by Peter David
It was the Batmobile. The hood was up, the motor humming softly, as Alfred was bent over the mighty black car making some sort of minor adjustments to the engine.
Never had Dick Grayson moved more silently than he did at that point. The cowling on the cockpit was open and he eased himself in. He had no sure idea what he was doing or what his plan was, or even if he had a plan. All he knew was that there was a great likelihood he’d never get this opportunity again. So he was going to milk it for all it was worth.
He studied the dashboard. Everything was clear, easy to find. Made sense. If he was in a fight, he didn’t want to have to start fumbling around to find weaponry.
Alfred slammed the hood, wiping his hands on a white rag he had dangling from his belt. He moved toward the cockpit at just the precise moment that Dick Grayson located the button that would slide the cowling shut.
As the butler started to reach in for the purpose of shutting off the engine, the cowling quickly began to slide forward into its locking groove. With a startled yelp Alfred yanked his arm clear and then, to his horror, caught a glimpse of Dick Grayson’s grinning face.
“Don’t wait up, Al!” he called as the cowling clicked into place.
“No!” shouted Alfred.
Dick slammed his foot on the gas. The Batmobile lurched forward so quickly that for a moment Dick lost his nerve and slammed on the brakes. Dick was tossed forward, slamming his head on the steering wheel.
“Master Grayson, no! Get out of there!” But by that point it was too late. Dick Grayson had recaptured his nerve. With a screech of tires, the Batmobile hurtled away, picking up speed with every second.
And for just a moment, the polished British butler vanished, to be replaced by a very unpolished, and very frantic, Alfred Pennyworth.
“Oh bugger!” exclaimed Alfred.
“We’ll screen some news footage first,” said Chase, keying up a CD ROM file on her computer.
“Of what?”
“Of Batman in combat.”
“Batman fighting.” Bruce made a production of yawning. “Been there. Done that.”
Ignoring his comments Chase brought the first footage up on the screen. Bruce watched and, more precisely, watched her watching.
“Look at the abuse he’s taking,” Chase observed. “He’s not just fighting crime. It’s as if he’s paying some great penance. What crime could he have committed to deserve a life of nightly torture?”
Bruce hit a key, blanking the screen. “So, Batman just had a lousy childhood. Is that your diagnosis, Doctor?”
He started to turn away and she grabbed his hand as if grasping a life preserver. “Why do you throw up that superficial mask? I want to be close but you won’t let me near. What are you protecting me from?”
He moved toward her and she backed up slightly. In a dark, even morbid way, he found that amusing. He’d made a similar movement towards her once as Batman, and she’d stood her ground. But Bruce Wayne was capable of intimidating her. “You want to know me, Doctor? We’re all two people. This side we show daylight. That we keep in shadow.”
She continued to back up and bumped against a wall. “Rage . . . violence . . . passion,” she whispered, and for a moment he felt himself drawing her into him . . . or perhaps it was the other way around . . .
His watch beeped at him. With a slightly strangled grunt, he stepped back and raised the watch to his face. “Screen,” he said, and the holographic watch face was replaced by the frowning face of Alfred.
Chase looked at it with interest. “Oooh. Dick Tracy. Do you have a flying platform, too?”
“Not with me,” he said. “Yes, Alfred?”
Aware of Chase’s presence, Alfred chose his words carefully. “Sorry to bother you, sir. I have some rather distressing news about Master Dick.”
“Is he all right?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Dick has . . . gone traveling.”
“He ran away?”
“Actually, he took the car.”
“He boosted the Jag?” Bruce felt relief sweep over him. An A.P.B. to the cops would have the Jag located in no time, and the driver with it. “Is that all?”
“Not the Jaguar. The other car.”
“The Bentley?” He was surprised. The Bentley was more upscale, but the Jag was cooler.
Alfred looked ready to reach through the watch and shake his employer. “No, sir, the other car!”
Then it clicked.
Bruce closed his eyes in pain.
“What’s the problem?” asked Chase
With a soft moan, he simply replied, “Car trouble.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In an alley off Arkham Square, the young girl ran, with several young toughs in pursuit. She cried out for help, but no one was willing to buck the odds to come to her assistance. One guy ran off to call the cops, but the chances were that they would never get there is time.
She dashed down the alley, crying out, and then the gang caught up with her. One of them knocked her to the ground, and she cried out in supplication to the God that she was certain wasn’t listening.
And then blinding headlights framed them in the alleyway. They looked up in shock as the Batmobile rolled down the alley toward them.
There were six of the young punks in all, and every single one of them was quaking.
The Batmobile skidded to a halt, the right front fender bumping up inelegantly against the wall. Then the cowling slid back and there was deathly silence as a caped figure emerged from the cockpit.
He leaped down from the cockpit as the punks shrank back, the cape fluttering around him.
Everyone froze.
Something seemed off.
For one thing, Batman wasn’t wearing a mask. He was just holding his cape in front of his face, like Bela Lugosi. And for another thing . . .
One of the gang kids leaned forward to the leader and whispered, “I thought he’d be taller in person.”
“Shut up!” said the leader, slugging the other kid in the chest. He glared at the intruder and growled, “Who the hell are you?”
Trying to sound ominous, Dick Grayson rumbled, “I’m Batman.” He took a step towards them but the cape was too long and he stepped on one of the scalloped edges, yanking it partway off his shoulders. It revealed his less-than-intimidating sweater and jeans.
“Damn, did I forget to dress again?”
They closed on him then, one of the gang members taking the lead while another swung a length of chain.
Dick Grayson faced death.
Old news.
“Chains. You don’t seem the type,” said Dick. His hand shot out quickly and he grabbed the chain. He slammed his open palm into the face of its wielder, who went down with a cry. Then he whipped the chain into the gut of the other punk who was coming at him. Swinging the chain in a parabola to drive the others back, he crowed, “The Dark Knight strikes again!”
Dick swung the chain upward, catching the low rung of a fire escape ladder just as another of the punks rushed him. He yanked himself into the air, swinging on the chain and slamming a kick into his face, knocking him flat. “Another victory for the Dark Knight . . . so Dark nighty-night.”
He turned to face the remaining punks and said confidently, “Is your will up-to-date?” It was enough to break whatever spirit they had left, and with a collective yell they dashed off down the alleyway.
He watched them go, drawing the cape around himself and grinning broadly. “I could definitely get behind this superhero gig.”
He tossed a salute to the awestruck girl and started toward the car “Wait,” she called. “You forgot the part where you kiss the girl.”
He smiled, happy to oblige . . .
And then he heard a series of shouts and screams that did not bode particularly well. Both he and the girl turned and saw several dozen bats coming their way.
Unfortunately they were the wooden type, being wielded by about thirty punks belonging to the same gang as the kids whom Dick had just
put down for the count.
Dick and the girl dashed toward the other end of the alley, which was barred by a chainlink fence. Dick wasted no time and, with his own natural strength and a healthy dose of adrenaline, he practically tossed the girl over the fence. “Run!” he shouted.
“Call me!” she shouted back to him as she rabbited. It wouldn’t be until she was a mile away that she suddenly realized she hadn’t exactly been in a position to give her fast-moving savior her phone number.
Dick, meantime, went with the instinctive move: He sought safety in height. He leaped for the chain dangling from the fire escape. Within seconds he was clambering up the rickety metal platform, making for the safety of a nearby rooftop.
It was a fairly good plan up until the point where more of the gang came pouring over the rooftop. Dick couldn’t believe it. Did everybody in the damned neighborhood belong to this gang? He spun and looked back down again. They had dragged down the ladder and were coming up after him.
He did the only thing he could. He leapt off the balcony, snagging a clothesline as he went to brake his descent somewhat. The fact that there were so many of them was the only thing that Dick had going for him, because it meant they were tightly packed into the alleyway. Dick used the opportunity to land on their shoulders and start leapfrogging across them to try to get to the Batmobile and safety.
To his credit, he almost made it. But one of them managed to grab his foot and pull him down into the midst of the pounding mass of flesh that was operating with a single thought: Tear the Batboy to pieces. Dick fought back valiantly, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. The darkness of the alleyway had helped him marginally in that no one had seen his face clearly. Ultimately it probably wasn’t going to matter, because the chances were that, by morning, his face wasn’t going to bear any resemblance to what it had been the day before.
And that was when a dark, caped figure descended from on high.
He zeroed in immediately on where Dick had gone down under the bruising fists. Within seconds he had pulled several of the gang members off Dick, tossing them around as if they weighed nothing.
“Smoke!” he called out.
Responding instantly to the preencoded voice message of its creator, the Batmobile ejected smoke grenades out from its front launcher. Wasting no time, Batman slung his young charge under his arm and carried him to the Batmobile, shoving him in as the punks coughed and gagged, running into each other blindly in the midst of the fog. By the time it cleared, and by the time their chests had stopped burning, the Batmobile was long gone.
The Batmobile hurtled down the deserted side street.
Dick Grayson had just managed to blink the last of the gas out of his eyes, and he stared at Batman, who was concentrating on the road ahead.
“Bastard,” whispered Dick, his rage bubbling over.
Batman started to reply, but he didn’t get the chance, because Dick Grayson slugged him in the head. “Your fault!”
The Batmobile lurched wildly as Batman, unable to defend himself, reeled from the blow. “You killed them!” howled Dick, and he didn’t care about the danger he was putting them in, didn’t care about Two-Face, and most of all, he didn’t care about himself. “You killed them!” and he pounded again on Batman’s head and chest.
Batman momentarily lost control of the Batmobile. The car went out of control. “Autopilot!” shouted Batman, as Dick kept pounding on him, calling him a murderer, spitting out profanities.
Unable to discern the instruction above the noise in the car, the computer voice requested, “Please repeat instruction.”
Too late. Batman slammed on the brakes, but the crash was unavoidable. The Batmobile skidded to the right and slammed into a fire hydrant. The hydrant went flying and the water pipe burst open, sending water geysering high into the air.
Dick continued to slam away at Batman, and at this point Batman did nothing to ward it off. The armor absorbed the impact, although not all the armor in the world could prevent the irate youth’s words from cutting him to ribbons.
He hit him and kept hitting him until the breath was ragged in his lungs, until his fists were ripped and bleeding, and still he kept going until his arms felt like lead weights, and there was no more strength. And still he accused, “You killed them! You killed them! If you’d made Two-Face see who you are at the circus, they’d still be—!”
“Alive,” said Batman flatly.
Slowly Dick’s punches stopped, his arms going limp at his sides.
“It’s all your fault,” he whispered.
And then, finally, for all the loss and pain that he had carried with him . . . for all the agony he’d kept wrapped within him . . . Dick Grayson started to sob, and then cry, his chest heaving, his body shaking.
And Bruce Wayne’s casual, tossed-off words to Chase Meridian earlier that evening rang in Batman’s head.
Been there . . . done that . . .
Long into the night they were there in the Batcave. Bruce considered it a small triumph that Dick had apologized on his own to Alfred without any prompting from Bruce. But the interpersonal dynamics between the two “crime fighters” were somewhat more strained, and continued far past the point where an exhausted Alfred had retired for evening.
“I tried to tell Two-Face who I was, Dick,” Bruce said, choosing to keep to himself his further doubts about shooting down the poor, lost district attorney once known as Harvey Dent. Enough that he was already openly admitting to his responsibility over the situation. No need to heap on top of that, And not only do I feel guilty about your family’s death for this reason, but there’s also this other reason. Matters were problematic enough. “I wish with all my heart there was something I could do to change things—”
To Bruce’s surprise, Dick said, “There is.” He paused and then said, “Let me be part of this.”
“What?”
Dick rose to his feet and started to pace. “It’s all I think about. Every second of the day. Getting Two-Face. He took . . . my whole life. But when I was out there tonight, I imagined it was him I was fighting, and all the hurt went away. Understand?”
“Too well.” It was the kind of statement that Bruce had made earlier; the kind that Dick had previously considered to be patronizing. Now, though, he understood. Too well.
“So how do we find him?” said Dick, as if Bruce had already acceded to his request. “And when we do, you gotta let me be the one to kill him.”
Bruce wanted to grab him and shake sense into him. “Listen to me, Dick. Killing damns you. I know. All this isn’t about revenge.”
Dick glanced at a framed headline over Bruce’s desk. It carried the story of the murder of Bruce’s parents . . . a story that, obviously now, Dick had been brought up to speed on. “Right.”
Bruce stroked his chin tiredly, feeling the start of five o’clock shadow. Where had the night gone? “It’s an addiction. You fight night after night, trying to fill the emptiness, but the pain’s back in the morning. Somewhere along the way it stops being a choice.”
“Save the speeches about how great you want my life to be, okay, Bruce? You want to help me? Train me. Let me be your partner . . .”
“No.”
Dick eyed Bruce with anger born of pain. “You said we’re the same. Well, you were right. I’m going to be part of this. Whether you want me or not.”
He stormed out and Bruce watched him go, feeling a lot older.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bruce decided to take the day off. With everything that was going on in his life, he figured he would do more harm than good. They might ask him a simple question and he’d wind up selling the entire Tokyo office. So he called in to Margaret, who ran down a few quick outstanding questions that had to be attended to.
“Oh, and Gossip Gerty and her sisters of scandal are all over us,” she concluded. “They want to know if you’re bringing Dr. Meridian to the Nygmatech ‘do’ tonight.”
“The what?”
“I’ve only m
entioned it to you seven times, sir,” she said, trying not to sound as if she were scolding him.
“Eight’s the charm. Run it past me again.”
“Big brouhaha at the Ritz Gotham Hotel, celebrating a new model of that silly little Box thing. Naturally a new model is required since they sold their first million.”
“That was fast. And you sound disapproving.”
“He was a creepy little man, Mr. Wayne,” said Margaret, which was fairly strong language for her because Margaret was the most diplomatic person in his employ. “I don’t like seeing creeps become successful. Makes you wonder if there’s any justice in the world.”
“I don’t wonder about such things.”
“If you ask me, I think he’s nuts.”
“Well, Maggie, no offense . . . but I don’t think I’ll ask you.” He thought a moment. “On the other hand . . . I know someone who I can ask. A close-up and personal opinion might not hurt at that. Maggie . . . call back the gossip ladies and tell them that I will indeed be taking Dr. Meridian with me to the Nygmatech soirée tonight.”
“All right, Mr. Wayne.”
“Then call Dr. Meridian and ask her not to make a liar out of me.”
The red carpet had been rolled out that night at the Ritz Gotham Hotel. The Ritz was one of the older hotels in Gotham. In fact, directly across the street another hotel was going up that threatened to dwarf the Ritz, once the showcase of Gotham.
For now, though, the Ritz Gotham was still a hive of activity. A banner was draped across the front that read “NYGMATECH—IMAGINE THE FUTURE.” At the curb, finely dressed folks poured from luxury cars. A battalion of valets scurried about.
Bruce Wayne’s Bentley, driven by Alfred and carrying Bruce, Dick, and Chase, pulled up to the curb. Bruce stepped out and assisted Chase. Dick vaulted over the back of the car.
The party was in the rooftop ballroom. The place was packed with people sipping cocktails, munching hors d’oeuvres. A band was playing and couples were dancing on an elaborately decorated dance floor.
