon glanced out his office window to the city that was either testing him or destroying him—he didn’t know which it was, but thought that ultimately the results would probably be the same. He took out his department-issue cell phone and called Weezie Robbins in dispatch.
“How many officers can you free up?”
“You’re joking, Commissioner, aren’t you?” Robbins said, her voice soft but firm. “There is nobody I can free up. Hell, I don’t have the manpower to accomplish what I already need to do.”
“This is important,” Gordon said. “We believe we know where Scarecrow’s manufacturing his fear toxin. If we can contain it, Gotham City might still be spared going through yet another hell. Please, anything you can do, just do it.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” she replied. “Where do you want them? And when.”
“Ace Chemicals. And ASAP.”
“Like I say, Commissioner. I’ll do my best. And good luck, sir.”
“Today we all need that. Thanks, Weezie.”
He took a long look at the framed photos sitting on his desk, of Barbara. If this works I’ll see you again real soon. He left the office and headed down to the garage. His driver, Bill McKean, was already waiting for him. They took off into the endless night.
Something tells me we’re going to need a lot more than luck tonight.
* * *
Alfred Pennyworth had been with the Wayne family well before Bruce was born, and he had stayed on as the boy’s legal guardian after the Waynes were murdered. He was loyal, caring, and patient, for certain, but there were always rumors about his past.
While growing up, Bruce heard a story that when Alfred was younger he had replaced his own father as a fourth-generation major domo to the English queen, until the Waynes managed to hire him away. There was no speculation as to how anyone, regardless of wealth, could pry away a loyal servant of the crown.
Another rumor detailed Alfred’s life with the UK’s MI6, which focused on rooting out foreign enemies. Once again there was a question left unanswered. Why would such an officer allow himself to become a butler?
Long ago Bruce Wayne had decided not to pursue the investigation of the mysteries surrounding his greatest friend in the world. Eventually he decided that Alfred was, after his own father, the best man he ever had known. Whatever he used to be, it only contributed to what he was now.
That was good enough.
* * *
Batman’s gauntlet comm buzzed while he was speaking to Gordon. Seeing who it was, he cut short the conversation with the commissioner, and picked up the incoming call.
Alfred’s face floated above the gauntlet comm. “Sir,” he said, his voice calm and controlled, “the police force is reduced to fewer than six hundred officers. Quite understandably, most of the others fled along with their families.”
“It’s not a valid excuse, Alfred,” Bruce said. “When you’re a Gotham City police officer, the entire city becomes your family.”
“All well and good, sir, and in your case understood, but one needs to remember that we’re talking about an airborne toxin. For all we know, Scarecrow has already unleashed a milder dose, simply to initiate the panicked withdrawal.”
“You’re speculating.”
“Of course I am, sir. But I’ve been monitoring the roads, and the police officers I’ve seen, well, they’re displaying a greater level of fear than I’ve seen before. Some of those men must at one point or another have found themselves bravely confronting the Joker. It doesn’t sound natural, sir.”
“Everyone feels fear, Alfred,” Batman argued. “I understand that.”
“Indeed. You created your entire persona to instill fear.”
“In criminals,” Bruce added. “But if a person doesn’t have anything to fear…”
“Then you become just another person dressed up as a bat,” Alfred said, cutting him off. “Is that what you were going to say, sir?”
“No, it was not,” Bruce replied. It was a moment before he spoke again. “I know fear. I fought through it. Or did you forget the well?”
A strange expression crossed the butler’s face, but only for a moment. It had been so long ago, when Bruce was no more than eight, that he had fallen into that long-forgotten dried-up well near the back of the Wayne estate. He lay there on the well’s damp floor, lost, crying, darkness everywhere, when thousands of bats appeared out of nowhere and screamed past him, their claws ripping at him as he flailed about helplessly, desperately trying to protect his face.
The young boy, protected by loving parents, had never before felt fear like that, and it seemed to go on forever—though he later realized that it could only have been minutes. Then Thomas Wayne’s hand reached down, grabbed his, and pulled him to the surface.
His father held him tight, letting him know that as long as he was with him, he’d never allow his son to feel such terror again. Within a week the boy was back to running wildly everywhere on the estate, causing his usual brand of mischief, eschewing the caution his father tried to drill into him. Life moved on, as it always did.
Yet that day, those few frightening moments, had seared into Bruce Wayne’s psyche and never let go. Batman might have been born because of a killer’s gun, but even before that, fear had changed the course of Bruce’s life.
He wasn’t about to let it destroy the city he loved.
“I do remember, sir,” Alfred said. “It’s a day I won’t forget. But I thought you…”
“I never forget anything, Alfred. It’s my curse. But I also haven’t forgotten my father sitting me down in his library that night. The fireplace was lit and the flames, dancing with abandon, were mesmerizing in their beauty.”
Alfred nodded but said nothing.
“My father taught me that fear is irrational—it’s not reality. Whenever it begins to build, you have to keep reminding yourself that it’s only an hallucination. And as with any hallucination, you have to look past it and deal with what’s real and tangible.
“He said that once you recognized the difference between what’s real, and what’s only in your mind, you can learn how to push past the illusion and embrace the real. It’s much too easy to miss that difference, he explained. That’s when you get lost in your fears.”
“Sadly, sir,” Alfred started, “not everyone in Gotham City was fortunate enough to have your father’s counsel.”
“I know. I see it every night. And even without fiends like Scarecrow, this city breeds fear. But as my father said, the job of the Wayne family is to help those without our good fortune. Help them to understand how best to deal with what most frightens them.
“God knows, I’ve tried, and I’m not going to stop.”
“Sir, I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“Yes, and it’s a big one. Scarecrow is all about fear, and the kind he brandishes isn’t hallucination—at least not in the traditional sense. His chemicals worm their way into the subconscious. It finds your weakness and exploits it. Because it’s chemical, it’s as close to real as it gets, and it’s nearly impossible to stop.”
“So, do you have a plan via which you will accomplish the impossible?”
“No…” Bruce answered. “And maybe. You know I fought Scarecrow before, when I was trapped in Arkham Asylum. Scarecrow wasn’t even fully powered up, and I nearly succumbed.”
“This sounds more ‘no’ than ‘maybe.’”
“Agreed. But the ‘maybe’ comes from knowing that Scarecrow still isn’t fully powered up.”
“And how do we know that?”
“So he’s limited by whatever process he uses to manufacture the toxin…”
“…and he doesn’t want to broadcast the fact that, even if he succeeds now, he could never have taken over an entire city. His failure would embolden his enemies, including those of us who are still here to fight back. And hope is the very last thing he’d want to inspire.”
“Well, sir, now that you know, you’re in a much better position to resist him. Besides, as you say, you’ve fought and defeated him before.”
“I know. But everyone has fears he can exploit. Even me.”
“Your fears, sir? I thought you had long ago conquered them all.” Something in Alfred’s voice told Bruce that he didn’t believe it.
“No, not all,” he admitted. “I may know what my fear is, but if he reaches inside me and extracts it, I’m not certain I can fight back.”
“What fear is that?”
Bruce hesitated before continuing. It meant revisiting one of the greatest agonies of his lifetime.
“You’ll remember that my parents wanted to go to the opera that night. I was the one who insisted on the movie. Since that time, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t asked myself, if I had gone along with what they wanted, would they be alive today?
“That’s my fear, Alfred. That my selfishness is what killed them. And that’s the one fear from which I can’t run.”
He suddenly clicked off the comm and closed his eyes. He was starting to feel his anger returning. The goddam Joker blood. Thinking about his parents, and his part in their deaths, was making him lose control.
His father once told him that when you succumbed to anger you were no longer able to think rationally, and an irrational life was always doomed to failure. Thomas Wayne showed him how to let that anger fade. How to take back control. How to resist the primitive impulses.