by Marv Wolfman
Incapacitate, don’t kill. He was controlling the Joker’s blood.
Securing the merc’s wrists with plastic ties, he gagged him then dragged him into the tunnels, leaving him there while he moved on to look up through the gratings into the next area, which was also filled with pipes.
Three mercs patrolled this new chamber, talking but still paying attention. They weren’t close to one another, so there was no way to take out one without being shot by the others. This action would have to be perfectly timed.
He quickly moved through the conduits until he was directly under one of the guards. The three were still talking about a girl one of them was dating, and it became clear that the conversation was nearly over. Batman waited while they finished, and the other two turned to continue their rounds.
As soon as they turned away, Batman lunged through the grating and pulled the closest merc into the tunnel with him. He drove his elbow into the man’s throat and quickly took him out of the action.
Harsh, but still controlled. He breathed in deeply and moved on.
The merc nearest to the action heard the scuffle, turned back, and saw Batman running at him. It took a moment for him to realize what was happening, but he’d been well trained. Instantly, his weapon was in position to fire, but as he squeezed the trigger Batman jumped over his head, twisted, and slammed the man from behind—both feet hard to the back of his head, smashing him into a power box.
Sparks exploded, the merc gasped, and crumbled to the ground, unconscious.
No sign of the third man.
Batman triggered his comm and spoke to Alfred.
“Oracle’s off-line. I need some help. Whoever the guy in the copter is, he’s assembled an army. These men are trained pros.”
He gave Alfred the best description he could of the man who had piloted the aircraft. When he stopped speaking he could hear the butler typing.
“Master Bruce, there’s only one hit. I’m accessing intel on a Black Ops team working out of Venezuela. There’s nothing but speculation on their commander, though. The only thing sources agree on is he calls himself the Arkham Knight.”
“Fancy,” Batman replied. If not unique, he thought to himself. Then the third guard reappeared. “Hold on. I’ve got a merc coming at me who’s begging for a lesson in hand-to-hand.”
“I’d say be careful,” Alfred admonished. “But when have you ever listened to my advice when it came to war?”
“More than you’d suspect, Alfred,” Batman said, and he laughed.
The third merc took aim, and he had a clear shot. There was no way he was going to miss. Batman dived to the ground and sent a Batarang hurtling toward the killer. It spun past him, and the man grinned.
“Can’t aim for shit, can you?” The Batarang began its circle, arcing back, and slammed into him from behind. He fell without a sound.
Batman retrieved the Batarang and folded it back into his pouch. “You people always forget what a boomerang is supposed to do,” he said as he dragged the unconscious form over to the other two, and dumped them all into the tunnel safely secured.
He tapped his gauntlet comm and heard Alfred respond.
“Sir, I’m picking up a computer in the room. Do you see it?”
“Give me a moment… yes, I see it,” he said. Stepping over to it, he found a twentieth-century keyboard, a massive hunk of metal that other businesses had long ago replaced with aluminum copies or even less-expensive plastic. Data began to appear, and he switched from one screen to the next as fast as the tech would allow. “Alfred, there’s a crew of Ace Chemicals workers on site,” he confirmed. “I’m one room away from the first of them.”
“Good. You can expect to find opponents, as well. There’s no way they’re going to let you get close to their leader.”
“I expected as much,” Batman replied, and he reached into his belt pouch, grabbing the Batmobile remote and pressing the override control. “That’s why I brought along some backup.”
* * *
Outside, the Batmobile’s lights flared. Gordon turned as he heard its engines hum with life. He looked through the window expecting to see Batman, but there was nobody in the driver’s seat. As he tried to open the door, the car roared and took off.
Gordon sighed. “A man and his toys.”
* * *
Inside the warehouse, Batman checked his remote, then returned to the computer. He found the old control override, and pulled the lever.
“Gates opening,” he murmured. “Time to bring in the car.”
The massive steel doors leading into the warehouse slid open, and the Batmobile drove up the loading ramp into the vast central storage area. It was the size of several football fields, and through the monitors he saw trucks and forklifts used to move the huge chemical barrels that crowded many of the aisles.
Militia tanks—unmanned—ground their way through the facility, programmed to locate intruders and destroy them. Perhaps these tanks weren’t specifically meant to kill him, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous, and the collateral damage they’d create in the process wouldn’t be pretty. Or painless.
The Dark Knight’s vehicle transformed to battle mode and sped toward him. He heard the growl of the engines before he saw it. When it was ten feet away, sensors triggered its sliding roof, opening it wide. Batman leapt, somersaulting into the driver’s seat. The roof slid shut and auto-control went to manual.
It felt good to be behind the wheel.
There were at least a dozen mercs between him and the first captive. As he roared toward them they fired, but their bullets bounced off the Batmobile’s protective shields. He tagged each of the soldiers and set his firearms to deliver rubber bullets. Laser guidance would guarantee precise hits, so he wouldn’t waste ammunition.
Two tanks came grinding in his direction, and he guided the Batmobile to squeeze between the two, firing its Vulcan guns at them. The tanks convulsed with explosions and rolled, slamming into the warehouse wall, bringing it down. Through the hole he saw a smaller room and past that, a window set in a wall.
In that far chamber, chained to a steel pipe, was the first captive worker he had encountered.
Five more mercs opened fire, and now he had a collateral victim to protect. No time for precision. He spun the Batmobile wheel and its weapons swiveled toward them. Nearly three-dozen rubber slam rounds blasted from multiple barrels and thumped into the killers. They were down before they could cause any further damage.
The room was clear.
“Oracle, are you seeing anything?” he asked. “Anymore soldiers?” Barbara didn’t answer. “Oracle?” he repeated. Still no answer, and worry began to claw at the back of his mind. He checked his comm. Signal bars were low, but he still should have made it through.
Whatever the problem, he was on his own.
He double-checked his own sensors. Beyond the worker, the closest red dot was at least three corridors away. A stroke of luck—he’d take it any way it came.
The Batmobile hatch slid open and Batman ran through the room to the smaller chamber beyond, and the chained captive.
“You’re safe now,” he said as he freed the man. The worker was shaking with fear and stammered as he tried to talk. The words rushed from him.
“T-they’ve been running the plant for hours. They brought in trucks. Weapons. Soldiers. God, so many soldiers. And shipments of hazardous materials. They’re mixing them right now. They, they knew exactly what they were doing.”
His voice started to break and Batman forced a change of topic, to keep him from dwelling on what they had put him through. Keep him talking about anything but being a hostage. But keep him on message. Make him part of the team, not just a frightened victim.
“You did a great job, sir. But I need more information,” he said calmly. “What’s your name?”
“Name? Cheung. Mark Cheung. I’m the chief chemical engineer here.”
“And you’re doing a great job so far, Mark. Now I’ve got a very
important question to ask you. Do you know where I will find their leader, Scarecrow?”
Cheung looked as if he was trying to think, but the thoughts weren’t coming fast enough. Still, Batman remained silent.
“All I know is his people said he’s moving ahead with his plan. He’s got a whole freaking army backing him up.” His panic started to build again. “They’re insane!”
“That’s what I needed to know, Mark. Now I can be prepared, so you’re doing great. Even better than that, you’re safe now, Mark. There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll get you out of here, and I promise I will stop him.”
Cheung’s eyes were wide with fear, as he shook his head.
“You can’t,” he said, the words catching in his throat. “Nobody can. You don’t get it. Scarecrow, he’s building some kind of bomb that’ll cover the entire East Coast with his fear toxin. I mean, my God, his people, they said he’s mixing it right now. We’re screwed, Batman. We’re all totally screwed.”
Batman calmed Cheung down, at least long enough to get him into Gordon’s protective care.
But the man’s words were chilling. A sense of dread began to build in Batman, and he quickly tamped it down. He had work to do—and thanks to Cheung, he knew just where the enemy was located.
“I understand, Mark, but you have to hear me. Whatever Scarecrow seems to be, underneath that Halloween mask and those gimmicky syringe fingers, he’s only human.” He let that sink in. “Which means I can stop him. You understand what I’m saying? He can be beaten. He will be beaten. So come with me.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Batman. Except maybe to hell.”
Batman turned to see the door slam shut then heard as it was bolted from outside. Through the window he saw the Arkham Knight, flanked by a dozen armed mercs.
The Knight was covered head to foot, and his armor almost resembled Batman’s own, right down to the trademark bat ears. Was it intended as an homage or a parody? Large control pads replaced sleek gauntlets, his face was entirely shielded, and his eye slits glowed a vivid blue. Splashes of red gave the appearance of blood. Weapons hung off his belt, but he didn’t draw them.
He stepped up to the window, placed a finger on it and drew a happy face in the dust.
“Good to see you again, Batman. If this glass wasn’t separating us, I’d shake your hand. Yours, too, Mr. Cheung.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Batman said. “Tell your men to put down their weapons and give up. Now.”
The Knight laughed. “Like you say, that’s not going to happen.” He turned to his men and gestured. “Keep your guns trained on him. Avoid that bat-symbol. That’s a… a little trick.”
He turned back to Batman. “Isn’t it?” The Knight’s voice was raspy but not quite mechanical—it was being electronically filtered. Batman had done the same thing himself, for many years.
With a laugh he turned back to his men. “That area, under the bat, it’s been reinforced. It’s where his armor is strongest. And because it’s placed over his heart, it’s a convenient symbol to target—if you didn’t know better.”
He pointed to various parts of Batman’s armor and continued. “Aim for the weak spots at the shoulders, there and there. Coordinate your fire at the points where the plates meet.”
Cheung’s eyes were wide with fear.
“How does he know that, Batman? Who is he?”
“No idea, but I intend to find out.”
“Excuse me,” the Knight interrupted. “Did Mr. Cheung say something? Maybe it’s something we all should hear?”
“He’s an innocent. Leave him out of this.”
“C’mon, Batman. Nobody’s fully innocent. Haven’t you said that yourself, many times? The real question is, how guilty is he? But then, you’re always defending the weak and helpless. And truth to tell, that’s what I like about you.”
“What do you want, Knight?”
“What do all your enemies want? But you know the thing that separates me from the rest of the rabble? I know your next move before you do. I know how you think.”
“Do you know what I’m thinking right now?”
The Knight reached for a weapon—a compact device vaguely shaped like a pistol—and pulled it out. He looked at it admiringly and stroked it lovingly with his other hand. “Of course. You’re thinking, ‘Who the hell is this guy?’”
“Not even close. I’m trying to decide which of you I’m going to take down first.”
“Yeah? No. You’re not. You’re thinking what I said.” The Knight pointed the gun at Batman and pressed the barrel to the window. His finger toyed with the trigger. “What to do? What to do?” The Knight lined up the gun sight, targeting Batman’s mouth. He adjusted its position until it was exactly where he wanted it.
“You know what I don’t like about you? It’s that you’ve never had a sense of humor. Everyone should, but you, you only see what’s wrong with the world. To you, everything exists in shades of funereal gray.” The Knight laughed and added, “Maybe that’s why they call you the Dark Knight.”
“Do I have to ask again? What do you want, Knight?”
“Want? Just so we’re both on the same page here, I want… I want to kill you. But first, Scarecrow and I, we want to make you suffer.” He gestured to his men to back away, then ran his hand across the happy face and smudged it away.
“But not right now. Later. After you watch the city you love descend into hell. Very soon.”
The Arkham Knight turned and walked off, his men following behind.
* * *
Batman led Cheung to the Batmobile then slipped in behind the wheel. Activating the ignition, he slammed the gas and the turbos ignited. The car swiveled to face the warehouse door and rocketed forward.
He drove back through the warehouse and down the ramp to the police waiting area outside. The car jerked to a stop and Batman exited, helping his charge do the same and handing him over to Gordon.
“His name’s Mark Cheung. He’s going to need help.”
“He’ll get it, I’ll make sure of that myself,” Gordon promised. “And, oh, great work. I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”
“We’re not done yet. I know where Scarecrow is, and now I’m going to stop him.”
16
Batman crossed the campus through its underground tunnels. This took him to the building that housed Ace Chemicals’ mixing chamber. Cheung said Crane was preparing his fear-toxin bombs, and this building was the only one where the mixing process could be accomplished.
He checked his sensors and saw a single red blip in the building, in its basement chamber. If Scarecrow was there, then why weren’t his mercs guarding him? Crane wouldn’t have sent them all to stop Batman—not without leaving behind some kind of auxiliary force.
And where is the Knight?
It wouldn’t be wise to enter via conventional means, so before he reached a door he pushed aside a grating, hoisted himself out, and hurried down a deserted passageway. Still no guards. Something was wrong about it, but there was no way he could turn back now.
Especially if Scarecrow was within his reach.
He proceeded to the basement floor and located the large steel doors that led to the mixing chamber. They were wide open, as if waiting for him. Checking his sensors yet again, he still saw only a single blinking red light. There was no way for anyone with a heartbeat to avoid being picked up by the sensors, if Scarecrow was alone, he had to have some sort of plan.
Jonathan Crane was anything but sloppy.
The difficulty with fighting maniacs was reasoning out their criminally insane thought processes. All too often they were crazy for no discernable reason, and with vague and chaotic patterns. It was like trying to find rhyme or reason where there was none.
Batman entered the mixing chamber and saw Scarecrow, his back to the door, pouring the contents of a mixing tube into the large vat built into the room’s floor. Automatic beaters were mixing the chemicals already in the soup. They w
ithdrew, a lid slid over the top, and the vat began to shake like a huge paint mixer, blending its contents together.
Scarecrow turned and gestured for Batman to approach. His hideous mask showed that rictus of a grin, while his patchwork canvas hood shrouded his face in stark shadows. Canisters hung from his midsection, and on a bandolier draped over his right shoulder, looking vaguely like bones.
“You spent an inordinate amount of time searching for me, Batman. For your own survival, you should have used the opportunity to flee.”
“It’s over, Crane. I’m going to shut you down, and then I’ll dismantle your operation.”
Scarecrow dropped to his knees as if to surrender, put his arms out in front of him, his wrists pressed together, waiting to be cuffed.
“You can try. Here.”
Without hesitation Batman grabbed him by the neck and hoisted him upright until his feet were off the floor, dangling.
“How do I stop your bomb?” Batman demanded.
“You know your actions here make it certain she’s going to die.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“What are you talking about, Crane?”
“You should have guessed. You should have known.”
“No more games, Crane. Who dies?”
Scarecrow’s fingers, encased in syringes filled with his toxin, tapped the gas mask hanging to the side of his face, as if trying to sort out what he was going to say. He then gestured to Batman’s glove.
“Call her. See for yourself.”
“Her? Oracle?” The chill again. “What did you do to Oracle?” Batman activated his gauntlet comm, and this time the holo screen rose from it.
“Wrong question, Batman. Don’t talk in the past tense…”
“Oracle, it’s Batman. Oracle, are you there? Talk to me.”
“The past is over. It’s what I am doing now that should frighten you.”