Date: Sun, 3 Jan 1999 12:20:12 -0500 To: fkarchiver@fkfanfic.com From: Neil and Lee Belsky Subject: Forever Schanke: Another Dark Knight Parriot and Bob Kane (R.I.P) own Kanigit and Batman respectively. This is a work of fiction. I am not making any money off it (don't I wish). Forever Schanke: Another Dark Knight It is the black heart of the city. It has no name that anyone remembers. The street sign was stolen by an overzealous tourist years before. For those people living in Gotham it is simply called "Crime Alley", a place where dreams turn to nightmares, and once every year, a very well- dressed man lays two roses on the cracked pavement. He kneels on the ground lost in thought as he contemplates his chosen career and wonders what it would have been like if things were different. If his mother hadn't been wearing a string of pearls, and his father had just a trifle less sense of justice and not resisted. he realized. The past was immutable, shattered and scattered like all those pearls. There was no going back. No relinquishing his mantle. "Kiss the pavement you fuck!" "Huh?" The man was stunned back to reality. He was trying to get a sense of the location of the body that owned the voice, he knew it had to be at least five feet away. Not only that, he could see several pairs of paratrooper boots in front of him and, he was willing to bet, there were others to the side and behind him that enclosed him in a ring. "Take out the wallet ass-hole! Do it real slow" The gentleman heard the cocking of a pistol as his hand moved to his jacket pocket. He was on the ground. They were all around him. He did what his father would have considered unthinkable, he complied and flicked the leather case in front of him. One of the punks reached over and grabbed it, opened it up and gave a low whistle. "Holy shit, Leon, you know who this dude is?" "I don't know and I don't care, empty it and lets get out of here!" "Man, this is a mistake. this guy is Bruce Wa..." Suddenly the punk's train of thought was derailed. There was a voice coming from the far end of the alley, but that didn't make any sense. The only thing there was a thirty foot high cement wall. "Well, well, well, and what do we have here?" "Just some nosy ass hole. Get him guys!" They turned around and drew their weapons. They weren't worried about the guy on the ground. This newcomer was a greater threat. "Ya know, if I was you, I'd drop your weapons and face the wall." They kept moving in on him, their weapons playing in front of them like kids waving sparklers on the Fourth of July. "Let me guess, you ain't that bright. All I wanted was a nice quiet night and a bite to eat. Well, it looks like I get one, but not the other." Leon jumped in first, his gun going off as he moved. He had a clear shot and took it. And to make matters worse, he could swear his eyes were glowing. His friends however didn't notice, because as soon as the shot went off the guy on the ground wasn't on the ground anymore. In a series of fluid motions he was now working his way through Leon's rear-guard. It was like a chain of surgical strikes. A punch here... a kick there... a perfect economy of movement. He would have made it a clean sweep except he heard a sound like an animal growling coming from the back of the alley. That was just enough distraction for his last assail ant to get in a shot with a box razor on his face. It cut through the skin and left a little dotted line running down his temple. Meanwhile, the small riot in the back of the alley seemed to have stopped. It was an impressive sight. Bodies, bodies every where, and the only one standing was the Samaritan who started it all. He wasn't even breathing hard, and he must have gotten cut because he had just a touch of blood dribbling out of his mouth. "Nice night, eh?" "Just lovely.." "Yeah. Say, you got a bit of a cut there." The man pointed and touched one of the red dots that had appeared on the other man's face. Bruce Wayne could swear he'd seen the other man's nose dilate. "Get home and do something about it. Stuff like that leaves scars." "Thanks, I will Mr.....?" By the time he finished the question, his savior was gone. Well not exactly gone. He heard his voice, it seemed to come from everywhere and a chill went up his spine. "Oh momma, so that's who you are! Talk about secret identities! I've got to tell Janette about this!" Wayne hurried to his car and, in an uncharacteristically short voice, told the old man at the door to head home. He didn't know what was going on, but he had the feeling he'd better find out soon. ************ Don Schanke walked into the old store front and made his way past the antiques to the basement. The renovators has done a fairly good job. The cement walls were painted a more appetizing shade of brown, and the furnace was enclosed in a small room near the stairs. "I'm home, dear! Jeeze, you'll never guess what happened to me today." Janette stepped out of her room and smiled at Donald. "Something new and different that you could never have imagined in a thousand years?" "Damn close to it, Janette. I was out looking for a story and I found one. Boy did I find one." "Tell me this 'story' detective." "Well, there's this guy by the name of Bruce Wayne. He's out at Crime Alley, and get this, he's laying a pair of roses on the sidewalk. So I figure I'll watch and see what happens. Things were too quiet for some good copy anyway. Well, these punks decide to roust him and they got him surrounded, so I figured I'd give him a hand. You know, just be a good neighbor. That sort of thing." "And?" "Well, I jump the wall to the alley and try to break it up. There were too many to trance so I was kinda hoping they'd be reasonable, but punks is punks, Gotham is no different from Toronto. So they start moving in. Well, I took care of the first one" Schanke blanched in the memory, the blood was tainted with emotional bile. "and started working my way through." The concept of a smorgasbord leaped unbidden in to his mind and Janette frowned. Don saw her reaction and said, "So sue me. I've got less then one life worth of memories to play with. Anyway, I barely have enough time to get cleaned up when I see the guy coming over to me. Then I notice the bodies littering his end of the alley. Jeeze, Janette, he racked up as many as I did. My first thought was 'Who the heck is this guy?' Well, he got cut, looked like a razor of some kind, nothing major. He comes over to me and the smell hits me like a sledgehammer. Man, you talk about memories! I could almost smell them. So I reach out to take a couple of drops of blood, waste not want not, and head out of the alley. I didn't taste them until I was over the wall, and then whoa, like fire. Caves, money and two deaths. Then I knew who the guy was." "Who was he?" Janette's curiosity was piqued, something that rarely happened. "Ya know all that stuff Ollie Knox has been writing about this so -called 'Batman'." "I vaguely recall something." "Well, guess what, I found him. Not only did I find him, but I know who he is!" "That would be an impressive 'scoop' if you could publish it." "That's the big 'if' Janette. People would ask too many damn questions. How I found out--- 'Well gee, it was easy ya see he got cut and all I had to do was get a couple of drops of his blood.' 'You had some kind of D.N.A. testing?' 'Naw, I'm just a vampire crime reporter. He was bleeding, it was there so I figured Sure, why not!' --- "I don't think so Janette. I'd still like more answers, though, and I know just where to get them." The day passed slowly for Bruce Wayne. Too many public appearances and too much work keeping Wayne Enterprises running for another day. What he really wanted to do was get down to the Bat Cave and try to figure out: A) Who the good Samaritan was and B) How in Hell's name he could figure out the connection between him and the Batman? So far he had drawn a blank, but he was sure there was an answer. "The answer" hit him over the head while he was looking at the evening papers. --Just Another Night in Crime Alley-- was a color piece by the paper's newest columnist. He began to read it. "This city is the best thing that could ever happen to a crime reporter. Yours truly was walking around downtown the other night, and made the mistake of stomping around Crime Alley. Of course the mayor and Commissioner Gordon would prefer I not use that name, but hey, we all know what it is. We know where it is, and we know the problem with it. No matter what the politicians think, every city has some place like it. You can't kill it, you can just move it around and sometimes it's better to just leave it fester because it might go to someone else's backyard. So, I see this guy, he's kind of distracted. Looking for God knows what and all of a sudden the usual gang of criminal idiots got him surrounded. Like most crooks these weren't very bright. All things considered, the Joker, Two Face and Ras Al Gul are (thankfully) the exception, rather then the rule. Nope, these were just you garden variety hoodlums, but I figured four of them give or take a few and one of the gentleman was a bit out of being a fair fight. So I start running to see if I can help the guy out. Well, he really didn't need much in the way of help. Those kids were laid-out by the time I got close, and the "Victim" had barely worked up a sweat. No, I didn't stop to ask what had happened. The "Goetz" thing in New York a few years ago taught us all a lesson. But you've got to ask yourself. How many citizens have had it up to here? What can they do about it here in Gotham. It isn't like there's a Batman on every street corner or dark alley" Bruce blanched. He was smart enough to see an invitation when it was sent to him. "Anyway, this is your pal Ron Sandini reminding you to watch where you walk and clean off your shoes. See you in a couple of days boys and girls." "Alfred, cover all my calls. I'm going down below. Now I have a little bit more to work with then I did before." "Will you be wanting dinner sir?" "Later, I know who, now I want to find out how." Bruce made his way to the library and turned a certain book on a certain shelf outwards. The books in front of him slid backwards revealing a steep ramp leading down to a cavern. The cave itself was in darkness except for the tiny laser-lights that seemed to form a cats cradle anchored from every corner of the room. He hit a small button on his right and the chamber was bathed in halogen light. Bruce walked to the main console of the computer never missing a step, even as he let his eyes adjusted to the sudden almost noon-like brightness that filled the area. Here was the Batcave, home to his alter ego. It was odd, he never felt comfortable down here unless he was wearing the suit. Never felt at home. Well, tonight wasn't going to be a night for the streets, so he would do with out the trappings of his chosen avocation. Tonight he needed the sort of answers that earned him the nickname of "The Worlds Greatest Detective." He smiled to himself as he thought of the press his escapades usually earned. The solutions that people thought just sprung from his mind in the same way a battarang flew from his fingers. No, he worked long and hard for the answers to his problems as he worked hard to make his physical prowess appear effortless, and he had a feeling this was going to be no exception. His fingers played over the keys. First to the database of the Gotham Tribune. Sandini, Ron. "Accessing" flashed on and off several times before the screen blanked and filled. That was to be expected, as Wayne was using the back door to a secure system. Sandini, Ron: Born September 5, 1965. Marital Status: Single Graduate: Chicago School of Journalism 1990 Previous employment: Decatur Free Press 1990 - 1991 Boston Globe 1992 - 93 Metropolis Daily Planet 93 - 94 "Hmmmmm" thought Bruce "Perhaps not as hard as I originally thought. Kent will know, and if he doesn't, I can always get the information from Oracle." However, he figured he start as far back as the information allowed. He picked the phone up and called the college in Chica go. The phone was answered so quickly he barely had time to cut the vocal synthesizer into the line. "Hello, Chicago School of Journalism, main switchboard. How may I direct your call?" "Uh, alumnus division." "Please hold." Several clicks and a tired, old, male voice. "Yes? May I help you?" "I hope so. My name is Jennifer Stevens and I'm looking for information on a former student... a Ron Sandini. He's up for a foundation grant and we have to research his history, for the presentation." It was the Batman's words, but a voice synthesizer was producing a wonderful simulation of a breathless young woman in her late twenties. "I'll see what I can do miss. Please hold on." As he waited, Batman was busy sending Clark Kent a carefully worded piece of e-mail requesting any information he might have on Sandini. He pushed send, just as the old man came back to the phone. "Yes, Ronald Sandini was a student here, his grades are listed, but this is curious." "What" "Well, all of his teachers seem to have died within a year of his graduation. This isn't unusual, as many of the members of our journalism faculty are older people. Tradesmen who had re tired and decided to teach rather then to live on a small pension, but it is still rather interesting." "Kind of spooky." Bruce said. "Well, thank you for your help sir. We appreciate it." "No trouble at all." "Kind of spooky indeed..." The thought trailed off as his e-mail beeped at him. Reply to Sandini question follows: I thought I knew everyone at the Daily Planet, but this name is news to me. Payroll says he was drawing a check, but I couldn't find a single byline for him. Just on general principle I suggest you take Precautions. Regards to Robin. Clark. The Batman had seen paper trails before, but never anything quite so perfect. As he dug deeper he found credit cards, a condominium lease, even checks made out to a nursing home for an old lady who the forms claimed was his mother (now deceased). Who is our wandering boy? Well, text didn't work so he figured he'd try graphic. Fortunately Sandini's column featured a picture of him. As fast as the computer was, he was going to be there for more then a while. Every picture id in the world was going to be scanned for a match. F.B.I., INTERPOL, mug shots, police departments. Thank God for computers doing the drudge work. Without them, he could n't possibly have kept tabs on the world as it shifted around him. The screen was flashing it's usual ACCESSING when Alfred entered the cave with Wayne's evening meal. "I took the liberty sir." "Thank you Alfred." "You're quite welcome. Sometimes I think that if I didn't watch your diet for you, you'd contract scurvy or die of starvation. Then where would Gotham City be?" Wayne chuckled but was silently grateful to his old friend and retainer. There was more then an ounce of truth in what he said. Bruce Wayne knew his behavior was obsessive. He was like a juggernaut in his pursuit of justice. Frequently, his own needs became secondary to his task. Alfred was responsible for at the very least fifty percent of the proper handling of the Wayne millions and was the final arbiter controlling access to Bruce Wayne himself. Yes, he knew that someday, there would be no more "Alfred", no one lived forever under normal circumstances and sometimes he wondered who, in fact worried about that day more. "If you have no need of me, I shall be retiring now sir." "That's fine Alfred. I'll see you in the morning." Alfred walked, ramrod straight to the single-person elevator that ran directly to his quarters, leaving Bruce to ponder eternity and the passing of friends. He was drawn out of his reverie five minutes later by the buzz of his terminal. SEARCH COMPLETED RESULTS AS FOLLOWS Simon Coppersmith, London, England. M.I.5 on assignment in Hong Kong. Age 34. Ladislav Bronknofski, serving a life sentence for the murder of his wife and children in Krakow penitentiary. Age 41. The list ran on for several more names. Either the ages fit or the skills, but none of the locations made any sense. All were half-way around the world. The Batman typed, 'Expand search: Living or dead.' This would take even longer. Bruce opened the first of many newspapers that were stored in a bin next to his work station. True, paper was cumbersome, but it felt good, and it was one of the few non-technological luxuries he allowed himself. He also knew, that, like any good businessman a truly skilled criminal would be reading the same thing he was, looking for his next heist. He headed for the society pages, and something caught his eye. "Janette DuCharme of Charms DuCharme, Gotham's newest (and trendiest) antique and jewelry boutique, would be lending the "de Rais Scepter" to the Gotham Museum of History for it's current display of 'Mayhem through the Millennium'. Ms. DuCharme (seen here with the scepter in her shop)" Bruce looked at the picture and raised his eyebrows, strik- ing, ethereal, looking very much like she was born out of time, the woman held the scepter in her hands, an obscene thing, a two- headed clown used to entice a small army of young children to their deaths at the hands of the man who history would dub "Bluebeard". Several times each month he would send one of his minions out to the streets to lure or, by the strength of his own position, force the children to his home. For Gilles De Rais was a Marshall of France, he who would not be denied. Once there he would indulge himself in an orgy of sodomy, both while the vic tims lived or after their decapitation. History says that de Rais' perversity knew no bounds, masturbating in the entrails of his young victims and butchering them like so many pigs, skinned and dressed. In some perverse way it made Bruce Wayne feel some what better knowing that he was, in fact, not living in the worst of times, but that there had been darker moments in the past. Bruce knew of only one man who would even be vaguely interested in the scepter, and he was (thank God) safely cocooned in the bowels of Arkham Asylum. The human demon is question sat in a cell drinking in the sounds of self-torture that rang though the halls of the his "home". Another copy of the same paper Bruce was reading spread out before him and open to the same page, the same article. He cared nothing for the woman in the picture, but the scepter, the scepter, now that was an entirely different story. He grinned wider, his eyes dancing back and forth over the copy like leprous flame. "They wouldn't let me be a cheerleader in high school! Wrong attitude they said! No sense of fair play! No short skirt, no pom-poms, no Rah, Rah , Rah, sis-boom-bah. NOBODY LOVED ME! But the worst thing of all, NO GOD DAMNED BATON! BUNCHA SORRY SONSA BITCHES. SCARRED ME FOR LIFE! So what could I do.. I didn't steal the goal post. I go back a few years ago and blow-up the freakin' thing. Took half the team with it. Man, what a sight! Blood, Guts and Gore, just like confetti! Now fate has given me a second chance to make the team! I WANT THAT STICK AS MUCH AS IT WANTS ME!" The computer pinged after about fifteen minutes and Wayne stopped his reading. Displaying results of search: Name: Roberto Ignatio d'Anglesio Detective, Italian National Police. Born, January 3 1955 Died, September 30 1994 No, my Samaritan spoke English with a Ontarian accent, Cana- dian. Narrow search, North America, Canada, Ontario 'Working.' He barely took his eyes off the screen when the computer pinged again. Complete Name: Donald Giovanni Schanke Homicide Detective, Toronto Police Force Born, August 12, 1955 Died, March 23, 1995 'Display further information.' Survived by: Wife-Myra Schanke nee Palenska Born Jan. 23, 1958 : Daughter-Jennifer Myra Schanke Born May 15, 1982 C.O.D.: While transporting known felon from jurisdiction of Toronto, Ontario to Calgary, Alberta, the airplane was destroyed by high explosives smuggled into the cockpit. All passengers except an infant girl were killed. Education: 1960-1969-St. Margaret's Separate School- kindergarten to grade 8 1969-1973-Jarvis Collegiate Institute-Grade 9 to 13 1973-1975-University of Toronto-degree incomplete -Major: Psychology Minor: English The Batman grunted, nodded and continued to read. 1975-1977-Sheridan College -two year certificate Law Enforcement 1978-1979-Ontario Police College-basic diploma 1981-1993-University of Toronto School of Continuing Education-credits in Psychology, English, Music five credits needed to finish Honours Bachelor of Arts in Psychology In Ontario, a university credit consisted of two complete semesters in any subject. Our man Schanke must have been working hard to get on with his degree and hold down as difficult job as a homicide detective, but all the pieces fit. A very smart man, who knew something about law enforcement and was trained in street combat. Everything made sense, except one thing. Donald Giovanni Schanke had died in 1995. End of file. End of life. Wayne looked up from his terminal and said. "I've got you now, but all I seem to have is a corpse!" Suddenly he heard a voice from thirty-feet above his head, and to the right. "Maybe yes, maybe no." Bruce froze. No one came here uninvited, and the list of invitees was very limited. The Batman weighed all his options, looked up in the general direction of the voice and said "If you're here 'Detective' Schanke, you know who I am. If you know who I am, then denial would be a senseless charade, not worthy of either of us. Won't you join me?" "Don't mind if I.." The sound of air being displaced at his right hand. "..do" The Batman jerked around to face his uninvited guest. "Your unorthodox entry and introduction has led me to the conclusion that you are not human. I thought I knew everyone who could fly within a global radius." "Well, I used to be. Human that is, but things change, so do people. If you want to know, I'm still human in all the ways that count. I'm not a god, and I know the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, which is more then most people in this world can say. Mind if I pull up a chair?" "Be my guest." "So as I was saying," Don continued as he plopped down on the chair next to Bruce Wayne. "I was human once. Then, depend ing on how you look at it, things went very wrong or very right. I guess it's all a matter of how you want to see it." "The explosion on the plane?" he thought. "Well, yeah, but things happened before that. Stuff you would be better off not knowing about. Let's just say that sometimes, when you need a diversion to cover your tracks, noth- ing beats reality." "You caused the explosion?" "No way man! I've never hurt an innocent in my life. You've got my record there, look at it!" "True, named 'Partner of the Month', squeaky clean record. I see you and your partner were responsible for an inordinately high percentage of successful arrests." "Well, yeah, we were good cops." "Operative word is "were". Why are you speaking in the past tense?" "Look, if you must have it spelled out for you, I'm dead. You've got my police record there. " "Lively corpse." "Ha ha, very funny, Wayne. How many flying corpses do you know?" "Take it easy detective. I just want answers. You seem to know things about me that I've tried to hide for years. Let's just say, I'd like some give and take." Schanke stopped looking at his fingers and looked up at Bruce Wayne. His eyes were glowing gold. "You really want to know what I am? I got no fake flying suits, no optical illusions. Look at this." Don flew out of his chair like a shot, buzzing around the cave like some demented sprite, cutting figure-eights in mid-air and doing cartwheels." Wayne looked amused. "Peter Pan?" "I didn't realize you had a sense of humor." "It's small, but it's there. Look Schanke, Sandini or wha tever you want to call yourself. I know someone in Metropolis who can do the same thing." "Yeah, you're right about that, but can he read minds? Bruce Wayne, only son of Doctor Thomas and Martha Wayne. Orphaned at nine when both his parents were killed in a hold-up, which he witnessed." Bruce Wayne winced. "No other living relatives. Inherited his family's fortune and spent the later years of his childhood isolated from kids his own age. He was cared for by his butler Alfred Pennyworth until the age of ten, when he had an accident, falling down a hole on his property and landing in a real bat cave. It scared the heck out of him. But it also started him thinking. If thousands of small bats could scare one guy, what could one giant economy size bat do?" "Impressive." "Yeah, mostly taken from the Gotham Tribunes morgue. The rest, well, remember that cut the other night?" "Yes." "Bela Lugosi once said 'The blood is the life.' Well maybe not the life, but it certainly tells me where you've been, what you've done and why you put that suit on almost every night of the year." "Tell me detective, what do you do with this blood, and how do you make it talk." Schanke thought. "Look, Wayne, you're a bright boy, so I won't spend time on a set up. Besides, it's getting early, and I really have to get home. I'm a vampire, the technical term is nosferatu. Ask a kid under five, and he'd call me the bogeyman." Wayne's jaw dropped... and he started to laugh. "All right, who put you up to this? You're a friend of Jordan's. Where's your ring?" Schanke sighed and turned around, what faced Bruce Wayne next was human only in the vaguest possible terms. "Damn!" The voice was guttural and issued from a mouth made misshapen by the fangs whose tips were peeking out from under his lips. "I figured I'd have to do this the hard way. I didn't want to." He reached over and pinned Bruce Wayne's arms to his sides. His fingers were like steel, cold as marble and just as hard. Wayne struggled to break his hold. "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you. This is about the only way to show you I am serious. You think this kind of control is easy? I have...no...had a wife and kid. You think I could let them see me like this? What I am? No. I'm here to talk, and to let you know something. I'm going to be out there in the dark, just like you. Drug dealers, pimps, shakedown artists, I want their money. If they resist, well, I'll do what needs to be done. I've got a family to feed, and if I can do some good along the way, well, why not? I'm not a killer Wayne. I'm a cop. A dead cop, but a cop nevertheless. You do your job, and I'll do mine." Schanke released his hold on the Batman and dusted him off with his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I can't allow you to do that." Wayne was breathing deeply, getting his wind back. "I can't allow you to prey on criminals in my city." "What? You're the guy who puts a damned suit with a kevlar emblem daring any criminal to take a shot at you every night, and you can't allow that? Hello? Are we speaking the same language?" "The suit is there for just that reason. I provide a target better able to defend itself then a cop on the beat. I have no family. I have no children. This is almost a sacred calling for me." "Geeze, you sound like a damned Jesuit. More money than you know what to do with. More political influence. Born with the damndest silver spoon in your mouth, and you're telling me I can't provide for my wife and kid? Screw you!" "Anyone is capable of redemption. Your way takes that potential away from them." "Redemption for everyone? Tell that to my ex-partner. I'm sure he'd love you forever." "When you take their money, you are no better then they are. There has got to be an alternative." "Yeah, let me know if you find it. Until then, I've got a job to do. Listen, I gotta go. Sun's up in a couple of hours, and I still haven't filed tonight's story. No, don't worry, you aren't it. If you want to continue this conversation I'll meet you on top of Gotham Cathedral tomorrow night. Say, around two. I'm outta here." Rebecca was a pretty young girl who Don and Janette had "found" upon their arrival in Gotham. Strung out and victimized by a sadistic pimp, in her Janette had seen one of the unfor tunate and seemingly endless legions of women (herself included) who had suffered at the hands of a cruel master. She had tried to help women like her in the past, seldom offering others the same "salvation " LaCroix had granted her. Instead, she gave them hope, money, a place to stay, and the wisdom of the ages to guide them back to a sense of self-worth. While she could not help them all, a person here and a person there would make a difference in the long run. She felt very good about Rebecca. Her progress had been nearly miraculous. Changing from the scared and "haunted" animal that Donald had brought to the shop one night, she now spoke freely to Janette and would smile shyly at some of Schanke's better jokes. Yes, Janette would count this one as a success. Perhaps she would even pass the store on to her when it was time to move on. She was a good worker who learned quickly and asked few questions about affairs that did not con cern her, but her curiosity at the fuss being made over the staff got the better of her. She unlatched-latched the lid and peered into the old crate and just as quickly slamming it shut. She felt as if someone had walked on her grave. It was an ugly thing. A perverse, leering Punch at each end of a golden staff. "Rebecca, ma chere." "Yes, Janette." "Be careful with that box." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Janette shivered. She would be glad to be rid of its content for even a short time. Let the foul thing sit behind a glass wall so people could gawk. It was a souvenir she had no desire to possess, yet possess it she had for over 400 hundred years. It was a gift given her by a scavenging admirer all those years ago, a magistrate charged with the disposal of the DeRais estate. The demented fool thought it would be something she would enjoy, a gift to treasure. A thousand years she had walked this Earth, and still she was amazed at some of the things mortals put value in. Nevertheless, she had kept it all these years. Another part of her life, like a jewel or a painting. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ From the blood-red twisted dreams of glory, Gilles De Rais was thrown into wakefulness by the light of the girl's soul. He reached around him, gathering impressions of his new world, skimming the surface of the masses until he nearly despaired, coming to believe there would be none suitable to carry on his "work". He sensed no individual with a heart so black as to accept his guidance and bidding without question. Perhaps he would slumber again, dreaming his dream. And then he "saw" it, looming big and black against a world of light. A structure housing all the best that he felt this society could offer. The coffers of the damned, his minions, he would draw his foot sol dier from. He saw a soul bent and twisted almost beyond his understanding. A demented being who wore the garb of the "Fool" and spent his days in pursuit of the pleasure to be gained from CHAOS. Here was all he could ever hope for. He reached out with his mind and stroked the very core of the being called "The Joker". He had been sulking in his cell all that day. Saying nothing but dreaming of ways to escape. He wanted the scepter. He needed it. He was about to get it. ********** "67519er, this is Gotham Metropolitan Airport tower. Continue in your current holding pattern. You are number three on approach to runway 7. Sorry about this little snag, fellows. We'll have you down as soon as possible." "Roger that, tower. We'll await notification of clearance." "Just great," said the pilot. "We get a good tail wind and shave fifteen minutes off our time, but we still spend almost as much time circling as we did actually getting here. Every year it gets worse and worse." He couldn't help thinking about the planned renovations to Gotham Metropolitan that were in the works. Was it going to take a major accident before the city would do anything? "Hey, Ruby, did the kids leave any of those tuna sandwiches in the cooler?" "I'll go check." Ruby reached behind her, past the sleeping children, and, unzipping the plastic cooler, got one of the most unpleasant surprises of her life. God knows how it happened, but a wasp had somehow gotten into the cooler and was making its displeasure known at being so rudely awaken. It began to buzz furiously around the cabin. "Jerry...a HORNET!!!" Ruby screeched and started flailing her arms to drive it away. "Ruby...just be still. If you don't bother it, it won't bother you. Now calm down and hand me a soda." Jerry sighed. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only adult in the family. The wasp, which had hidden itself in the luggage, did not feel DeRais entry into its brain. It only felt fear wash though its body. flight...or fight fight...or flight It buzzed round the cabin of the Cessna, looking for a crack, a hole, an escape to the outside. flight... or fight There was no way out. flight...fight...fight...fight... It attacked Jerry. "Ruby! Grab the stick!!" Jerry swatted at the angry wasp as it flew into his face. The plane veered wildly to the left. "67519. Do you read me. What the Hell is the matter up there?" "Tower," Ruby tried to talk into the com and take the stick from Jerry as the wasp stung his face again and again. The boys were waking up... screaming. "Hornets... stinging hornets." Jerry madly swinging arms struck Ruby in the face and sent her tumbling out of her seat. "67519? 67519...can you get control of your plane? 67519???" The guards on the tower saw the plane before the call from Gotham Metropolitan told them it was coming. There was no time to gather the patients, no time to shield the inmates as Jerry and Ruby Conyers and their sons were sacrificed against the walls of Arkham Asylum. There was little left of the plane that cracked the walls of the Joker's home away from home. "Company's coming and the espresso is almost ready!" "You have a real way with an entrance," the Joker said as he picked himself up from the rubble. "I guess Maxie Zeus would have enjoyed the air conditioning. If he had survived." thought the Joker. "Anything you say. Don't think I have to be invited twice to this little shindig. See you in church. And now, as my old friend Major Kong once said "Yahoo!!!!!" Joker laughed as he grabbed one of the parachutes from the twisted wreckage and jumped through the freshly bored hole in the wall to the sea below. < Yes...a perfect place to meet. Fool.> *************** What are the dreams of a good man? Bruce Wayne dreamed an unsafe dream in the comfort of his huge oaken bed. The same one over and over. His mother and father. Screams and gunshots. He, an impotent child, unable to help. But this time there was a change. A shadow, huge and silent, chased the thieves down a long tunnel. He heard the screams of two dead men, and when the shadow returned from the end of the alley, the face he saw was Don Schanke. "Why, why, why?" "To serve and protect, Brucie boy. Just to serve and protect." Wayne sat bolt upright, sweat dripping from his body, just as Alfred walked into the room. The older man had seen the results of dreams like this, and each time he had, he felt his heart rip a little bit more. Bruce Wayne might be a man, but he was still his ward. He was still the flame Thomas Wayne had charged Alfred to carry into the future. "Sir, there has apparently been a problem at Arkham Asylum. A small engine aircraft on approach to Gotham Metropoli tan went off-course and crashed into the criminal wing. All on board were killed." Bruce shook his head from side to side. "Alfred, haven't you any better news for me?" "I'm afraid it is worse then that, sir. An inmate of your acquaintance, one Maxie Zeus, is in critical condition, but that is not what should concern you. There appears to have been one escapee." Bruce Wayne recalled the map of that wing of the asylum and the layout of its cells and said one word. "Joker." "Unfortunately, you are correct. Although, in the name of all that is Holy, I wish you weren't." "When did this happen?" "The Batcave monitor handling police and aircraft frequencies have had nothing but information on it for the past half an hour, sir." "Status of security at the asylum itself?" "The majority appears to have been remained uncompromised. Just that one section was damaged. If I may say so, sir, the odds of this being a random act are..." "Yes Alfred, I know, far to unlikely to even consider. Someone wanted the Joker on the street again. Who, How and Why are the questions to ask. What are my..." "You are slated to appear at a board meeting in two hours. We can probably video conference by link out of the car. Please don't forget to remove your cowl before you transmit." "Thank you, Alfred, I'll remember." Bruce long ago ceased to wonder how Alfred managed to finish his thoughts and provide the correct responses. He'd heard that couples married for long periods of time often managed the same trick (not that he'd ever had personal experience in that area or, likely as not, ever would)."I should be back on schedule by about 11:30." "Very good, sir." The car rarely saw the light of day, and when it did, it appeared to look like nothing less then a a shark, cutting through the sunlit world like some predatory beast. It's driver was no less menacing. When he wasn't silent he was abrupt. His speech practiced much the same economy as his fighting-style. The car pulled up to the guardhouse and the roof retracted, leaving the startled guard to confront Gotham's living legend. "Jeremiah Arkham." "Ye, ye, yes sir." He reached for the phone in his booth and nervously dialed the number. To his shock, it was picked up on the first ring. "Doctor Arkham, sir, "he's" here." "Send him through." "Yes, sir." The guard opened the gate and waved the batmobile through, but both vehicle and driver were halfway in the compound before he even raised his hand. Ten minutes later, the Dark Knight was entering Arkham's office. "I was expecting you Batman." "Take me to the Joker's cell" "Very well." The two men made their way through a series of hallways. Each grimmer then the last, like something out of "Dante's Inferno." It was to the last hallway they headed, the Batman's cape flying behind him in a breeze of his own making. It gave the Batman little pleasure to know he was responsible for commit ting over 75% of the "patients" in this wing. The Hell he'd created. Bane, Poison Ivy, Jarvis Tech. Each of them, (and count less others) were the manifestation of his own personal demon. The one that drove him to hunt the night. Perhaps Schanke was right. Perhaps... No! there was work to be done. Important work. No other child would lose his parents. No other child would be victimized as Jason Todd was. He would see to that. In his own way. They arrived at the Joker's cordoned-off cell, and stepped into it. The place was a shambles. Splintered furniture and papers littered the room. The only intact piece seemed to be an up-ended desk that stood in the far corner. The Batman made his way to it and asked the doctor if anyone had conveyed any message to the Joker in the last 24 hours. "No Batman. All communications to the inmates in this section are carefully monitored. All guards are screened. Not only by us, but by Commissioner Gordon's office." , thought the cowled man, Jim Gordon had seen the security records and was more then willing to let the Batman have more then just a concerned citizen's opinion. After all the caped crusader was responsible for the capture of many of those who resided within its walls). He shifted the metal desk and looked on the floor. "Damn!" "Is there a problem, Batman?" "Nothing that you can help. See what you can do about repairing the damage. I'll have the Joker back as soon as is possible." The Batman left carrying the paper the Joker had been reading earlier. The same one that Bruce Wayne had read in the cave earlier that evening and expressed concern about. It was the same picture, but the face of Janette DuCharme had been crudely altered to resemble the split grin of the Clown Prince of crime. He didn't know how much time he had to prevent the robbery,but he would try. **************************************************************** The sun flooded the windows of 'Charms DuCharme' with its lovely, lethal light which kept Janette in the office in the back office. Rebecca had acquired a poise and grace, however, that made her more than able to handle the customers that wandered in during the day. With each day, Rebecca learned more about the lovely baubles she handled. Some of the gems were Janette's own, gifts she had tired of, or memories she no longer cared to re call. Others were purchased with the elite of Gotham in mind. Each day, Janette would take Rebecca into her office and teach her the art of the gem, to appreciate the sparkle of diamonds, the flash of blue hidden in the best emeralds and the silky caress of pearls against skin. Here Janette would gently add the right words to Rebecca's vocabulary. Rebecca was a fast learner and in a short time had earned Janette's trust working in the shop. "Janette," Rebecca called as she knocked on the office door, "It's one o'clock, and Sylvia is gone for the rest of the afternoon. Do you want me to phone for some lunch from the deli?" "Non, ma petite, I've already eaten, but do not let me stop you." "Actually, I wanted to talk to you. To thank you and Ron for everything you've done for me. You see, I have my paycheck here, and it says I'm the assistant manager. I thought I was just a sales clerk." "You open the shop. You balance the monies in the till, and there have been no discrepancies for three months...what was that? Think of it as what Ronald would call "On the Job training". A field promotion, if you will." Rebecca was both confused by this turn of events and grateful. No one had ever placed the kind of trust in her that her new employer did. This, in turn, made Janette very happy. It was strange, how after all these years, the slightest act of kindness to a sister in trouble could almost make her feel young. Janette went to the basement to work on the books from the previous day, glancing at the small series of monitors she had installed at Don's behest. She had fought him on it, just another manifestation of a technology she had no use for, but in the end she'd given in. His logic was unavoidable. The store had far too many items of great value not to maintain some sort of personal surveillance, as well as an obligation to Rebecca and the others the shop employed, and it wouldn't do to "invite" the police in anytime there was a problem. No, over the years she had learned to handle her own affairs, and the discreet cameras placed around the shop simply made the job easier. Thus is was that she looked up from her papers in time to see the doors swing open and a crude caricature of a jester storm into the shop as if he owned the place. "Hiya, toots! Got anything new in the way of scepters?" Rebecca didn't know what to make of the apparition that was in front of her. The best thing she felt she could do was to try and trigger the silent alarm that was five feet away from her right foot. "Aw, come on cutie, you know what I'm talking about! Where's the damn scepter?" "I, I, I, have to get it. It's wrapped for the courier." "I'll bet! Lookey here, Wonderbuns. I don't know what you think I'm here for, but it's not to make polite conversation! Just give me the baton, and I'll be on my way! I've got a parade to lead at five. We're trying to free the hyenas at Gotham Zoo. Ha ha ha!! It's a personal thing. Besides, you've got my date for the party shut up in a box. I hate going alone!" The Joker's face froze as he saw Rebecca's foot start to head towards the corner. the thought slammed into his mind. "Hold it, sweetie! Do you know who I am?" "The Joker?" "Good guess! If you know that, you also know that I'm more random than a thousand jelly beans. Screwier then a sheet-metal tap. Able to leap tall buil... Oops wrong segue. Well, you shouldn't have tried to reach for that alarm." The Joker was by her side in a seconds. "A little discipline from my pal Mister Gas should teach you a thing or two. Then again, no one has really ever survived to prove that they learned anything. But hey, either you're a hero or a martyr, that's how life goes sometimes." Rebecca smelled something like honey and rotten eggs for all of three seconds before her body began convulsing, dancing in ways it was never meant to. She screamed in pain as her body began to cramp in random muscle groups. She twitched like someone with the worst case of D.T.s imaginable. The last thing she saw before she lost control of her eyes was Janette throwing the door open, smoke rising from her body and an unholy look of rage on her face. Janette had no time to deal with the Joker. The sun streaming in through the windows was taking its toll, the pain was unbelievable. She was vaguely aware of the Joker spray ing some kind of gas in her face, and then he seemed to lose interest in her. The best she could do was grab Rebecca's body and drag her towards the door that led to the basement. He, on the other hand, was hell-bent on finding the scepter, his motions being guided by the same force that had guided his escape from Arkham. Drawn to a crate sitting under the counter, he ripped the lid off and reached inside. The reaction was instantaneous. He seemed to become calm, no, not calm, but focused. The scattered forces of his insanity, for the first time in many years, found focus beyond the random killings and pranks, to a higher goal. The shattered bits of his morality reformed into a vessel created by the force that now had a name. DeRais. The happy-go-lucky homicidal maniac that was once the Joker had become something far worse, a reluctant tool. A knife-edge honed to glittering perfection. Why gas a few randoms when you can take out a whole building full of priests? Why settle for a few when you could have many? In a little corner of his newly- ordered mind the Joker laughed both in glee, and manic fear. If only Batsy could see him now! Criminal mastermind? Screw that! He was the criminal Overmind! The best hope the wretched psychos of the world would ever have! Then, the Joker truly knew fear. This wasn't like the Batman beating the crap out of him. That, he knew would end with a trip to Arkham to recover. This was permanent. There was no escape. No rest for the happily wicked. He was well and truly stuck. ************************************************** Don Schanke was well and truly stuck. He hadn't planned on being in the "couch" of the van at sunrise, but circumstances had created the necessity. He'd managed to turn in a "fluff" piece on the cuts to the fire department and figured he'd have enough time to get back to the shop. Unfortunately, the "biolog ical alarm clock" that he seemed to have discovered he had when he was brought across was letting him know (in no uncertain terms) that he figured wrong. He'd planned for stuff like this. The van was parked in the underground lot of the Times building, and the spot was his. He could have slept on the couch itself, but he still wasn't sure that some busybody wouldn't come by, and, if there was one lesson he'd learned early on about vam pires, it was you do not, repeat, 'Do Not' wake them from a sudden sleep. His body would function in a reflex action, going for the kill to whatever had disturbed him. No, he'd sleep under the couch in the padded box, he'd had constructed for just that purpose. His "sleep", usually untroubled and deep as a pit was rended by a scream that seemed to come from everywhere and no where. +++++++++++++++++++++++++ Janette had to ignore the thief, the sun, the pain that covered her body as she dove for Rebecca's prostrate form. The sight of the convulsions that shook Rebecca's form simply added speed to Janette rescue attempt. Whatever that stupid man splashed in her face had no effect on her as she dragged Rebecca down the stairs, away from the offending sun. "Ma petite, can you hear me?" She cried through her own pain. Only ragged gasps of laboured breathing answered her. * * * * * +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Janette knew Schanke was worried about her, and terribly frightened, yet there was nothing either of them could do. The sun was still high in the sky, and there was no hope of him reaching her. She sensed him banging away at the sides of his box, but was to busy trying to shut the pain of her own wounds out to reassure him that she was alive. She hoped he could "see" what had happened. That he could sense that she was alive, and relatively unharmed. She hoped he understood what she was trying to do. At the landing Janette stopped. Rebecca's heartbeat was racing and erratic, her body twitched and jerked like a jumping jack and her lovely face was contorted with a huge jackanape grin. "Rebecca, I will take care of you. No one will hurt you again." Janette cooed and gently pushed the girls head up from her neck. Tears mingled with blood as she fastened herself on the girls neck and, holding on for dear life against the random jerks and twitches drew the tainted blood into her. Whatever that evil clown had sprayed at Rebecca had filled her with poison in only a few heartbeats. There would be mortal death within minutes, Janette's actions would save her from the grave... she only hoped that Rebecca would thank her for this gift. * * * * * Don "saw" what was happening but not why it was, and the montage of events without reason was driving him nuts. He could n't understand why Janette was bringing Rebecca across. She was barely twenty and on her way to recovery. There was no reason. Then he tasted her blood through his link to Janette. "Joker! You son of a bitch!" He was hitting the sides of his "bed" in rage. The whole van was rocking with his anger and he bit hard on his own lip in frustration, tasting his own blood. He had no way to help, and that was the worst of all. No wait! There was a way. He maneu vered his hand to his jacket pocket and released the "flip" phone he kept there. He dialed a number and was rewarded by the sound of an older gent picking up on the other end, and asking who was calling in a very proper British voice. "Look, this is Ron Sandini. I've got to talk to Bruce Wayne. This is an emergency!" "Mr. Wayne is in transit." Schanke had little or no time for banter, so he cut right to the problem. "Oh gee, I thought that bats only flew at night!" Wayne's man was good. The only indication of surprise was a pause of less then a fraction of a heartbeat. "I'll see what I can do to contact him. Please stay on the line." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Above, the crash of the display cases told Janette how thoroughly the shop was being ransacked. But these were only things, easy to replace. Cradled in her lap her new daughter, Rebecca, was slowly quieting. The twitches subsided and a last gasp of breath rattled out of her lungs. "Rest, little one. I shall make it better for you." she crooned to the cooling body. And Rebecca died. "Come back to me and I promise I will teach you well. No man will touch you again unless you permit it. I will make you strong." Using the hem of her silk blouse Janette attempted to wipe the drops of Joker gas that clung to Rebecca's face. She sighed. Minutes dragged on. The shop above was empty. More red tears slipped down Janette's cheek, what had killed this child so quickly...and how would she kill that bas- tard clown who did this. She felt Rebecca's previously still form move against her breast, and sensed, almost at the same time, her thoughts. "Janette...I'm so cold and hungry." Quickly slashing her wrist open with her fangs Janette nursed Rebecca with her first meal. "Be still, ma petite, and drink. I shall take care of you now my youngest daughter." * * * * * The seconds passed like minutes as Schanke waited for Bruce to pick the phone up. When he heard his voice he had to admit, that the other man seemed more then a little annoyed. "I thought your kind slept during the day?" "We usually do. As a matter of fact, I was until some damned homicidal maniac broke into my home!" "The Joker?" "That's right. Listen Wayne, I can't get there until dark, but when you get to the shop don't go to the back room or down the basement, never mind why, just trust me" In truth, Schanke wasn't sure just how Janette would react. She had already had one costumed lunatic invade her place, and a second strangely garbed individual could only make things worse. Besides, She was already on the edge, parenting a sick infant, and dealing with her own wounds. He wasn't at all sure she hadn't passed her limit. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Oh, and Bruce?" "Yes" "Thanks. I owe you one." "Just remember that." Janette was tired, so tired. She had lost much blood saving Rebecca and now, to have to bring the young woman across was an almost impossible task. Soon, she herself would go to "sleep", and Rebecca, an unfinished being, would starve or go mad. The Batman arrived at the shop to find it in a state of chaos. Displays smashed, tables usable for little more then kindling, and a smell like.... Joker gas and.... Burned flesh. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The gas he could account for. As a matter of fact, he usually planned on it being there, since he knew the Joker as well as he would know an old friend. The burned flesh was an entirely different element in the equation. It seemed to get stronger as he moved towards the rear door that led to the office and to the basement. Moving cautiously, he ap- proached the door, and standing off to one side he slowly opened it and peered around the door. He saw two sets of eyes. They glowed. One with the red fire of a furnace, and a second pair, less intense, barely visible, almost golden. Normally eyes like these would belong to a cat or some other animal, caught in the beam of a headlight on a country road. The Batman, however, knew better. He next heard a voice, barely female, and possessing many of the same traits he had encountered the previous night during Schanke's "visit" to the Bat Cave. "Another Trespasser! Damn you and your kind! Come here you bastard, so that I may greet you properly!" "Schanke sent me." The growling seemed to lessen. "If you are what I think you are, what he is, you have nothing to fear from me (at least not now, he thought). "You had a visit from a man dressed as a clown earlier. He did this." It was more phrased as a statement then a question. He reached his hand into the dark office and found the light switch. The tableau before him made his breath catch. Kneeling on the rug-covered floor was the owner of the shop, but she looked far different from her picture. She was surrounded by empty bottles, filmed in red. Blood streaked her face and clothes. The material of one sleeve was ripped away, a wound opened in her wrist, the arm itself pressed to the mouth of.... "Good Lord!" The Batman was tensed and a split second away from launching himself at the woman. Then he noticed that a young woman, not more then a teenager really, was sucking hungrily at the woman's proffered wrist, as she was gently rocked back and forth. "She is an infant! Not yet fully born." Janette looked up at the Batman. It was then he noticed the burns on her face, and the blisters that oozed blood on her exposed arm and neck. She also seemed unsteady, as if the rock- ing motion were due as much to her own weakness as to her at- tempts at comforting the "new-born". "I am so tired, cherie, but I will not fail you." "You're dehydrated, suffering from what appear to be radia- tion burns." "I have no help," Janette was sobbing quietly. "Donald cannot return for several hours. I am undone." "You need help, fluids." "I need blood, damn you!, but there is no more to be had here." "Perhaps I can still be of assistance." The expression of Janette's face was almost feral. "You know what that means?" "Not what you think. I have a supply of whole blood that I keep for transfusions in my car." "Useless!" "There is also a transfusion kit. I am going to rely on your degree of self-control, but," He reached down and grabbed the splintered back of a chair, "just in case," He slammed it against the wall creating a crude stake. "I want you to realize that this procedure is only a mild inconvenience for me, and my movements will only be slightly curtailed." "So little trust?" "I know what I am dealing with. It's only fair that you know the same." The cowled figure left the doorway, and returned several minutes later. He made his way downstairs and walked towards the recliner that sat against the wall, a piece of furniture that Janette had learned to think of as "Don's Chair". The Batman proceeded to release a seam on one arm of his costume, exposing an inch-long patch of open skin. Then, quickly taking a sterile needle out of a small packet on his utility belt, as well as a section of tube and a plastic packet, he made a quick jab into the flesh. He flexed his fingers, and the blood started to flow from the puncture into the hose, and thence to the bag. "Why are you doing this? You could just as easily have turned your back on us and walked out of the store." "Call it a way of proving a point to Detective Schanke." Janette's eyebrows arched. "I might suggest that you forget that name." "I have a very good memory. I never forget a name or a face. As I was saying, it would have been easier to leave the shop, knowing what you are. It would not, however, have served my purpose. I want Schanke to know what I have done here. I want him to understand that 'All Life' is precious. I can't be having him patrolling my city and killing indiscriminately. Saving your life provides a suitable "'example.'" The bag was about three quarters full when the Batman re moved the needle from his arm. He quickly swabbed and bandaged the puncture and passed the container to Janette. She was about to give the blood to the girl on her lap when the Batman stopped her. "No, two more people knowing all there is to know about me are quite enough. Let her draw her sustenance directly from you." Janette nodded. "Very well." The Batman watched with equal amounts of curiosity and revulsion as she upended the bag and began draining its contents. At first she drank quickly, desper ate to replace what had been lost during Rebecca's first frantic feeding and her own healing process. Then, as the memories and pent up emotions that were the baggage attached to the blood began to overwhelm her consciousness, she slacked her pace, stopped and lowered the bag from her lips. Janette looked at the dark figure before her. "Pauvre enfant, tu eprouvais beaucoup de la souffrance. All that pain, and yet you never cried. All that death, and yet you have not mourned" "We each mourn in our own way. Mine is more constructive that others." Janette just shook her head. She had watched one thousand years pass and saw that men never changed. She looked at the Batman and at the fledgling on her lap. "Excuse me, but Rebecca is almost fully awake, and I have no desire to have to restrain her, nor would I wish you to destroy her in self defense... or otherwise." "Yes, I understand. One thing? The girl was experiencing..." "Convulsions, contortions, loss of control of her bodily functions." "Just as I thought. Joker gas. She had no hope of survival save for you." "You are amazingly enlightened for a man of this age. It wasn't the path I had chosen for her, but it was the only one left... besides oblivion." "I don't consider myself enlightened, only realistic. Had you killed for the joy of feeding, make no mistake, I would have destroyed you as quickly as I saved you. Both of you." With that he turned and made his way out of the shop. ********************************************** The only thing that kept the police from interfering sooner than they did was Janette's foresight in choosing a location off the main thoroughfare, much as she had for "The Raven". Still, it was inevitable that one of the more "concerned citizens" of Gotham would walk down the side street and notice the chaos that reigned in "Charms DuCharme". In this case, it was the arrival of the Brinks truck that was scheduled to pick up the DeRais scepter that phoned in the alarm. Janette barely had time to throw the deadbolt on the door leading to the basement. The call to the police soon followed and, at 6:00 pm, the law, led by one Harvey Bullock, arrived on the scene. "Jeeze, what a mess!" Harvey looked around the shop and called forensics over. "Whatdaya got for me, Peters?" "A selective theft, Detective Bullock. The contents of the store are messy, but intact. The only thing missing appears to be the DeRais scepter. I'd say the M.O. fits only one man, Joker." "What a way to screw up a nice day." Bullock was sure he would be hearing from the Batman at some point. He and that maniac seemed to go together like donuts and coffee. Speaking of which, he hadn't had any of either today, and was feeling decidedly out of sorts from lack of sugar. "Hey O'Hara, run down to the corner and grab us a dozen assorted and five coffees. We're gonna be here for a while." "That won't be necessary, O'Hara." Ron Sandini walked through the door of the shop carrying a brown paper bag. Bullock whopped the top of his head. "Just great! Five minutes into an investigation, and I get the press. Listen, Sandini, isn't there some scandal you should be out covering? Maybe a fixed raffle at the orphanage?" "Calm down, Bullock. This isn't business for me. That crazy S.O.B. just happened to knock off the building I live in. You don't think I want every amateur Joker-chaser buzzing around my digs, do ya? So shut up and have a coffee" Bullock grunted and took the offered cup. As reporters went, he grudgingly had to admit that Sandini wasn't that bad. If any thing, the stuff he wrote was more insightful then most about the life of a cop (not that Bullock would ever admit that he read any of it). It was almost like he knew "The Job" first hand. "So where's the broad who runs this place?" "Janette DuCharme?" "Whoever." "She's my landlady. You don't think the Joker's taken her, do you?" "You want a best guess, there is no "best guess" when you deal with the Joker. All we know is the door to the basement is locked from the inside. You got a key?" "Why would I have a key to her shop?" "Just hoping for an easy night. That's all. Listen Sandini, thanks for the coffee. By the way, how did you know about this?" "The reporter's friend, Harvey, a handy police scanner." "Damn, I hate those things. No freakin' privacy!" "The public's got a right to know." "Except when it's in your own back yard. Right, Sandini?" "Touche'" "Listen, get out of here before I admit to liking you, and ruin my reputation." "Sure, just remember to share the coffee and donuts." "What about you?" "I'm on a diet." Inwardly Schanke blanched. How many times had Nick come up with some lame excuse for not eating with him? *Sigh* what goes around comes around. "Suit yourself," Bullock mumbled through a Boston cream. "Now get out." Schanke made his way back to the van in what he'd hoped was a nonchalant pace. He got in, started the engine and circled around the block, parking off-street in the store's reserved spot. He walked quickly over to the rear door and keyed in a combination on the security system's pad, then turned the key in the lock and ran down the stairs. "Jeeze, Janette! Are you okay?" Janette was sitting on the floor holding the still-drowsy Rebecca in her arms. "Hush, Donald, I'm doing much better." In point of fact, she was. Many of the blisters and burns had faded into a fine network of white lines, and, soon, even these would vanish. Rebecca picked her head up and looked sleep ily at Don. "Donald? But your name is Ron." "Don't worry about it, sweetie, we'll explain it to you later. You've just been through life and death, and you're going to need to take it easy." "Donald, this 'friend' you sent to watch over me before you could get here likely saved Rebecca's life. I am grateful for that, as you should be, but he knows so much about us. His life may be in danger. The Enforcers..." "No empirical evidence, honey. No pictures, and he's smart enough not to try for any. Call it a return on that favor I did him a few days ago. Besides, he's got as much to hide as we do. How's the kid?" "Still weak but making progress. That foul gas very nearly stopped her from coming across. I almost lost her." "I almost lost both of you. Damn, Janette, it's only been months since we left Toronto. Since I "died". I've lost Myra and Jenny, I don't think I could handle losing you." She couldn't explain why she did it, but Janette got up from where she was sitting, walked over to Schanke, and held him tightly in her arms. She wasn't used to the sort of person he was. There was no pretense to his words. No cold distance. He wasn't like Nicholas or LaCroix (or any other members of the community for that matter). He was "Human". She believed it wouldn't last, but while it did she would hang on to every moment of it. "Cherie, if you'll have me, I'll not leave you, not for a hundred years nor for 500." "Aw, come on, don't get all sappy on me." "You started it." Schanke smiled. "Maybe." "Donald, we are out of food." "I know, I'll make a stop at the hospital and take care of that. Will you be okay while I'm gone?" "She is stable, and should be so for several hours. Will you wait here while I change? Then I can meet the gendarme in proper attire." Schanke made his way over to where Rebecca lay resting and sat down next to her. He wasn't sure what he should say, or how he should say it, so he looked down at the still drowsy girl and said, "Rough day, eh, kid?" "Ummmhmmmm." "Listen, Janette's been at this lots longer then I have, so I may not be the best person in the world to teach you. As a matter of fact, I'm not really going to try. I'll leave that to her. I just want you to know, that I'll be here for you. Ya see, I've got a better idea of what you're going through. It's only been about eight months for me and , speaking from experience, you may find you're gonna miss the sun for a while. Janette hasn't had bacon and eggs for breakfast for over a thousand years and well, I like her a lot he thought, so she may not understand what you've lost." While Janette was putting her brassiere on she was eaves dropping and practically glowing. True, she should not have been snooping, but she wasn't sure how Don was going to take the day's events, and she wanted to make sure Rebecca was okay. Yes, she was being a "Bad Girl", but the sweetest candy was often stolen when no one was around. Perhaps it was no more than lust, but the centuries had taught her to savor all emotions. To treasure them like jewels. Janette stepped out from behind the curtain to her room. Donald was still amazed at the change in her style of dress from the days at "The Raven". Gone were the red or black outfits that intentionally displayed her body to The Raven's clientele. Now she wore chic, but almost severe, outfits that screamed respect ability. Schanke wasn't quite sure how he felt about the change. This was more of what he was used to, but, he still had very pleasant memories of the few times he had been in the old club. "I'll be back in a bit, Janette. It's too early to fly, too many damn people still awake. Will you have any trouble handling the cops?" "No, Detective. As far as they are concerned I was away at the bank, trying to reach it before closing time. That should satisfy them." "Yeah. See you soon." The trip to the hospital was uneventful, and Schanke was able to gain access to the blood supplies. He checked the inven tory, being careful to only withdraw stock from those groups that showed a surplus. When he returned to the shop, he found Janette hard at work cleaning up the mess the Joker had made. "How's Rebecca?" "She is well, sound asleep. If she wakes, I will know." "Good. Listen Janette, I'm going to pay our "Friend", Mr. Wayne, a visit. He's got to have more information than I do, and I want this son of a bitch. I want him bad." "You think this vigilante will help you?" "He'll help. He'll help because he thinks he knows what I'll do to the Joker if I catch him when he's not around." Arkham Department of Archeology: A Study of the Mythology Surrounding the DeRais Scepter By Dr. Henry Jones Jr. Phd. May 1953 Few artifacts in recent time have proven to achieve as much notoriety as the DeRais scepter in such a short time. What we know of the scepter is as follows: DeRais never let it out of his sight. Its odd construction leads us to believe it was part of some twisted form of psychic alchemy. The journal of Jean St. Dulac, the scepter's maker, mentions all manner of strange, and frankly, innovative construction involved in its creation. The coating of gold seems merely to be a mask to cover the lead base. The use of certain jewels in odd configurations were used within the staff itself. There is speculation that the base metal itself wasn't the center of the artifact. St. Dulac mentions DeRais delivery of certain unnameable objects. Some researchers have thought the scepter contain the thigh-bone of an unbaptized child. This is (of course) purely speculation. The only other research into this type of construction was not con ducted until years later by one Emmerick Belasco. The picture accompanying this article is a rendering based on a second set of sketches found in St Dulac's personal papers as DeRais appro priated the originals after its completion. Coincidentally, Du Lac disappeared not long after it was finished. Once again, there is speculation the DeRais exercised his considerable political power to make this happen. In any case, the scepter vanished not long after DeRais' death. Rumours of its whereabouts filter through European history as a harbinger of famine, plague and civil unrest..... "I want him, Wayne!" Bruce looked up from the article. As he had said, Schanke could surprise him once, but not a second time. "You're early, and this is not where we agreed to meet." "Blame the Joker. The son of a bitch comes into my house, kills one of my "friends," and you didn't think you'd see me here? Get real!" "I saw two living people in the cellar of the shop." "Look, Bruce, Janette's a big girl and she can take care of herself, but the girl she was with, Rebecca..." "Yes?" "Damn it! She wasn't "human" anymore! Janette had saved her in the only way she knew. What did you think she meant when she called Rebecca an "infant"? That grinning psychopath had killed her. You don't bring a living person across. They have to die first. That was never part of any plan. Heck, we were planning on giving the shop to her when we moved on. Janette felt responsi ble, and she ALWAYS pays her debts! This is no kind of "life" for someone barely out of her teens! Had she been any younger, Ja nette would have let her die. She's had experiences with "child ren" before, none of them good." "Detective, I suggest you calm yourself. This helps no one. The Joker can never be caught through rage. I've been where you are now." "Yeah, I know... Jason Todd." The Batman said nothing, but stood, detached, invisible eyes fixed just over Schanke's shoulder, looking at pain, a pain burned deep into his soul, like the shadows frozen on the walls found in the ruins of Hiroshima. The silence was unnerving to Schanke. "Look, Bruce, maybe that was out of line. I'm sorry, but the good guys don't always win." Schanke himself was thinking of his ex-partner shot dead by a sniper in the street. "Life is irreplaceable, Schanke. Even for someone like the Joker. I refuse to kill. I will take the consequences of my ethics and live with them. All actions create emotions of one type of another: joy, fear, regret... That is why I won't help you find the Joker, unless you act with me." Schanke smiled to himself. This "Dark Knight" detective had the soul of a fanatic. It was easy to understand, once you were able to get under his skin - or should that be, "into his blood"? A villain, lacking the understanding of the road Bruce Wayne had traveled could never have controlled "The Batman", but for someone who knew the whys and wherefores it was a piece of cake. Besides, he wasn't going to ill use him. He was merely going to "help" him along. To expedite the process. His goal was to catch the Joker before Janette did. To give the sick bastard a chance at redemption (even if it was for the umpteenth time). Schanke wasn't a cop anymore, but he just couldn't stop playing by police rules. The one time he had even thought about it, well.... "Okay, you win. We look for him together (and God help him if Janette finds him first)." ************************** Gotham's "Playland" was an old amusement park that had, at first, fallen on hard times, and then, its tarnished rides and midway ripe for urban renewal, finally succumbed to the devel oper's axe, just in time for the recession of the early nineties. It was purchased by a shadow company called E.R. Lark Industries, and never really heard from again. In the north end of the de funct park stood the old Crystal House, many of its panels cov ered in bird shit. It seemed to provide no challenge at all. Appearances can, however, be deceiving. Three turns to the left past the entrance, the beam of a photo-electric cell would crisscross between three panels provid ing a trip to a solenoid that sprayed a fine mist of sulfuric acid from a series of nozzles that lined the roof. Two turns past that, and the traveler would step on a cleverly disguised grid that would pump over 50,000 volts into their body. This would produce (in the Joker's opinion) one of the finest examples of jitterbug dancing in the last fifty years - good enough for Sam Goldwyn to offer the dancer a contract on the spot. The last turn would take you to the center of the maze where, having survived the worst your host could offer, a section of plexiglass would drop, and you would be sealed in a clear culdesac, to be sprayed, until done, with the owner's poison of choice...Joker Gas. Of course, if he were "Home," the Joker would simply throw a switch deactivating the maze, and the "visitor" would proceed to the last section, only to have the floor drop out from under neath, plunging them twenty-feet down a perpendicular ramp to appear in front of the Joker's "throne". If they didn't survive the drop... Well, like some president or other said, physical fitness was very, very, important. Now the Joker was very much "in," sur rounded by an assortment of henchmen who had been called away from various non-essential criminal activities to attend their boss. There was no reforming for them. Being in the Joker's gang wasn't just a job, it was a life sentence. "Well, fellas, what can I say but, IT'S GOOD TO BE HOME. Hospital food is the pits!" "Nice to have you back, Joker!" "Why thank you, Bob! Are those stitches healing well?" "Hardly a scar, Joker. The doctor you sent me to did a real good job." "Glad to hear it. Ya know, I'm really sorry about the bal- ance on that shiriken, but as our British friends say, the manu- facturer of that product has been 'sacked.' As a matter of fact, I think they just fished the burlap bag out of Gotham River." The Joker began to laugh himself silly. Well, what the hey, if a fool can't laugh at his own jokes, why would anyone want the job? "Anyway, boys, I want you to meet our new partner. Someone I'm sure you'll find is a creative soul (as a matter of fact, right now, that's all he is)." The "Boys" looked around uneasily. The Joker never worked with partners. He hated so-called "Team Ups". They added too much structure to his life. Stressed him out. The problem was, he got stressed, people got dead. It didn't really matter who you were. Bob had gotten off lucky. Others hadn't fared so well in the past. Sure, he'd come down eventually, even fabricate some cute excuse, like what he just mentioned to Bob, but that wasn't the point. A stressed Joker made an even worse boss then usual. This was not a good turn of events. "Aw, don't look so down, kiddies! You're gonna like him! He's just like me, smiles a lot, tells a mean joke and well, frankly, any friend of mine had better be a friend of his." The Joker's voice dropped several octaves. "Do you get my drift?" "Uh, yeah Joker, we get it." "That's my henchmen." "Anywho, without further ado, may I present my new bosom buddy, pal and PARTNER, a Field Marshal of France, and a real inventive kind of guy Mistah! Gilles DeRais!" With a flourish, the Joker pulled the scepter from behind his back. "Well? I am so disappointed in you. Come on, let's give it up for old Gill!" The Joker's men were dumbstruck. The boss had finally lost it. As bad as he got, he never spent his time talking to sticks, gold or otherwise. More then one of them was standing there wondering if perhaps this wasn't a good time to get out of Jo ker's little band of merry men. After all, he couldn't gas all of them. Then something happened. It was as if someone threw a switch inside the Joker. He stood up straight and glared at each of them. When the Joker next spoke, it was in short, precise words. "I have fed better men then you to my dogs! Perhaps I should kill you all now, and rebuild my army from better men!" The Jokers head snapped around as if it had been slapped and he started to talk to the scepter. "Now, Gilly, old buddy old pal, ya can't do the crime iffen ya ain't got the cronies." His head returned to its former location. "These 'cronies' as you call them reek of moral bankruptcy. They lack even the smallest notion of the justice that moves my crusade!" The Jokers hand came up and slapped his head around with enough force to make his teeth rattle. "God! that SMARTS! Listen Gill, I don't suppose you'll let me point out that killing a few priests ain't exactly some peoples cup of Java." The Joker's hand flashed down with an almost blinding speed to his crotch and squeezed. "Yeoooch! Son of a bitch! The Goddamned family jewels! Sheesh Gill, think of my unborn children!" "You flatter yourself in to believing not only that you will have children, but that your twisted intellect can grasp the nature of the crime we seek to punish." "You got the wrong man sweety. You want crime and punishment why not call old Batsy." "I have seen your memories of the one you call 'Batsy', had I an army of men like him events would have resolved themselves in a very different manner. He haunts your failed dreams of psy chotic glory like a dark lord. He runs through your mind like a plague, and yet, he has never killed you. He believes in a redemption you can't even imagine. No, the Batman is as pure of heart as you are evil. Still, I would like to meet him. Exceptional men interest me. They remind me of the rightness of my goal. Yeah, well, I've got good news and bad news for you. You do the job you're thinking about and I can practically guarantee the Batboy will show up. I'd tell you to be ready for him, but hey, I've been trying to do that for years, and it never works. you want some advice, like the grooms best friend once said, "Keep the car running for a quick getaway." *************** Janette seemed to have things under control. The store was closed for "Renovations" for a few days, it windows papered over so she and Rebecca could restore some form of order to the chaos the Joker had created. This time served several purposes. One, it gave Janette a chance to keep track of her new "daughter", keeping her busy enough to control her innate desire to go to the outside world and feed for the first time. Two, it also allowed her to educate the fledgling in a quieter atmosphere. Three, it gave her the opportunity calm herself. She always liked putting things in order, remembering quiet moments at the Raven in the early dawn hours as she would sit balancing the books while most of her "Guests" dreamed their red dreams. Perhaps, if she had been born in a different time she would have been permitted to become a scribe or a bookkeeper, rather then the whore that her parents and social custom seemed to dictate. Still, she thought life has not been so bad, and to use an old saying "If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride." The work calmed her, but only somewhat. Each smashed case and broken piece of jewelry seemed to reflect the face of the grinning bastard who had done this. Crooks and dictators were one thing (easily forgivable), but the Joker's particular brand of malevolence never ceased to amaze her. She'd seen it before of course (in a thousand years little was new) but each time it shocked her, challenging her ethics. Each time it took years to get the "stink" out of her being. she thought, She looked at Rebecca, who was working away in the corner of the shop preparing a pile of garbage for disposal at sunset. She worked swiftly and well, but occasionally Janette would hear a smash, as she, misjudging her own strength, would "lightly toss" something into a pile and overshoot her target. Janette wasn't worried about broken items, they were, after all just "things". Rebecca was far more important to her. A daughter needing love and guidance. Having a "Child" around the shop meant putting priorities into perspective. Sometimes she was amazed at how well Donald had adapted. True, there was the pain of loss, but he managed to maintain those separately from his need to learn to survive. Yes, Don Schanke was quite an amazing person. He certainly had both her and Nicola fooled. Speaking of which he should be "awake" soon. He and Janette had taken shifts to insure that someone was always awake if Rebecca needed help. Yet another facet of his personality that Janette was drawn to. His parenting skills were wonderful. For even though he had not brought Rebecca across, he was always there for her. She both envied, and pitied Jenny, wondering if she understood how kind her father truly was and, hence, how much she had lost. Damn! She hated to get melancholy. It was a road that Nicholas had traveled far too often, and look at the sad place it brought him to. Guilt-ridden. His own jailer. He chased after something that he could never have. "Good morning ladies!" "Don!" Rebecca put her work down and ran to greet him. "That's 'Ron' sweety. I think Aristotle's work has had enough holes punched in it for one week." Rebecca frowned. Ron made perfect sense until he had "nursed" her with his own blood. Janette was dubious about him taking a physical "hand" in her upbringing but he was adamant. "Be prepared," He'd said. "just like the boy scouts". He'd never brought anyone across. Frankly he wasn't sure he ever would, but that didn't stop him from wanting to learn and experience as much as he could of what he had become. Taking his blood had given Rebecca a front row seat to his life, and the first thing she'd learned was that "Ron Sandini" was little more then a veneer who only existed for a few short months. "Don Schanke" on the other hand was a real person. Kind and sweet and good. What she'd always dreamed her father to be, rather then the alcoholic son of a bitch who had driven her to the street. She was more then content to let Don "baby" her because she understood his pain at losing Jenny and Myra, and she realized just how much she owed both of her new "parents". Besides, she had another goal as well, one that Don didn't approve of, but one that he did understand. She wanted the Joker. Not to feed on, but to kill, slowly and with great pain. The best Don could do, was keep his contact with Rebecca as strong as possible. Hopefully he could calm her down before they finally got near him. It was six P.M. and all but Sister Devotionia and Father O'Brien had left St. George's Roman Catholic Church for the day. O'Brien was at work in the vestry, and the nun was restoring the upset minutae of the day. She was a creature of habit and preci sion. Everything had to have a place, and anything out of place she viewed as an affront to her faith and her world. Anyone outside the church might have labeled her behavior compulsive, and perhaps it was, but Jim O'Brien found it to be not only soothing (in a strange way), but useful. His parish ran well, and he pretty much had Sister Devotionia to thank for it. So it was every night at this time for over 15 years. The world around the church held at bay and the world within the church a spiritual garden, unchanging, providing a rock for it's many congregants. It might have stayed that way for another fifteen years if things had been different, but, as if they were struck by some sort of demonic battering ram the front doors flew open and the Joker strode into the room carrying the DeRais scepter and singing at the top of his lungs. "I'm getting married in the morning! Ding Dong the bells are gonna chime!" "Give me a rocket. A gun in my pocket! And get me to the church for CRIME!" "Ah Jeeze, no one home. Helllloooo?" It was then he noticed Devotionia cowering in the alcove. "Well, well, well, if it ain't the little sister! Tell me you ain't no Sister of Mercy? Come here daughter, and sit on the old Joker's lap, and while you're at it, why not spin around a few times! Aw, you're scared. Well maybe you're not as blank as you look. The Joker advanced towards her, and she tensed to run. He, however, aided and abetted by DeRais was at her side before she could get three feet. "No time to play coy cutie. Where's the priest?" "Hell-spawn!, I'll not tell you anything! "My, my, my, what ever happened to your vows?" Devotionia could feel his breath on her face. She struggled against him. He held her closer, ripping her habit and shoving the scepter between her legs. "Ya know darling, my pal here hasn't had a woman in several hundred years, and well, frankly, with all the new and wonderful diseases in the world, I figure you're probably one of the safest bets going." Devotionia screamed, as much to alert the father as to voice her own terror "Tell me where to find the priest now, and I'll make this a gentle as possible Hey, I might even use Vaseline." Devotionia's entire body shuddered in rebellion and she vomited in the Joker's face. He, nevertheless, was unfazed. "Your mouth says 'no, no, no, but your body says YES, YES, YES!" Her screams were unbearable, as with each "YES" the joker shoved the spiked crown of the scepter deeper into her body. Piercing soft tissue, shattering the pelvis. DeRais was livid. The mutilation and death of this nun was never his intention, but Joker's own blood lust made seizing control of his will almost impossible. The damage was done and beyond repair before he could force the Joker's hand to remove the scepter from between the legs of the now-comatose sister. Then the Joker's free hand shot up, and fixed on the top of his head he began to twist, turning the skull of the fool like a corkscrew. Meanwhile, like some bizarre act of mimicry the Joker's other hand was twisting the sister's head off her body. "Son of a bitch! Yer killin' me Gill! Ya think I'm Linda Blair or something?" "Blasphemer! Fiend! Defiler!" With each word DeRais was forcing the Jokers head several more degrees around. The Joker knew he was going to die. His madness would not save him, there would be no appeal to the Batman. This was the end. Then, as he began to render a twisted version of "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep." The front door of the church opened and an elderly lady with a walker entered. Only a brief glance was enough to make her turn around, but she provided enough of a distraction for the Joker to regain control of his arm. He made a move towards the door to grab the woman, and DeRais froze him in his tracks. "No, enough, there will be no more killing of women here! Find the priest and do what we came here for! " "Yeah, but she's a witness." "Fool, she is hobbled. There is more then enough time to accomplish our goal before the police arrive! I will no longer have you spilling the blood on innocents on Holy Ground!" "Look Gil, this place hasn't been "Holy Ground" for the past" He looked at his watch 'five minutes' Geeze, how time flies when you're having fun.!" The Joker's hand whipped out and around, and punched himself in the kidneys. He grunted as tears flowed from his eyes. "I have no need of your mouth to remind me of my own here sies, but I act for God! I act for dear Joan! The work we do will clean the house of the Lord! Now, let us find the priest!" "Father, there is someone here who wishes confession." O'Brien sighed. All the work needed to run the chapel, and pre pare for the pontiff's visit, and still he had his duties. "I tried to explain that you were busy, but he was rather insist ent about it, and he yelled at me, and he made me lose my head." O'Brien looked up from his papers and screamed. The Joker stood at the entrance to the vestry, Devotionia's head resting pre cariously on the spiked staff giggling madly. "Well, what do you think Daddykins? Will we ever replace Edgar Bergan and Charley McCarthy?" "Fiend!" "Well, you know how it is. 'Fiend' or 'Friend' it's only one letter away. But anyway, as I was saying, I need to make confes sion. You can probably guess why." The priest stood up from his desk, his face devoid of color. "That's a good boy. Now which way to the phone booth. I've got someone who wants to make a 'Ghost to Host Broadcast". The priest stood outside the door of the confessional. His soul screaming rebellion at every turn, but his own vows stopped him from resisting. Must he hear this mad man's confession? Was he duty bound to do so? Could he refuse this mad man, any man, redemption? In the space of ten minutes, his friend was killed, his church defiled and he had little or no illusion of the sanct ity of his own life once he had done what the Clown Prince of Crime requested. He would not only pray for the soul of this beast, but for Sister Devotionia's, and his own as well. The Joker shoved him into the confessional and braced a chair against the door. Then he got in on the other side. He sat down and the panel slid open. "Bless me father 'cause I've been a Baaaad boy! Ya know, it's funny, I've never done this before. I'm actually a Presbyterian, but well, my buddy wants to get something off his chest, so I'll leave the two of you alone." For a moment, there was silence, but when next he spoke Father O'Brien realized that whoever was sitting in the darkness of the other side of the screen and speaking to him, it wasn't the Joker. The language was an older dialect of Latin. It was heavily accented, and the actual formula was a distortion of a far older ritual. "Bless me, Father for you have sinned. Five hundred years ago, your kind committed the crime of murder through non- intervention of one of your greatest soldiers. For the sake of your church did she die. Her body aflame in torment. Her soul screaming to understand the depth of her betrayal. She burned, my sweet Joan. To die for the preservation of what was even then a bloated, decadent bureaucracy. It's priests grown fat off the flesh of the poor. But for the purity of her soul, her heart would not burn. It stood in the pile of ashes, till finally it was thrown to the pigs for nourishment. To blot all she was from the face of the Earth. Do you fancy yourself pure? Do you think you are better then your cohorts across the ages? I am a fair man. Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have misjudged you. Perhaps, like Joan, your heart will not burn!" With those words the hand of the Joker smashed through the screen, splintering wood and metal, as it made it way to the priest's chest. It paused for the barest second, seeming to gather strength, and then plunging, like a hot iron through snow into his chest cavity, ripping the priests heart out of its nest of bone and muscle, yet it still beat, and the priest watched in shock as the hand that was, and yet was not the Joker's began to glow. O'Brien began to sweat blood, as the heart began to dry in the forge that the hand had become. He watched the heart, his heart, beat, going brighter and brighter. Then the last thing he saw on this world was the final burst. Blackened flesh. Black ending. DeRais looked at the corpse. "Perhaps I was right after all. You are the first. Pave the way, and prepare a place for those who will follow." The Joker seized control and looked around in amazement. For the first time in years the lunatic was dumb struck. Then his resilient personality reasserted itself and, rather then leave the booth he stopped to dip his finger into the priests blood, and leave a scrawled message for Gotham's finest to find. * * * * * * * * * * * Life just kept getting worse and worse for Harvey Bullock. First the scene at the Jewelry shop, and now this. All within two days. They were responding to a phone call left by an old woman. She seemed to be in hysterics, screaming something about a kill ing at a church and a clown. Bullock got the call, and was dispatched to the site. Bullock didn't have to ask, he knew what he'd find. The Goddamned Joker again. Didn't that bastard ever take a vacation. Things looked normal from the outside, never the less He wasn't taking any chances. His men were fanned-out in front of the church and the back entrances were covered. He and Peters (a veteran, thank God) were at either side of the back door. He didn't know what to expect, but he did know that framed in the high arches of the main entrance, he'd be a sitting duck for whoever might be in there. Trying the door only showed what he expected, locked from the inside. He motioned to Peters, and the younger man high-kicked the door at it's mid-point. It flew open and the two of them went in, crouched with pistols held two- handed in sharpshooters style. "Nothin' so far." He whispered into his radio. He heard the men pile in behind him. Maybe he shouldn't have been taking point like this, but he had men under him who respected his actions. Harvey may have had a reputation as a royal pain in the ass, but he was always there with you. It was something he'd learned from Jim Gordon long ago. A good cop doesn't ask others to take the risks he wouldn't take himself. He walked up the short flight of stairs, surprisingly quiet for a man of his size and opened the read door to the church. It was then the smell hit him. Like a river of copper on a hot day. The first thing he saw was the sisters head neatly placed on the center of the alter. The second was her body, doubled over the front pew. Bullock gulped. He'd seen fifteen years of the joker's handy work and this was some of the worst. A nun! "Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!" He quickly crossed himself. "What was that Harvey?" Squeaked the box at his belt. "Nothing. the area is secure. You bunch a chickens can come in now. Oh, and listen, better bring a body bag or two and get a hold of the coroner." Harvey saw one body that he could account for, but he knew what he was dealing with, and he didn't see any point in having to waste another trip out to the meat wagon. He was always trying to be considerate. It was then that Sullivan entered the room and distracted the detective from the sweep he was doing of the church. "Oh sweet Jesus!" "Can it Sullivan! I don't like rookies on my squad. If you wanna barf I'm sure there's a toilet somewhere's around here." He was about to make a further comment to the young cop when he was called by another one of his crew. "Hey Harvey, look at this!" He was over by the confessional and pointing to the heavy chair that was bracing the door. Bullock lumbered over and looked down. Braced shut. Then he looked down at the floor. "Son of a bitch!" There was a small red tide that was creeping out from under the door and getting bigger by the minute. Bullock could have kicked himself for not noticing it immediately. Still, with the odor of blood permeating the church, he was kind of desensitized to it. "Why me?" He carefully moved the chair and, giving the door a light tug let it swing outwards. "Damn! Damn! Damn! Look, Peters" "Yeah, Harvey?" "Keep the new guy away from here." "Bad huh?" "Twenty years on the force, and I ain't never seen anything like this." Peters made his way over to the booths and looked in. "Holy sh.." "Yeah. You got that right. The heart's been ripped clean out of the chest, and.." Bullock carefully reached his hand in to the chamber and held his hand just over the gaping hole in the body. Maybe not a perfect fit, but the shape was the same. "Whatever did the ripping, is, or looks an awful lot like a human hand. Well, lets have a look at what's on the other side." The second door was unencumbered. Why did Bullock think this was also a bad sign. "Get me a flashlight, will you." A minute later, he had the light in his hand and was shining it on the walls of the booth. "That's it! I'm gonna retire. I've had enough of this crap!" "What is it, Harvey?" "Laughing Boy left us a message. You may as well see for yourself." Peters looked in, and began to read the reddish-brown writ ing on the wall. "Hiya ossifers! Sorry you missed brunch, but roast heart of long pig doesn't serve that many people. But hey, next time I'll send you an invitation before I cook! Your best pal, Joker." Bullock had left the booth and was standing in an alcove and mumbling to himself. "Frigggin' lunatic! I'm gonna get that psychopath and kill him with my own two hands!" "It's not the Joker." "Wha? Oh joy! It's you." The Batman stood behind him. "Give me a break. I know that handwriting. It's his style. More stupid messages! More corpses!" "No gas." "What the heck, maybe he ran out." "Unlikely." "Yeah, I guess it take one costumed jerk to know another one." The Batman stood silently and ignored the remark. He knew the policeman long enough to know how he dealt with the stresses of his job. "Tell Gordon, I'm on it." Harvey grimaced "I'm sure he'll love to hear it." The funny thing was, Jim Gordon wouldn't be the only person glad to learn of the Batman's involvement. Bullock himself was secretly glad for it. Whatever the Bat's resources were, he knew that they far out-stripped anything he had. Sure, brute force could thwart the Joker. Bullock remembered the times the Big Blue Cheese had stopped some of his larger plans, but Harvey knew that whoever the Batman was, he was a normal guy just like himself, (heck, maybe he ate a donut every so often) and what he did, he did through mortal means. That was good enough for him. Meanwhile Batman was moving from the priests office to the altar to the confessional, and back again. He would frequently stop, pull a pair of tweezers out of his utility belt and drop something almost smaller then the eye could see, into a glassite envelope. When he got to the nun's body, the coroner had already arrived and was moving quickly through basic procedures. "Sexual assault occurred at approximately 5:45 pm and was perpetrated using a blunt instrument of some kind. There seems to be no trace of sperm or mucus." The coroner paused from his dictation to wipe his brow, and take a sip of the black coffee that rested on the pew behind him. "Continue please." "Oh, it's you Batman. Well, it seems that what we have here is penetration by some form of spike. It would have to have been hard, like metal or a hard wood. Most likely hickory, if in fact, it was wood. We can't really be sure until we scan the genitals for trace elements. Splinters or flakes of other substances. However, I can say, with some certainty, that this was the work of a mad man." The caped man seemed to be talking to himself "This is a thoroughly humorless crime." "What was that?" "Nothing that should concern you. I'll be in touch." The Batman headed towards the door. None of this made sense to the Dark Knight. First the kill ing in the shop, seemingly motivated be a focused desire for the acquisition of one item, and now this. No, the Joker killed, (there was no doubt of that) but these killings exceeded even his range of motivation. Something was driving him. Something power ful enough to focus his will on a single goal. As he had said, "a thoroughly humorless crime". This was not the Joker he had come to know over the years. He left the church, and headed down the alley towards the car, thinking as he went. "Nice car Bruce." Schanke bounced the front-end as if he were checking the suspension. "I'll bet it'll pass everything but a gas station." "Detective, Schanke." "Er, that's Sandini." "Exactly, we could both get in trouble if anyone found out who we really were." Don smiled. "Point taken. So ah what did we have in the church?" "I'm surprised you weren't there. You have a problem with religion?" "Yeah, you could say that. Not that I've tried to go into a church since I croaked, but I've heard enough to know that burning pain is not one of my favourite things. Not everything you've heard about us is true, but Stoker got some of it right." The Batman grinned, at least he knew there was some place he could go when he didn't want the reporter pestering him. "So whatdya find?" "A priest and a nun. Both dead, both mutilated in some form. The nun appears to have been violated by a club or scepter." "Why did I see that coming?" "Look, Sandini, Something doesn't fit. This is not just the Joker. Something is riding him. The question is, what?" "Maybe it's not a "what", maybe it's a who." "Meaning?" "Look, you read that article on the scepter by that "Jones" guy, right?" "Yes." So, what if those "events" he mentioned weren't just rumours? What if something or someone, was "living" in the stick?" "You're reaching a bit far into the realm of horror stories aren't you, Sandini?" "A few months ago, I might have agreed with you and looked into having my head examined. Now, well, yer lookin' at a walking Stephen King novel. You want to tell me what stories make sense and what don't?" "Were you always this pragmatic?" "Let's just say I work from the facts." Schanke smiled to himself. He couldn't help but wonder how differently things would have turned out if Nick had been more honest with him then he was. "The facts tell me that what you're saying the Joker did in that church could not have been done by a normal human being. The facts are also telling me that it wasn't one of my kind. Remember, we don't go in churches. You just said it yourself. What if something was "riding" the Joker? A "thing" could care less about a priest and a nun. Nope, this sort of garbage takes a human being. Someone big and bad, with a mad-on for religions in general, and the Roman Catholic religion in particular. You wanna tell me how DeRais died and who killed him?" The Batman smiled. "You must have been quite a detective." "Yeah, I was pretty good. Old habits die a lot harder then I did." Schanke gave the Batman a kind of half-hearted grin. "You ever wonder about all those "locked door" crimes? You know the ones. No way in and no way out, then who killed the guy?" The Batman could see where this was going. "Well, like Sherlock Holmes once said, "When you discard the possible, whatever else remains must be..." "You've made your point." "Naw, I was just getting started. Ya see, I've been thinking a lot about unsolved crimes and..... Say, did you leave your answering machine on?" "What?" Then the Batman followed Schanke's gaze and saw the signal, light and dark against the early evening sky. "I've got to go." "I'm coming with you." "I don't think so." "Look, Batman, if this is tied into that massacre at the church and if I'm right, then it is DeRais. If it's him, I want a ringside seat, with you or without you." The Batman groaned inwardly. If Schanke had to be somewhere near him, he preferred that it was at his back rather then where he couldn't predict his actions. It wasn't that he couldn't be trusted. For some reason, Bruce Wayne knew that Schanke was terribly moral. A good cop, even if he was a vampire and no longer pursuing his chosen vocation. He raised his gauntlet to his lips and whispered the word, "Open" Then he turned to the other man. "Get in." *************************************************************** The Joker stopped the car in front of the police station. "Sheesh, Gill, do we have to go in there? Those guys got no sense of humor. I mean, they really DON'T LIKE ME, as in SHOOT ON SIGHT! Can't we do something safe, like play Russian Roulette with a fully loaded Uzi?" The Joker was making his way up the stairs very slowly, as he was fighting DeRais tooth and nail. It was like watching a re luctant marionette jerking up one step at a time. "Fool, they can't see you! No one can see you, or should I say no one who I don't wish to can see you. You are traveling within my shadow. You are little more than a thought." The Joker opened the door, walked to the front desk and looked at the Sergeant. He was engaged in conversation with an Officer Wilson. "Hey, Blue Boy! How's tricks?" No reaction. The Joker snapped his fingers in front of the officer's eyes and waited for a response. Still nothing. "Hot spit! Hey, ma, look, I've got the power to cloud men's minds! I'm just like Lamont Cranston!" He jumped on the desk and pulled down his pants, mooning the Sergeant, and wiggling his butt in the unsuspecting man's face. "This is tedious." "Nope, this is fun!" "Go up to the roof. I wish to use this "Signal" that I have seen in your thoughts." The Joker was almost beginning to believe they could get away with DeRais' plan. He couldn't see why his "Pal" wanted to meet Batsy. Wasn't he enough? Who else would take the abuse? As far as the Joker was concerned, he and Gilles DeRais made up one big, close knit, dysfunctional family. The brother he never had. Heck, he'd go to the wall for old Gilly, so the roof was no real problem. In two minutes, the Joker had gained the roof, and in three he had, using the scepter, smashed the lock that guarded the controls from unauthorized usage. Then he threw the switch. "It's alive! It's alive!" The Joker began to caper madly around the spotlight, using it as a bizarre maypole. MacNulty walked into the station and headed immediately for the front desk. "Hey sarge, what's up? Is Gordon working late tonight?" "Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" "Well for one thing, the "Signal" is on?" "Oh Jeeze! Wilson?" "Yeah, Sergeant?" "Could you go up there and see what the heck is the matter?" "Sure, no problem." "Oh, listen, be careful." "Of what? nothing's gone in, and nothing's gone out in the past half hour. It's probably just a short, or a power surge." Wilson made her way up to the roof's entrance, and almost immediately drew her gun. The door was ajar and the area around what remained of the lock was melted, leaving a small, rapidly cooling puddle of molten steel at its base. She was about to go downstairs for reinforcements when the door was thrown open, and she was dragged in, spun around and yanked with such force, that the wind was knocked out of her and she collapsed to the ground. "Ah, a dancing partner! Hey, sweetie, has anyone ever told you that your uniform sets-off your eyes? What's this?" He raised the fallen officer to her feet. "Speechless? I have that effect on women. It must be my animal magnetism. Well, we can't have any more interruptions, the guest of honor will be here soon." With that, the Joker raised the scepter and pointed it at the door. There were no flames or indication of other forms of heat, but the areas around the door began to flow inwards, fill ing the cracks, and essentially spot-welding the door shut. ******* Schanke smiled. In spite of his age he still felt like a kid. Son of a bitch, he was gonna ride in the Bat Mobile! As soon as he was in his seat, the Batman spoke again. "Belts." Don was suddenly secured by a harness, much like what was worn by test pilots. "Gee, thanks for your concern, Wayne, but isn't it a little late for safety belts for me?" "Don't flatter yourself detective, the last thing I want or need is to have you bouncing loose around the passenger compart ment." The vehicle pulled out of the alley and made its way towards Center Street. "So why the signal anyway?" "It's there for a reason. There are some crimes the police lack the expertise or equipment needed to pursue. They call me. I go where most cannot." "Vigilante." "To some, yes." The Batmobile turned onto the main drag and, the next thing he knew, Schanke was thrown back in his seat. "Cripes, what does this thing got under the hood?" "It is turbine driven. Be thankful I can't use the boosters in city traffic." Don gripped the arms of his seat and held on for dear life. The Batman could hear the metal crumple under the vampire's onslaught. "Please, try not to leave dents in the armrests." "Yeah, right. Listen, Batman, you're lucky I'm past vomit ing." "Having trouble with the ride? You asked for it." "Naw, the ride's fine. I'm not to sure about the sanity of the driver though." The car hung a sharp right into an alley that led behind the police station, and the two of them got out. There was only one person who had access to the Bat signal, and that was Commission er James Gordon, so the Batman began to look for his car. Schanke was faster, however, and he stopped him before he had completed half of his search. "No go, man. Gordon's car is a no-show." "I was afraid of that." The Batman began to undo his batarang and was warming up for the throw to the roof when Don reached out and grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute, guy. You use that hook, and you lose both the element of surprise and about two minutes. Let me." "Do what?" Schanke didn't answer. He merely got behind the Dark Knight and shoved his hands under the other man's armpits. Then, before his impromptu partner could say anything more, the two of them were silently soaring straight up to land like a feather behind the access way to the stairs. "Give the man credit for adaptability," Schanke thought. "Not even a grunt." The Batman turned to him, and placed his finger over his lips. Then he strode out from behind the small shed. "Put the officer down, Joker." The Joker stopped to look at an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Not bad, Batsy, only eleven minutes from signal to roof, but you've done better. What happened? Traffic held you up?" The Batman just glared at him. "Put her down, Joker." "I don't think so, Batboy! I put her down, and I'm back in the Haha-hacienda. Look, kid, I ain't gonna be here very long, but there's someone here who wants to meet you. Believe it or not, you listen to him and when he's done with his powwow, I let the officer go and we all split for our respective high-teas." The Joker looked up at the dark sky. "Well, maybe more of a nightcap." "Why should I believe you, Joker?" Suddenly the Joker stood straight and stared into the Bat man's eyes. "Because you are no longer dealing with the clown. You are dealing with me, Gilles DeRais, a field marshal of France. A soldier in the employ of the King of France and the word of Christ. General to the blessed Jeanne D'Arc...." The Batman felt better, knowing that Schanke and his suspicions were confirmed. This was not a case for a criminologist, but an exorcist. For the first time since this whole affair began, he doubted his fitness for his task. "Murderer of hundreds, maybe thousands, of children. Your pleasure was to swim in the pain of others. To drink their sorrow and despair. You nurtured fear like a gardener. Why should I trust you?" DeRais/Joker frowned. "The children died for the greater glory of Christ, rather then be consumed by the Holy Roman Empire. Through me, they have found some form of salvation in the word of Christ and the saint ed Joan's memory. Rather that, than providing the Church with more potential footman to do its bidding. As well, my word is my bond. Beyond that, I have secured this soldier's 'life'," He gestured at the struggling officer in his arms.arms, "to ensure your attention. You are a man of honor. I can sense that, and this woman's life means as much to you as the life of one of my own soldiers would have meant to me." Schanke was listening to every word the madman was saying, and he could feel himself getting angrier and angrier. His hold on his temper became more tenuous with each sentence. What did Bruce think he was doing? This wasn't some strung-out junkie or disgruntled postal worked that needed to be talked-down. This guy was the real thing, and, with his "justification" of child abuse, he was pushing every button Schanke had. "So you see," DeRais continued "I know you understand the concept of war. Perhaps even a cause as holy as my own. I will mourn the innocents who must die to ensure the destruction of the Church, and the death of the murdering priests who serve it. To this end, I would kill thousands yet again. Better the children die at my hand, than be subjected to the rites of hypocrisy that are practiced in Rome." That did it! Schanke had just about run out of patience and control. For the first time since LaCroix had brought him across all those months ago, he truly experienced hatred, disgust and a red-hot anger that seemed to overwhelm his humanity. Perhaps, in that moment, he truly understood what it was to be a vampire. In the space of a thought, he was out of hiding, breaking the clown's hold on Officer Wilson and had his hands around the Joker's neck attempting to crush the life out of him. This would be an easy kill. The first of his "Life", and he would be doing the world a favor. Oh, so simple, he'd have this beast's blood in his mouth in short order. The Batman was moving to intercept Schanke and pull him off the Joker. The officer was down, but only unconscious, and he saw the opportunity to end the standoff and have the Joker back in his cell, sedated if needed, until he could find a way of purging the "Other" from his body. It seemed to be going almost too well, and then 'Murphy' arrived. For The Batman saw the Joker's hands grab Schanke, and, in a move almost too quick to follow, hurl the vampire off him. Schanke's frenzy was interrupted by a force like two steel clamps forcing his hands from the Joker's throat. Then he found himself flying into the low brick railing that surrounded the roof, but not by choice. "Nosferatu, Hell-Spawn, Wampyre! To think I almost felt the need to explain my actions to the likes of you, someone who consorts with demons!" He looked at Schanke. Yes, modern man had forgotten the truths. He had turned them into myths and horror stories. Tales to frighten children and impressionable adults. He, however, knew the reality. Born in an age when the night was darker and candles chased far less of it away. He was schooled in the terrors of his age. This was a foe he could understand, and despise with impunity. The vampire, and anyone who consorted with them, were vermin. Less then human. "I care not whether you serve the Man in Black, or he you! Talk is useless. Tonight, you both die!" With that he seized the still dazed officer Wilson , and, grabbing both arms at the juncture of the shoulder he snapped them backwards breaking the joints with a loud crack, like a pistol's discharge, and began to pull them outwards. The police woman's screams were deafening, drowning out the noises of the pounding on the door and the traffic below. In many ways, she was fortunate, going into shock before she felt the ripping of muscle, tendon and bone. Before the twin geysers of blood erupted from the holes in her shoulders, spat tering the roof's occupants like a red rain and driving Schanke further from his own humanity. DeRais fashioned the now lifeless arms into the shape of a cross and began to advance on Schanke, who was giving ground one step at a time. Meanwhile, the Batman was advancing on the Joker, grim determination and disgust driving him forward. The Batman was a man of science, not the occult, so all he saw on a gut level was Officer Wilson joining the ranks of the ghosts that stood behind the Joker. There was no DeRais in front of him. There was just the lunatic, the killer, the trickster. The man who, more then any other, gave his life purpose. So focused was he on the Joker, that he did not see the body of the dead police officer rise, and run toward him with its head down, faster then any normal being could have. DeRais was using the corpse of the fallen police officer as a battering ram, and it was aimed squarely at the Dark Knight. It hit like a hundred pound punching bag, driving him backwards, ever closer to the roof's edge. It was like trying to stop a truck, and the Batman was ready to expand his cape and jump, letting the night winds carry him to safety. Before he could do that, however, he heard a voice coming from the general direction of the Joker, then the maniac's tool faltered and fell over. "You miserable son of a bitch!" From some corner of his mind, the Joker, from sheer manic energy managed to gain control of his vocal cords. "Oh crap! You're the bimbo from the antique shop! I killed you myself! I'VE GOT TO BE LOSING MY TOUCH! "No you bastard! I'm dead, alright, and in a few minutes, you'll be too! The difference is, you're not coming back!" Rebecca stood before him, dressed in black, like a wisp of a dark cloud. DeRais screamed at him. "Jump, you fool! I can't stand against all three of them!" The Joker ran for the edge of the roof. "Batsy, ya gotta help me! I didn't even enjoy killing that cop! This is no damned fun!" The Joker's own arm pushed him over the roof. He seemed to hang there for a split second before he floated to the ground and ran for his car. "Get a move on Bob, the hounds of spring are on this psychos' traces!" The Batman was breathing heavily. He knew the police would soon have the door to the roof broken open, and he didn't feel like having to explain what had happened, at least, not yet. There was no Joker. There was only the body of the slain police woman and he was the only one with a plausible explanation for being there. He really didn't want to make Gordon's life harder then it already was. The Batman was breathing heavily. "Get out of here." The three of them were off the roof. Each in their own way. A half an hour later the door to the roof fell inward and ten cops rushed through, almost tripping in a large pool of blood that flowed from the bruised and broken corpse of Officer Erika Wilson. "Just what the heck were you thinking?" Schanke was sore pissed. "I f