by Marv Wolfman
He was not a happy man.
“You’re sweating, Simon, but there’s really no need to worry,” Batman said, gripping Stagg by the ankles. “It won’t hurt for more than a second or two. You’ll barely feel the impact.”
“What the hell do you want?” Stagg screamed. “I’ll give you anything. You want money? I’ve got billions.”
“You’ve seen some of my toys, Simon.” Batman smiled at him, hoping the effect would be disconcerting. “The car. The plane. The weapons. And they’re all paid for. I don’t need money.”
“Then what do you want? Please, tell me.”
“Okay. I want to know how to stop the Cloudburst machine.”
Stagg didn’t answer immediately, and Batman wondered if he had passed out.
“Scarecrow will kill me.”
“Maybe. Probably.” Batman let go of Stagg’s right ankle, keeping a tight grip on the left, but letting it seem unsteady. “Unless I put an end to him first.”
Stagg screamed again. “Don’t drop me, man. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. Just bring me back inside. Please.”
Batman didn’t move. “I think you have that backward, Simon. Tell me how to stop the Cloudburst machine, and then I’ll bring you back inside. But I’d hurry. You weigh quite a bit, and my arm is getting tired.” His fingers loosened around Stagg’s ankle, and he allowed him to slip. “Very, very tired.”
“Okay. Okay.” As Batman gripped the right ankle again, and steadied his grip, Stagg gave him the information. Once he was done, Batman hoisted him up and into the emergency exit.
“Thank you, Simon,” he said. Bracing himself on the floor, Stagg grabbed his ankles and massaged them.
“You’ve hurt me,” he said angrily. “I should sue you.”
Batman shrugged. “Do what you have to, Stagg. But a word of advice. Unless you want to go through that all over again, I suggest that you stay out of my business.”
* * *
Stagg Industries designed the Nimbus power cell to mitigate the effects of their Cloudburst machine, originally conceived as a means of alleviating drought conditions.
As the corporation had learned many years earlier, however, it was financially and legally prudent to build fail-safe functions into all of their devices—especially ones designed to have lethal aspects.
When their oil pipeline unexpectedly ruptured and polluted Lake Erie, the federally mandated cleanup cost Stagg nearly fourteen billion dollars. For an additional nine million, they installed a series of shut-off valves that prevented the problem from repeating when the next rupture occurred.
The Nimbus power cell, once it was fitted into the Batmobile and powered up, would filter Scarecrow’s toxins. Much of the city would be spared. Now all he needed was a Batmobile.
He tapped his gauntlet comm and Lucius Fox appeared.
“Ah, I was about to call you. I’ve got a replacement ready—it’s parked outside Wayne Tower. And by the way,” Fox continued, “you won’t need a key any longer—your fingerprints and retinal scans should suffice.”
“Thank you, Lucius. I think we’re very close to putting a stop to this madness.”
“I certainly hope so. Gotham City has never teetered quite this far into the abyss. More than ever before, a hero is needed.”
“I’m not alone out here,” Batman said. “You, Alfred, Robin, the police who’ve remained. Gordon, too, though he won’t speak to me. If we win this, it won’t have been the result of an individual.”
“It takes a village, eh? Well, that is the way of civilization.” He paused, and added, “I know you don’t believe in it, but good luck, Mr. Wayne.”
Batman’s holo retracted back into his glove. With the Nimbus tucked under his arm, he left Stagg and headed to Amusement Mile and his new Batmobile.
* * *
A thick cloud of Scarecrow fear gas hung low over the river, as well as the park. It was continuing to spread. He opened the car’s hood and lowered the filter into position.
“You sure you really want to do that, Bats?” the Joker said, standing behind him, watching him splice the first of all too many wires into place. Batman closed his eyes for a second, regrouped, then continued working on the installation.
“You know what’s happening to you,” the Joker said. “You’re my alpha. You’re going to become me, you lucky bastard.” Nothing could drown out the Joker’s cackling voice. “You’re already changing. My goodness, locking poor Robin in that cell? If that isn’t embracing the dark side, I don’t know what is. I do hope you’ve told either Fox or Alfie where to find him. I’d hate to see him starve to death in there.”
“Shut up, Joker,” Batman gritted. “Tim’s a professional. He’s probably broken out of the cell by now.”
“Probably. Maybe. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Well, one way or another, he’s either alive or he’s dead. And if he’s alive, once you become me, he’ll be dead soon anyway. This wonderful world of ours will never run out of good crowbars and young brains to bash in.”
“Get out of my head, Joker. I will never become you.”
“And yet you’re still talking to me, as you have been since this all began,” the Joker gloated. “You’re a detective, Bats. Analyze the evidence and accept the truth.”
Batman slammed his hands to his ears, but the talking didn’t stop.
“If I’m right—and being you, I have to be—my blood and the fear toxin have taken over about seventy or eighty percent of your psyche. Your last bits of sanity will be gone pretty soon. With that coursing through your veins, you should be starting to get really tired about now, too.
“Lie down, flip that filter into place, and let me take you over while you sleep. One minute you’re a man of logic, the next, not so much. Go to sleep, little Bats. Accept the inevitable.”
“SHUT UP!”
“I can’t, Bats. That’s the beauty of it. I’m inside your mind. You’re the one making me talk. Come on. We’ve fought back and forth for years now. And as you once said, our little duet will end with one of us killing the other. You were so close to winning. Instead, this will end with one of us becoming the other.
“And since I’m dead, that leaves you. I can see it—you’re getting very, very tired now. So close your eyes, go to sleep, and let me do what I do so well.”
Batman was tired. He could barely look up at the Joker, hovering in front of him, a mocking grin plastered across his face. He closed his eyes hoping the Joker would disappear, but he could still feel his presence, closer than ever.
“Please… go away…”
“I’ll help you sleep, Bats. C’mon, cuddle up to me. In a manly sort of way, of course. Stay calm, take deep, slow breaths. Deep, slow, breaths. Let me sing you asleep as my mother did for me so long ago, just before I killed her.
“Rock-a-bye Batsy, I’m getting free.
Soon you’ll be the one trapped inside me.
So keep taking breaths, great lungfuls of fear.
Soon Bats will be gone, and I will be here.”
“Shut up. Shut the hell up.” Batman reached out to the Joker to stop him, but his hands went through the mirage.
“You want more? Of course. One last ditty, then it’s really off to bed.
“Hush little Batsy, listen to me sing.
When the Joker takes over you won’t feel a thing.
And once this gas has set me free…
I’m going on a Bat-family killing spree.
“Ready for sleep now?” the Joker asked. Batman’s hands were pressed against his ears, but he could still hear every word. His eyes were closed and he counted silently to himself.
One—you don’t have to listen to him.
Two—you can resist him.
Three—he doesn’t control you.
Four—you can control him.
He counted to ten, one number at a time, each accompanied by a factor that would help him reclaim his thoughts. Each number reinforcing that he, not a dead man, was in control.
“Let Uncle Joker tuck you in, sweetums.”
Batman opened his eyes. He reached out, calmly this time, and ran his hands through the Joker image that hovered in front of him.
“I will never be yours,” he said. “Go away and never return.” He turned from where the ghost had been and walked off, without bothering to look back to see if it was still there, waiting for him.
The Joker didn’t follow him—he was gone.
But for how long?
37
James Gordon tightened the strap on his re-breather then stepped into the chaos. He had sucked in a single lungful of the fear toxin before securing it, and prayed that wouldn’t be enough to turn him into one of… them.
Them.
The citizens he had pledged years ago to protect and serve. Even in an asylum like Gotham City, most of them had been good, solid people. Some believed in God, others in justice, but the only thing most of them wanted was to live their lives in peace. To take care of those who depended on them, and perhaps to be taken care of in kind.
Most days they quietly boarded the Gotham City railways and sat reading the morning papers. Many brought a container of coffee or tea, which usually remained hot for most of the trip to midtown and work. Some stood and offered their seat if a pregnant woman or an elderly straphanger boarded the train.
Not many smiled as the trains bumped their way through the city, but they weren’t unhappy. Work was work, and whether it was their calling or a job, it was a means to an end. Rent would be paid. Food could be bought. Clothing could be kept new. Children would be cared for.
But today was different. For him, today they went from being one of “us” to one of “them.” Today there was a reason nobody was smiling or offering help to those who needed it.
Today was the day the city went insane.
Today was the day Gotham City became Arkham.
And today was the day Police Commissioner James Gordon realized he could no longer protect or serve.
* * *
They were running all around him, shouting, screaming, crying. All of them were afraid of something, and if they had a weapon in their hands, they would use it believing they were protecting themselves from the monsters or the serpents or the dark ones with the fiery eyes who were slithering through the sewers.
Everything in the world was out to hurt them, including their loved ones, but they knew they could save themselves. They would lash out first, before they could be attacked, and kill those damnable… things.
A numberless pile of bodies littered the Gotham City streets like so much garbage tossed in the dump. Gordon saw his men, cops he’d known for more than a decade, dressed in what had been their finest blues, but now were torn and bloodied. They thought they were doing their jobs, shooting the monsters, but they were just adding more corpses to the piles.
He called out to stop them, but they turned on him as they turned on all the stray beasts. He ducked into an office building and for a long time hid in a supply room. His city was dying and he wanted to cry. But until and unless he was taken over, too, he had to do everything he could to help.
But how do I do that without being killed? he wondered. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an answer.
He braved his way through the building, took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, and stared out through a large window at his city. Even from up here, the city scared the shit out of him.
He heard every scream. He watched helplessly as men and women fell to the ground, never to get up again. Cars careened through the crowded streets, aiming at pedestrians, running them over. The drivers thought they were saving the city from hell unleashed, never understanding the God-awful truth.
Gordon thought about Batman, and as much as he hated that lying, pointy-eared freak, he wished he was with him now. But shouldn’t he hate Barbara, too? She was the one who told Batman to lie. She was the one who hid away in that tower, serving as eyes and ears for the Batman.
But she’s dead now. He couldn’t hate the dead.
He also didn’t want to hate the Batman who had saved his life so many times, who had risked his own so many more times. But he did hate him.
His re-breather beeped. He had fifteen minutes of unpolluted air left, and wondered if that one whiff of fear gas explained why he was so angry, so filled with hate. Was the fear toxin the reason why he despised his own daughter for lying to him?
Or was that his own baggage?
Ever since Barbara was a child, he was always so busy with work that he rarely spent much time with her—let alone any quality time. In their family, Gotham City always came first. Maybe he was the reason his son James grew up to become the psychopath he was. Gordon knew his fanatical devotion to Gotham City had been the reason his wife left him.
She told him as much.
And now Barbara. The love of his life. The perfect child. She’d been lying to him for more than a decade. She was Batgirl. She was freaking Batgirl. Fighting crime, playing superhero alongside the damned Batman, risking her life every day, every night.
And she couldn’t stop playing those games after the Joker crippled her, humiliated her. From Batgirl to Oracle—both names a mocking reminder that the daughter he so trusted had continually betrayed him.
All this, Gordon thought as he tried to block out the screams coming from the street below, was her fault. She was the witch. And if she really was dead this time, then goddam it, she deserved to—
He stopped.
Even if he was under Scarecrow’s control, he still would never condemn his own daughter. He loved Barbara more than his own life, even more than he loved Gotham City. James Gordon knew he had to fight his fear. Barbara was his daughter, and no matter what she said or became, he would always love her.
Gordon leaned against the window and took several deep breaths, clearing his mind, restoring his reason. He’d fight this fear, and then he’d go downstairs again, and whether he’d make it through the night or not, he’d do everything in his power to save his city.
He may have lost one love tonight, but he wasn’t going to lose another.
38
Lucius Fox double-checked the data, then with the satellite uplink he uploaded it to the Batmobile’s GPS, locking in the coordinates. Normally this would be an automated function, but Scarecrow’s assault had interrupted their satellite connections, and played havoc with navigation.
Better to be safe than sorry.
“Intel should be in place now,” he reported. “I’ve also got visuals on the Knight’s tank, and a confirmed reading that the Cloudburst machine is onboard. Based on the schematics I downloaded from Stagg’s computers, the only way to stop the signal that powers the device is to destroy it.”
“I was planning to do that, no matter what,” Batman replied. “I’m less than a mile from his coordinates.”
“Good. I’m monitoring the situation in the city, and the havoc is the worst I’ve ever seen. I fear for Gotham City’s survival.”
“We can’t give in to our fears, Lucius. Certainly not now. Scarecrow can’t be allowed to win.”
* * *
Then he had a visual.
The Arkham Knight’s command tank was ahead of him. Pilotless drone tanks flanked him for additional protection. Batman readied his onboard missiles. He was sorely tempted to take out the Knight’s tank, but the explosion would kill him. Batman swore he would not succumb to the Joker’s toxic blood.
Not now.
Not yet.
There had to be another way.
Twin missiles took out the drones. With them out of the way, he then switched to the grenade launcher and shot them at the command tank’s drive sprockets. Its track shattered, halting the vehicle’s forward movement and severely limiting the Knight’s options.
But he wasn’t done. Batman fired three more grenades at the tank’s turret, effectively preventing it from turning, limiting the circular range of its main gun while also blasting a small hole in its hull.
The Batmobile raced up next to the tank. Its roof retracted and Batman sprung out, landing on the tank’s turret. He dived through the break in the hull and discovered that the Knight had fallen on his back, knocked there by the explosion. He was struggling to stand up, and Batman had only seconds to deal with the Cloudburst machine before he would be forced to fight.
Machine first. Killer next. Sure. More than enough time, he thought, laughing inwardly. But Batman was laughing his laugh.
The Cloudburst machine was plugged into the tank’s engine, feeding on its power. Batman had two grenades left. He adhered the first to the Cloudburst’s face. He stuck the second explosive near the cables that led to the tank’s cooling line.
The Knight was almost on his feet. Batman had another second, maybe two, but the grenades were primed to explode in seven. Everything depended on his ability to delay his opponent.
Lashing out with a boot, Batman kicked him back down again, then scrambled through the break in the hull and leaped to safety. Landing, he spun to watch.
The Knight leaped through the hole as the grenade attached to the Cloudburst machine exploded, propelling him away from the tank in an uncontrolled spin. He hit the ground and rolled. A heartbeat later the second grenade exploded.
The Cloudburst machine was neutralized.
Batman readied himself.
The Knight lurched to his feet, stared… and took off.
Good move, Batman thought. The Knight had lost his advantage—the initiative was gone. There was no logical reason for him to engage in battle now except to satisfy a wounded ego. The Knight was able to hold his hubris in check.
Whoever trained him did a good job, Batman mused as he prepared to follow.
“Batman.” Fox’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Satellite surveillance spotted the Knight. Two blocks from you, on the rooftop of the former Gotham City Textile Manufacturer’s building. He’s heading east.”
“Thanks, Lucius. Try to keep track of him. I’m on my way.”
