Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

[Stewart M]

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 11: Pro Patria​

One of the most crucial steps of the thieving business was judging the physical dimensions of the loot before trying to remove it. This sounded obvious, but every rookie since the beginning of time (or at least the beginning of loot) had an uh-oh story. Some of the dumb ones had nothing but uh-oh stories. What was an uh-oh story?

Take a hypothetical thief, Johnny Pants. Late one night, Mr. Pants climbed through the second-story window of a Parisian mansion. Inside was a luxuriant study, full of treasures and antiques, and on a pedestal in that study was nothing less than the legendary lance of the legendary Sir Lancelot.

Lancelot's lance was nearly as famous as Lancelot because Lancelot lanced a lot. The lance of Lancelot was used by Lancelot a lot, and because there was a lot of Lancelot, he could lift a lot of lance. Lancelot advanced lancing as he advanced his lance; foe after foe stood no chance against his enhanced lance stance. And whether romance or finance, the lance dance advanced Lancelot's lot a lot. But even legends pass away. In time, the lance found its way by happenstance to France where it entranced Johnny Pants at a glance.

The fictional thief had come intending to pilfer a few rare books, but this was too glorious a prize to ignore. He seized the lance from its pedestal and tiptoed victoriously back to the window.

The window around a corner at the edge of the study.

The corner whose two walls formed a hypotenuse shorter than the length of the lance.

The lance that therefore couldn't go around the corner.

And therefore couldn't leave the room.

At this juncture, Johnny might say many heated and vulgar things, but the first thought to fall out his mouth would inevitably be "Uh-oh".

This would be Johnny's uh-oh story. Every thief had one, even Catwoman, though the stars would fade to ash before she shared that whopper. Secret or not, it still served as a sharp reminder; Catwoman was exactingly careful about what she tried to carry around.

Tonight that was proving difficult.

"And this is Dr. Pyg's femur stress tests from yesterday. The man's a hack, but he's had tenure since the last ice age so his job's friggen' bulletproof."

Catwoman stared at the door. "Uh-huh."

The pile of papers her captive scientist was adding to in her freshly-stolen briefcase looked awfully large. Large was bad. Large was heavy and awkward. Large was the foundation for an uh-oh story. This was not the time for an uh-oh story.

"Speaking of bulletproof, I added a few ballistics charts for light calibers to different extremities."

She sighed. "Uh-huh."

"Long story short: don't get shot in the extremities."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Don't mention it."

"I won't."

Once he got over the shock of his uninvited guest with her uninvited threats, Daniel - the glassy-eyed researcher she found - proved surprisingly eager to help. She could only assume the Dark Knight School of Motivating Confessions and Bean-spilling had its perks. The kid (they were probably the same age, but he seemed as gangly as any adolescent) explained to her that this chamber was where they tested combustives and pyrotechnics. Back in the day, they used the place to see what conditions the influenza virus could survive.

It seemed risky to explain the particulars of why she was here, so Catwoman had trouble articulating what she was looking for. She eventually asked to see results from the most recent tests. The clues would be freshest. At least it killed time; no doubt Batman was right behind her with better questions.

"-And the last experiment my team fit in this week was just some general sensory organ melting points." Catwoman cringed. Daniel didn't see her reaction and chuckled. "You'd think since fire's practically the oldest tool known to man, there'd be more solid data on the subject, but nope. Funny that."

"You're sadistic."

"Corpses can't feel pain."

"Still, how can you stand there and be so casually, well, ghoulish?"

"Look, Miss Trespasser, I respect that the ethical underpinnings for medical research are nuanced, but I save lives." He stuck out his chin with casual pride. "Every test here helps an engineer somewhere build a better helmet, better bandages, safer cars, stronger parachutes-"

"Better weapons."

"And yes, better weapons. Those save lives too. That's what happens when you donate your body to science." He shrugged. "Well, the weapon part isn't strictly spelled out in most-"

"Donate!?" Catwoman grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back into his chair. "Donate? Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing the answer is no."

She backhanded him. "You're a monster."

"OW!" He rubbed his cheek. "I'm a scientist, not a mad scientist. There's a bold line between the two."

"Yeah, and it says: 'Don't kidnap the local peasantry for twisted experiments in the bowels of your castle!'"

He held his hands in front of his face. "Don't - wait, what? Kidnap?"

"You-" She searched his eyes. " … You don't know."

"What? What don't I know? Please tell me what I don't know."

Catwoman frowned but didn't hit him again. She paced away thoughtfully, hands on her hips. "How many people have you researchers used?"

Daniel stood and moved so there was a desk between them. "Overall? About thirty."

"When?"

"We started back in August. Nine cadavers the first month. Not great quality either. Then the supply trickled off; we only got two in September. Messed up our workload something fierce. The Army told us it was a bureaucratic thing with the medical schools. Some paperwork snafu."

"Medical schools?"

"Yeah, there's not a lot of places to get a corpse, surprisingly enough. Most come through a ring of universities that folks will their remains to once they kick the bucket. I think its legally called a gift. The schools are the big clearinghouses."

"Okay."

He shrugged. "I heard you can also pick up executed convicts now and then, but they're sort of fried."

Catwoman winced. "I didn't need to know that."

"Sorry."

"Just- just go on with the medical schools."

"Not sure what the problem was, but the Army solved it eventually. We began to get new shipments around late October, maybe the start of November. Around two or three a week. Heh, gave us lab rats plenty to do, believe you me. Like Chirstmas come early for some of the new guys who missed the first batch."

Catwoman felt the stirrings of a temper behind her eyes. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. Last pair they picked up was really great, not a scratch and hardly a day old; virtually no decomposition." He spoke with the relish of a sculptor finding a flawless strata of marble. "You see, they usually come from car accidents or typhoid which really limits our opportunities. This pair though? Unprecedented."

Catwoman tried very hard to keep her speech calm. "Was this pair ... a man and a woman?"

"Uh, yes."

"Young? Arrived five nights ago?"

"Yeah, friends of yours?"

She took a step towards him, voice dangerously level. "In a roundabout way."

"Wow. Um ..." Daniel swallowed and stepped back. "Sorry. If it interests you, uh, they've done a great service to humanit-"

"Shut it. What interests me is what was done to them, and furthermore, what I'm going to do to-"

A sudden stampede of noise echoed from down the hallway, a burst of yelled orders and shoving. Catwoman froze. Batman! It sounded like half the base was trampling through the level, right past where she had left him. Warnings about a manhunt floated through her head. Catwoman cringed. She knew as well as anyone not to underestimate the Dark Knight, but she had a sinking feeling he wasn't overcoming that.

The rational part of her brain narrowly pushed down the urge to dash towards the scuffle. Instead, she unwound her whip and struck the light switch, casting the lab into darkness as complete as the hallway outside. Then she turned and flicked it around Daniel's head, stifling his noise of surprise. Catwoman flew forward and pinned him against a desk.

They waited in the darkness: her anxious, him baffled. A minute later, the noise died away. Catwoman let go and cautiously turned on the lights. Daniel pulled off his impromptu gag and spit. "What was that?"

Catwoman exhaled in relief and deftly rewound the whip. "Thanks."

"For what?!"

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You could have cried out for help."

"Well, yeah, until you tackled me. Rude, by the way."

She dropped her arms incredulously. "Well, why didn't you? I've been nothing but a threat to you."

"I'm aware of that."

She studied him. "In fact, you've been really calm this whole time, all things considered."

He shrugged. "I suppose."

"Why?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "A few things."

"Enlighten me."

"Besides the threats of bodily harm, well, and then the actual bodily harm, you're one of the nicest people I've talked to in a long time."

"Oh."

"Lot of grumps around here. Furthermore lady, you got legs for miles. I respect that."

"Um. Thanks?"

"No, believe me. You hang out here for half a year, that's a big deal. Seeing you is nigh-on spiritual."

"..."

"Third, in regards to you being found out, it really doesn't matter what I do. I could give you a pair of ruby slippers and a map to Switzerland; there's no way you're getting off the Fort. They're gonna catch you and try you for who knows what. That's if you're not shot to pieces in the process." He held up his hands apologetically. "No offense."

"None taken."

"Right, So I think to myself, why hurry the inevitable? Didn't want to give you an excuse to slice me up 'fore they took you away. Plus, I get to see those fine stems in the meantime." He whistled appreciatively.

"Can we change the subject?"

"Sure. Fourth, and most importantly, I'm pretty sure you don't exist."

Catwoman stared at him dumbly.

"I don't know how to respond to that."

"It's not your fault, if that makes you feel any better."

"I exist."

"Round of applause for that self-esteem, but I'm pretty sure you're a figment of my imagination."

She spoke patiently, like one would to a slow child, "Daniel, I'm very confident I exist."

"Of course you are. Any psychic manifestation of mine will have read Descartes. But empirically, the odds are stacked against you."

"I'm unconvinced."

"It doesn't matter whether I convince you or not, you being a figment and all."

She raised an eyebrow. "Humor me."

"Think of it this way: what are the odds that some lady would break into the Fort in the middle of winter just to see me?"

She grudgingly shrugged. "Low."

"Low. And what are the odds that this lady would look you and, you know, dress like that?"

"Hey!"

"That's right, next to zero. And that was a complement, by the way."

"Hmph," She crossed her arms, "No wonder you don't see many women."

He ignored the remark. "But might a man in my circumstances dream of a lady who looks like you and dresses like that? Certainly. No crazier than any other dream. It's downright likely if you're feeling Freudian."

"Okay, but you're not dreaming, you're awake."

"Am I?"

"Obviously."

"But am I?"

Catwoman generally respected philosophy as a cultured pursuit until that point when she felt the urge to slap someone out of an infinite regression paradox.

She restrained herself. "Let's assume you are."

"Suppose I am awake. There are, shall we say, alternative states of wakefulness."

She eyed him suspiciously. Catwoman met her fair share of crazy people prowling the night. She tried not to judge - stones and glass houses and all that jazz - but she knew that you could often spot the normal-looking ones if you could just get them on the right subject.

"What do you mean by that?"

"How do I put this gently? As I said, it's not easy here. Sure, we do important work, but we throw ourselves into that work, me more than most. Maybe we lose a little sleep. Go a little stir crazy. Start picking up some funny habits." Daniel was building towards a rambling rant, speaking with loose hand gestures. "Lighting things on fire sounds like a lot of fun, sure, but that only lasts a few minutes; the rest is paperwork. So much paperwork, you wouldn't believe it! Do you have a lot of paperwork in your job?"

"Not as such, no."

"Well, thank your lucky stars, lady. It's not even for the science, just bureaucracy and bookkeeping! Look, it gets really boring around here and-"

"Daniel, what are you getting at?"

"Do you have any idea what peyote is?"

"No."

"That's ... that's probably for the best. Listen, the moral of the story is: I don't know what you're here for, but you seem to at least believe you have the moral high ground, and I have a soft spot for self-righteous crusaders doing dangerous things. It's what got me into medicine. Plus, if you and your friends annoy the brass before you die, that's a plus in my book. They could stand to be taken down a peg, got no respect for workplace satisfaction"

"Wow, Daniel. That's-"

"Save it."

"Okay, but you ought to know that the Army's been taking-"

"I said can it, lady. I'm not in the mood for grand revelations. Besides, I'm going back to school after New Year's, don't much care about this place anymore. It'll be a bad dream as far as I'm concerned. You best get moving."

Catwoman was mildly shock at the kid's major league moxie. It took one to know one. She snapped the heavy briefcase shut, strode up, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

He looked puzzled. "What was that for?"

"An apology."

"For what?"

Catwoman swung the briefcase with both hands right into his mouth.

Daniel spun and flopped onto the floor. A bruise instantly began to rise on his cheek. "OWWWW!" He looked up. "What was that for?!"

"When they come, tell them I hit you until you shared the research. That way you're in the clear."

"Oh. That's smart. Thanks."

Catwoman smiled. "No problem." Then she kicked him in the ribs. Twice.

"OWWW! OOWWWW! What was that for?"

"For being stupid enough to work for a bunch of murderous psychopaths! Don't take jobs where you test flamethrowers in underground bunkers. Go work in a hospital or something. Got it?"

"OWWww. Fine."

"Good. I'm off for some more self-righteous crusading before they shoot me. Bye!"

"Ow."

---​

To cope with troubling circumstances, a well-adjusted person will often recall fond memories of happier days. Batman didn't have many of those. That was okay. He wasn't the coping type.

As a rule, happy and well-adjusted people were terrible at infiltrating military sites, though he wasn't doing much better at the moment. He wished he could say this was his first time arrested by military police, but there was that winter in the gulag. In fairness, he only stayed twenty-three days, which was a terrible experience by the standards of anywhere else on the planet but very reasonable for a gulag. Besides, Aleksei had taught him how to count cards and treat frostbite, so his stay wasn't all a waste. Tonight might not be as fun.

After they slapped the handcuffs on, one of the MP's had the bright idea to throw a bag over his head. Laudable initiative, but it didn't matter. Trying to break away when surrounded was a challenge of tactility and body awareness, not sight. Not that he intended to try; no style of Gong Fu could overcome the physics of a seven-man dog pile handcuffed. More importantly, the lieutenant that subdued him was part of the guard detail.

That someone had, in fact, gotten the drop on him was deeply compelling to Batman. It wasn't that his pride was stung. It was, but his prime reaction was curiosity: a scholar in an ignorant land who finally meets a peer he can converse with, though the language they shared was violence. Batman was a superlative fighter. His methods depended on an absolute confidence that he would prevail in any arbitrary encounter at fist-length. He had met or seen perhaps a hundred souls who might best him one-on-one, a list he shortened every year. Most lived in another hemisphere.

And yet he was beaten. So who was this remarkable soldier? Experience had taught Batman again and again that exceptional individuals caused ripples in the world. They were rarely the background noise of someone else's story. Sooner or later they carved their own. The lieutenant was more than just a lieutenant.

But the World's Greatest Detective had to hold his curiosity for another time. Part of his attention was spent considering the blood slowly pooling under the bandage on his sword wound, some was spent counting steps to judge where they were taking him, but mostly he worried if Catwoman had the good sense to stay out of sight. He consoled himself that it was a stupid concern - if there was one thing she could be relied upon to do, it was dodge the authorities.

Still, he worried, and he wondered why. The answer wasn't hard to figure out. Catwoman was his backup plan. She could still get the word out. Sure, that explained his concern.

They dragged him back to the central freezer room and into the freight elevator. They could only fit four guards now. As the door shut, he judged his options. There were two schools of thought in escaping arrest. An old racketeer he once met in Bogotá called them the Jackrabbit and the Wolf. The Jackrabbit believed that the best time to get away was now. Every second in custody gave the policía time to reinforce and find tighter restraints. It was easier to flee on the street than from the back of a squad car, and it was easier to flee from a squad car than from a jail cell. Conversely, the Wolf believed you had to wait. Captors were most alert just after an arrest. Later, once the captive seemed beaten and submissive, the guards would let their guard down. Basically, the two schools differed in whether to look for the first opportunity or the perfect opportunity. Batman found both schools useful, but the Wolf seemed more prudent now: his margin for error at the moment was microscopic. He bide his time.

When they reached the surgery room, he was shoved onto the operating table. Six hands held him down as someone unlocked one of his handcuffs and attached it to a peg on the table. People joked about the contradiction of military efficiency, but this crew gave the phrase plenty of credit. In no time, they removed his belt (easier said than done, it wasn't a typical buckle) then stitched and dressed the wound in his side. His medic must have administrated a shot: his hearing began to fade and his vision swam as they worked. His limbs grew numb and heavy.

But, fortunately or unfortunately, Batman had a fierce tolerance for anesthetics; he came to his senses a few minutes later. The bag was off his head. He was still on the operating table. Someone was talking nearby.

"-Collapsible binoculars. Seven vials of unknown liquids, presumed hazardous. Four vials of unknown powders, presumed hazardous. A small camera. A roll of film. Twenty yards of nylon rope. A folding grapnel. Half a stick of dynamite-"

"Nah, take a whiff of it. That's no dynamite; that's some nitroglycerin substitute."

"What does-"

"Means it's stable."

"How can you tell the difference?"

"Used to be a miner 'fore I enlisted. Learned the difference well."

"I thought a judge sentenced you here."

"Yeah, for blowing up the mine."

"If you blew it up, then ..."

"... I may have learned the difference the hard way."

There was silence.

"Braxton, you don't get to cook for us ever again. All in favor?"

There was a quick muttering of assent.

"Agreed. Moving on, we have a lighter. A magnifying glass. Tweezers. A flashlight. A wire brush. A syringe. A packet of sterile gauze. A large multi-tool. And seventeen throwing knives, the seventeenth sample kindly provided by Lieutenant Wilson."

So his name's Wilson. Batman turned his head to find the speaker.

Someone yelled, "He's awake!"

Bodies moved around him. Batman found it difficult to focus; the chemical hadn't yet worn off. He saw the contents of his utility belt laid on a counter beside him.

"How's he awake?"

"Murray, you got the dosage wrong!"

"Maybe he's just twitching."

"Why would he be twitching?"

"Adverse reaction?"

"So he's about to die."

"Probably."

"How's that going to make us look?"

"Hey, if he dies, we finally get to sleep."

"True."

"Shut your hole. He's not dead, idiots. He's just waking up."

"We could tell for sure if you took that mask off."

"Hey, I tried. You're welcome to try, buddy."

"Drug him again!"

"Then he might die for real."

"When you say 'might', is that a strong might or a weak might?"

The swinging doors opened.

"Atten-shun!"

All movement stopped. Batman lifted his head.

Four figures stood in the doorway. In front was Lieutenant Wilson, face thickly-bandaged. Behind him were two older men Batman recognized as Staff Sergeant Hank Jackson and Colonel Abner Tanner. He would have said that Tanner was the head of the Fort, but body language in the room was clearly giving the most deference (or fear) to the fourth visitor, a heavy-set woman of color. Hmm.

The Colonel glared down at him incredulously. "What in God's holy name is this man wearing?"

His guards shrugged. Lieutenant Wilson answered, his voice altered from the broken nose. "We're not sure, sir. We think he's a lunatic."

The Colonel frowned. "Obviously."

The woman briskly walked up and inspected a handful on his cape material.

The Lieutenant stepped forward, "I advise you keep a distance, ma'am. He's dangerous."

She chuckled darkly but moved away, looking at the assorted tools on the nearby table.

"Where's his gun?"

"He wasn't carrying a firearm."

"Really?" She sounded surprised. "I don't see a cudgel or a blackjack here."

"He wasn't armed-" Wilson glanced at the bloody batarang, "with that kind of weapon."

"Then if he didn't hold you at gunpoint and he didn't have a club, how do you explain the crater where your nose used to be, Lieutenant?"

"He hit me, ma'am. You can see the bloodstain on his suit elbow."

"Ah, so he ambushed you. Popped you in the face when you weren't looking."

"He did ambush me, but this strike was later."

"Are you saying that he did that in a fair fight, Slade? With his bare hands?"

Slade had the look of a subordinate who strongly desired to end a conversation. "Yes, ma'am."

"Huh. I don't know whether to be impressed or disappointed."

"I don't think either of us were fighting fair, ma'am."

"Well, Mr. Prizefighter here has been awfully quiet." She stared down at Batman. "Go on, sit up."

Batman slowly sat up. If the guards tensed, she didn't seem to care.

"Good. Now, who are you?"

Batman stared coolly back and said nothing.

She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, have I been impolite? I haven't introduced myself. My name is Amanda Waller. I'm a special investigator for the United States government vested with plenary legal powers to manage threats ordinary and extraordinary. What does this mean to you? This means I'm your Momma and your Daddy; I'm the Lord and all his angels; I'm Santa Claus; I'm all of them rolled up with sugar on top because right now I'm the only reason you're still alive. Give me what I what and I might be persuaded to continue that policy. Now: Who. Are. You?"

He continued his stare. "I'm Batman."

The room was silent.

"Never heard of you."

The burly staff sergeant stepped forward. "Uh, excuse me, ma'am-"

Amanda pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Now is not the time, Sergeant."

Sergeant Jackson whispered in her ear.

Her expression turned sour, "You Gothamites are all the same with your-"

The Sergeant continued to whisper.

She turned and eyed Batman. "Are you trying to tell me that-"

The Sergeant whispered more insistently.

Amanda Waller paused, eyes shut in the timeless expression of a caretaker tired of cleaning up after children.

"Staff Sergeant, have the men escort Mister - ugh - Batman to my office. Then have them isolated to barracks until such a time as they can be properly debriefed." She walked to the doors. "And someone change his dressing. I will not have bleeding on my floor!"

---​

It took a minute for everyone to walk (or be dragged) out of the surgery room. Then the lights were flipped off as the doors swung closed.

Six seconds later, Catwoman climbed out of the elevator shaft.

Her green "cape" was now a sling over her shoulder. The ends were tied to the handle of the heavy briefcase filled with research papers. This left her hands free to climb, or to hang awkwardly for four minutes as she listened to the commotion above her.

In Catwoman's felonious career, there had been one instance where someone tried to hire her to retrieve a person. The details didn't matter. She rejected the proposal out of hand. Managing a painting or a statuette was awkward enough, but at least those objects were inert. Trying to handle a squabbling, bumbling human being who was dumb enough to get captured in the first place was an uh-oh story waiting to happen.

Yet for some reason, the thought of simply leaving didn't occur to her.

No, that was a lie. Of course it occurred to her, but the idea didn't seem as appealing as it usually did.

Not that she had any idea what to do next, of course.

---​

In contrast to her personal quarters, Amanda Waller's office was a modest size. It was no larger than its neighbors, with a desk and a set of filing cabinets. Inside her top desk drawer was a single-barrel sawed-off shotgun. She started their new conversation by pulling it out.

Batman was handcuffed to a wooden chair in front of the desk. In the corners behind him stood Colonel Tanner and Lieutenant Wilson. They were clearly spectators; this was Waller's stage, whoever she was. The space was tight between the four of them. Batman could sense their bodies, hear their breathing (the lieutenant's especially, his septum sounded like a pretzel). He was used to cozy interrogations, but rarely from this end.

The lone bulb cast long shadows on the bags under Waller's eyes. She began without preamble.

"I was wrong; I heard the name once. Only it wasn't the Bat Man then, it was the Beast of the Narrows or the Dark Wing or one of the dozen other stupid monikers that cropped up last year. He was a folk tale, a sort of patron devil to gangsters and dirty cops. The question is: are you sincerely deluded into believing you're the character of this myth, like some troubled men believe themselves to be Napoleon or Christ, or is all this," she gestured at his outfit, "an elaborate disguise for some other motive?"

Batman still fought the last traces of the painkiller. He managed to raise his head and look her in the eye. "I have no delusions. This is no disguise. I'm Batman."

"So I heard. Fine, you're a Bat Man. What should I call you?""

He glared at her.

"Oh. Oh, dear. You're serious! Ha. You actually call yourself that. Are you suggesting you started the myth? I thought it was just some dross the newspapers in your crummy burg made up on a deadline."

"When those newspapers know your atrocities here, they'll forget all about me."

"So that's it? You came for blackmail?"

"Not blackmail. Justice."

"An idealist! I guess you are delusional. And you've wasted your time. There are no atrocities here."

"I think Wendell and Alice Dupree would disagree, if you hadn't killed them."

Waller's eyes lowered to slits. She casually pumped the lever on her shotgun and walked around the desk. The Colonel and the Lieutenant stepped discreetly away from her line of fire.

"I think I've been carried away by the dramatics tonight. It doesn't matter what costume you have on. You're here for justice? Very well, I'll administer the law." She leaned forward. As a short woman, this put here just above eye level with him. "Mr. John Doe, you are under arrest for criminal trespassing, breaking and entering, battery, and conspiracy to commit espionage, though I have a feeling that's just the tip of the iceberg. Once the details of your identity are confirmed, we'll discover what rights you have under the Constitution or the Articles of War. Anything to say on your behalf?"

He looked thoughtfully at the top of the cabinet behind her.

"That's the casing of a German S-mine. Hops upward on a propelling charge nearly three feet before it detonates to extend its shrapnel. Diabolically efficient. Not many on this side of the Atlantic. How did you get it?"

Waller rose up, mildly taken aback. "A little store called None of Your Business. If you think you can impress me with a piece of trivia, you have another thing coming. Lieutenant, why is this Halloween mask still on?"

Lieutenant Wilson frowned. "The men said they couldn't find the fastener, and their instruments couldn't cut the hood material."

"Is that so?" She tilted Batman's chin up with her shotgun. "Care to share the secret?"

Batman said nothing.

"Didn't think so. Lieutenant, willing to give it a shot?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Try not to slit his throat in the process."

Lieutenant Wilson pulled out a long, serrated knife, held it beside the Dark Knight's chin, and started to saw. After four jagged tugs, the rugged cowl began to tear. He continued on the other side. Soon, both sides had enough slack to use. Wilson grabbed hold of the mask and pulled backwards ...

... Revealing another mask, a tight black fabric that hid most of his head. Whereas the cowl had holes for his eye-lenses, the lenses were actually part of this under-mask.

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Wilson tried to tear this second mask off, but it wouldn't shift a centimeter.

"Sorry, ma'am. It's like it's stuck to his scalp with industrial glue."

"Do I look like I carry industrial glue solvent? Cut it off."

"Much as I'd like to, the force would lop off a decent chuck of his skull."

"Well, that's just g-"

Suddenly, a sharp odor pervaded the air.

Colonel Tanner's breath stuck in his throat. His pupils dilated. He broke out in a cold sweat.

He screamed, "Gas! Gaaaas!"

Amanda Waller wrinkled her nose at the smell but frowned, "Colonel, please control yoursel-woaaaaah!" Tanner grabbed her by the arm, kicked open the door, and threw her through it. Lieutenant Wilson began to undo the handcuffs, but the Colonel smacked his arms away. "Get to fresh air 'fore it melts your eyes! That's an order! Now! Now! Now!"

They sprinted away like men possessed.

---​

Eight seconds later, Catwoman stuck her head into the office.

"Hi!"

Batman had just finished escaping the handcuffs. He looked up at her, mildly suspicious at his reversal of fortune.

She lifted an eyebrow, amused. "You've been Zorro this whole time?"

Batman tossed the handcuffs on the desk, unamused. He reached behind his head and pulled the cowl back over his eyes. Its hidden cords were severed, but it fit tightly enough to not slide off accidentally.

"How did ..." he paused in thought, "Chlorine bleach in the vents."

"Nothing gets past you, huh?" Catwoman sauntered in. "I brought a gift." She tossed him his utility belt.

He caught it and checked through the pouches with practiced swiftness, moving tools and vials around to match his preference.

"Thought I'd do you a favor and fill it up." She walked around him. "I can't believe you wear a mask under your mask."

Batman shrugged his cape aside and put on the belt. "I needed it, didn't I?"

She spotted his wound, "Hey, are you alright?"

He frowned, letting the cape hide his side again. "Three-inch laceration to the lower ribs; stitching's amateur but serviceable. I'm fine."

She moved the cape and touched his dressing in worried surprise. "You call this fine? What happened?"

He stepped away from her touch. "Naval saber."

"Are you saying you were stabbed ... with a sword?"

"A lateral cut, but yes."

"Who did it? A Cossack? A pirate?"

"A soldier. Won't happen again."

"Unless you have a time machine, I don't think it could happen again."

He grunted. He wanted to question why she would be so reckless as to save him; they had a mission to keep in mind. But he knew if their roles were reversed, his answer would make him a hypocrite.

Instead, he asked, "How did you know to try the bleach?"

"Your file said that Colonel Tanner suffered gas attacks in the war. I've met veterans; it's something a lot of them fixate on, and I happen to know that certain poison gases smell like chlorine. Seemed worth a try."

"I'm impressed you remembered that detail."

"Thanks."

"Or any of it."

"Funny. Remind me again: who just pulled who's leather-clad derriere out of the fire?"

"It was ... an ambitious gamble."

"Awww, is that admiration in your voice? Are you just trying to say 'Thank you'?"

Batman normally wouldn't rise to the bait, but he didn't like the implication that he was too cowardly or aloof to express himself. Also, the lingering haze of the morphine was making it hard to keep his usual reticence.

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome." She grinned, all dimples. "That was pretty genius of me."

He blinked away the blur in his vision and went to Amanda Waller's desk. "What was your plan if this hadn't worked?"

"Convince them to let you go with my natural charm and allure."

He looked through a drawer. "And when that failed?"

She slapped his shoulder. "Jerk."

"Well?"

"I found a crate downstairs with about fifty hand grenades."

This earned her an approving grunt.

She turned the question around. "Okay, what would you have done if I didn't come to your rescue?"

"If no other outside opportunity presented itself?"

"Yeah."

"Kick them."

"Weren't you handcuffed to a chair?"

"Dislocate thumbs, slip the handcuffs, and then kick them."

"Didn't they all have guns?"

"Kick them quickly."

"See, now I wish I had stayed out just to see that."

[The Romulan Republic]

Excellent.

Hoping we get a Slade/Batman rematch.

[Elheru Aran]

A Jim Balent fan then? Hopefully we won't see any appearances of Tarot

Kidding, but seriously, so far this has been very good. Keep it up.

[Simon_Jester]

The mask under the mask is a nice touch, though it's actually logical given that he has multiple layers of protection integrated into the mask. Especially with the lenses.

Damn, Slade actually beat the Bat one on one. Not a lot of guys can do that.

He and Waller together make a good match for Batman. Waller being one of the few who might be able to match his brains and resources, and Slade being one of the few who can match him physically.

Now I'm having Vizzini flashbacks...

Anyway, this iteration of Slade has about ten years' worth of extra combat experience compared to this iteration of Batman. Plus his arsenal of weaponry comes in handy, not just because the weapons are physically injurious as because they enable Slade to pull many, many surprises in the fight. Batman can do this too, but not to the same extent.

[U.P. Cinnabar]

The mask under the mask is a nice touch, though it's actually logical given that he has multiple layers of protection integrated into the mask. Especially with the lenses.

And, an excellent allusion to "The Cape And Cowl Conspiracy," from Batman: The Animated Series. An episode most BTAS fans hate, but the scene where Bats truly unmasks himself to Wormwood was worth watching the rest of it, in my opinion.

[madd0ct0r]

I know im missing most of the references, but i am enjoying every installment

[Stewart M]

A Jim Balent fan then?

Ehh. Not really. I share about 2/3s of his ideas for the outfit, so I used similar drawings to get communicate those, but there's a lot to his designs that don't interest me or actively turn me away. Namely, the twig-ish, occasionally Liefeldian anatomy, the long boots and gloves, the wild hair, and (this may be biased by my poor memory) her tendency to either scowl like she wants to murder me or grin like she wants to murder me. I tried to find pictures where those traits are muted.

The mask under the mask is a nice touch, though it's actually logical given that he has multiple layers of protection integrated into the mask. Especially with the lenses.

"Multiple layers of protection integrated into the mask" might be a fancy way of putting it. The thing is only slightly more sophisticated than an old-school football helmet (or rugby for those across the pond).

Anyway, this iteration of Slade has about ten years' worth of extra combat experience compared to this iteration of Batman.

More or less. Slade is about a decade older than Bruce, though the extent of their respective lives you might define as "combat experience" is ... nuanced. E.g., Bruce is younger, but he has a moderate advantage in unarmed combat, both in years of training and number of real-world encounters. As you point out, the fight turned when it stopped being unarmed.

And, an excellent allusion to "The Cape And Cowl Conspiracy," ...

Right, an allusion. Let's go with that.

I know im missing most of the references, but i am enjoying every installment

Well, that makes two of us.

[Stewart M]

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 12: Ghosts of a Legionnaire

Tragedy was the fall of a valiant man.

Colonel Abner Tanner possessed great calm in the face of adversity. He had only cried twice in the Army: at the wedding of his sister and the funeral of his father. Tonight, he cried a third time.

Amanda Waller watched him sit in the snow outside the Brick, lines of tears turning his face red. She hadn't seen shaking like his in a long time, not since Chicago. She used to watch the cokeheads get the shakes on their low days, their hands trembling so badly they couldn't hold soup in a spoon, and Tanner was looking worse. She couldn't tell what he was mumbling to himself, but he was clearly a wreck.

She didn't especially like the Colonel - she didn't like most of humanity - but she had a grudging respect for the man. He was a professional. Plus, he was useful. Tanner wasn't stupid, but unlike most officers who lasted as long, he wasn't political. He asked the harsh questions. It was good to have some pepper in a subordinate. Toadies could follow a plan, but a good critic kept a plan honest.

In any case, it wouldn't do to have him seen like this. Leadership was largely appearances, after all. Lieutenant Wilson was shepherding the sentries away to form a new line, offering the two of them a window of privacy. Waller heaved and struggled but managed to pull Colonel Tanner off the snow to his feet. Breathing like a mule in a sauna, she slung his arm over her shoulders and walked him forward. This was tolerable. If anyone noticed, it would just look like he was injured. There was no disrespect in that. Waller and Tanner stumbled past the quickly-organizing perimeter. Whatever had happened in her office, at least no one was sneaking out after them. She did her best to make the Colonel look upright and ambulatory, a trick she learned for FDR at a White House function. Waller led him down a side path and finally found some privacy, a shoulder-high pile of frozen, half-rotted potatoes. They sat, displacing enough tubers to make decent impromptu chairs.

The noise on the other side of the building faded in the wind and falling snow. Neither broke the semi-silence; he had nothing to say and she couldn't breathe. The back door was nearby, although door was more of a decorative term now. Someone had ripped it off its hinges - she could guess who - and someone else had welded it shut. The seam still glowed. Waller made a note to give whichever cocksure engineer thought that up a medal; it was one liability she didn't have to deal with.

When she caught her breath, she saw Tanner had stopped shaking. He looked at his knees with that endless stare.

"Colonel Tanner?"

He didn't respond.

"It's time to take command, Colonel. We have to control the situat-"

"Those ... those godless ape fiends. They did it to their own."

This non sequiter came out with such flat surprise that Amanda Waller was sure she misheard him. "Excuse me?"

He closed his eyes in pain. She shook his arm. "Abner!"

"Have you ever seen a human die, ma'am? Have you seen a man die?"

Amanda Waller was a strategist, not a shrink or a bartender or a priest. She wasn't cut out for this and right now she hated him for it.

"If you must know, yes. Yes I have. Once."

"Was he young? Was he a young man?"

"Not especially."

"Was it peaceful?"

She moved to stand. "I can't say I'm equipped to compare such-"

He snatched her sleeve. "Damn it, Waller." He glared down at her, red-eyed, "You have nothing to win or lose here. Would it kill you to speak plainly a spell? I just- I just want to know."

She sat. "As such events go, I suppose it was peaceful."

"Then I envy you, ma'am. Never had that luxury. I think that's how nature generally is, you know? Ain't peaceful most times, death. Nature's artful cruel at that. But when a man commits that to man … to his own man ... well ..."

"What are you … what's wrong with you, Colonel?"

"Oh. Oh-ho." He chucked joyless. "Ain't what's wrong with me. S'what's wrong with the world. 'Spect I owe you an apology."

"For distracting me from my investigation?"

"I came here to make ready to hurt Nazis. Made no secret of it either."

"I know that."

"I beg you, lady, hush your lips fer once. I'm saying that even then I had it wrong. Got the enemy right, but I thought the fight was on honest terms. Knew they were cruel, but I thought they had standards. I tried to run this camp the honest way. I thought you took your fly-by-night ideas too far, regardless of what muckety-muck signed off on it. Crossed lines that an American ought never cross. Fact is," he wiped some snow off his cheek with a sleeve, "You were the only one with the foresight to bring it their level. You saw their hand. They'll sink to anything."

"What are you-"

"I didn't think the Germans would do it twice. Didn't think anyone ... Old Adolph was there. He knew. He knew! How does he … he saw what it did the first time."

"I don't know th-"

"The gas, woman! The gas! A million boys going blind; their skin-" he pulled at his shirt, "Skin burning off. Dying on their own vomit." He seized a potato and crushed it to dust. "They've had twenty years to learn the lesson, but now we find a spy, and some kraut conspirator hiding nearby sees fit to … to use ..." He touched his face in shock, "Just to keep his lips tight!"

"Colonel-"

"Forget the fact we hardly got out safe ourselves. We left a man in the there, Waller. Won't call him an innocent, but a man. Stuck to a chair; can't even stand up as it wafts around him. Stuck in the dark. Like swine. Nowhere to go when he starts to feel it in his throat. Do you know what we're gonna find when we go back in?"

"I-"

"I do. I've seen it. The thing we find tied to that chair won't look human anymore."

" ... "

"We'll have to see if the quartermaster has some masks around here. I'm not sure how long it takes toxins to fade indoors. Was just a green enlisted at the time. Sure, they told us how long it might be, but that was outdoors, and I always suspected they knew jack. And who knows what sort of ugly spray the dogs have brewed up in the meantime?"

"Colonel-"

"Come to think of it, I bet we won't even have to hunt down the rat who did the deed. Wherever he is - next to a vent in a broom closet, I guess – he has to know we're out here. He didn't just silence his own buddy; he tried to take us all out. He knows there won't be kiddie gloves twice. Surely, coward like that's turned his gas on and- and took a whiff."

Waller waited until she was sure he was done. "May I speak?"

Eyes closed, he gestured permission.

"Thank you. Clearly this … event has brought up some unseemly memories. I'll forget the outburst here. But it ends now. Got it?"

Abner Tanner popped open an eye and frowned, but at least it was a thinking frown. She continued.

"Good. We won't talk of this after tonight. And I 'll remind you that we don't know what happened. You think you smelled a kind of chlorine gas. Bertholite, I presume."

"Hand to God, I know I did."

"I suppose you would be the authority. Fine, say you did. We all smelled something. But espionage is my expertise, and we can't make too many assumptions. For all we know, the gas may have been set by our John Doe."

"What?"

"Preemptively, I mean," she paused, "Perhaps as some elaborate cyanide pill."

"I … well ..."

"And although it does seem likely, we don't have firm evidence he was or is an agent of the Axis powers. There are always other factions to consider."

"What do you mean by 'was or is'? The man's a goner, Waller."

"Well, hypothetically, the gas might have also just been a distraction."

"For the love of- Sure! I suppose death can be pretty distracting!"

"I'm no chemist. Perhaps ... perhaps it was diluted. To cause enough pain to scare us away, but weakened so their man could survive and slip free." She held up her hands. "I'll admit that's conjecture, but in my experience the sort of skillful agent we met would not plan an endgame of bombastic suicide. Not from this side of the Pacific. It's not impossible our intruder is sleuthing around inside right now, thinking he can rig up a radio or wait for a gap in our lines. Do you understand, Colonel?"

Colonel Tanner was silent for a moment. She feared he had fallen numb again, but then he stood and helped her up.

"If that's what the krauts think, they got another thing coming."

---

In the forest outside Fort Morrison, Lieutenant Harrison Stevens and Private Benjamin Greene stood watch beside the parked Ford.

"Well, I just don't get what's got you so out of sorts, sir. I think it's good fun!"

"Alright. Here's what makes me uncomfortable, Private."

"Yeah, sir?"

"Donald Duck wears a shirt, right?"

"And a hat."

"A shirt and a hat, like a sailor. But no pants."

"Not a stitch."

"He wears a shirt but no pants. That's ridiculous."

"It's just a funny cartoon, sir."

"Nothing funny 'bout it. The way I see, there are two possibilities. He's either a talking animal or a feathery person. If he's a duck wearing clothes, that's awfully strange. Ducks don't wear clothes. Where'd he get clothes? How'd he know to put them on? And if he's a person, then he's nude from the waist down! Why even bother to wear a shirt if you go around showing your nethers all lewd and such? Why do the other characters tolerate his nudity? Why is this shown to children? All sorts of questions crop up."

"So it's the shirt that doesn't make sense to you. A normal duck wouldn't have it, and an anthropomorphic duck wouldn't only have it."

"I don't know what anthropomorphic means."

"How about this: maybe the shirt's only a status symbol. Maybe his society's got no shame for nakedness pants-wise."

"Not hardly. Mickey Mouse wears pants, and he's clearly the trendsetter in that community. Heck, even Goofy wears pants, and that poor soul's mind-addled."

"Maybe pants are just an optional accessory, like the hat."

"Nah. There's no way pants are as voluntary as hats. Never. Not anywhere. But here's the part that really bakes my noodle. When Donald Duck gets out of the shower, see, he wears a towel around his waist. Not to dry himself, just for modesty. But when he's ready to leave, he takes it off! What's that all about?"

"Bully if I know, Lieutenant."

The pair leaned against the car, contemplating their fourth cigarette. An owl hooted overhead.

"So ... Florida."

"Born and raised, sir. Ever been there?"

"Nope. I hear it's nice."

The Private shrugged. "It's pretty enough. Not a big fan of the mosquitoes."

"Yeah?"

"They're terrible, mess you up right good. Can't stand'em. I even told the recruiter man, I told him 'you send me so far away there ain't no bloodsuckers and I'll sign today'. Now look around." He nodded at the snowy pines. "People told me the recruiters can't be trusted, but I got to hand it to Uncle Sam. The Army came through."

"You said you've only been in the State of Gotham for a few weeks?"

"A-yep, just finished boot camp."

"Hate to break it to you kid, but these mountains are chock full of skeeters come springtime."

The private blinked. He screamed a chain of creative profanities that scared away the owl.

---

In the recently-vacated office of Amanda Waller, Batman and Catwoman were decidedly alive and arguing what to do next.

"I'm sure those binders are fascinating, but shouldn't we be leaving? Now?"

As Catwoman kept anxious watch by the door, Batman combed through Waller's desk drawers, occasionally picking up a folder or envelope to peruse. "The Army will stay outside. I'm taking advantage of the stalemate."

"How do you know they won't charge in bayonet-first?"

"Thanks to your deception, they believe the building's fumigated. That's a massive risk to them. Even if they have doubts, they'll tolerate waiting as long as they have us surrounded. Sieges are strategically comforting."

"How do you know they have us surrounded?"

"I'm Batman."

She rolled her eyes but spoke more quickly than she intended. "Okay. Let's say they do have us surrounded. We have to leave eventually. That sounds like the kind of thing we should be worried about. You don't seem worried. Should we be worried?"

He gave a dismissive head-shrug. "It's a concern."

"You say that like it's nothing, but then you get captured all the time." She held her wrists together like they were handcuffed and tried to imitate a grumpy Bat-scowl.

He glanced up and frowned. Her impression was pretty good. "We'll be fine."

"Is there anything I can do in the meantime?"

He held out a file. "Have you studied uranium isotopes?"

She read the title: Technical Memos from the National Bureau of Standards.

"No, Batman, I have not studied uranium isotopes."

He took the file back. "Then no."

"What if I read you what's inside this cabinet."

"Fine."

"That won't distract you, will it?"

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

"It's more fun when I'm not under siege by an Army battalion."

"A platoon, at most."

"Fine, a platoon."

"The difference is nearly twenty-fold."

"You knew exactly what I meant."

"Start. I'll listen."

"Glad to hear it." Catwoman deftly undid the lock on the top cabinet drawer and rolled it out. "Um, is there something I should be searching for?"

He grunted "Hard to say. Sometimes the relevance of a file isn't obvious. Anything to do with Gotham, raids on civilians, or medical experiments."

She skimmed through the drawer. "Here's a debriefing from something called the Third Innsmouth Raid. Does that sound useful?"

"... No."

She looked further. "There's a telegram from the Santa Priscan ambassador. Maybe a sales pitch by the looks of it. It mentions laboratories."

"Does it mention Fort Morrison?"

"No, but it mentions someone or something called Peña Dura."

"I don't think so."

"Okay." She looked further. "The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment?"

"Worrisome name, but doubtful."

"The storage of antiquities from the excavations of a Doctor H.W. Jones, Jr."

"No."

"How about … huh ..." Catwoman paused and read a minute. "Hey, you might want to see this one."

"Is it about Gotham?"

"Kansas."

He paused and looked up at her strangely.

She shrugged. "Yeah, I know, but take a look at it."

Batman stepped to her side and took the brown accordion file stuffed with papers.

It was simply titled: The Alien(?)

He looked inside. The papers were extensively redacted, with whole sections covered by black marker. One old photograph fell out. A penned caption dated four years ago said it was of a processing plant fire in Topeka. He squinted at it under the light.

There was a blurry … something in the top right corner.

Catwoman looked over his shoulder. "Maybe it's a bird."

He made a thoughtful noise. "Or a plane."

They studied the photograph with vague unease.

Finally, he put the file aside. "I don't think we'll find any pertinent records there in the time we have. Let's try something else."

"Don't you want to know about this briefcase I'm lugging around?"

Batman had noticed it of course, but he had been busy with a rare concern that outranked Catwoman holding something that didn't belong to her.

"Where did you get it?"

"I found a researcher inside one of the laboratories."

"Hm. And you took that without his notice. Good."

She tilted her head. "Wellllll, not quite."

His eyes narrowed. "Then how?"

"I, eh, sort of recruited him."

She could see the elaborate gear box of Batman's mind grind on this for a moment. His eyes narrowed further.

"… How?"

"I threatened him. Then I asked for his help. Sort of."

"That's different than your usual M.O."

"You think you're the only one who can be persuasive?"

"Of course not." Yes.

"Don't worry. He was helpful."

"What did he give you?"

"Funny you should ask," she hefted the briefcase onto the desk, "I actually have no idea. The newest tests his team did according to him."

"So it could be anything."

She untangled her carrying sling back into a cape and tied it on. "He seemed honest. He said this program originally got test cadavers legally through-"

"-the university donor system."

"Yes, Captain Interruptsalot, that's what they told him. He didn't know about the thefts in Gotham. I think the supply dried up so the Army started skulking around the city to pick up the slack."

"Let's see what else your informant offered."

Batman opened the case and picked up a loose pile of documents. Catwoman was about to describe what little she remembered about the contents, but after a blink he put down the first sheet. She looked at the page he dropped. It was a dense chart of heat and pressure measurements followed by three paragraphs of tiny, single-spaced footnotes.

"Did you just read this?"

He paused in concentration and put down his second page. "Yes."

"You didn't skim it? You read every word?"

"Yes."

"And you understood it? "

He put the third page down. "As much as I could out of context. Is there a problem?"

Catwoman picked her jaw off the floor. "No, nope. No problem."

"Our circumstances aside, his work is interesting," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Your researcher has solid methodology."

Catwoman gave him a concerned look. A popular strain of Bat-rumors believed he was a literal monster in the Bram Stoker sense of the word. Naturally, she knew better - besides being human, he obviously had scruples - but some nights when she saw him, she couldn't shake the uncomfortable notion that Batman might have a very personal use for the tensile strength of the human ribcage or the melting point of an ear.

Finally, he put the fourth page down. "Some of this might be useful, but it'll take half an hour to sort through, and we're almost out of time."

"If you want to carry it, handsome, feel free. As long as we get back to the car."

---

At the car.

"Nah, it's Astaire."

"It's Rogers."

Private Benjamin Greene threw up his hands in frustration. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't tell me you think Ginger Rogers was a better dancer than Fred Astaire. Have you been in a theater?"

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens crossed his arms and glared. "Hey, watch it, Private. And yes I do think so. That dame could cut a rug like the free world depended on it."

"Sure, they both jigged real fancy, but don't you think the better dancer is the one who looks just as keen while doing the harder job."

The Lieutenant shrugged. "I suppose."

"Well, there you go! Fred Astaire didn't just have to dance, he had to lead the dance! That surely makes his job harder."

"Fine, he had to lead, but Ginger Rogers had to do everything he did backwards and in heels."

"True, but Fred Astaire had to live with people pointing that out to him all the time."

"And that makes him the better dancer?"

"It makes him the better person."

"And?"

"And better people are better dancers."

"Yeah? What, did Saint Francis win the all-Italy waltz contest five years running?"

"That's an absurd example, Lieutenant. The waltz wasn't in fashion till the eighteenth century."

"Of course. That's why it's absurd."

Suddenly, there was a rustling in the treeline. The two soldiers dropped their smokes and had their rifles leveled in a moment. Lieutenant Stevens nodded and pointed to the side. Private Greene crouched and duckwalked to the other edge of the clearing to set up overwatch.

Easing his eye down the sights, the Lieutenant yelled, "Hey! The Navy can go ..."

A voice responded out of the woods, "... Suck a lemon!"

The two soldiers relaxed and lowered their weapons. The Lieutenant smiled. "You shouldn't try sneaking up on us, Jenkins."

Into the clearing stepped Private Jenkins. "I'll wear a bell next time, sir. Any luck with the car?"

Lieutenant Stevens shook his hand. "It's a mystery. Where's Nowitzki?"

"Command latched him to another patrol at camp."

"What else did command say?"

"You can ask them yourself. I brought friends."

Behind Private Jenkins slogged an engineer the Lieutenant knew faintly as Tubby Frank and a man he didn't recognize from the Signals Corps. Tubby Frank carried a heavy toolbox and the signal-man wore one of the new "Walkie-Talkie" backpacks.

Salutes were traded, and Tubby Frank got to business. He moved with the start-stop air of hurried patience seen in mechanically-minded men who have a puzzle to crack. He paced around the car, testing the handles and muttering to himself. The radio man, who identified himself as Corporal Grimes, explained that he was there to keep headquarters informed. The Fort was dealing with some sort of intrusion and the Ford might be involved.

As Grimes radioed in their arrival, the Lieutenant and the Privates watched Frank fiddle with a long strip of metal that fit into the driver's door. A moment later, the lock clicked open. They looked inside.

Tubby Frank scratched his head. "What are those straps?"

Private Jenkins answered. "Looks like lap belts. My cousin has them on his crop duster."

Private Greene gaped, "This car can fly?"

This was ignored. Lieutenant Stevens stepped back. "Alright, this jalopy has more unexpected additions than my Nana's fruitcake. At least one of them has to be a clue toward the owner. Find it."

The team got to work.

Tubby Frank was the first to find something interesting. With a long pry-bar he forced open the trunk. He peered inside and did a double-take. "Y'should see this, sir." The Lieutenant walked over as the engineer hung a small lantern. They searched the drawers of the unexpected storage case.

As the Lieutenant thumbed through a Turkish-to-Russian dictionary, he remarked, "Good find, soldier. It's like half a department store in here."

"Doubt you'll see these at a department store." Tubby Frank held up several sticks of dynamite.

Lieutenant Stevens gingerly took one and inspected it. "No label. What kind of lunatic drives around with loose dynamite in the back of his car through the middle of the woods?"

"It's a miracle we didn't find a crater, sir."

"Hm. Keep looking."

The Lieutenant began to pace and studied the dynamite. Corporal Grimes reported the find. It continued to snow.

Then Private Jenkins yelled out, "Found something else, sir!"

Lieutenant Stevens strode over. The Private was in the passenger seat, pulling something out of the glove compartment. He showed the Lieutenant a folder: De-orbit Moon in Seventeen Steps.

"What's it mean, sir?"

The Lieutenant's eyes narrowed to slits. He glared at the Russian dictionary in his left hand and the dynamite in his right. The veins in his neck bulged with righteous American fury. He muttered in a tone both oath and curse, "It's the Commies."

---

Back in Amanda Waller's office.

"If you want to carry it, handsome, feel free. As long as we get back to the car."

"No."

"No!?"

"You go, of course. I'll support you to the barricade. Descend the cliff. Find the Ford. Head south. Your pay is inside the passenger seat cushion. Cover your tracks. I suggest you light the car on fire once you get to Gotham. Or push it into a river. Or both."

"And in the meantime, you intend to, what? Enlist?"

"I have unfinished business here. Beyond the scope of our agreement."

"Is that business to die?"

"Our window for retreat is closing. Let's move."

"Hold on. A minute ago, you said we're stuck in stalemate. Now you want to shove me out of here. What's going on?"

He frowned. "I have another task here in the Fort, but I can reach it alone. You did your part."

"I also saved you from a firing squad. That wasn't 'my part'. Do I get a bonus for that?"

He ignored her and walked away. "Catwoman this is no time for-" Batman walked into the door frame and collapsed.

Catwoman blinked. That shouldn't have been possible. Batman was the paragon of coordinated motion, like an ever-frowning mountain goat. She once saw him hop out of a third floor window and land on a flagpole.

She stared at the crumpled heap on the floor. It occurred to Catwoman that she should ask if he was alright.

"... Did you just walk into a wall?"

Batman rolled to his knees and grabbed the door for balance. She helped him stand (or tried, the man weighed a ton). He leaned on her shoulder for a moment, gradually finding his footing. Then he grunted.

"This is no time for a discussion on-"

"Woah. Hold on, buster. You don't get to fall over, get up, and keep talking like nothing happened. What's wrong?"

He grunted. "My narcotics."

"Your what?!"

"Morphine was my first guess. Could be another. It was fast-acting."

"Excuse me?"

"When they stitched my cut, I was shot with a needle. Anesthetized. Probably intended to double as a pacifying agent."

"And now you're flying halfway to Neverland. Great. I'm relying on a guy who can't find his nose with his hand."

"Please. I'm obviously lucid. The drug wore off in minutes."

"Then why did you just fall?"

"In my experience, the symptoms of disorientation can return in brief waves."

She raised a critical eyebrow. "What do you mean by your 'experience'?"

He grunted dismissively. "Surgical necessities. Nothing more."

"Uh-huh. Either way, it sounds like you have a problem."

"It's immaterial. Won't happen again."

"You know what's very material? The floor."

"I'll be fine. We have to get you out of here."

"You're still running that track?"

He glared at her in disbelief. "Stubbornness aside, why would you possibly care to stay?"

That hurt. Catwoman glared back with a fiery riposte on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated. The Leading Lady of Larceny closed her eyes and took a deep breath, resting her forehead on her palm. Her shoulders slumped.

Batman stared at her puzzled. Well, this is a new trick. They had traded blows a dozen times, leaped into thin air off skyscraper balconies; he once tackled her into an aquarium, but now was the first time Catwoman ever seemed beaten. No, not beaten - he still couldn't imagine that. She had fight left in her. No, the truth was she looked worn. Tired.

He waited. She took the favor and spoke.

"Look, you said yourself I wasn't heartless. Sure, we have our differences-" He made a skeptical head-tilt. "-And okay, that might be something of an understatement. But all this, this whole nightmare?" She gestured to the walls around her. "Well, I've seen it. I can't un-see it. That makes it my problem now. And as far as solutions go, you're the only game in town. So what's your big secret, and what do we have to do?"

Batman stared at her. You're going to regret this.

Catwoman crossed her arms and stared back. I'm not the regretting type.

Fine.

He stepped past and handed her a folded letter from the bowels of Amanda Waller's desk.

She held it up to the light. The other records thus far were cheap notebook pages or carbon copies. This document had class: rich cream cardstock, embossed letterhead, and a pair of neat cursive signatures. She began to read.

"Yadda, yadda - initiative by the Under Secretaries of State and War mandating Amanda Grace Waller to study and prepare innovations in war materiel and personnel pursuant to statute - yadda, yadda, yadda - extraordinary measures - yadda, yadda - adjutants on request - yadda, yadda - quarterly committee oversight - yadda, yadda - top secret." She handed the letter back to Batman."Is that it? We knew the bureaucracy fairy had flown in and granted this lady her magic slush fund. What's new?"

"Look closely. Fourth paragraph. See the list?"

"Yeah. Something to do with 'cooperative officials and groups'. Bunch of obscure government offices. They can't all be in on this, can they? Not knowingly, anyway."

"Read the seventh."

"... Rook Ltd." She looked up. "Never heard of it."

"Fort Morrison had a research arm from day one, but it was first and foremost an administrative center for the planned quarantine. The lion's share of influenza research was conducted elsewhere, predominately Johns Hopkins. When laboratories need to transport biological samples that dangerous, they use special couriers, and Hopkins preferred a Baltimore firm called Rook Brothers."

"Why bother showing me the letter when you knew you'd have to explain things anyway?"

He ignored the comment. "With their unique track record, Rook Brothers soon won contracts with the leading hospitals and military clinics. They dominated their industry."

"Good for them."

"When the disease passed, they went bankrupt. The mothballed leftovers of the company were bought in '32 by Lex Pharmacuticals. The original brothers were fired, but they kept the name."

"LexCorp owns a company just to shuttle Petri dishes around?"

"If that's what they still do. I told you Fort Morrison was closed after the Flu ended. That's not entirely true. The Army wanted to keep virus cultures on permanent storage. The Fort was the most remote site they owned with the right equipment. A maintenance crew stayed behind."

Catwoman visibly tensed. "Are you saying the Spanish Flu is in this building?" She sounded terrified.

"No. It was until the most recent labs were installed. Now I'm certain it's been moved."

"Where?"

"That's exactly what I ... what we need to know. The sample might be elsewhere in the Fort, but to transport off-site calls for specialists."

"Like Rook Ltd."

"Precisely, and when a virus is stored successfully for two decades, you don't move it unless-"

"-Unless you suddenly want it for something besides storage."

He nodded. "The company might be on her list for other purposes; I hope it is, but having seen what these sanctioned murderers will do for mundane research, I need to know if they have plans to use virus samples. It could be vastly more important than stolen corpses or even someone hunting the homeless. We have to see if it's still here."

"And then we head for the car?"

"Then we head for the car."

---

Meanwhile, at the car.

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens dug through the glove compartment. He had already found the binder of Fort Morrison information, as shocking as that was. This small pile was a motherload of brazen plots and conspiracies judging by the titles (he didn't have time to read inside). Submarine attacks. Wild animal rampages. Bank heists. Dirigible crashes. A baffling number of threats involving clowns. Some desk jockeys in an intelligence office somewhere would fall out of their seats when they saw this. He would just look over a few more then carry them up to the Fort. A hundred analysts across the country could be combing through the pile by early next week.

As he searched, he placed a hand on the far grooves of the compartment. Something shifted. Curious, he moved his hand. The motion engaged an unseen mechanism. The back wall slid away, revealing a hidden recess with a much larger pile of files.

"Heh. Well, I'll be!"

The hidden chamber was deep, nearly out of reach. He idly took the stick of dynamite from his coat pocket and laid it in the glove compartment where it wouldn't bump or roll. Then he reached inside to seize a new stack of binders.

Little did he know, Batman had customized the Ford with one last precaution. When Catwoman had opened the glove compartment's secret chamber earlier, he had discreetly flipped a switch under the steering wheel to allow her. No one was here to deactivate it now.

Three seconds passed without the manual override being switched. The secrets were jeopardized. A small tape buried in the innards of the vehicle began to play over the radio. It was a low female voice, scratchy but unmistakable.

"Unauthorized access. These records will incinerate in five ... four ... three ..."

Lieutenant Stevens nearly jumped out of his seat at the first word. He tumbled though the door and scampered a healthy distance away. The other soldiers had already stepped far back.

"... two ... one."

There was a pop and a hiss. A tiny burst of sparks fell in the glove compartment. The papers swiftly grew to flame, lighting up the night.

Sergeant Franklin Thurbert, a thoughtful man, stared at the row of dynamite he had laid in the snow. One was missing. "Uh, sir?"

Lieutenant Stevens briefly glanced back at him, saw what his engineer was looking at, and absently patted his own pockets.

His mouth went slack with a sudden, grave realization.

...

It took two seconds for the stick of explosives inside the Ford's glove compartment to detonate. This was slightly longer than it took the squad to sprint into the trees (which caught most of the debris).

It an instant, the front third of the beige Ford Model 48 was a charred knot of steel.

In the next instant, the fire caught the row of dynamite laying nearby.

In the final instant, there was nothing of the car but slag and snow and ash.

[The Romulan Republic]

Lucky break, for the dynamite to blow the evidence like that.

And Lex huh? The plot thickens.

Loved the Spoiler

Superman

reference. Also "A baffling number of threats involving clowns."

Also, the private and Lt.'s conversations on movies were hilarious.

[LadyTevar]

I have a couple guesses on what the US Army is doing given what DC has in their universe, but I will save them in case I'm actually right and don't want to change the direction of the story.

Does one of them involve trapping the ghost of a famous Confederate cavalry general in the hull of a tank?

You know, it didn't, but Haunted Tank being Amanda Waller's secret weapon would be hilarious.

I LOVED THOSE COMICS!!!

[LadyTevar]

Heheheh... All the wonderful little allusions to things I recognized...

"Here's a debriefing from something called the Third Innsmouth Raid. Does that sound useful?"
...
"There's a telegram from the Santa Priscan ambassador. Maybe a sales pitch by the looks of it. It mentions laboratories."
...
"The storage of antiquities from the excavations of a Doctor H.W. Jones, Jr."
...
"Maybe it's a Bird." "Or a Plane."

In Order:
Innsmouth -- Lovecraftian town full of Deep One spawn. First Raid killed a lot of residents, then a sub blew up the Deep Ones' reef. Wonder what triggered the third....

Santa Prisca. Home of Bane, the juiced-up villain who broke Batman's back. The prison was his home from the time he was born.

Anyone who didn't get the H.W. Jones Jr. should turn in their GeekCred -- Professor "Indiana" Jones. Amusingly, he should be in England with the OSS right now, if the timelines match up. The first three movies all took place prior to 1939, iirc.

"It's a BIRD" "It's a Plane!" "It's SUPERMAN!!!"
Bonus points for Lex-corp. Sounds just like something Baldy would do.

[The Romulan Republic]

On a rather nastier real-world note, don't forget the references to Tuskegee and the Nazis using gas on their own people.

Anyway, I'm really enjoying this story overall. I actually wish the author worked for DC, because then I might get to see this story on TV some day.

[U.P. Cinnabar]

Does one of them involve trapping the ghost of a famous Confederate cavalry general in the hull of a tank?

You know, it didn't, but Haunted Tank being Amanda Waller's secret weapon would be hilarious.

I LOVED THOSE COMICS!!!

G.I. Combat, where the Haunted Tank got its start, was what hooked me on DC.

[U.P. Cinnabar]

Anyone who didn't get the H.W. Jones Jr. should turn in their GeekCred -- Professor "Indiana" Jones. Amusingly, he should be in England with the OSS right now, if the timelines match up. The first three movies all took place prior to 1939, iirc.

"Indiana was the dog's name."

[Stewart M]

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 13: Dodge - An Exit Strategy​

In his brief time on the streets, Batman had earned a long list of people who wanted him dead. This wasn't surprising: he had a gift for picking fights in a town where revenge fantasies were something of a cultural pastime. Even scum he hadn't met wanted to dig him a shallow grave on principle. But beyond the legions of lesser beasts who might wish to kill him, the sinister figure of the night who spent the most time actually planning to kill Batman was Batman.

Like a chess student, after long consideration on how to bring about the end of Batman, Batman learned to recognize Batman's endgames - situations that gave the illusion of mobility but stifled his methods and advantages so completely that all options led to defeat. For instance, if Batman was in a small, low building with thick walls and few exits, and if his opposition knew those exits and had the manpower and firepower to cover them indefinitely, and if said opposition tried to capture him alive before but had since been provoked by a bluff that defied the Geneva Protocol, that would be a sound example of an endgame.

As he pondered his options, Batman realized chess was a poor metaphor. There were no secrets in chess, but this game still had a hidden queen.

He glanced thoughtfully at Catwoman.

Then he blinked and looked again; she was stuffing packets of money into her satchel.

Catwoman sensed his disapproval beam and looked over. "Good news. I found a big envelope of cash in the bottom drawer." He frowned. For a guy shot at by the police every other week, he sure had a good cop-face. She tossed him a smile. "Think of it this way, handsome. If we let that lady keep the money, who knows what kind of evil business she'll use it for?" Catwoman struggled to close the latch on hundreds of crisp greenbacks. "This is our - rrrrhh - moral obligation."

"So you intend to distribute that back to the taxpayers?"

"Sure. Boutique owners, dance halls, restauranteurs, the bank, my landlady - all taxpayers."

Batman resigned to pick his battles. They walked out of the office. She scanned the corridor. Twenty-six feet away through the front door, she heard voices and footsteps.

"You know how you sounded so confident a few minutes ago vis-à-vis our escape? What exactly did you have in mind?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"What's in the garage."

---​

Four minutes later.

Colonel Abner Tanner crossed his arms and inspected his troops again. The Army was out of shape; peace and poverty did that to a country. The ranks were cluttered with too many old officers - paper-pushers, most of them. On the bright side, the draft was pumping fresh blood into the system. Wheels were turning the right direction. He just prayed it wasn't too late.

For his own men, Tanner reckoned he had done right. Eighteen troops surrounded the Brick. A wide encirclement at night wasn't the easiest small unit maneuver, but they had the building locked down in short order. Fifty more still patrolled the camp for errant enemy collaborators. It was a start. Waller had already trudged back to the war room. He couldn't fault the lady's intelligence (as often as he tried), but that was all she was: a schemer. When the talking was done and you had to stand in the snow and face the bullets, when you had to act, that took a soldier.

In fairness, they might only be facing one man, possibly one corpse. It wasn't his hardest mission.

For now, the operation waited on gas masks. He had already sent a runner to wake the quartermaster. If the Fort didn't have any, then he would sit another hour and move in regardless.

As he waited by the main entrance, he heard a large engine cough and sputter to life in the direction of the motor pool. Tanner gestured for half his squad to follow and jogged around the side of the building. The garage door was still shut, but a truck inside was revving up. Lieutenant Wilson and seven wary men stood arrayed in front of the tall metal door. The Colonel barked a few commands. The troops fanned out to flanking positions and leveled their rifles.

Twenty seconds passed. There was a loud click, and another motor began to loudly lift the door. As it rose, billows of acrid smoke rushed out. His men shuffled back, keeping their sights trained on the entrance. The Colonel peered vainly into the haze. The lights were off inside, and the shoulder-high veil of smoke blocked any illumination from the exterior lamps. They were blind.

Colonel Tanner was weighing the risks of sending in a scout when an engine inside revved fiercely. Tires squealed. There was a brief disturbance in the center of the haze, then a covered truck raced through, smoke pouring from its exposed engine block. The bulky six-wheeler barreled neatly between the flanking soldiers, skidded twenty yards on the muddy snow, and crashed to a stop with the help of a telegraph pole. The bent pole wavered for a chilly moment then fell over.

The men cautiously surrounded the idle truck. Though the engine had stopped, faint trails of smoke still leaked out. Between this and the dark, the cabin was utterly obscured.

The Colonel shouted, "You have seven seconds to exit the vehicle. Failure to comply may cause an acute case of lead poisoning. Six! ... Five! ... This is your final warning ... Four! ... Three! ..." He paused but saw no movement. "... Two! ... One! ..." Still no movement. "... Open fire!"

A salvo of rifles lit up the truck. The windshield and windows disintegrated in an instant. Every metal surface was peppered with sparks. A streak of holes stitched low across the material covering the bed. A tire deflated.

Colonel Tanner raised an arm. "Hold!"

The shooting stopped. The stench of saltpeter hung in the air. Now the truck was well and truly wrecked. Colonel Tanner signaled to Lieutenant Wilson who crept up and opened the back flap. Its cargo bed was empty. Wilson moved to the cabin and pulled open the door. There was no one inside, but he found a web of cords tied between the wheel, the stick shift, and the ignition. There was a brick on the gas pedal.

---​

A minute ago.

In the art of stealth, students talked vision, but masters talked sound (a few deviants talked smell but rarely convinced anyone).

Batman and Catwoman understood sound intimately well. They knew that the noise of a large diesel engine with a missing hood completely masked the noise of a man stabbing though four inches of plaster ceiling, pine roof beam, asphalt shingles, and ice with the pry end of a lug wrench.

For the urban set, the skyline of a military camp from atop a single-story building was pretty underwhelming, but for Catwoman it was as beautiful as the view from any skyscraper. The arcs of the distant watchtowers cutting through the snow might as well have been the lights of Paris.

She was very, truly, exorbitantly glad to not be in that pit anymore. The pretentious literary corner of her mind suggested the word Conrad-esque. Feeling the chilled wind and sharp flakes against her face was more than joyous, it was purifying. She would have thrown her arms up into the air and stretched to Heaven except that she was still on a low roof surrounded by an Army platoon (at most).

If Batman felt any jubilation, he expressed it with a stoic work frown. He shrugged to loose some plaster chips from his shoulder and nodded.

Keeping a low crouch, they glided to the far corner of the roof and peered over the edge. Batman half-expected the entire guard detail to have rushed to the noise, but the men were well-drilled. A few still kept their posts at the other walls. This segment of the building was still the least protected, being the furthest from any entrance. There was only two sentries in their path. They stood twenty feet away, looking perplexed towards the distant engine noises.

---​

Privates Cooper and Lockerby stood twenty feet away from an empty stretch of wall, looking perplexed towards the distant engine noises.

Private Cooper rubbed his hands for warmth, having forgotten his gloves in the rush when Sarge mustered them out an hour ago.

"I still don't get it, we should be over there. That's where stuff's happening, right?"

Private Lockerby spit. "Feh. Who cares?"

"I care. Sure as shootin', nothing's gonna happen here. If there's a fight, we ought to go help!"

"What we ought'a do is follow orders, dummy."

"But-"

"Listen, use whatever cobwebbed bucket you have for a brain and think about it. They already have enough boys on the other side to start a baseball team. They have the Colonel with'em. They even have that huge lieutenant who follows Waller around. They can handle it on their own. And if they can't, do you really think a milk-baby like you is gonna make a difference? Save your skin and relax."

"I'm not a milk-baby."

"Just shut up and watch your corner."

Private Cooper turned and crossed his arms. "You're a milk-baby."

Suddenly, a shape rushed towards them in the dark. Private Lockerby pivoted and held out his light. "Hold up there!" He squinted in disbelief. It looked like a lady dressed in some sort of - he struggled for comparison - purple circus leotard? Maybe a classy burlesque outfit? As he came to grips with this, she sprinted between the two solders. He made a grab for her. "Hey!"

She ducked and Lockerby missed, but Private Cooper was a step quicker. He managed to catch the edge of her green cape. It untied with the effort. She stumbled and turned around.

Private Lockerby raised his rifle. "Hands up."

The woman meekly did so. Private Cooper dropped the cape and grinned. "Told you I wasn't a milk-baby."

With their backs turned, Batman had no trouble gliding up behind them. He knocked their heads together. Kunnk. The two soldiers collapsed.

Catwoman reached down and picked up her cape. "Huh. Sounded like coconuts."

He nodded sagely. "They always do."

They set off, speeding through the maze of tents and cabins. Catwoman stopped to check a corner. "You know, it was a little rude assuming I'd be okay with playing the bait. Why don't you be bait next time?"

He checked the other direction. "I don't do bait."

"Why?"

"People tend to shoot me on sight."

"Oh."

In the distance, they heard a tremendous volley of gunfire. Catwoman dived for cover. "I thought we had another minute!"

"They're done taking chances."

"Clearly. Where next?"

"The only other site in the Fort that could store virus cultures long-term is the old infirmary. Other side of the bridge."

They picked up the pace, ducking and weaving through the camp. After several corners, they came to a clearing with a squad of troops looking around. There was no quick detour that didn't leave them in the open. After a moment of observation, Catwoman nudged his arm and nodded above them. Batman looked up. They were hiding behind the leg of a water tower. He followed the path of her eyes, up the leg, along the rim, then a hop from a structural spar to the roof of a shower house on the other side of the clearing. It was a bold leap, a challenge even for his caliber.

They clambered to the top. The metal wavered but held their weight. Tip-toeing along the slush, they reached the short spar. Catwoman took a sprinting step and leaped. The wind caught her cape as she fell through the sky. With textbook smoothness, she landed with a roll on the distant roof. Batman idly thumbed the stitched wound in his side as he watched her land. The squad below was none the wiser. He brushed the snow from his lenses, tensed, then pushed off.

As his feet left the ground, a shock of nausea swept his system. His vision was taken by pins of light. His limbs half-numbed. From the far roof, Catwoman watched in horror as his form went slack. He should have tucked forward his trailing leg now, but instead it flailed in the breeze. A heartbeat later, Batman hit the side of the building like a sack of hams hitting the side of a building.

---​

A minute ago.

The six men of Idaho Squad had been ordered to patrol the clearing in front of the East Shower House. It was a major intersection of the camp; any saboteurs hoping to make it to the bridge would likely come through. The squad wasn't happy. The alarms earlier had put everyone on edge, but they still seemed distant enough. This volley of gunfire coming from the Brick made things all too real. People were shooting at each other. This was war. And someone was waiting in the dark to hurt them.

Sergeant Getty tried to keep his restless boys in line. "I'm telling ya, any second now, they'll send up the all-clear. Rascal jus' got plugged by the Colonel. Threat's over. Jus' keep eyes on your post for a few more minutes."

Private Forez, suffering from paranoia and a runny nose, disagreed. "But Sarge, what if the Colonel didn't see all of them? We can't hardly see ten feet n'front of us now." He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "What if some spies are still hiding?"

"Boy, there ain't no more spies."

"Then what are we watching for?"

"Spies!"

"But-"

"Hush it. We're here to follow orders, I'm jus' saying as the voice o' wisdom an' experience that we'll be done soon. "

Private Trimble piped up. "I don't know Sarge. What if they's, uh ..."

"Spit it out son."

Trimble was the shifty-eyed, nervous sort who had to chase after his thoughts now and then. "This ... well, it, this feels like a Western."

"A Western?"

"Here we are in this fort here, see? We're the Army in a fort. Who always comes tip-toeing around? Apaches."

"You're worried 'bout Indians?"

"Could be Apaches, could be rustlers."

Forez added, "Or banditos."

The other soldiers muttered agreement. Trimble nodded. "Or banditos."

The Sargent was baffled. "What?"

"That's what always happens. They knew how to sneak up on you in the Westerns. Some varmint hides behind a barrel or a cactus or somesuch till Johnny Soldier walks on by. Then he get an arrow in the back. Happens every time."

The other soldiers muttered agreement.

"Private, that's a load of phooey. Get that out of your head."

"I can't stop imagining it, Sarge - some sneaky spy sneaking past out lines. Jumping out the shadows right on our heads."

At that moment, Batman jumped out of the shadows and smacked into a wall.

There was silence in the group. The intruder on the ground twitched.

Sergeant Getty grunted smugly. "See there! I told you nobody was going to hit us in the back!"

Catwoman dropped out of the darkness and hit him in the back.

There was a myth among fans of the more exotic fighting styles that being small was an advantage, either from seeing the underdog win in too many works of fiction or by taking the notion of "the bigger they are, the harder they fall" too literally. Schools did boast that a diminutive practitioner could use leverage to limit the strength of a larger foe. This was true. The fallacy came in projecting that to being actively better than the larger foe, that the tall and hefty were waiting to be toppled like half-cut trees. This was stupid. Anatomy didn't scale like that. If it was true, wrestlers would always win against elephants.

In reality, when two fighters of equal skill met, size won. This was why combat sports had weight classes. This was also why Catwoman daring to confront six men was even more incredible than many would assume.

Batman, for all his dash and theatrics, was a kick-boxer at heart, a brawler made perfect. Catwoman's moves were not so simple; she couldn't afford to be. Her form was her own, it led itself to no obvious comparisons. What could be said? She was liquid. Her balance was sublime on every limb, and she moved between the four with ease. Her attacks revolved around the legs, literally and figuratively, but it would be faint praise to say she kicked. No, she used her feet with a versatility and surety that few had in their hands. Jabs, trips, clubs, feints, winches. Off-the-wall dropkicks. Handsprings into flying rubber guard. And once in range, the claws came out. Her hand speed was phenomenal. As every knife fighter knows, it's not power, it's proximity.

With all this flexibility and skill, Catwoman managed to dispose of two with sheer surprise and knocked out a third after a heated pummeling. But that left three standing, ready and closing in. Speed did only so much against six arms. She played keep-away, let them stumble in the snow. Then one soldier over-reached. In a wink, she ducked the hand and sprung forward, driving a knee into his cheekbone. As he fell sideways, she leapfrogged over his shoulder and planted both feet in the chin of the next soldier beside him.

But the third caught her hip. She twisted away and raked his face, but this one had the tenacity of a farm boy grappler. He pushed forward into a loose shoulder hold, using his deadweight to bring her to the muddy snow. She rolled out of the hold with ease, but her momentum was lost. They closed in. The soldier with the bruised jaw was already on her back, scrambling for a neck hold. She twisted and rolled again to put him in a knee lock, but farm boy was up and getting near. She disengaged and stood, shoving away his next tackle and stepping in for a hip throw.

The throw was flawless, but no sooner had she let go then the stock of a rifle hit her in the small of her back. She cried out and fell to a knee. It was the sergeant, her first target, one she thought was out of the fight. He limped, and the gash across his forehead wasn't pretty, but he was standing again. In a rush, Catwoman leapt at him, but she was rebuffed. She tried to push past the rifle in her way, but her lower back burned, and her strength left her. The two other soldiers grabbed her. She struggled in a half-nelson, found herself briefly airborne, and crashed face-first into the slush. With every move, the pair only pinned tighter. She tried to claw out, but the rifle struck her arm.

Flinching in pain, Catwoman had a singular moment of clarity. Laying prone, she could see out of one eye (praying the other was only blinded by mud or sweat). Viewing the world sideways, she saw past the hostile bodies on top of her and into the dark haze beyond. Though the falling snow moved a sinister figure, a demon of the night.

It was over in five motions. Three were strikes into meat. The fourth bent a rifle barrel. The fifth made a wet snap.

Batman helped her up. They heard footsteps approaching and fled around the next wall. Both were keenly aware her slugfest could have been heard by half the camp. A few turns later brought them to a mechanic's shed to hide in.

He eyed her scuffed outfit. "You alright?"

"Yeah." She stretched out her arm gingerly and winced. "Thanks."

He half-nodded. "Thank you. How's your back?"

"Nearly as nice as my front."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Catwoman looked up. "You missed the jump." She said this in a tone like he had tripped over his shoelaces.

Batman's voice was hoarse and quiet. "When I moved, I nearly blacked out."

She scrutinized him. His body language was clinched to breaking. He radiated waves of passionate intensity, all of it a struggle to keep his expression neutral. Whatever that meant, she tread lightly.

"The drugs again?"

He nodded. "This hasn't happened before."

Catwoman grinned weakly. "I'd say there's a joke in that."

He was unamused. "The anesthetic shouldn't be symptomatic now. Could be trauma."

"What do you mean?"

"I was in a fight in the lab"

"The one where you were stabbed with a sword."

"Before I was cut, I took a few blows to the head."

"Someone punched you, then stabbed you."

"I was also thrown and hit a glass container with the base of my skull. That might be relevant."

"Someone punched you, then stabbed you, then threw you."

"It was an interesting encounter."

"You really need a hobby."

"I don't feel concussed, but if I am, head trauma affects medication."

"That's a mild way of putting it."

"Or my medic used an inappropriate drug. Or too much of one. Or some combination thereof."

"How do you feel now?"

"Fine, strangely. The bouts of nausea lasted seconds. But both triggered without warning. I have no idea when it-"

They heard an octet of boots nearby and froze. The soldiers soon passed.

Catwoman rose and looked around. "Whatever comes, we'll deal with it. Let's go."

"We're near the edge of camp, but we'll never get to the bridge on foot. There's too much attention."

"What do you have in mind?"

He looked pointedly past her. Catwoman turned and saw he was focused on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle leaning against a work bench. She put her hands on her hips doubtfully. "Alright, but where's the second one?"

He stared at her evenly. She frowned. "What?"

"July ninth."

"July ni-" She paused in thought. "... Ohhhh, no. Not happening."

---​

Five months ago.

It was a balmy night in Gotham City. The best jazz and swing bands in the world had just started their sets, and all the clubs were packed to the walls. Block parties flooded the streets in every neighborhood. Even the stars seemed to dance. There was a rhythm in the air.

Batman was busy hiding in a packing crate of lima beans. He didn't like lima beans.

He heard a familiar motion and burst out. Catwoman, catching her breath nearby, did a double take. She thought she had lost him three blocks ago on the balcony of the Mansfield Building. In truth, he let her pull ahead and raced around to hide in this riverside shipping depot. Scant yards away, he gave chase once more. She ran deftly up a wall and caught the edge of the southbound elevated railway. She pulled herself up, checking that the six centuries old porcelain Tonkinese of Katmandu was still safe in her satchel, then ran off. Following step for step, Batman chased her onto the tracks. This didn't make sense. There was nowhere to hide up here, just an open path, and Catwoman rarely tried to out-sprint him.

His confusion was answered a moment later as the northbound line rocketed past on the neighboring rail. If this was their first meeting, he would yell to warn her not to risk her life on a stunt, but now he knew better. Indeed, she hopped and caught the top edge of a passing train car with ease. In a blink, Catwoman was whisked in the opposite direction. He grimaced and followed suit. They hung on for a minute, buffeted by the wind. Then she pushed off and rolled down a loose market awning below, braking with her claws. By the time Batman saw her drop, it was too late to follow.

For a moment, it seemed like a lost cause. As cavalier as Catwoman made it look, finding a landing zone for an unscheduled train dismount was difficult. He couldn't just fall to the cement. The next safe point might be twenty blocks away. Then fortune struck: the southbound train sped by. In an arm-straining maneuver, Batman spun from one train to the other. When the awning came into view, he leapt off and - with considerably less grace than she showed - tumbled to the ground.

Of course, she was nowhere in sight. Only eight seconds had passed since she disappeared, but on the street that was a big head start. Still, he had his clues. He knew Catwoman tried almost as hard as he did to stay out of crowds, meaning she would climb something as soon as possible. He hadn't found her newest hideout yet, but he had a strong hunch it was close and east. Finally, he recently figured out that when Catwoman thought she was safe, she liked to take what he could only bewilderingly describe as "the scenic route", meaning he had to rank the nearby views aesthetically.

Two minutes later he found her trail. Four minutes later he caught sight of her. Three seconds after that she caught sight of him. They were climbing sideways on the stone cornices of a tunnel mouth just above one of Gotham's famous raised roads. Then fortune came his way again: Catwoman ran out of handholds. He carefully approached, trying to think of a way to restrain her while they were both clinging to a wall. Just when he was close enough to see her face, she hopped off again, this time landing in a crouch on the pillion of a slow motorcycle. The cycle wobbled a moment but kept on, soon turning out of sight.

---​

The present day.

"Ohhhh, no. Not happening."

"You seemed pleased with yourself the first time."

"I made that guy crash about two seconds after he turned. You know that, right?"

Batman looked away in surprise. "No, actually. I had left."

"Yeah, I caused a three car pile-up. It took a week for the scrape on my elbow to heal. You make me do the dumbest things, do you know that?"

He scoffed. "I could say the same."

"It's a miracle I didn't knock the guy's cycle over as soon as I landed."

"But here you won't have to land."

"At least that bike had a backseat. On this little thing, I'd be standing with one foot on the edge your cushion and one on the rear fender. That's, what, four square inches of space? I might as well be standing on your shoulders. We could make a circus act."

"It's the only way."

"I could sit on your lap."

"Even if there was room, I couldn't see."

"I could call out the turns."

"No. Just balance and hold on. It's a rugged model. I'll be careful."

"Says the drugged guy with a sword wound. Can't we find a car?"

"Fort traffic has been shut down. All cars will be in locked motor pools if they're not being used to search for us. We're lucky the owner had to leave this cycle out in a hurry. You can see he was repairing that crack in the front suspension."

"Oh. Crack in the suspension. Lucky us."

They heard yelling and another stampede of footsteps nearby. Catwoman sighed and tightened her gloves. "Well, I never thought I'd die in so spectacular a fashion."

Batman unhooked the evidence briefcase from a latch on his belt and handed it to her. "Here. I can't drive with this."

"You want me to hold this."

"I'd appreciate it."

"So we're clear: not only am I standing on a strip of metal that couldn't fit a chihuahua, I'll have one less hand to hold on to you."

"Yes."

"You could jump around with it, but you can't sit with it."

"I can't sit on it; the latch is on my back."

Batman brushed the icicles off the frame of the Harley. He sat and started it up. The bike gave a few dead starts, but soon he had the engine letting out its trademark rumble.

"Get on. Please."

She stepped up and planted her feet as best she could; there was hardly room for her toes. She hugged the briefcase close with one arm and slung the other around Batman's neck.

As they eased into the path, Catwoman heard yelling behind them. A bullet whistled by her ear. She was about to turn and look when Batman gunned the throttle.

In the long list of miracles in Catwoman's life, not tumbling off the bike right then was an instant hall-of-famer.

They shot onto a main road. Ahead stood the rear entrance of the camp near where they had jumped in. It was a simple gap in the sandbags with a rolling gate across it. Orders said the infiltrators would be on foot, so the gate was open. And as the infiltrators would be on foot, the two guards assumed the approaching engine which they couldn't see through the snow was a friendly. By the time they knew better, Batman had up-shifted and raced through the gap along the packed slush of a recent tire track. More shots followed and a spotlight tried to keep pace, but in seconds they left the camp behind.

He slowed once they reached the woods and the path got rough. In a few minutes, they saw the bridge. One of the entrances to Fort Morrison was somewhere beyond the other side of this gorge. From here they could see the silhouettes of a few buildings on the other side too, but they couldn't see any soldiers. Batman mused that getting caught in the laboratory had at least one advantage: it gave the commanders a reason to call back the more distant patrols he might have run into here. With luck, it would be a few minutes before the camp could send another vehicle after them. By then, they'd be out of sight.

They were two-thirds of the way across the bridge when his luck ran out. The iron grille path would have offered little traction in perfect conditions. With a sheet of ice on it, it was a skating rink. As hard as he tried, he couldn't stop the cycle from fishtailing towards the guardrail. Finally, the rear tire tapped the rail. The bike leaned. Catwoman, already focusing on staying upright, let go of the briefcase, which fell over the edge. In a blink, she jumped after it. Even swifter still, he dived after her.

---​

Batman hung motionless in the air, clutching the maintenance catwalk's edge with his left hand. His right hand gripped Catwoman's wrist. She swung below him, kicking vainly two hundred feet above the ground.

Incredibly, Catwoman held the suitcase tightly to her chest with her free arm.

Batman's upper body began to tremble with exertion. He inhaled deeply. "WHY…IN GOD'S NAME…DID YOU JUMP?"

Catwoman stared wide-eyed at the expanse of nothing below her. Her wrist felt like a bus had parked on it: Batman had the grip of a machine press. Given the circumstances, she found the crushing sensation oddly comforting. Catwoman raised her voice over the wind.

"WE NEEDED THE CASE."

Batman's shoulders began to twitch.

"SO YOU FOLLOW IT OVER A CLIFF?"

"I KNEW YOU'D CATCH ME."

He looked down in bewilderment. "WHY DID YOU ASSUME THAT?"

"YOU'RE BATMAN!"

He had no response to this, so he focused on their bigger concern. "I CAN'T DO A ONE-ARMED PULL-UP WHILE HOLDING SOMEONE."

"... REALLY?"

"NOT LEFT-HANDED."

"CAN YOU LIFT ME SO I CAN GRAB THE RAIL?"

"IF I BEND MY ARM FROM THIS ANGLE I MIGHT DROP YOU."

She could almost hear his ligaments stretch. The guy was strong, but he couldn't keep this up forever. It was her turn.

"I HAVE A PLAN! HOLD ON!"

Batman wanted to comment how stupidly unnecessary that instruction was, but his lungs hurt.

Catwoman deftly bit the briefcase handle, holding it firmly in her mouth. With that hand now free, she bucked upward and grabbed Batman's ankle. Bucking up again, she wrapped her elbow tightly around it, clinging to his boot.

Now marginally secure, she didn't need him to hold on to her arm. Catwoman shook the clasped arm to indicate this. If Batman got the message, he clearly didn't agree. Somehow, he squeezed even tighter, not trusting that she wouldn't fall. Typical hero. It was sweet in a way, but she had a job to do. Unable to speak with a case in her mouth, she had to find a way to convince him of her plan's finer points.

The seized arm had next to no circulation left, but she still gave a practiced hand flick to unsheathe her claws. From where he held her, her thumb was already pressed against his wrist. Using her scant leverage, Catwoman started to push her thumb inward.

Batman ignored this razor stabbing his flesh for an astonishing period of time, but after several seconds he let her go. She shook her clawed hand to get some feeling back, then reached up and grabbed cape fabric. Batman lifted his own bleeding hand and grasped the catwalk, now holding on with both. Seeing a stable 'ladder', Catwoman swiftly climbed up his cape and back and arms.

Finally standing on the Dark Knight's shoulders, she pulled herself once more onto the catwalk. Batman awkwardly followed her, his arms spent.

She spit out the suitcase.

[The Romulan Republic]

Well... that'll be embarrassing for Waller and the Colonel.

[Stewart M]

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 14: When It Snows, My Eyes Become Large

​
At the scrap heap formerly known as the Ford.

Lieutenant Harrison Stevens, Private Benjamin Greene, Private Elroy Jenkins, Corporal John Grimes, and Sergent Franklin "Tubby Frank" Thurber were ... alive, for lack of a better term.

A simpleton might think that, since hot and cold were opposites, second-degree burns could be healed by snow. This was untrue. In fact, skin was meant to insulate, so burned flesh actually made issues like hypothermia and frostbite worse. On the other hand, the weather did numb the pain, and when burns covered a fair fraction of anatomical real estate, a man had to appreciate the little blessings in life. For example, much of Lieutenant Stevens' pants had melted into a waxy substance that straddled the line between clothing and plaster and had flash-glued to his butt and precious regions. However, the air had cooled the new substance almost instantly, which was great because the worst possible thing for a pair of pants to be was molten.

Tubby Frank had come through much better than the others, which was remarkable considering he was the slowest runner and the biggest target. When he dared open his eyes, the first thing he saw was a bent steering wheel gently smoking beside his head. He wiggled his fingers and his toes to make sure everything was attached, then slowly rose to his feet. The car was trash. There weren't many parts large enough to recognize. This was visible to him because a few pieces were still on fire. It helped that there was a great deal of new moon-glow around: the blast had stripped all trees in a six yard radius down to the trunk.

Frank wasn't a people person, even by engineer standards, but after a minute he decided he should probably see if anyone was dead. They were not, although Corporal Grimes was the only soldier willing to stand at the moment. Grimes carefully took off his radio and discovered that the backpack had several long shards of glass stuck in it. He took this as a fortunate outcome since it meant they weren't stuck in him. Grimes toggled the device's transmitter and found he was lucky again - the radio still worked.

As Corporal Grimes tried to bend the antenna flat and signal camp, Sergent Thurber pulled an apple out of his pocket and offered a bite. The Corporal waved it away. The Sergent shrugged and ate some himself.

He mused as he chewed. "You know, in the hard-boiled detective stories, they always say that life is cheap."

Corporal Grimes was busy trying to hear through the static on the handset. "Huh?"

"That's a quote they always use. They say 'Oh, look at this ugly town, where justice ends at the barrel of a gun and life is cheap' or something to that effect."

"I've read a mystery or two. What of it?"

"What I want to know is, where ain't life cheap? They never say that."

"So you want to know where life is, what, expensive?"

"Well, valuable. Wherever it is, I'd like to move there."

Grimes put the handset down and shrugged. "Where ain't life cheap? I dunno. Switzerland? Connecticut, maybe?"

Thurber nodded. "I'd live in Connecticut."

Private Greene, laying on the ground beside them, pulled a twig out of his arm and groaned, "I'd live in Connecticut."

Grimes chuckled. "Who wouldn't?" There was a loud squawking from his radio. "Hold on guys, I got something."

---
​
The Fort Morrison bridge.

Batman stood still and quietly rode his bolts of pain. Four of the threaded stitches in his side had snapped, and he felt warm blood seep through the yellowed gauze. He had pulled a muscle in his shoulder. There was a new puncture wound in his wrist, courtesy of Catwoman. Then he had the dozen other aches and bruises accrued tonight that didn't bear mentioning. He lowered his chin, letting the wet snow slide from his cowl.

They stood before the crashed motorcycle, it's front suspension fully broken. Catwoman carefully opened and closed her hand, trying to get the feeling back.

"I guess we're on foot."

He grunted.

They set off at a sprint. Catwoman quickly pulled ahead. She was typically a hair faster, but now the difference was stark. He moved with an uneven gait to keep the rest of his stitches from tearing, while she ran with the poise of an afternoon jog. He marveled at this. Obviously, she hadn't been wounded as deeply as him, thank God for that, but she ran like she hadn't been touched. She ran like she hadn't been clubbed in the back with a wooden rifle stock, like heavy hands hadn't wrenched her arm out and crushed her face in the mud. She ran like it was nothing, like she flew above it all.

Batman didn't share her peace of mind. He had seen her in pain. That memory and the realization of what it made him do burdened him more than all his other wounds combined.

The adult skeleton was made of two hundred and six bones. The methods to fracture them were similarly legion. Bone was superbly strong for its weight, but even the strongest was vulnerable to the force another human body could produce. Batman was a a scholar of bodily mechanics and could, in theory, fracture all two hundred and six had he reason. If this theory were held to more realistic standards, Batman judged that he would only target a hundred or so. The rest of the skeleton would either be too challenging, like the pelvis, or too debilitating, like the vertebrae. But in practice, the number of bones Batman broke in any fight rounded to zero.

He didn't remember the day he decided this, but that was where he drew a line. There was nothing special about bones among the organs, bruises and scrapes could be worse, but fractures took far too long to mend and were rarely the only option. To resort to them would be an excess, and this he could not abide. Batman was human, and he knew humans were capable of anything in the heat of the moment if they didn't police their intentions. In his case, he hated injustice, and he would do what it took to stop injustice. But he couldn't hurt the unjust beyond that, because then he wouldn't be hating injustice, he would be hating people. Down that path he would lose his soul.

Of course, combat wasn't surgery (and even surgeons made mistakes), but it was a tactic he only knowingly resorted to in moments of gravest need. He certainly didn't need to break an arm to subdue an unwitting target from behind. Yet when he saw the leader of that squad assault Catwoman with the blunt end of a gun, knocking her to the ground, making her cry in pain, it was no decision at all. A dark part of him rationalized that a fractured humerus rarely needed surgery. The discomfort wouldn't be exceptional. Put it in a sling and it would be healed in a few months. He hadn't ruined a life. But the quorum of his conscience knew none of that mattered. He had broken that arm to punish. For an instant, he had been nothing but a beast.

Catwoman knew none of this. She could only tell that something was wrong.

He caught up to her at the end of the bridge. They moved off the road to a scattering of bushes, working their way towards the infirmary. At this slower pace, they could talk.

"Hey, you alright?"

Batman naturally swept past what was actually on his mind until he found an issue he felt was safe to share.

He grunted. "Pulled stitches climbing back on the bridge."

"Ouch. Sorry."

He dismissed her sympathy with a head-shrug.

---
​
Colonel Tanner's office, the makeshift "War Room".

In the field, Amanda Waller did what she wanted, and she had little regard for the procedures and niceties that tied down other civil servants. That said, she had her own brand of professionalism. One of her rules was to not sit in a person's chair. It didn't matter whether that person was the President or a junior mail sorter from Omaha. It didn't matter if no one would ever know. You did not sit in a person's chair.

So she deigned to deposit herself in one of the less-cushioned guest chairs and not the Colonel's own. A few mid-level officers hovered around her, each with a few aides and functionaries hovering around them, making the room somewhat crowded but mostly quiet. The officers whispered to each other and drew new movements on old maps. Most of the aides were posted at two-way radios, trading reports and orders with stations and mobile operators at every corner of the camp. Waller was content to sit and watch.

They had heard shots fired outside several minutes ago. A broadcast announced that a runaway truck from the Brick had been used for target practice and thereafter found empty. Then things quieted down. That is to say, quieted down in the office. The troops heard the shots as well, and as far as they knew the Nazis had parachuted in. It wasn't long before two guards at the Brick detail were discovered semi-conscious, claiming the last thing they remembered was catching a fleeing burlesque dancer. This wouldn't be the first wild sighting a man made after long hours in the snow, but two witnesses gave the story odd credibility.

While this was puzzled over, more shots were reported near the rear camp entrance. Responders found Idaho squad looking like they had been mauled by a gang of bears. The on-site radio operator could hardly keep pace with the claims: a huge caped monster had jumped into a wall, then some purple or green lady or maybe several ladies came down from the sky and started attacking. When a few troops managed to catch her, another intruder or possibly three crept up behind and struck them down with a heavy club - a wrench or a lead pipe perhaps. The only certain fact was that Sergent Getty's arm was broken. The origin of the shooting was eventually sussed out: it wasn't Idaho squad or the interlopers; nearby Cooper squad had seen a strange pair leaving on a motorcycle and opened fire. Opinions varied on whether they hit anyone, but Watchtower C announced a motorcycle racing though the rear gate and into the forest.

Waller didn't bother asking what numbskull left the gate open. Transports had been ferrying troops around the Fort all night. They were only supposed to have one intruder, and their one intruder was supposed to be stuck in the Brick or walking out to face a wall of sentries. Leaving the gate open was the prudent move. It sickened her to say so, but this wasn't anyone's fault. It was simply that every single factor was failing to make sense tonight. Waller's frown deepened. Only minutes ago, she thought she had either one or two intruders trapped in the Brick and possibly dead. Now she was dealing with between two and eight intruders neutralizing patrols at a whim and commandeering vehicles that were supposed to be under lock and key. At least two were outside the camp altogether.

Making an effort to keep her cool, she considered the facts. Unless the interlopers could sprout wings, they were still only on a motorbike. Fort Morrison sat in the middle of a mountain range, nine miles from the nearest gas station and fifteen from the nearest town. Every road outside the Fort (and many in it) was covered with five inches of snow. She still wasn't sure how they entered the Fort, but even if they somehow made it down the mountain, where could they go? She could plug in the phone and have every sheriff in three counties combing the woods before breakfast. The storm wouldn't hide them forever.

That would be a last resort, of course. It was always best to handle such things internally. Involving the military was a tiresome necessity; involving law enforcement would be a nightmare.

Though it was a comfort to know this farce would end soon enough, Amanda had seen far too many surprises to relax. She pondered how this "Batman" and his posse might slip through her net again. Then she remembered the car. That's how they had arrived. And the interlopers had no way of knowing the Army had found it. The team at the Ford hadn't sent an update in awhile, but last time they hinted at finding all sorts of wild things - hidden documents and strange tools. If the car was modified for snow, they could be in St. Louis by tomorrow morning.

She was about to order a status report when irony struck.

"SSzzzszzzZZzz - Uh, B - SSSsszzz - camp. Base Camp. Do you r - SSSss - over?"

Specialist Haverford picked up the radio. "This is Base Camp Alpha. Please identify."

"SSSSZzzzzzzzz - wit - zzzszzzz - help - szzs."

"You're fading out. Please identify. I say again, please identify."

"ZZzs - the best we c -SSzzSSS - signal's shot to H - Zsszzsssssss."

"I say again, please identify. We can't hear you."

"ZZzzzz - I alm - ssssszzzZzzz - requency. Think I got it. How's this? Can you hear this? Hello?"

"Reading you five by three. Please identify."

"This is Corporal John Grimes wi - SsSSzzzs - he Special Reconnaissance Team."

Amanda Waller dashed over and took the handset. "Corporal, this is Amanda Waller."

"Oh! Miss Waller. Um. Can - SSzzz - help you, ma'am?"

"Proceed with your report, soldier."

"Uh, wel - sSs - I guess what I'm trying to sa - ZZZzzzzss - um ..."

"Spit it out, Corporal."

"SSSSZSSzzSS - car blew up, ma'am. It's gone. The car's gone."

"Excuse me?!"

"We need medical assis - ZZssszzz - ight now, ma'am. We have two immobilized. I repeat, two immo - ZZzzzzzzss."

Amanda Waller snapped her fingers and pointed at Specialist Haverford. He nodded and picked up an open radio. "Help is on the way, Corporal, sit tight. If you have any way to signal the rescue team, use it."

"Already done, ma'am. Sergent Thurber's started a fire."

"Good. Now, who destroyed the Ford? Have you been attacked?"

"Not exactly, ma'am. No one's attacked us. I'm not one to - SzzsSZzz - easier to explain in person."

"You're babbling, Corporal. What happened to the car?"

"ZZzzssssz - utenant Stevens might want to tell you himself."

"Then put him on!"

"He's one of the incapacitated, ma'am. He can talk, but mostly he's just crying."

"I'm getting impatient, Corporal Grimes. What happened down there?"

"There was a case of equipment in the trunk. All sorts of things."

"Yes, you informed me last time."

"Well, - SsssszzzZss - case was some dynamite."

"I see. And you triggered the trap."

"Not exactly, ma'am. It wasn't as a trap. There w - ZsszsSS - a few sticks of dynamite in the back. Like for storage."

"Then what? Did you light this dynamite?"

"No! I mean, no one - sSSss - to light it. The Lieutenant was carrying a stick when h - SSzSssZZzzZ - the glove compartment."

"... And?"

"Well, that part was a trap. Or a really damaged engine block. But probably a trap. There were these papers insi -ZZzzzZs."

"Yes, you mentioned that last time."

"Well, after a minute, the Lieutenant touches something - I couldn't see what - and this flash of sparks lights up all the papers."

"Are you telling me he left dynamite in a glove compartment, and this was the one glove compartment on Earth that bursts into flame if you leave it open too long."

"I, uh, I think so ma'am."

"..."

"Ma'am?"

"Is there anything left of the vehicle, Corporal?"

"Nothing worth a cent. It's rust and dust. Just a - ZZZZZZZzzzZZZZZZZZZZZzzZZZZ - hole in the ground."

"Very well, Corporal. Take care of the wounded as best as you can. And be on the lookout for hostile operatives. They may be coming your way."

"What!? Say again, ma'am? What do you mean by hostile opera-" Waller put down the headset and sighed. She would have a lot of explaining to do in a few days.

---
​
The infirmary was the first building Catwoman had seen in the Fort with windows - large, two-story panes meant to let the light in. The place had an austere quality, but not at all in the rugged military way. It was like an empty church, somber and silent, though not unwelcome. The walls were white plaster and the roof was peaked. There were chimneys every ten yards. To her eyes, the buildings in camp had looked like places to merely exist, but this looked like a place where a person was meant to live. As an infirmary, she couldn't decide whether that was ironic.

They stopped at the door for a moment, watching their breath in the air, straining to hear anyone inside. It seemed deserted. There were no steps in the snow: no one had passed through in at least half an hour. The lock was barely a hindrance, but Catwoman didn't mind. She wasn't in the mood for a challenge. They gently entered.

It was a huge open hall, large enough for a hockey rink. The filtered moonlight of the windows illuminated long stripes of the floor. The whole room was filled with neat rows of bed frames.

Catwoman walked up to the nearest and swept a finger across the side. The dust was thick and layered. It hadn't been touched in years. She looked back at Batman.

"How many people did you say worked at this Fort?"

"Around one hundred and seventy."

"Then why does this infirmary have more beds than a furniture store?"

"It used to be a field hospital for-"

"Let me guess, the Flu."

He nodded. "They kept it out of the main camp for a reason."

Catwoman looked around, uncomfortable. "Uh-huh."

A sudden beam of light swept past the windows. The pair crouched and whispered simultaneously, "Truck on the bridge."

Catwoman glanced over. "Maybe they'll stop to check the Harley."

He frowned doubtfully and locked the door behind them. They kept low and crossed to the other side. This fed to a hallway of smaller examination rooms.

Catwoman asked, "Any idea where these samples might be?"

"If they're here, someone low. Secure. A basement. They won't be subtle."

"Good."

There was a distant hammering. Someone was trying to open the door.

She grimaced in disbelief. "There's no way those dolts had the chops to track us."

He looked annoyed. "They didn't. They're sweeping every building."

While they heard voices slowly spread through the rooms behind them, Batman and Catwoman slipped through the maze of paths until they found a stairwell. They descended in pitch darkness. Two floors down, there was another hallway. Here, they risked flashlights. Offices, offices, a corner, more offices, and then ...

A heavy door with a sign that read: hazardous containment.

The pair nodded to each other. Wordlessly, Catwoman started on the lock. It was leagues ahead of the other locks she had seen that night, though not ahead of her. She just needed time. They heard footsteps on the landing of the staircase. They clicked off their flashlights. Batman turned around. A lesser adventurer might beg her to hurry up. He merely waited, a calm man prepared for violence.

As the boots neared the corner, the lock clicked. Praying the hinge was smooth this time, she eased the door open. It was quiet as a feather. They slipped inside.

This room was cold. Deep, bitter, choking cold.

The footsteps approached and then stopped. There was silence. The rim of a lamp's light lit up the margin of the opening. A man in a helmet peaked his head inside. The pair pressed against the opposite corner of the door.

A breath.

Then the soldier shivered and shut the vault door behind them. The steps outside faded away.

They exhaled. Batman found a switch. The room was cramped like a walk-in closet. The air was a harsh clinical smell. The walls were metal. The bulb was dim. A sheen of frost covered every surface. There were shelves and boxes stored around them. He noticed a nigh-inaudible buzzing from the center. It was a freezer. Catwoman held back, wrapping her cape tightly around herself.

An old proverb said to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Like many old proverbs, Batman agreed with half of it. He opened the lid.

Vials. Two dozen. No slots were empty. He lifted one and read the label: Influenza.

He lowered his head in the slightest gesture of relief. "It's here."

Catwoman shivered. "Great. Let's scram." She turned and paused. "There's no knob."

"Hmm?" He put the vial back and closed the freezer.

"This door has no knob. Look."

He went beside her and examined the shut door. Indeed, the inside had no knob or lever or any feature at all. It hardly had a seam.

Batman laid a hand on the door and closed his eyes as if in pain.

Catwoman elbowed his arm and chuckled half-heartedly. "Wow. Locked inside a vault. Don't I feel dumb." She smiled modestly and looked over at him.

He glanced sideways at her for a moment then closed his eyes again.

"Nothing? No reciprocal self-deprecation? No tiny share of empathy?"

His remained a statue.

She sighed, "Nope, no empathy from the Batman. Fine, get it over with."

"What?"

"Look, I don't carry explosives. Making noise and getting caught is your cup of tea, so use a flashy Bat-bomb and melt a hole in the ceiling."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"We're not under another floor. This ceiling is well below thaw depth; at least twenty feet underground. That causes two problems. One: even a perfect cavity charge detonated upward would dislodge the tons of stone and soil above us, along with any masonry." They looked at the ceiling together. He frowned reproachfully, "And two: no, I don't carry enough explosives to displace twenty feet of stone." He thought a moment and added in a growl, "Yet."

Catwoman raised an intrigued eyebrow. She shivered again and clutched her arms to herself, trying to make it look casual. "What about the door? I'm not eager to meet the locals waiting on the other side when they hear it, but that seems to be our only option." She bit her lip in frustration, "If they just had the lock assembly on this side I would've cracked it like a First National safe and been out five minutes ago."

He gave her a deadpan look.

"I mean, we would have been out five minutes ago … to do more good deeds in the world." Catwoman nodded enthusiastically. "Guiding old ladies across the street or saving orphans from bears."

"Or helping kittens caught in cellars."

There was silence. Catwoman cocked her head incredulously.

"Do you … Did you just make a joke?"

"No."

She coughed. "I mean, it wasn't a great joke."

"I did not make a joke."

"It was a really bad joke but still, meow for effort."

Trying to change the subject, Batman leaned an ear to the door and tapped a knuckle on the metal. "The ceiling is just wooden studs covered in tin, but this door and the walls are sheeted with three-sixteenths inch mild steel." He considered this for a moment. "If we create a half-inch diameter hole in the steel here-" he pointed at a point on the door, "-we could reach a cord through and unlock the bolt. But puncturing that much steel requires about … eight-point-nine force tons on impact."

Catwoman didn't have the energy to hide her shivering now. She spoke quietly. "Can we make eight-point-nine force-tons of impact?"

He said nothing.

The last hints of mirth fell from her face. "Batman?"

"I can, but a room this size," he paused, "We'd be caught in the blast."

She said nothing.

He offered an afterthought, "So would the freezer."

"Pff. Would that be so bad?"

His voice turned darker. "Depends on how carefully they clean it up." He glared at the door. "I also have a corrosive solution, but it's not quite enough. It would just soften the metal."

She stared quietly at the ground.

Finally, he looked at her. "It's well below freezing. How long will you be alright?"

Catwoman tried to laugh but it came out as a cough. "You do have a shred of sympathy."

He head-shrugged indifferently. "You operate outdoors in winter; I assume your … outfit is moderately insulated?"

"Hey buster, my outfit is fine for what I do. Running around keeps a body warm. I don't hide in a dumpster for six hours a night."

"I'm prepared for-"

"No wonder you aren't cold, wearing a hardware store wrapped under a circus tent like that. Extra fabric is extra weight, dear, which is why I'm the quick one," she shivered too hard to talk for a moment, "... and I've proven it all sixteen times I've seen you."

"We've met fourteen times."

"Exactly."

He thought for a minute. "September 4th, mezzanine of the Opal Hotel."

"And that makes fifteen, one to go." She brushed the ice crystals off a crate and sat down, hunching under the cape like a blanket. "Heh, this must feel right at home to you."

"Why is that?"

"Sorry, just another theory my friend had. She thinks you must be a deranged sociopath hiding in some dank basement as you wait for nightfall.

"You have an interesting choice in friends."

"It's a compelling argument. You don't seem the type to need creature comforts. Or human contact. Or, you know, light."

"But you don't think so."

"I'm an open-minded sort of gal. You could be a sociopath hiding in a clock tower. Maybe the cellars beneath an opera house."

"Flattering."

"Don't take it personally. Her main theory is that you're a ghost."

"Hm." Batman looked at the walls around him. "Closer than she knows."

"That was morbid." She patted the spot beside her. "Come on, tell me another joke."

"Why?"

Catwoman rolled her eyes, "Well, if we're going to die, we might as well go out doing something unbelievable."

He carefully sat, something he virtually never did in field, and winced slightly as his sword wound burned. "I don't tell jokes."

Her voice started to slur. "Please, everybody knows a joke. You're must have overheard one at some point. Don't be a ..." She paused in confusion. "A stick in the mud."

"No."

Of course, Bruce Life-o-the-party Wayne knew a hundred jokes canned and had the wit to play off any topic one could ask. But the strain of even admitting that to himself while in the cowl could force an embolism. There were things that Batman. Did. Not. Do.

Catwoman's shivers turned briefly into a spasm and she leaned forward. He saw her lips were turning pale. She laughed faintly. "F-f-fine, I'll start. And I have the perfect one for this place."

He said nothing. She took this as a request to continue. "There's this military base. A young soldier is standing guard one night, when out of a tent comes the old general walking his dog. The soldier salutes and tells the general that he has a nice dog. The general smiles and says 'Thank you, he's a Labrador' and the soldier says 'Yes, sir'. Then the general says 'Labradors are the best kind of dog' and the soldier says 'Yes, sir'. Then the general says 'I got him for my wife' and the soldier says 'Good trade, sir'."

Batman's expression didn't change a micron. He was busy looking at the faded color in her cheeks.

She shrugged. "Well, I thought it was funny."

Batman said nothing. She continued to shiver. He looked at his hands.

Catwoman stared at the floor. Her voice was very slow now, "Sure you don't know any? Seems like we're going to be together for the rest of our lives. Might as well make the best of it."

He looked at her puzzled.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant."

"I did think of a joke once."

She mock-gasped. "Really? Thought of it all on your own?"

He frowned. "It seemed funny. You may not think so."

"Oh, now I have to hear it."

"Fine." He spoke deliberately. "What do you call a criminal falling down a staircase?"

"What?"

"Condescending."

She looked at him blankly for about three seconds, then it landed.

"HA! Condescending. Con. Descending. Condescending." She wheezed a laugh, her eyelids fluttering. "That's a good one."

"You liked it?"

"Heh. Yeah, I really did."

She fell silent for a moment. Her breathing was shallow. He could feel his own senses numbing, but he wouldn't be as far gone as her for another hour. After all, resisting the elements was why capes were invented, and he was nearly twice her mass in muscle, but that was only part of it. The dangers of temperature were psychological and psychosomatic long before they were strictly physical - a pair of twins raised apart in Finland and Panama would attest to that. There was no such thing as a superpower, but there were methods to build a tolerance of the cold. A man could will himself warm for a time if he had the training, and she did not.

With her eyes heavy-lidded, Catwoman spoke again, "Now that we're having so much fun, do you want to see a movie sometime?" She sounded very tired. He decided to humor her.

"What do you have in mind?"

She shrugged, eyes now closed. "The Philadelphia Story is out in a week or two. Heard of it?"

"I've seen a poster."

"Just think, Cary Grant: the quintessential leading man. Then Jimmy Stewart, oh! Always a gem. And Hepburn, naturally. Katherine Hepburn. Isn't she beautiful? That lady is a national treasure."

He nodded. Her skin was nearly white. She had stopped shivering.

"It's going to be a laugh and a half. Should be grand." Catwoman started to nod forward, half-awake.

She was going into shock. He knew she gravely needed heat. Batman lifted a hand and moved it toward her shoulder. He frowned and stopped. Then he began to put an arm across her back, but paused and pulled it away before he touched her. He went to do it again, but again retreated. He sat in thought. Then he unfastened his cape and leaned over to gently wrap it around her shoulders.

Fed up with his indecision, she feebly grabbed his arm and pulled it around her.

---
​
Time passed.

He wasn't sure how much. Twenty seconds or ten minutes, it didn't seem to matter. A faint corner of his mind berated him for such ill-discipline. He was usually so good with time. The chill must be getting to him.

He had faced death before, usually quick, but a few just as slow. He didn't want to die. He still feared death, still felt despair and dread as keenly as anyone. But even so, this was an odd feeling, a strange way to go.

---
​
When the answer came, he didn't have energy left to hate himself. He still called himself an imbecile, a child, a fraud saved by the dumb luck of inspiration. He told himself that he deserved to fail. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? A half-wit would have thought of it sooner. But there was no passion behind this. Self-loathing that mild was reflex.

He stood. Catwoman was asleep by this point. Thinking sluggishly, he tried to recall some classroom heuristics. Guesses, really. Eight-point-nine force tons. How much would it be reduced?

... Enough. It would have to be enough.

Trembling, he pulled a small glass container from his belt and poured a powder into it. Then he pressed the container opening against the door. The solution frothed violently and the point of contact started to smoke. Batman held his breath and turned away until it was done. He fanned the last fumes and put away the container. There was now a circular pockmark in the door, not quite a hole.

He settled himself, drawing his body low, balancing his frame. He moved his arms through a few poses, harnessing their flow, steadying his pulse. He inhaled and drew his shoulder back.

With a harsh bark, his muscles uncoiled. Every proper joint engaged. His body weight turned like a triphammer and launched the middle knuckle of a perfect fist through the steel.

[Simon_Jester]

Stewart, you are GOOD at this, balancing the scene where Batman and Catwoman agree to go on a hug and give each other a date... with the scene where Batman successfully punches through steel.

[Stewart M]

Stewart, you are GOOD at this, balancing the scene where Batman and Catwoman agree to go on a hug and give each other a date... with the scene where Batman successfully punches through steel.

Thank you.

[Simon_Jester]

Well, it's like, many people would do a good job at one, or the other. Doing both at the same time is rather creative as a way to distinguish your story from others.

Also, are you trying to evoke the tone of the DCAU? Because the dialogue just screams "Timm-esque" to me.

[Stewart M]

Well, it's like, many people would do a good job at one, or the other. Doing both at the same time is rather creative as a way to distinguish your story from others.

Also, are you trying to evoke the tone of the DCAU? Because the dialogue just screams "Timm-esque" to me.

Am I trying to evoke the tone of the DCAU?

No. Timm is certainly an influence, but my take on the characters isn't modeled on any particular comic/movie/game/show/lunchbox continuity. Occasionally, I'll deliberately steal tiny bits here and there, but never wholesale.

[Simon_Jester]

Hm. To be more precise, something about the tone of the humor of the exchanges between the characters is Timm-ish to me. Or perhaps what Timmverse dialogue would sound like, if it wasn't operating within the constraints of keeping overall dialogue length short.

[Stewart M]

Hm. To be more precise, something about the tone of the humor of the exchanges between the characters is Timm-ish to me. Or perhaps what Timmverse dialogue would sound like, if it wasn't operating within the constraints of keeping overall dialogue length short.

I was going to say, that's a chief difference. Who knows what he and the other screenwriters would sound like if they could talk for paragraphs? It's especially difficult to guess considering so much of his dialogue (mostly in the several Batman runs, less so for the Justice League) is clearly drawn from either pulp noir or vaudeville/old Hollywood styles, both of which had a heyday in the 30s and 40s when this story is set. Everyone mentions how the visual design in BTAS is deliberately timeless, but I think it goes deeper than that.

Regardless, if my humor reminds you of his work, that's certainly a complement to me.

[Stewart M]

Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold

Chapter 15: Doors Closing​

Catwoman woke up in stages.

Still in the dark, her first sensation was pressure. There was a stifling weight across her chest and limbs. Each breath was a struggle.

Her second sensation was that she was breathing. That was nice.

After a cottony passage of time, her mind sputtered to life, cycling slowly through a few memories and thoughts. Cold. Fear. Disease. A pair of arms. A fight. A joke. Bodies on slabs. Anger. Snow. Watchtowers. Zorro.

Then she remembered the pain. Or the pain remembered her, since there was no question who was in charge. Her back was putty thrown under a tractor. From head to toe, her clammy skin itched like ant-bites. Her joints ached. There were sore spots on her forehead.

As she struggled to tolerate the pain, she heard the hissing. It was a low noise, the sibilating susurration of whispers and sighs. There was a crackling too, a subharmonic of gravel on foil.

She opened her eyes.

It was a small dark room. She couldn't move her arms. Batman was crouched a distance away, holding a table lamp over some device.

Catwoman tried to talk. It came out a hoarse cough. He moved to her side, placing the lamp nearby.

She tried again, "H- Hi." She offered an awkward half-smile with the side of her mouth that still worked.

He looked down impassively. "How do you feel?"

"I've had worse days." She tried to shrug and winced. "Admittedly, not many."

"Any numbness?"

"You know that pinprick feeling when your foot falls asleep?"

"Yes."

"I feel that in my ... everything."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Discomfort means the nerve endings are intact. It'll pass."

"Oh. Good." She took the opportunity to raise her head and look down. Her body was covered with a stack of six wool blankets. The weight was keeping her from moving. "Where did-"

"Supply closet. You were in shock."

"Right, then ... wait ... wait a second." Catwoman wiggled her fingers. "Did you take my gloves?"

"To check for frostbite."

"My ... hold on ... is that ... and my boots?"

"Frostbite and gangrene. Had to check your hands and feet for gangrene. They're-"

"Is privacy not a concept on your planet?"

"They're especially vulnerable."

"No, I get it."

"And they're fine."

"My feet are fine?"

"You're extremities are fine. No gangrene."

"Great. Thanks. Boo gangrene." She nodded thoughtfully. "So, uh, what happened?"
​
---


Fourteen minutes ago.

Batman settled himself, drawing his body low. He inhaled and pulled his shoulder back. With a harsh bark, his muscles uncoiled. Turning like a triphammer, he launched the middle knuckle of a perfect fist through the steel target. A circle of distended metal the size of a half dollar shot though the wooden body of the door like a cork from a bottle. A rain of splinters followed, dusting the hallway.

Batman fell to a knee, his face contorted in pain. "Aughghh."

The red haze passed. He took a few harsh breaths. Probable fractures in the second and third metacarpals. Wrist sprain. Bruising. Swelling imminent.

Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet and knocked over a wire frame shelf. Boxes scattered to the floor. He stepped on the shelf and gripped a wire leg with his good hand. Batman strained upward and slowly pried the wire out. Then, bending it against his knee, he crimped the end into a hook. He fed the wire through the hole in the door, caught the handle, and twisted.

He didn't need to kick the door open, but he felt like it.

It wasn't easy pulling Catwoman over his shoulders with one arm, but she was lighter than most people he had to carry. Setting her briefly down outside, he bit his glove off. A shred of cape severed as a makeshift hand wrap. He pulled it tight with his teeth. It would hold for a few hours.​

---

"So, uh, what happened?"

"I managed to open the door then lifted you out."

"How'd you do that?"

"Basic fireman's carry."

"No, I meant the door. How did you open it?"

"The corrosive agent was stronger than I expected."

"Nice. How long have I been, you know ..."

"Not long."

"So what now?" She tried to prop herself up on an elbow. "I think I can run if-"

He held out a hand. "Rest. When we make our move, I need you at your best. You dodged a bullet as it is."

"Heh heh. I think I already-"

He frowned. "A metaphorical bullet. Not in addition to the literal bullets earlier, obviously."

"Fine. I'll take it easy a little while, Doctor Batman. We're safe here?"

"We have time. The patrol's off our trail."​

---

Eleven minutes ago.

Batman plodded in a gray fog. It wasn't difficult finding an office and placing Catwoman on the desk, but that was only half the battle. Now he had to find something warm. There was no hot water in the building. In fact, the infirmary hadn't housed the infirm in years; any provisions left behind would be an accident, or in his case, a miracle.

He was seconds away from breaking more furniture to start a fire when he found the supply closet. Its hallway was lit by a line of old-fashioned sconces, and he almost missed it. It was eminently the supply closet, not a supply closet, because every other closet in the building seemed to be empty.

Having stuffed as many coarse green hospital blankets under an arm as he could, Batman shuffled out the door, turned, and found himself face-to-face with Specialist Russell Pritchard.

Specialist Pritchard was tired. His feet hurt. He missed his fiancé, and his girlfriend, and his dog (though not in that order). The radio on his back chaffed something fierce. This had to be his tenth time down this drafty hallway.

Then he ran into a huge, fearsome figure walking out of a closet with some stolen blankets. They saw each other. Pritchard gaped. "Hey!"

Batman threw the blankets in his face. Then he tucked an arm and shoulder-checked the soldier into the wall, breaking the sconce. The glass hit the ground. The soldier yelled and tried to paw the wool from his eyes. Batman seized his rifle and used it for a leg sweep. Specialist Pritchard, still yelling, tripped and swung with a blind haymaker on the way down. Batman took it to the ribs and stumbled back. Pritchard scrambled like a turtle to roll off his radio and launched at Batman's knees. They both tumbled.

Batman landed on his wrapped fist and cried out. The Specialist yelled even louder, no longer in fear but in bloodlust, throwing careless punches in a rage.

"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM, SLIME? I'M THE LIGHTNING AND THE THUNDER! I'M RUSTY PRITCHARD! AND WHEN YOU ENTER THE HOUSE OF PRITCHARD, YOU SEAL YOUR DOOM!"

Batman groaned, partly from the pain in his ribs but mostly from the shtick. He ran into these every so often: walking delusions of grandeur who needed to vent an overactive pathos gland, bellowing oaths like he was their fated antagonist in life's grand opera. It wasn't the weirdest way he had seen strangers react to him, but it was high on the list.

"TASTE THE PAIN! DRINK IT DOWN!"

He took a few hits as he tried to clear his thoughts. As huge as the infirmary was, backup could only be moments away. He was injured, running blind, and he still had an ally incapacitated. If this grunt or his team managed to get a message out, the whole Fort would be on him in minutes. The radio would be a ... the radio!

A plan weaved itself together. Batman kept his arms up, staving off the blows as gently as possible. The longer this Pritchard talked, the better. He couldn't end things too quickly. Putting up modest resistance, Batman moved to the wall and stood up. The soldier kept up the attack. "I WILL BURN YOUR CROPS AND SALT YOUR FIELDS!" Batman ducked past a headbutt and caught the soldier in a rear bear hug. The soldier predictably threw his arms up and turned - a valid counter, but also half the motion of sliding out of his shoulder straps. "YOU CAN'T CATCH A FORCE OF NATURE!" Batman let go, grabbed the radio backpack, and yanked it off. He smacked the soldier in the nose with it. The man fell backwards and landed on a blanket. Batman dropped the radio, threw the other end of the blanket over the soldier like a roll of salami, and held him down with an elbow. Then with his free hand, Batman unspooled a length of rope from his utility belt, bit through the middle to separate a piece, and tied it one-handed around the blanket roll.

"MMmmmMmmmMM! YOU FIEND! YOU FIEND! COUNT YOUR HOURS, 'CAUSE I'M BRINGING THE HAMMER DOWN!" Batman scooped up the blanket-load and awkwardly tossed it into the closet. "THEN YOU'LL FEEL THE WRATH OF - URFF! ... OW! ... THAT WAS MY FUNNY BONE!"

There was a clatter of approaching footsteps. The other three members of the infirmary search team had heard Specialist Pritchard from the first bleating of his theatrical debut. They could have arrived in seconds had they known the way, but they had never been in the building before, the lighting was bad even by Great War standards, and the walls had a nasty echo. The three eventually reached the hallway of their trapped compatriot at nearly the same time. Weapons ready, they jogged toward the sound and saw that one of the lights was broken, there was a pile of blankets and a radio on the floor, and across from them was an open closet.

Holding out a light, they peered into the large supply closet.

They saw a loud hospital blanket trying to stand. "-SO WHEN I CATCH YOU, YOU - GEFF! - PLETH! PLETH! BLEEHGH! I THINK I ATE A THREAD!"

The soldiers rushed in to untie Specialist Pritchard. Batman, propped between the walls above the door, dropped silently down behind them, stepped out into the hall, closed the door, and bent the knob. There was a bookcase nearby. He quickly pushed it in front of the door and knocked it over so it was pinned against the far wall. A body bounced off the other side of the door, but his barricade held. After a few seconds of silence, there was a rifle shot and a new hole in the door. Then several more holes appeared. Then one of the shots ricocheted off a hinge and bounced inside the closet. No one was hit, but there were no more shots after that.​

---

Catwoman closed her eyes and tried to relax.

"I'll take it easy a little while, Doctor Batman. We're safe here?"

"We have time. The patrol's off our trail."

She cracked open an eye. "You scared them away?"

"More or less."

"You're not worried they'll call for help?"

He held up a radio backpack. "I doubt it."

"I knew I heard something crackling when I woke up."

"I've been eavesdropping on broadcasts around camp."

"Naturally." She nodded sleepily. "You think you're the smartest person on Earth, don't you?"

"Of course not."

She looked up patiently and raised an eyebrow.

He faced her for a moment then looked away with a noise that wasn't quite a snort. "Some days."

"So. Any juicy news?"

"Unfortunately."​


---

Seven minutes ago.

Batman smoothed down the blankets around her shoulders. Catwoman's breathing was steady, but her skin was still very pale. His lips drew tight. He had seen victims who didn't possess half her constitution pull though graver shocks than this, but such cases were always touch and go. It would have to suffice.

He pulled away the desk chair and collapsed on it, preparing to restitch his sword wound. Eyes closed, he proceeded in silence. Needle in. Needle out. Needle in. Needle out. Needle in. Needle out. Cut. Clean gauze. Tape. It burned, of course. The flesh along the edge of the cut had been rubbed raw from hours of movement, scabbing and pulling apart, and now two attempts at being sewn tight. It would have to do.

He left the dirty gauze on the floor. Anonymity was a beautiful ideal, but compromises had to be made. One he accepted long ago was blood. Scrubbing all trace of himself off the dirt and concrete of the world was impossible. He had to leave it in the field, and this was tolerable. Serology was a rare discipline. Even if a forensics expert found his plasma type, that left several thousand men of his stature in the city alone to sift through. The risk didn't keep him up at night.

He sat and rested, letting his breathing slow, centering his energy. He had just a little further, then he would be out of the woods. And when he slept, he would be too damaged to dream. He could tell. The prospect warmed him a tiny bit.

The radio hissed on. "SzzzsSSSZz - Dixie Squad, Dixie Squ -ZZzz - is Base Camp Alpha, come in Dixie Squad, over."

Batman picked up the handset and readied himself. He had only heard the man yelling, and his mimicry chops were badly out of practice. He toggled the receiver. The voice that left his mouth wasn't a perfect match for Specialist Russell Pritchard. The man's dog would know the difference, probably his fiancé too. But at least the timbre was spot on, and the pitch was decent. It was enough for radio.

"Uh, this is Specialist Pritchard. Hey there, Alpha, what can I do you for?"

"Cut - ZSSZsz - mall talk, Specialist. You're three minutes lat -SSzzss - your scheduled call-in. What's your malfunction?"

"Sorry Alpha. We've been real focused out here is all. Sarge didn't want to us makin' too much noise, you know? Thought he saw something a few minutes ago. Trying to keep our ears to the ground and all that."

"You know bet - FSsssssZssSsf - ot your call to make, Specialist! You and your team better shape up. Put the Sargent on the h -SSSzzzZZZs."

"Uh, negatory Alpha. The team's split. Sarge headed down to the basement level last I saw. I'm the only man at the entrance. Can't move without leaving our rear open." Batman took a deep breath. "If you maybe sent a few more boys this way, we wouldn't be so spread out."

"Gosh d - SSSzzzsszssssszzsz - Specialist! I told you before, we're spread thin everywhere. The infirmary is not our only priority. Hold your post and - SSzzszszzZffZ - the moment your noncom shows his mug. And don't be late with your report next time! That's twenty-one minutes from now. Base Camp Alpha out."

Batman lowered the handset and exhaled. Alfred would flay him if he heard acting that bad. And that was a stupid bluff. Utterly unnecessary. He slid through on dumb luck. He hated relying on luck.

He took a knee and played with the radio, checking on Catwoman from time to time. With a little tweaking, he occasionally picked up reports from the private channels of other squads. Batman had a keen mental map of the Fort. With the help of the radio, he gradually added different units to his map as they announced their position and heading. Forming plans like other men breathed, he contemplated paths around them, like navigating rocks in a stream.

Then all his imagined paths collapsed.

"Szzzsszs - Attention! This is an open call for assistance to all Fort personnel. If - szzZZzzszz - ctical unit is near sector nine, I say again, if any tactical unit is near the south forest, Rescue Team Charlie needs immediate aide. We have - zsSsszs - tiple wounded and two of Charlie's stretchers broke. They need some extra hands."

Batman readied another voice. "Base Camp, this is-" He hissed into the receiver for a minute, "-near the eastern edge of sector nine. Moving with all speed towards Rescue Team Charlie. Little dark out here, Alpha. What am I looking for?"

"Uh, repeat that, soldier. Who is this?"

"This is-" Batman hissed into the receiver a little longer, "-under the command of-" More hissing, "-now how can I help?"

"You're breaking up - sszzffFzzzZzsss - eposition your antenna. We didn't think any of you off-Fort patrols had swung that far -zzzSSzzszs."

"We've been double-timing it, Base Camp."

"Then keep pushing west. You should see a bonfire any second now. All the trees are broken. Probably car parts on the ground. Can't miss it."

"On it, Alpha. What was that about a car?"

"The Special Reconna - ffzzffffff - eam went to a report of a car found in the woods. - SSSSSSsssSSS - an explosion. Now it's a wreck. Ask them when you get there."

"... You got it Alpha. Out."

Batman put down the radio. He suddenly felt very cold.​


---

"Any juicy news?"

"Unfortunately."

Her grin fell a degree. "What happened?"

He only paused a moment. "The car's gone."

"Um. What?"

"The Ford. It's destroyed."

"How did-"

"I don't know what happened."

"But then-"

"I don't know."

"Then how are we getting out?"

"I ..." He grit his teeth. "Tell me again how you feel."

"I'm in the best shape of my life, handsome. Heck, I'm in the best shape of most people's lives."

"Catwoman."

She looked down and lifted her arms over the blankets. Her skin was still too pale. "I can run. Maybe another hour. Not looking forward to climbing down that cliff, but I'll do it." She laughed sadly until she coughed. "For all the good that would do."

"I have another plan."

"Great. What?"

He looked down, his voice slow with heavy conviction. "We need to share what we discovered here. The mission is everything."

"Not my usual philosophy, but sure. So what?"

"Even at our best, we couldn't make it out on foot. Fort Morrison has only a few vehicles that go through snow. There's a motor pool and airfield a quarter of a mile northeast of this infirmary towards the gate. You should be able to find a heavy truck inside. Ram the gate."

She eyed him for a moment. Her voice lowered. "I should find a truck?"

"I'll be-"

"You better not say what I think you're about to."

"Listen carefully. The briefcase is beside the door. I added a few items while you were asleep. Take it with you. Once you're back in Gotham," Batman paused, but there was no way around this, "I have a collaborator in the police. A detective. His address is on the case. It's imperative that he sees it in the next day and a half. That's all I ask."

"Yeah? And what about you?"

Batman stared evenly. "The Army knows we're on this side of the bridge. They've saturated all routes between us and the gate with sentries and patrols. I'll draw-"

"No."

"I'll draw them away. Use that opening to leave with the evidence."

"No! We'll make the run together. We can beat a few more patrols."

"No. We can't."

"What if," She mouthed silently in search of an idea, "What if we fly!"

"Excuse me?"

"You said there's an airfield. Airfields have aircraft. We skip the gate. I bet you know how to fly."

He did, technically. It was once, a commercial single engine. And it was five years ago. He shook his head.

"Not in this weather. Not in the dark. Even if they have a plane fueled in the hanger, it will be an old military model."

"So? A plane's a plane. It'll fly."

"You don't get it. In these conditions, it would be nothing more than a useless relic of a bygone age."

"Like badminton."

He gave a passionate nod. "Precisely."

"Fine, then what's your masterful plan once you make a scene? You always get through, after all."

He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic. "I'll cross the bridge. Cause havoc to draw attention. Security will converge on me."

"Then?"

"Once you've had an opening, I'll escape."

"How?"

"We'll see."

"We'll see?"

"Get home. Rest. Reconvene tonight, same time and place."

"Come on, let's think about this a little." She noticed his right hand was clenched. That was strange, even by his standards. She strained to sit up and caught his arm. "What happened here?"

He fumed in frustration. The woman couldn't even stay on a topic she started. "Nothing."

"Not nothing. What?"

"Just an ache."

He tried to gently pull away, but she held fast and moved his arm closer to the light.

"Hold still."

"Catwoman, what are you doing?"

After some struggle, she wiggled his glove off. There was a tight wrap around his fist. The knuckles and wrist were badly swelled. Even in the dim, she couldn't miss the ugly discoloration. Catwoman recognized it as a classic boxer's injury, but a more hideous case than she'd ever seen.

She gaped. "What happened?"

"I told you earlier I opened the vault door with a chemical."

"And?"

He pulled away and fit his glove back on. "It took a little more than that."

A misbehaving corner of her mind whispered that this was the first time she had seen his hand. What old wounds did the rest of the costume hide? Batman had been Batman-ing at least a year; she knew he had been through worse than this. What was holding the man together? Stubbornness and scar tissue? No wonder he covered up like a photophobic Puritan.

"That looks bad. Maybe you should wait. We can find some ice for it."

He moved to the door. "Keep the radio on. They'll announce when I'm sighted and order the patrols back to the camp. When you hear that, go."

She called over his shoulder. "I heard you were bulletproof; I didn't know you were invulnerable to criticism!"

He didn't look back as he walked out.​

[FaxModem1]

I'm enjoying the story. Love the new chapters. One small correction.

Colonel Abner Tanner crossed his arms and inspected his troops again. The Army was out of shape; peace and poverty did that to a country. The ranks were cluttered with too many old officers - paper-pushers, most of them. On the bright side, the draft was pumping fresh blood into the system. Wheels were turning the right direction. He just prayed it wasn't too late.

Unless my history is totally off base, the US didn't have a draft in effect until after their entry into WWII.

Or does the US government have a draft going on during peacetime in this story?