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Tears and Rain	By : Waxcrayons Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 13546 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Batman, Superman,DC comics or any of their characters, or make any money off of them.

Chapter List
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The air was cold and wet. There was a continuos faraway sound of running water that explained the numerous drippings all around him. He was lying stiffly on his side, damp on the ground-facing side, and terribly sore all over. His arms seemed incapable of helping him right himself, so he rolled and rocked weakly until he was sitting upright. An oddly pleasurable feeling bolted through him and it took him a long time to comprehend that he was in a straight-jacket made out of steel-wiring... the kind used on Killer Croc... and the pleasurable jolt had been the fastening between his legs pulling tightly with his movement. To add to his problems, he was fettered with not only an ankle chain to an old coil-heater like the kind you'd find in an old school, but also with a sort of choke chain. He gathered the idea was to keep him in one place.
Getting over the initial shock of finding himself so secured in place, he took in every detail of the small room he found himself in. It looked like an ancient medical room in a tiny facility. There was a gurney bed too far off for him to sit on for comfort and the standard shelf and sink coated in dust and brittle tools. Age and moth-eaten hospital gowns hung up close by enough for him to make a more comfortable resting place later if necessary. There was a tiny bathroom but it too was out of the reach of his ankle fetter. And even if he could reach it, his hands were tied. His feet were stripped of his socks and so after his brief exploration, he sat down close to the heater and was thankful for one comfort.
There was nothing to do but doze in and out of restless sleep. Eventually one of his captors were going to have to clue him into what they wanted out of him. These big costumed personalities all had specific quirks they just couldn't get by without. There would be one thing Joker, Riddler, and Croc thought they could get out of him. Zsasz had already said that he would have him after the others were done...
He dreamed of his children. In his dream they had all come with him, insisting they could handle things against his judgement. In his dream, it was not the Arkham staff but his boys and Alfred that were held hostage with him. It woke him up with a start. Or it might have been the strange warm hand gently touching what felt like a swollen temple. He jerked impulsively away from the touch and stared at Nygma like he was from another dimension.
"You look very different from what I had imagined."
Look..? He began to think but then his blood ran cold. The touch. He had felt the glove on his flesh. He shook his cotton-stuffed head and a stray lock of hair fell over his eye. The cowl. They've unmasked me. But no one was running up and down the halls screaming 'Bruce Wayne is Batman.' Was it the lighting? The long overdue haircut? The fact that these men probably never stopped to pick up a tabloid?
"Killer Croc really did one over on you." Nygma assessed. "But still, under that bruising and blood is a classic Hollywood leading man. I didn't expect the Batman to be anything close to good looking. You're even fairly lithe. Didn't expect that."
There goes all the hype and fear I've worked so hard for... He was going to have to find another way to be intimidating that didn't just include his physical size.
"It's been driving me nuts to start our guessing game, but the Joker insists that I have to wait. Not to sound like a coward, but when villains tell 'ghost' stories around a table, they're almost always about the Joker. I try not to cross him, understand?"
Edward Nygma was what one would define as a 'talker'. Despite the numerous questions he would have loved to have, he wasn't going to take Nygma's carefully lain bait. Asking after the 'game' or the reason why the Joker wanted them to wait or even the most important 'where am I?' was exactly what Nygma wanted. Instead, he did what Batman was known for. He remained a silent shadow void of any visible emotion. Indomitable. Insurmountable. Choose your adjective.
"Intelligent men like you are hard to break down." It seemed like a total non-sequitur. It was only elaborated upon when it was clear he wasn't going to question the statement. "Boredom, Batman." Nygma explained. "With nothing to occupy your active cerebrum, even the Dark Knight will go crazy."
They're going to sit me in time-out? How original.
"Of course, that's just the start. It'll be an interesting experiment Dr. Strange would certainly approve. I won't spoil it, don't worry." He watched Nygma glide over to the sink and cabinet he couldn't reach. The Riddler rustled through brittle plastic until he found a pack of Dixie Styrofoam cups. The sink sputtered for a long time before water began to flow out through it, affirming his theory that he was in some abandoned facility. Nygma even let the water run until it was clear before he filled the Dixie cup up. He returned to where The Dark Knight was propped up weakly against the heater and knelt down.
I will not...
The Riddler must have read his thoughts. "I'm not actually suppose to be nice to you. But, in the interest of fair sportsmanship... I'd take what I can get, wouldn't you?"
He tried to keep his eyes from narrowing, to remain a blank slate. Nygma held the cup where he could see it but made no move to offer it. He stared at the tantalizing liquid convinced that his desperately parched throat was only his body's reaction to the threat of dehydration in the air. Nygma was waiting for him to communicate... So he nodded once, and only slightly. Thankfully it was good enough and he appreciated the cool slide of liquid down his throat as much as he appreciated the warm heater at his back. He only wished Nygma hadn't seen fit to place the hand not slowly tipping to Dixie cup to his lips against the back of his neck, cradling his head.
"You're welcome." The Riddler said softly. There wasn't a detectable hint of smugness in his voice. "I'd try to sleep if I were you. I don't know how much of that you'll be getting later." With that final remark Nygma stood up, gave him an almost sympathetic look and left.
Sleep? Right... He had other plans which he started on just as soon as Nygma's footsteps faded down what he presumed to be a hallway. I can hear people coming and going... That's a bonus. Rolling to his feet was hard, and the 'one over' Waylon Jones had given him was probably the blame. Still, he had trained to work through the pain, and work through it he did. He staggered over to the hanging gowns as close as he could get and raised a leg. With his toes he gripped them midway and proceeded to tug them one by one off of their hooks and toss them towards the heater. It was... more tiring then he originally thought it would be. After he pulled the fourth and last one down, he stood panting for a little bit. Come on, Soldier. He encouraged the boys in that matter. With no witnesses around, he allowed himself to smile as he thought of them. I'll be home just as soon as I extricate myself from this mess.
With a cautious ear towards every sound that echoed down the hall he stretched out two gowns and balled up the other two to hide beneath a pile of rubble, visible only from his resting place by the coil-heater. With a deep breath and a foot pressed down on one end of the gown he began to slowly twist it tightly with the other foot. Much more labour-intense then one would think. By the time he had twisted the second one in the same fashion he was relieved to be able to sit down for the next phase of his escape plan. Only... Shit. If he was to tie the two gowns together with his cold and abused feet he was going to need a rock or two to anchor the other ends to keep them from untwisting as he worked. Hello convenient rubble pile.Biting down a groan, he rolled to his feet again. As focused as he was on the rock pile he almost missed the oncoming sounds of heavy footsteps. There was nothing he could do. Not even the frustrated sigh could help as he destroyed his hard work by cramming the gowns beneath the heater and taking his place before it with a thud that he felt ratcheting up his spine.
If the heavy steps were any connotation, the snarling breath sure made it clear that it was Killer Croc taking his turn to bother the captured Knight. Croc all but broke the door down as he squeezed through.
"Waylon." He stated calmly. He always tried to use Waylon's first name over his media personality. The disfiguration of Waylon Jones' physical appearance had had a deep psychological impact on the man. A long time ago, Waylon Jones had forgotten he was a man and not a beast. However, sometimes hearing his name could make the monster stop and almost remember who he was and what he was like before his disease rampantly took over his flesh.
This wasn't one of those times. Killer Croc's beastly hands dug into the linoleum covered concrete as he hovered over the Batman, teeth dripping with saliva. Waylon was absolutely feral, he realized sadly, and the man wasn't going to be reasoned with. He prepared himself for the assault as best he could, tensing his throat muscles so as not to be strangled while limbering everything else to better absorb the inevitable blows. Croc was a large predator here to show him who was the better game-hunter. The beating was savage. Claws tore into his thighs as he was lifted and thrown around against the walls and floor. Croc used his large scaled hands to grip his head on either side and proceeded to smash his skull into the heater more times then he cared to count. Not that he really could... Without the cowl for protection he was as susceptible to a head wound as any other flesh and blood man. He couldn't breathe, he dimly registered. The choke chain was pulling tight, and the concussion he was certain to have made him loose the tautness in his neck...
"Birds do it, Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it" Ella Fitzgerald informed him with her jazzy and soulful voice.
"I'm picking up the tab, Kent. Relax." He sighed once he had grown tired of watching Kent's eyebrows rise at the prices at the high venue he had chosen to dine at.
"I can't be legal to charge that much for a small piece of meat decorated with a few vegetables and a teaspoon of sauce or this 'salad'."
"You pay for the atmosphere." He really didn't know why he was carrying on this conversation was there was clearly more important things to talk about.
"It's a stuffy atmosphere." Kent deduced. "Nobody is relaxed. They're all too concerned with their hair and make-up and the quantity they are allowed to be seen eating in public. I swear, the elevated heart-rates in this room are a coronary surgeons nightmare."
"Or new boat down payment."
"Bruce." Kent scolded.
"The Dutch in old Amsterdam do it. Not to mention the Fins. Folks in Siam do it." Ella thought to mention as well.
Whatever Kent was going to say, he let it die in order to smile wistfully. "I like this song. I don't know why, but it makes me think of Christmas. All that snuggling up to get away from the cold, I guess."
"Some Argentines, without means, do it. People say in Boston even beans do it." Ella continued.
He had a less then pleasant remark on the tip of his tongue but Ella's rich voice seemed to sooth it out of existence. Instead he sat back in his chair and listened.
"In the shallow shoals English soles do it. Goldfish in the privacy of bowls do it. Let's do it, let's--"
"May I take your order, gentlemen?" The upscale waiter startled both of them out of their separate reveries.
Kent gave him a shy embarrassed smile with a little something more behind it that he couldn't under the circumstances pause to decipher. Heaven forbid he look like an idiot in front of a waiter. He placed the order for both of them, Kent apparently never have deciding on any of the over-priced dishes and thanked to waiter just in time to hear Ella finish her last verse in this variation.
"The world admits bears in pits do it. Even Pekingese at the Ritz do it. Let's do it. Let's fall in love."
"So what did you decide?" Kent finally managed to get to the heart of the matter.
He paused waiting for the busboy to fill up their wine glasses before answering. "I'm not a super-powered hotshot."
"Just a regular hotshot. With a lot of assets and an amazing brain." Kent replied.
"I take care of thugs, mobsters, and psychotics. Not all-powerful aliens and dimensional beings. Kind of out of my comfort zone. I'm more of a... local hero."
"It's frightening, isn't it? I'm a small town guy at heart. But I do want to help people. I'm just not sure if they are serious about the ramifications of a big vigilante-gang forming, for the greater good or not. There are a lot of people who are going to be afraid of us."
"They need you." He said after careful thought. "You were the first public hero. Nobody doubts your all-American heart and school-boy charm is genuine. Without you, this Justice League of America will just be a meta-human version of a biker gang."
"And you?" Kent inquired.
"The opposite."
"How so?"
"I'm more of a myth. They probably want to keep tabs on me for security's sake. You're the only 'hero' I've ever worked with. If it weren't for you, they probably wouldn't believe that I even existed."
"I don't want to think that." Kent frowned and Bach's Cello Suite N.o.1 started up. "You're more then capable of holding your own against super-powered hotshots. They know that."
"I'm sure my bank account has nothing to do with the decision either."
"Bruce..." Kent genuinely looked hurt. Not at his statement. More like he was hurt on behalf of the the Dark Knight. To think that anyone would undervalue him was incomprehensible to the Man of Tomorrow.
"Here comes your overpriced meal." He stated only to lighten Kent's mood. The servers set their dishes down and made themselves scarce. He waited for the waiter to return to ask if everything was to their liking before he continued their conversation without the fear of being interrupted. "It's a practical thought. The gear and upkeep of a group is going to be very expensive. We all know villains usually have deep pockets. To counter that with our own resources is necessary. So I'll ask you, what did you decide?"
Kent played with his expensive food for a long time before he answered. "I decided that I'm in... Only if you are."
He grinned despite himself. "Well then... I guess you're in. Even if I'm going to be the guy holding the chequebook at the end of the day, I'm in." From Kent's giddy expression, he got the feeling the man would have hugged him if they were in any other place but this upscale restaurant.
"You sing some pretty good jazz, Batsy-boy."
Dull throbs and fresh spikes of pain coursed through everything. It all hurt, absolutely everything. Pain is good... Pain means you're not dead. Although I'm not quite sure that's a good thing right this second. Maybe if he just pretended he was still asleep the mad clown would grow bored and leave him be. No fun tormenting a sleeping man, right? Tell that to the foot that keeps nudging me. It would likely be a regrettable decision, but he cracked open swollen eyes to vaguely make out the Ace of Knaves above him.
"Sorry about ole Croc. He's been a little grumpy ever since I broke the news that we weren't going crime-spreeing just yet. Little guy was so looking forward to it too..." The Joker wiped at non-existent tears. "Now you, he really doesn't like. You should have seen what I saw him doing to you. I'm sure you're feeling it. Must be some primal dominance thing." The Joker pondered thoughtfully. "I should have gotten that on camera."
"What are you going on about?" His voice was foreign to his ears. The swollen larynx and trachea may or may not have been the cause. Hard to breathe. He was drifting between sleep and wakefulness with sleep winning out. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to know what Croc had done to him. He hurt from nearly every surface area the lizard man had been able to get his hands on... But as he tried to focus on locating every injury he knew there was something wrong. He felt a deep fissure inside his body. A splitting and swelled kind of agony he couldn't place anywhere. An invasive pain he had never experienced before. The Joker was cackling something and kicked him hard out of frustration. It didn't matter. He was fading away...
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Tears and Rain