I never thought I'd be doing this. This is a Batman/FK crossover that
just poured out during spring break.
 
S~Dragon                                sdragon@Glue.umd.edu
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
                        Myth of the Bat
-by AC Chapin
 
 
He missed the light, but darkness was necessary to induce terror. Shadows
to make the planes of his face frightening under the mask, to make the
place under the folds of his cloak look deep, a place you could get lost
in and never find your way out.
        So easy to become a creature of the night, something mythical and
terrifying.
        In the sunlight he was tall, broad-shouldered, a big, imposing
man, a handsome man. But in the sunlight the costume was a joke.
        Jokes.
        Once tears always seemed to be waiting behind his eyes, needing
to be stopped, needing to be overcome with brutal discipline. But by this
time there was no risk of tears.
        The suit covered him utterly, and he wondered if he had flesh or
bone or blood under it anymore.
 
They passed each other on the street, the two pale men, and made note of
each other, the way celebrities do on the sunset strip, the way serial
killers do on the corridor in front of their cells, the way vampires do,
coming out of the Raven.
        The man walking east was perhaps more remarkable. His hair was
green. That wasn't unheard of in those days, there were punks and there
were little old ladies with pastel tints. The angular, grinning face
under it, that made it clown hair. He wore clown clothes too, an
unfortunate purple seersucker, with a tragic green tie and matching spats.
        The other man was nearly a foot shorter, at six feet, and merely
blond, his hair savagely short. His features were sensual and brutal and
he had somewhere found a black leather trenchcoat in his size.
        There was something each recognized in the other, and,
dangerously, they smiled over their shoulders.
 
Natalie Lambert had one good dress, and it was too short for a ball.
Despite being a doctor, Natalie Lambert was not rich.
        However Nick was. And Nick, in one of the rare moments when he
demonstrated that he had actually learned something about people in his
eight hundred years, had bought her a dress. It was hopelessly expensive,
black, long but low cut. She could see his eyes watching her neck as they
danced.
        Charity balls. When had she started coming to charity balls?
        This was a policeman's ball, of course. The hall was nearly split
down the middle, all cops and their dates on one side, all the people who
the ball was really for, the people who brought the money, on the other.
        Nat could see Don and Myra Schanke sitting at one of the side
tables. Myra's dress was old but pretty. She suddenly felt embarrassed to
be wearing Nick's expensive gift.
        She had come because Nick asked her to. He'd been asking her out
on dates lately. Movies, balls, one disastrous hockey game. No more
evenings in, watching old movies on his huge television, cuddling on the
couch. Things had changed. He was acting like a highschool boyfriend,
attentive and distant at the same time. She missed having pillow fights.
 
        Details can build suspense or create boredom. There are the
details of the dances, of the things Nick whispered to Natalie (beautiful
things, but not so beautiful as the things lost to her), of the wise way
Myra watched them, driving Don Schanke crazy with that expression of hers
that said she saw more that he did.
        There are the details of the way the Joker gathered up his gang,
the way they spilled from alleyways and storefronts to follow him (think
of rats, think of a garish pied piper), the doors he opened and the guns
his men used. There are the names of the people who died as the Joker and
his men entered the ball. There is the exact pitch of his laughter.
        There is the pattern of lines on LaCroix's face as he stood on a
sixteenth storey window ledge, watching with purely voyeuristic interest
as a bat transformed into a man.
        Skip the details, pass them by, they're only mating habits and
eating habits, facts and figures. Things only get interesting when you
get to the myths.
 
Instinct landed Nick on the floor with Natalie underneath him as machine
guns fired across the hall. "Stay down. Get to Schanke." An urgent
whisper into her hair. He wouldn't fully realize until later how
instinctive was the way he kissed the diamond of skin exposed by the
cutout design on the back of her dress. Janette had picked out the dress.
She had known what she was doing.
        He stood, looked around, wondered if he could convince Schanke he
was wearing a bulletproof vest under his tuxedo if he took direct machine
gun fire in front of such an audience. Probably not. He'd just have to be
careful.
        Gunfire stopped, but the laughter died more slowly. "Welcome to
the policeman's ball!"
        He was tall and terribly thin, not skeleton thin, but starving
refugee thin, victim thin, a haunted helpless sick thin. A skeleton would
have been still and pitiful; he was all movement and manic desperate life.
        He was on the news from time to time, escaping and being returned
to asylums, endlessly. The Joker.
        "You dance divinely darling!" The Joker had swept up a woman in a
white dress and was waltzing her around the room. There was blood all
over her back, making the material stick to her. The Joker dipped her
low, humming to himself, then let her drop (retching sounds, gasps,
percussion of thudding corpse... not quite "Merry-Go-Round-Broken-Down",
but it would do, as he would do and do and do), distracted by a blond
woman in a green dress. "Sweetie, didja know you've got a snake around
your neck?"
        The woman just stared, watching his gloved hand move nearer and
nearer to her snake- headed torque necklace. Did she see bloodstains on
the purple linen? He touched the necklace and she shrieked, a hopeless
little sound that deflated to a whine when he simply tore it off her neck.
        Nick was still looking for escape routes, advantages. He saw
Cohen (imperial and solemn in a long red beaded dress) standing in front
of a seated man with a shellshocked expression, probably her husband.
Their eyes met, searched each other for hope. Finally she shook her head.
Help had to come from outside.
        "I just thought I'd drop in." The Joker was playing with the
necklace. "Every party needs entertainment. Party games."
 
Handsome, but weren't heros always handsome? Gilgamesh had been handsome;
now there was living proof that not everyone who got immortality deserved
it. Handsome, and strong and brave and boorish and stupid. Enkidu had
been ugly, and charming, and utterly deserving of his vampire life... but
not a hero.
        The Batman. Such a hero, so very handsome.
        Will Shaxbeard had been a master of tipping heros over the
precipice, finding their tragic flaws. LaCroix felt he had a similar talent.
        Such broad shoulders, not as broad as they seemed in the suit,
but that was his myth, wasn't it? Larger than life.
        No, larger than death, larger than some great tragic death that
was haunting the man who wore the bat suit.
        Enough watching. Time for an interview.
 
Don Schanke realized that the reason he couldn't see anything that crazed
Bozo imitator was doing was because there was a tall blond man standing
between him and the freak with the green hair at all times. Whichever way
the Joker moved, Nick was moving to be between him and the table where
Don sat with Myra and Natalie.
        Which was all very thoughtful, except that the Joker seemed to be
the only one of the terrorists who wasn't holding a gun.
        "First let's play spin the bottle." The Joker was saying. Schanke
saw only the spray of champagne as he popped the cork off an unopened
bottle with his fingers.
        "What do you want from us?"
        Schanke winced. It was Cohen. God, she had more balls than a
buffalo. Couldn't she see this guy had gone through nutso and come out
the other side?
        "Want? I want to meet my fairy prince, I want to find good black
pumps in my size, I want to learn to do the hokey pokey." He crossed the
distance to her in three steps, his legs extending like a heron's. "Let's
play spin the bottle, just us two. Say it: 'Me love you long time, GI'
Say it!"
        Cohen winced, but stayed cool. "I'm sure if you give us a
telephone we can get started on negotiating a deal; hokey pokey lessons
included."
        "What's your name, cherry-blossom?" He was very close to her now.
        She half smiled, wearing the face she used for rookies and full
detectives who should know better. "Captain Cohen."
        Why wouldn't Nick move? What was on the maniac's face? "Your
first name. What your love-slaves call you."
        Cohen's smile stretched just a bit more, like she'd been waiting
all year to spring this one. "Captain."
        Great, they were a double act.
        Myra's nails scratched hard against the back of his hand. He
turned, saw the worry lines creeping, clawing around her eyes. He wanted
to pull her down to the floor and cover her and hold her until this was
all over and they could go home and watch Jennie sleep. And then he saw
what she had been seeing. Natalie. While everyone else was watching to
Joker, the coroner had reached the nearest fire alarm.
        The Joker started to say something, but the throbbing whine of
the alarm cut him off dead. Nat had already hit the deck as gunfire
destroyed the alarm and splintered the wall around it.
        That mad falsetto cut even above the alarm. "Doctor, there's this
strange ringing in my ears." Nick had frozen, staring, and Schanke was
allowed to see the Joker step forward, holding one hand to his head as he
beckoned to Natalie with the other. One of the men with guns hauled her
to her feet by the arm and pulled her to the Joker.
        "Oh won't you marry me Bi-i-ill" He grabbed a man from the group
of people crowding against the wall and kissed him resoundingly. "I god
the wedding bell blues!" The man went flying back into the frightened
knot of party-goers.
         He grinned and swept Natalie up; pale arms sticking out from the
ends of his sleeves as he dragged her into a tango. "Plan B, kiddies." He
called out. "Party crashers. And turn down the music, you'll wake my
parents."
        Schanke realized that it almost *was* funny, the helpless,
frightened expression on Nick's face as they danced and the alarm rang
and rang.

Laughing again. It seemed he was always laughing at the young, trying to
help them see the joke. Like Nickolas, this one couldn't seem to grasp
that philosophers were, at heart, comedians whose jokes weren't funny. He
had heard someone say that, when he was studying radio... who? He had
laughed until black-red tears ran from his eyes.
        The Batman stared at him. Good eyes, if a little too deep set;
but he was considering things from a different perspective. For fifty or
sixty years, those eyes would be fine to look into, to watch, seeing what
they saw. But after a few centuries they would retreat utterly, peering
out from shadows under the strong brows. He had learned his lesson with
Nickolas; certainly those sad, half squinting eyes had seemed perilously
beautiful in the middle ages, but now... they were tired, they showed
Nickolas' age. Janette's eyes, though, those were perfect, shipwreck blue
forever.
        He balanced on the rail and watched the Batman watching him.
        "What are you doing here?" Deep voice, that was always nice.
        "Watching you. I was fascinated."
        "Why?" trying to determine how much LaCroix had seen. How dull.
Very well then.
        "You can turn into a bat. I myself... cannot." He took the step
off the rail, letting wind rake across his face as he fell, turned, rose.
He hovered in the cool night air; let the moon pick out the color of his
eyes, were they blue or yellow or red? Some color of ice and flame, let
the moon decide.
        "What are you?" Nonplussed. Interesting.
        "I do not surprise you?" Mortals were a cowardly lot, it was
usually so easy to be something that frightened them, a creature of the
night.
        "You're hardly the only one who can fly. I've met Superman." Oh
but that smile could last the centuries, it came from such a deep place,
through so many shadows.
        "Have you? Indulge me a question. They say he is invincible...
unpuncturable. Is it true?"
        "We aren't exactly close. But yes, as far as I know, he's invincible."
        "Pity." He let the moon touch his fangs. Melodrama; such a fools
word for living passionately. "Why did you come to Toronto?"
        "The Joker decided to relocate across the border."
        "The...? Oh, yes, of course. Your nemesis. I saw him on the
street I believe. Such a distasteful sense of fashion."
        "Where is he?" Urgency, obsession. Utterly charming.
        "Visiting a dear friend of mine." LaCroix saw the change in mood,
the bare start of a lunge, and raised his hands, spreading the fingers
soothingly. "You needn't worry; my friend is like you... dedicated to
bringing fear to those who bring fear. A policeman in fact. However he,
unlike you, also cannot turn into a bat."
        Go or stay, stay or go? So easy to bait, this one. Such a temptation.
 
The problem with the girl with the eyes and the hair was that she simply
didn't believe she was going to die, but oh yes, the time had come for
all good girls (and girls who wore dresses like that too) to lay down
their (gold, their green mantles, or else their maidenheads) lives for
"...entertainment! Step right up step right up, spill some blood and win
a prize!"
        How easy to entertain, policemen, the lowest common denominator.
"Keep it for yourself, give it to your date. You've got it... freedom."
The gun was shiny and phallic as a Christmas toy (Jolly old Saint
Nickolas, crucified in a Japanese mall. Culture shock, friends and
neighbors. Culture shock. It took three weeks before anybody had the
nerve to explain to the decorating committee the mistake that had been
made) and he held it out to them, friendly as the neighborhood dope peddler.
        They had pushed her in the corner (nothing rhymes with corner,
except maybe coroner) and she stood there, pale and open as a dear in his
headlights. (Deer. Dear. Deer.)
        "You heard me, gentles and ladyfolk. Shoot the dolly, win your
freedom. Who's first?"
        They wouldn't do it, of course, and she'd die anyway, but they'd
feel so much better about it if they hadn't done it. "Look at her, she's
crying now... females, always with the waterworks."
        "Come on now, don't be shy! Step right up." Like a carnival
barker. Like a mad dog barking.
 
Consider for a moment how much you know, compared to how much everyone
else knows. For example, LaCroix had no idea that the name of the man
whose blood he was considering drinking was named Bruce Wayne. The Joker
knew this, but he also knew that it wasn't important. Bruce was just a
fairly silly macho name. Batman, that was who he *was*.
        For example, Nick did not know that the Batman was in town,
talking to LaCroix. Nor did he know what Bruce Wayne's parents had looked
like as they died. The Batman could have told you every detail, picking
out details from that perfect snapshot in his photographic memory, down
to the stripes on the tie and the run in her stocking.
        For example the Batman didn't know, and probably wouldn't have
cared, that he was having a conversation with a man who had once raised
his sword in Boudicea's bodyguard. Actually, only LaCroix knew that.
        For example, the Joker had no idea there was a vampire watching
him, preparing to kill him. He would have been delighted.
        You and I know all these things. Details, bedtime stories. We
know the whole mythos. They only know the myths.
 
Batman was tall and big, well, that he could manage.
        Batman wore a cape. Where was that trenchcoat? Moving too quick
to be noticed, he found it folded over the back of a chair.
        No one ever saw Batman's face. He turned up the collar.
        According to some people, Batman could fly. That was the easy part.
        This would work. This had to work.
        Speed. Flying straight up.
        Darkness. Ripping away the power cords to the overhead lights.
Not total blackout, but dark enough that no one would recognize him.
        Surprise. "Hello Joker."
        "Batman."
        "Batman?."
        "Batman!"
        They believed. Bullets thrashed him this way and that, it hurt.
It didn't kill but it hurt.
        And suddenly a hundred people in tuxedos and evening gowns turned
into cops. Machine guns were wrested away from thugs caught unawares,
staring at the man, the Batman, who hovered over them, rocked by their
bullets, but still alive, still *flying*.
        Myra and Schanke, safe. Cohen and her husband, safe.
 
Of course, the Joker had taken Natalie with him when he escaped. How else
could things have gone?
        That's the way myths work, there is winning the battle, and then
there is winning the war.
        There has to be an endgame.
 
(The roof or the alley? The alley would be more realistic, but the roof
would offer more chances for extravagance.)
        Listen. Voices, struggle sounds, Nat's heartbeat. From the alley.
(Ah Natalie, always dragging us back to pragmatics. Some heroine.)
        "It's tall, dark, can fly, and bullets won't stop it." The Joker,
endless descant over Natalie's gasping, Natalie's fear. "What is it?"
        The Joker could comfortably hold Natalie with the gun pressed
into her temple. Try it sometime; see how tall you have to be for that to
work well.
        "I'll give you a clue. It's not the Batman."
        Nick stepped where the Joker could see him. How could human eyes
be as large as Natalie's? She looked like a Japanese cartoon.
        His own eyes must be glowing now, brimstone green. He stared at
the Joker and let the full force of his will move between them. "I am the
Batman."
        A man named Friedrich Nietzsche is often quoted at times like
this. You know what I mean. When Nick looked into the Joker's eyes, the
Joker's eyes looked back into his.
        Deus ex machina. A necessary evil; even I am not ready to look
behind that curtain yet. Perhaps another time.
        So, enter the Batman. Enter LaCroix.
        Hell, enter Captain Cohen and the whole Toronto PD. But slowly, slowly.
        Slow enough to miss Natalie, catching Nick as he slumped into the
shadows. Slow enough to miss the quick grinning shape that was LaCroix.
Slow enough to miss the Batman grabbing the Joker's towering body only
after it had already started to fall. (How could he be paler than before?)
 
The Police Captain, a handsome woman in a red dress, smiled at him as
they wrapped the Joker up in a straight jacket and hauled him away. "I've
heard of you, Batman, but I never believed it. You saved a lot of lives
tonight."
        Chattering voices: "I saw it. Bullets bounced right off him. He
can fly!"
        Well, it wasn't as though people hadn't said that about him
before. So the Batman had saved more lives.
        He saw a shape moving away across the sky. And behind him,
running feet, the quick click- click of high-heeled shoes. And, as the
Joker was driven away, laughter.
 
"Nick! Nat! there you are!" Schanke looked as though the smile might
split his face. Myra hugged both of them, giving Nick a look that said
she had maybe seen more than most people. He had snatched an extra
trenchcoat from the caddy, to hide the shredded state of his tuxedo. The
other coat had gone into a dumpster in the alley.
        Ambulances and needless fire trucks were pulling away.
        "I, um, followed Batman in time to see him save Nat."
        "So for once you weren't first on the scene." Schanke teased.
        "Yeah." He was grinning. He caught Nat's eye and they both
collapsed into laughter.
        "Yeah, this whole night has been a great joke. I though the Joker
and the Captain were ready to open for the Buttonville Revue for a while
there."
        Myra leaned into him, yawning theatrically. "Don, we'd better get home."
        "Yeah." He kissed the top of her head. "Yeah."
 
LaCroix would have liked to speak to the Joker. When one has talked to
half of a person, one wishes to talk to the other half. And he suspected
they might have things to say to each other.
        Had it been a mistake, pulling Nickolas from the fire yet again?
Sometimes the reasonable side of him decided it would be better to
abandon the boy, get on with his own life.
        He sighed. Probably. Probably. But what the boy had done this
night was fascinating, almost inspired. So the Batman didn't need the man
inside the suit anymore. That was the way of myths, eventually they left
their realities behind like discarded shells.
        But it did make one wonder about the myth of the bat.
        Leather flapping, eyes glowing into the dark, he flew away.
 
 
                        the end
 
 
 
"Myth of the Bat" copyright 1995 by AC Chapin.     sdragon@Glue.umd.edu
Dedicated to the Closet of Comics, College Park, MD