Truth & Justice II #9

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The Multiverse Presents

Truth & Justice II #9

Written by JC Roberts (Calamityjamie)

Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

Multiverse logo created by Tony Peterson (Starfall)

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Snow dusted the old stone walls and wrought iron railing of Lian and Martha’s apartment building minutes after the muted sun faded into a gray evening. Wind sweeping across the street battered the thin, loose pane of glass separating Lian from a cold city. The window rattled in irritating counterpoint to the thump of base from the apartment below, where a perennial graduate student was blasting some sort of horrible death metal music.

Lian hugged her throbbing, plaster-encased right arm with her good left one and gazed out of the window. Her breath contacted the glass and a small oval of fog formed on the pane. She rubbed it off with the palm of her hand.

Her father elbowed her gently and handed her a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “I don’t think she’s going to get any action if they see you standing here trying to spy on them,” he said.

Lian turned eagerly toward Roy, almost spilling the scalding liquid. “You think she’s gonna get action?”

Roy shook his head, laughing softly. “No,” he said.

She frowned and walked over to set the mug on the coffee table. “God, they’re screwed up,” she said.

“And the rest of us are so very healthy,” Roy said with an affectionate smile that dissolved instantly when he saw his daughter’s face tighten. “What’s wrong?”

She folded her arm over the cast again and watched fat snowflakes pile rapidly onto the small rectangular window over the kitchen sink. “Am I a disappointment?” She struggled to keep her voice even.

Roy closed his eyes for a moment, then walked over and touched a callused palm to Lian’s cheek.

“You’re spending even one second worrying about something the Joker said?” he asked. Lian tried to look away, but Roy gently forced her eyes back to his. “And just to make sure you don’t think I’m being evasive, that’s an ‘absolutely not’.”

Lian took his hand from her cheek, gave it a squeeze and stepped away. Roy pretended not to see the relieved tears in her eyes.

“I do worry about you, though,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

She lifted her head and flashed him a cocky smile. Roy marveled at her ability to get herself together so quickly.

“Well, don’t,” she said.

Roy hesitated. “You know that program’s still…”

“Dad,” said Lian, “I’m all right.” She gripped the left arm of the sofa, eased herself down carefully and reached for the hot chocolate. “How’s Midori?”

“She’s been back in the lab for two days,” Roy said. He grinned. “I never imagined she’d end up so tough.”

“And Meera?” Lian asked. “She won’t come to the phone.”

Roy lost his smile. He sat gingerly on the couch, taking care not to jostle his injured daughter.

“Maybe you girls could go up and try to visit her again,” he said. “She’s not doing so well.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Bruce’s Jag seemed to pick up speed along with the falling snow, which was now tumbling across the sky like wet confetti. It didn’t bother Martha, as he was plainly the best driver on the road, but she did note with amusement that at least three other vehicles had pulled over rather than try to match his velocity.

“I’m sorry about the dinner thing,” he said without taking his eyes off of the slushy asphalt. “I meant to call ahead and ask them for a vegetarian platter, but...”

“It’s been a busy few weeks,” Martha said. “And the salad was awesome.”

He glanced over at her, then refocused on the road, swinging around a timid motorist who was rolling down the street at about five miles an hour. “Do you want to go somewhere and get something –?”

She looked tempted. “I can’t. I promised I’d be back by 8:30.” I promised Josh. She should have said his name.

Bruce nodded and made the left hand turn onto her street. “Thank you for coming, Martha. And for getting me out of there.”

“It’s all right,” she said, and he shot her a tight grin.

“It was ‘interesting’, wasn’t it?” he asked. Then he lifted his head slightly, squinted through the snowflake-studded windshield and pulled over to the curb a block before they reached her apartment. Martha gave him an apprehensive, questioning look.

"I think that's your boyfriend," he said, nodding to a car parked directly in front of the entrance to Martha's building. "Doesn't he trust me?"

She played with the hem of her dress. "Not really," she mumbled.

Bruce’s gloved fingers tightened around the steering wheel, but his tone remained light. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said. “Once you get a bad reputation, it never lets you go.”

“I’ll never be a playboy,” Martha promised with the same mock gravity.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Lian thrust the mug of hot chocolate onto the coffee table with a splash and leapt to her feet, licking the blistering liquid from a knuckle as she listened to the footsteps in the corridor. She ignored her father’s chuckle and looked eagerly to the opening door, but Martha walked into the apartment with Josh.

Lian managed to close her mouth before her original question escaped and brightly said, “Hi, Josh!” before giving him an uncustomary hug that startled him and painfully banged her cast.

Roy stood, grinning, and Martha introduced the men. Josh, who having survived his encounter with Batman now considered it a great adventure, was delighted to meet a second member of the Justice League in so short a period of time.

Martha headed into her bedroom to change out of her silk dress and Lian followed her with shameless curiosity, shutting the door over the sound of her father groaning, “Don’t call me Mr. Harper…”

As soon as they were alone, Martha turned to her roommate with a resigned sigh.

“Well?” Lian asked.

“Well, what?” replied Martha. Before her roommate could respond, she added, “It was a favor, Lian.” She bent to the floor and picked up the pair of jeans she’d abandoned hours earlier.

Lian ignored her. “How was it? The dinner.”

Martha joggled on the jeans and began searching for her drawers for a blouse. “Weird. When I was in the bathroom, I overheard some women wondering what escort service Bruce got me from.”

“Bitches,” Lian said, scowling.

“So I stepped out of the stall,” said Martha, “and told them I was from the same service where all of the doctors moonlighted.”

“Good for you,” said Lian. “How did that go over?”

Martha shrugged into a peach-colored sweater. “When they found out I was a psychiatrist, they started telling me all of their problems.”

“No, they didn’t,” said Lian.

“If my pager hadn’t gone off, I’d probably still be in that bathroom,” Martha said. “I told them I wasn’t that kind of psychiatrist, but some of those women are really troubled.” She sat on the bed and reached for her cleanest pair of sneakers. “And when I finally got out of there, Bruce was looking like he wanted to punch this guy.”

“Why?” asked Lian.

“He wouldn’t tell me.” Martha unclipped her hair and shook it free, then moved over to the mirror in front of the dresser and reached for a brush. “I probably won’t be back until tomorrow night. Josh wants to spend the weekend together.”

As her roommate reached for the doorknob, Lian said, “Bruce looked terrible in that tux, didn’t he?”

Martha’s hand fell from the knob.

“You should have made him take it off,” Lian said.

Martha didn’t laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and went to join her boyfriend.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

“Nice guy, that Josh,” Roy said a few minutes later, as Lian scrubbed at the blotch of hot chocolate that had spread across the coffee table. “Crazy about Martha.”

“Yep,” Lian replied, experimentally sliding one of her roommate’s Buddha sculptures over the stain, which seemed to have become ingrained into the wood.

“Tell her to break up with him,” Roy said.

Lian’s eyes flew to his.

“She’s not in love with him,” he said. “It’s not fair to keep leading him on.”

“You could tell that in one minute?” Lian asked.

“I could tell that in one minute,” said her father.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Bruce did not usually worry about whether contractors were cheating him, but he was sure the repairs to his home should have been finished by now. He looked at his watch. He needed the house quiet in less than an hour and the foreman or whatever he was called on so small a job had just added two days to his estimate of a completion date.

“Maybe I should make them leave for a few days,” Bruce said to Alfred.

“You could, sir,” Alfred said, “but there is that hole in the wall. And the plywood really isn’t keeping the chill out.”

Bruce looked at his watch again.

“It’s quite all right,” Alfred continued. “I’ve prepared several of the rooms in the East Wing – including that lovely little enclosed sun porch we hardly use. I can promise you Dr. Kent will enjoy her Christmas present there without the off-putting cacophony of power tools.”

“She’ll like it?” Bruce looked at him uncertainly.

Alfred put down his dust cloth and offered Bruce a smile that started deep in the back of his light blue eyes and ended in the highest furrows of his dimpled cheeks. “I’m quite proud of you. I cannot imagine a more fitting gift.”

Bruce smiled briefly at the carpet and asked, “Has she called?”

“A few moments ago,” said Alfred. “She said she’d be delayed slightly, as Dr. Persky has just reshuffled her entire schedule. Part of the plan, I imagine?” he added, as Bruce’s smile deepened. “And then she just had to run to the hospital wing to visit Mr. Dent.”

“Did she say how he was doing?” Bruce asked. Of all of the Joker’s intended victims, Harvey had come the closest to dying.

“Still very weak, she says, but well enough to make inappropriate wisecracks,” Alfred said. “It’s very fortunate he was able to stuff that dreadful toy out through his meal slot.”

It had not been too fortunate for the guard who had been passing out food a few cells away, thought Bruce. But Harvey had not known he was out there. And anyway, a permanent grin was hardly something to complain about when you managed to hang onto your life.

Alfred excused himself to prepare dinner and Bruce headed over to the East Wing to check out the sun porch. He had not been back there in months and he wanted to make sure everything was just right.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Martha shifted the bottle of Pinot Noir to her left arm and rang the doorbell again. Ordinarily, she would have let herself in through the kitchen, but Alfred had made some excuse about not wanting her to know what was cooking and was adamant that she use the front door. He had also insisted she break a date with Josh to come tonight – that had not gone over well – and that she make sure to call before she left Arkham.

She knew it might take several minutes until Alfred made it to the door, but the wet wind was tangling her hair and she’d had a trying afternoon. Persky had pushed through her door at two in the afternoon with a re-arranged work schedule, which, on the plus side, had her off for the next few days, but which forced her to cram about eight hours of work into three if she was going to be on time for dinner.

Martha was about to give up and trudge around to the service entrance when the door swung open. Rather than Alfred or Bruce, however, a genial looking middle-aged Asian man in a Notre Dame sweatshirt stood smiling at her.

“Come in,” he said warmly. She did so, masking her bemusement poorly. Martha scanned the small foyer for a more familiar presence. Finding none, she turned back to the beaming stranger.

“You must be Martha?” he asked. He had a slight, melodic accent. A vague and unreachable memory stirred in the back of Martha’s mind.

“Um, yeah,” she said in polite confusion. “Are you one of the contractors?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m a friend of Bruce’s.” He extended a hand. “You can call me Pat.”

Martha’s legs crumpled. A strong pair of hands caught her from behind and hauled her up by her elbows.

“Merry Christmas,” Bruce whispered into her ear.

Martha’s mouth moved a few times, but she seemed unable to produce sound. Bruce’s friend gave her a concerned glance, then raised eyebrows at his host.

“Jangbu Sangye, this is Martha Kent,” Bruce said. “She can usually stand and talk.”

The Fifteenth Dalai Lama took Martha’s hand in two large warm ones. “Nice to meet you, Martha Kent.”

“It’s so great to meet you,” said Martha, finding her feet and her voice at the same time. “Your Holiness,” she added quickly as her composure started to return.

He held up a hand. “Please…”

“Give it up,” said Bruce, locking the front door. “She’s not going to call you ‘Pat’.”

Alfred stepped into the foyer, his eyes gleaming. “Now that everyone is present,” he said, “shall we proceed to the dining room?”

Martha had assumed that her present was simply meeting the Dalai Lama, and dining with him, and this was more than she could possibly have wanted. Although she was not a Tibetan Buddhist, she considered Jangbu Sangye a great hero, not only for having negotiated the desperately longed for autonomy of Tibet, but for his lifetime of peaceful works and teachings. When Bruce had told her the previous year, that he had spent some time as Sangye’s roommate at Notre Dame, she had been impressed, but she had not taken seriously his offer to introduce her. They had not been friends at the time.

“So I hope,” said Pat to Martha, as Alfred laded corn soup into his bowl, “that you are ready for our little retreat.”

Martha blinked at him, then looked to Bruce for clarification.

“Three days. You and the Dalai Lama,” said Bruce.

Martha’s eyes returned to Pat. “Really?” she asked. Her voice was several octaves higher than usual.

Pat smiled. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here closer to Christmas. You see, the Pope had asked me to celebrate with him before Bruce called to invite me to Gotham City.”

As soon as she managed to find her once again misplaced voice, Martha assured him that his timing was perfect.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Although Pat enjoyed wearing western clothes when he was a guest at Wayne Manor, he sensed that the retreat would feel more authentic to Martha if he wore his usual monk’s robes. He met her at dawn the next day in his traditional attire and led her in a series of meditations, chants and discussions until well after sunset. In much the same way that she had let her physical training slide until Bruce instigated their Sunday morning sessions, Martha had been slacking on her daily meditation practice since she’d come to Gotham. She vowed to herself and to the Dalai Lama that she would devote herself to an hour of meditation a day.

Pat had smiled. “I know it is sometimes hard,” he said. “But it would be very helpful if you would do that.”

Bruce would not let her patrol on these evenings. He had insisted she finish her all-day sessions with Pat with a cup of Tibetan butter tea and a peaceful night’s rest. He did not see the point in Martha spending her days bathed in the glow of loving-kindness and equanimity if she was going to have to punch people all night.

He did not participate in most of the retreat, though he did show up occasionally for a mediation session or a meal. The present had meant to be for Martha, not for himself and he did not want to take away from the exclusiveness of the gift. At Bruce’s request, Lian had shown up an hour after dinner the first night with a duffel bag full of Martha’s clothing. She had stayed only briefly and to Bruce’s relief, she had not flirted with the Dalai Lama.

He was also relieved that Alfred had placed both of his guests in first-floor bedrooms near the East Wing. Bruce was having enough trouble dealing with the ardent gratitude Martha expressed the few times they’d had a moment alone together. Had his ordinarily meddlesome butler moved her into the bedroom next to his, Bruce suspected the retreat would have become a considerably less spiritual experience than he had intended.

While at home, he spent most of his waking time in a small equipment room in the Batcave, working on a fighting suit he had been preparing for months for his inevitable showdown with Sean Fray. On Pat’s last day at the manor, as Bruce sat hunched over one of the sleeves, he heard Martha’s sneakered feet behind him.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Bruce smiled inwardly. Her tone had become appreciably more serene over the last few days. Pat had that effect on people. He did not turn around. “Pat almost ready to go?”

“Yeah.” She slid a stool next to his, settled onto it and started to speak.

“Don’t thank me again,” Bruce said without lifting his head. She smiled. A sideways glance told him it was safe to look at her. Her warm eyes were filled with a tranquility that did not change when he met them with his own.

“Any news on him lately?” she asked, nodding at the suit.

“Actually, yeah,” Bruce said. “He’s been more active since the Joker ‘disappeared’ from the science center.”

“Recruiting?” asked Martha. Most of the Joker’s henchmen were either dead or in jail, but a few of them had escaped.

“No.” Bruce turned back to the suit. “He’s pretty much a loner and his experience with the Joker didn’t inspire him to change that. He’s been collecting things. Gathering up some materials he plans to use to finish me off.”

Martha shook her head. “Must be flattering to know there’s someone out there who thinks only of you.”

Bruce reached for a small hand-held welding tool that looked something like a dentist’s drill. “He wants to be famous. And I kind of screwed up his time frame, surviving last time.”

She shifted slightly in the chair and their knees accidentally touched. He tried to ignore the current of pleasure that ran up his leg and hastily moved away under the pretext of reaching for another tool.

Martha ran a finger over a pocket in the sleeve of the fighting suit. “What goes in here?”

“A very low-tech rocket launcher,” he said. “Essentially, a fancy slingshot.” He pointed to a small polycarbonate chamber connected to a tiny manual pump system. “And that’s a reservoir for a habanero concentrate.”

“I think you should just punch him,” Martha said.

He smiled. “Or we could just get Lian to call him a bitch. That seems to have a devastating effect.”

A few hours later, Bruce Wayne watched his friend Jangbu Sangye board a plane that would take him to visit some friends in Los Angeles. As Bruce made his way back to his Jaguar, he noticed that snow had again started to fall hard in Gotham City. He thought about taking a longer route home. He loved to drive in the snow. A reluctant glimpse at his watch reminded him that Batman was hours late for patrol and he shelved the whim for another snowy day. He had to get to work.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The suspension bridge rocked precariously in the biting Canadian wind and Meera recoiled involuntarily as the icy spray cascaded against her windburned cheeks. She aimed a sideways glare at her placid companion, whose fascination with the roaring waterfall beneath them so completely absorbed her that she didn’t notice the tiny icicles forming in her dark brown hair.

“I would live here,” announced Martha fervently as the Montmorency Falls tumbled majestically beneath them. “I would be here every day.”

“Well, you do not get cold,” Meera said as she pulled the sides of her fluffy parka hood together until only her eyes were visible. She nodded toward Lian and Midori, who had given up on sightseeing and were now huddled together in Meera’s idling Toyota. “The rest of us balance our delight at the grandeur of Mother Nature with our fear of frostbite.”

Martha pressed her shoulder against Meera’s. “Emma says you’re feeling better. Or maybe not,” she added, as Meera’s interest in the waterfall intensified instantly.

Her eyes straining towards the crashing falls, Meera said, “It was nice of you to come here to try to cheer me up –”

“I’m not here to cheer you up,” said Martha. “I’m here to suggest a way forward.”

Meera turned to her, hugging herself against the viscious wind.

“What you did was…” Martha shook her head. “I mean, you saved our lives. You did nothing wrong. But it hurt you,” she added, as Meera looked away. “And it scared you.

“So go another way,” she said. “The sad fact is most crimefighters fight brute force with brute force, and when we’re stronger or luckier, we push back the tide a little, at least for the moment. I’ve never thought that was an adequate solution. You think I work at Arkham for fun?”

“No.” Meera was looking at her again, warily.

“Everybody wants to be happy,” said Martha simply. “For most of us, love and a satisfying job will do the trick, but it’s not enough for these guys they call supervillians. Or even non-super villians. They think something else will make them happy.”

“Like world domination,” Meera said, brown eyes fixed on the quaking railing. A frigid spray fell over her boots and Martha’s sneakers and quickly iced over the swaying patch of bridge where they were standing.

“Yeah, something like that,” Martha said. A prolonged honk blared from the parking lot and both women looked toward the car. Lian was making impatient hand gestures through wipers that were arcing wildly across the windshield in what was only a partially successful attempt to stave off the ice.

“OK, so bottom line: I find pleasure a lot harder to fight off than pain,” Martha said. “I’m thinking the bad guys are pretty much the same, maybe more so.”

“So, immobilize them with pleasure,” said Meera skeptically. “Instead of squeezing their minds so hard that they want to rip their own heads off.”

“Infusing a little peace of mind might create a more lasting effect,” Martha said. “Pleasure is fleeting.”

Meera felt the smile tug reluctantly along her cheeks. “Nothing like three days with the Dalai Lama.”

Martha mirrored her friend’s smile. “No,” she said, “there really isn’t.”

An invisible fist had been gripping Meera’s heart over the last weeks, crushing it the way she had Brainiac’s mind. Now it seemed to relinquish its grasp, if only a little. She pushed her shoulder against Martha’s. “So, she said, “who’s providing that fleeting pleasure nowadays that you find so hard to fight off?”

Martha’s serene expression evaporated. She looked toward the parking lot. “We’d better go,” she said. “Lian and Midori are getting sick of waiting.”

As she started toward the car, Meera grabbed her arm. “Martha,” she said, “thank you. You guys –” her eyes traveled from her friend’s face to the women in the Toyota. “You guys are my peace of mind.”

“And a constant reminder of your greatest torment,” said Martha. “Funny how it works that way.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Carefully camouflaged patio heaters kept Bistro Cilantro’s outdoor café warm throughout the coldest winter day, so much so that Jim Gordon removed not only his coat, but his suit jacket minutes after being seated. His companion, engrossed in a meticulous sweep of the small parking lot, seemed too preoccupied to shed his own heavy cashmere coat.

“When did you start eating rabbit food?” asked Gordon, studying Bruce Wayne’s intent face as he combed the crowded lot car by car.

“This is her favorite restaurant,” Bruce said, without taking his eyes from the parking lot.

“She must be some woman,” said Gordon, scowling at the menu.

Bruce turned to Gordon, frowning. “A friend,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Gordon. “You’ve introduced me to a ton of those over the past thirty years.”

Bruce reached for the menu lying in front of him on the table and realized he was still wearing his driving gloves. “She wanted to meet you,” he said, tugging at the leather fingertips.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “And she’s heard of an old coot like me because…?”

“I guess I’ve… mentioned you,” said Bruce, turning his gaze back to the parking lot. Dismay verging on pain suddenly swept across his impassive features. “Oh, no, no, no…”

“What’s wrong?” Gordon’s eyes raked the parking lot for the source of his friend’s distress.

“She said she was getting a new car…”

Gordon squinted into the lot. “It’s not that God-awful test-tube looking thing, is it?” he asked, watching a young woman park a day-glo green Micro Cooper hybrid into a space near the front of the café. She waved happily though the windshield, which still had the remnants of a price sticker on it.

“I’m going to kill her father,” Bruce whispered.

Gordon looked at him in alarm. “You’re friends with her father?” he asked.

“No,” Bruce said quickly, standing as Martha approached them. “I’m friends with her.”

Gordon and Martha agreed it was a pleasure to meet, Gordon finding himself instantly impressed by her strong handshake and open smile. As they seated themselves, Martha said cheerfully to Bruce. “You hate my car. But I like it.”

Bruce stared bleakly at the Micro Cooper. “Adjectives fail me.”

Martha laughed. “It gets 110 miles to the gallon. And it’s cute.”

“It’s so cute they stopped making it,” Bruce said. “Almost immediately.”

“It was a limited edition,” Martha corrected him. She reached for her menu and flashed another smile at Gordon. “I’m really glad to meet you, Commissioner Gordon. Bruce has told me some great stories.”

“Has he?” Gordon grinned appraisingly at Bruce, who was now studying his menu with unnatural attentiveness. “I find that very interesting, as he hardly talks to anybody about anything.”

Martha’s blush was almost hidden in the shadow of her menu. “Just about everything here is good,” she said, her eyes fastened sightlessly to the elaborate print.

Gordon was not so convinced of this, but Martha talked him into trying the Wild Blue Focaccia, a non-threatening combination of cheeses and grilled vegetables stuffed into a freshly baked focaccia round. Both she and Bruce ordered the five-mushroom risotto, but moments after the waiter relieved them of their menus and walked away, the back-light of Bruce’s Breguet watch glowed red.

Bruce glanced almost absently at the watch face, then gazed at Martha, whose anxious eyes were already fastened on his. The look they exchanged made Gordon feel embarrassed to be sitting there.

“What’s –?” he started to ask, as Bruce pulled the napkin from his lap and rose from the table.

“I have to leave,” he said, almost automatically and Gordon could tell his friend’s mind was already beneath his mask. Bruce dropped some bills on the table, then turned back to Martha, whose eyes were still riveted to his face.

“Will you take Jim home?” he asked. She nodded and Gordon saw that she was crushing a dinner roll. Butter oozed between her clenched fingers.

She knows, he thought.

“Be careful,” she mouthed, barely moving her lips. Without taking his eyes off of hers, Bruce stepped back, lifted his chin in half a nod, and slipped from the restaurant patio into the darkened parking lot.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Gordon found the sandwich delicious, but asked that it be wrapped to go after he realized Martha was not going to be able to eat. The vivacious woman he had met twenty minutes before was now wan and distracted. Despite what Gordon recognized as a valiant attempt to carry her part of the conversation, her eyes moved compulsively toward the parking lot, as if Bruce might reappear momentarily and resume his dinner. After the second time she lost the train of her own words, Gordon asked for the check and gently tucked the change into Martha’s hand, asking her to return it to Bruce.

“You’ll see him before I do,” he said, moved by the mix of hope and apprehension his words evoked.

The seat controls on the passenger side of the Micro Cooper were jammed; Gordon had to pull his knees halfway to his chest to fit himself into the tiny vehicle. He balanced two carry-out bags on his lap while he searched for the seatbelt and Martha robotically started the car.

“Bruce said your father helped you pick out this car?” asked Gordon doubtfully as they putted down Gough Street. He found it hard to believe a man would endorse the purchase of what was essentially a moped wrapped in bright green metal.

Martha’s face jerked blankly toward Gordon’s. “Oh, no. He was supposed to, but he was… busy. I got this by myself; it was a really good deal.”

Had she not been so obviously distressed, Gordon would have burst out laughing. He was fairly certain the dealer would have paid Martha to take the Micro Cooper off his lot.

“I’m right off that street there,” he said, motioning toward Oldham Avenue. She nodded and swerved right with such vigor that Gordon had to throw his palm up against the window to stop himself from going though it.

“Sorry,” Martha whispered as they came to a stop in front of Gordon’s townhouse.

They sat in the idling car in silence for a few moments, then Gordon carefully put the larger take-out bag on the floor by his feet. He didn’t bother to ask if Martha knew where Bruce had gone.

“Can you tell me?” he asked quietly. Martha shook her head.

He examined her tense face and asked, “Do you understand how much you mean to him?” She blinked and even through her anxiety, Gordon could see surprise.

“I’ve known him thirty years,” said Gordon. “For the last ten – everything about him. Well, not everything,” he added. “But the big thing.”

Martha nodded and Gordon continued, “So when he said it, I knew you must be something special.”

“Said what?” asked Martha shakily.

“‘I want you to meet someone’,” Gordon said.

Martha shut her eyes for a moment, and then offered him a strained smile. “It was nice meeting you, Commissioner Gordon.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Her apartment was only ten minutes from Gordon’s townhouse, but the drive seemed never-ending. Martha’s mind spun backward in a surreal loop to Bruce’s watch flashing red – the signal that Fray had triggered one of the hundreds of sensors Batman had planted throughout the city. He was on his way by now, speeding toward a showdown made inevitable from the moment Sean Fray unfurled his cybernetic whip in a Gotham alley nine months earlier.

Martha knew that Fray’s near-murder of Batman had been an aberration, the disastrous result of a multitude of distractions, a severe lack of sleep and an underestimation of the technopath’s power and creativity. The rematch would not be a rerun. Bruce had started preparing for it before he was able to walk again: He had spent the better part of a year learning everything he could about Fray’s power and personality and worked for months building a fighting suit that would protect him against an attack like the one that had almost killed him. Lacking surprises – and Batman was not one to be surprised – the fight would be short and end with the thud of Fray’s body against the wall of an Arkham cell.

But Fray had demonstrated a troubling reserve of surprises. The fact that no one believed him did not negate the fact that he had almost killed one of the world’s most powerful crimefighters – and later escaped death at the hands of a brilliant lunatic who rarely failed to kill those he had marked for murder. And then there was the siege of Arkham and those damn butterflies… the images of her decapitated friend Lucy and a dead cop named Ieiri flitted briefly in Martha’s mind before it rested on the memory of Batman lying in a pool of his own blood, his leg sawed to shreds. She instantly became so nauseated that she nearly had to pull over.

Her right tires ground against the side of the curb as she pulled up to her apartment building. Martha stepped distractedly out of the car without remembering to shift into park and looked up at the light in her second-story apartment. She knew that she could not face Lian, who would spot her agitation immediately and force everything out of Martha that she had been holding back for months. Scanning the empty street so automatically that she would later wonder if she had only imagined making the routine check, Martha slipped the hologram projector out of her purse and activated it without bothering to clip it to her belt loop. Two minutes later, she was signing into Arkham, running an unconscious hand through wind-blown brown hair, numbly exchanging greetings with the guard at the desk without hearing a word either one of them had said.

As soon as she locked herself into her office, she phoned Alfred. In a voice that hardly sounded less strained than Martha’s, the elderly butler confirmed that Bruce had left the house for “that much anticipated appointment”.

She dropped into her heavy office chair and pressed her forehead against the edge of her desk. “Should I go after him?” she asked. “He won’t have to see me.”

For a long moment, the line was silent. "You can't imagine how much I wish you would," Alfred said. "But please don't."

Martha nodded miserably; she had known how he would answer.

“Martha,” said Alfred gently. “I’ll call you the moment I hear from him.” It would be over by then; the suit Batman was wearing tonight did not possess a cell phone. Anything electronic could be turned into a weapon and used against him.

“OK,” she said.

“He’ll be all right,” said Alfred, his tone firmer now. “He always is.”

Heartened by the strength in his voice, Martha smiled. “You’re right,” she said, knowing it was true. Sean Fray was not so large a man as she was allowing him to be. Batman was much bigger.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

There was no anticipation as Batman angled the steering wheel toward the target blinking red on the digital map lighting his dashboard. He could not afford it. To think about winning or losing, to remind himself that he could not chance a single mistake, would take him out of the present moment and that was where fights were won. The Japanese called it mushin. Pat called it mindfulness. Batman didn’t need to label it. He lived it. It was why he was still alive.

He allowed himself a moment of grim amusement as he realized where the beacon was taking him. City politicians had mourned the demolished Sagan Science Center after engineers declared it unsalvageable. Batman doubted the same officials would be stepping up for another eulogy when he and Sean Fray destroyed the new Wal-Mart.

As he fired a grappling hook in a silent arc over the store’s flat rooftop, Batman gave Fray his due credit: The technopath would have a lot to play with in there. It was one of the largest Wal-Marts in the country, set to open the following Saturday. Batman gave his line a precautionary tug and launched himself soundlessly onto the gravel roof. He quickly found and disabled the emergency power transformer. The pool of light reflecting onto the asphalt parking lot from inside the store vanished and the lot went instantly black.

He entered cautiously through a hidden panel in the rooftop and swung onto the webbed metal ceiling with ease. The dark brought Batman comfort and clarity; he hoped it would disorient Fray.

He would not have the chance to find out.

“I don’t think so, Bats.” Fray’s voice warbled over the store’s loudspeaker, accompanied by the erratic whine of an electrical surge. Harsh, bright light flooded the store.

“You’re a shy kind of guy,” Fray continued as Batman clambered higher onto the ceiling joists and swept his eyes across the expansive sales floor. “Me, I like the limelight.”

Batman sensed a series of jerky movements around him, each accompanied by a soft whirring sound. Fray was using the store security cameras to track him. Impressive techno-kinesis, Batman thought, but amateur tactics. No camera could capture him if he chose not to be seen.

Somehow, though, they did. A dozen rectangular white cameras swung in unison toward Batman, who leapt to the ground seconds before lasers flared from their tiny lenses. The network of hot red rays ricocheted off of the metal beam he had just abandoned and ignited an aisle stocked with paper towels. The stench of melting plastic wrap and charred paper filled the air as flames roared through the shelving, engulfing napkins and toilet tissue as it spread toward the Dixie cups.

“That’s OK.” Fray’s voice boomed from every direction. “Didn’t want it to go that easy.”

Cameras loaded with lasers couldn’t pick up an image, realized Batman as he moved cautiously through the automotive section. That meant Fray was using something else to trace him – a heat sensor, maybe, or an ultra-sensitive audio device.

Batman grabbed a four-way lug wrench from a shelf full of tire accessories and slipped into the hardware aisle. He eyed the rivet guns longingly, but instead hooked a claw hammer into the back of his belt. If Fray could track him that easily, he was at a disadvantage – the only way to nullify it was to force the encounter immediately – and Batman knew exactly where he’d find Fray.

Too predictably, the technopath was standing in the middle of the electronics section, working the controls of a PlayStation 15 demo console like a pubescent boy. Batman appraised him from behind a row of flat-panel televisions, noting no visible weapons as he took in his opponent’s simple khaki pants and a work shirt that still bore Wal-Mart tags.

He could see Fray’s predatory smile reflected opaquely in the game monitor and knew he had been expected. Fighting back an almost irresistible desire to attack him full on, Batman flung the lug wrench toward Fray’s upper spine in a Frisbee-like spiral aimed at temporarily paralyzing him.

The crossbar struck the top of Fray’s back at crippling velocity, but his large shoulders barely budged. The thick metal flushed a blistering orange and crashed to the floor, partially sizzling its way through the vinyl sheeting. Batman stepped back as a grinning Fray turned toward him, whip suddenly in hand.

“How’s the leg?” he asked, unfurling the long, flat lash. Without waiting for an answer, he cracked the weapon once without moving his upraised arm and sent the razor-like tip flying towards Batman.

Batman stepped forward into the moment he had envisioned for nine months and with a tight, counter-clockwise flick of his wrist, he caught the whip in a reinforced glove and jerked it from its master’s hand. “Leg’s fine,” he said, bringing up his right knee to snap the cybernetic handle into two sputtering pieces. “How’s the ego?”

He’d made a mistake: Fray was smirking.

“Ahh, knew you wouldn’t fall for that one again, Bats,” he said, aiming his arm at Batman as though it were a rifle. A barrage of glittering razor-like discs burst from a flat, square box on his forearm. Fray had turned a multi-disc CD player into a bizarre sort of machine gun. Batman swatted away the first few discs, but the whip must have penetrated his right glove – the fourth CD found its way through the tear and drew blood. He dodged the rest of the deadly projectiles with a low dive-roll that landed him near the front of the store’s gargantuan toy department.

Fray’s countenance was triumphant, almost demonic.

“How’s my ego? How’s yours?” he shouted, advancing on Batman, who sensed the tremor beneath his feet before he felt it. He scrambled backwards, trying to find more stable ground without taking his eyes off of the leering technopath, but the floor beneath him shook harder and the vinyl flooring began to crack like the ground above an earthquake fault.

“Think it’d be easy this time? Think last year was a fluke?” Fray bellowed, his swagger giving way to months of pent-up rage. As he stormed toward Batman, the technopath waved his hand quickly in a voila gesture over his own chest and his clothes burst into flames.

“You made a fool outta me!” he shouted as his clothes burned away, revealing a fighting suit made entirely of corded blue, red and black wiring. “I killed you. And no one – not even that crazy fuckin’ lunatic – believed me.

“I’ll do it better this time,” he added, as his touch sent a shelf full of remote-control airplanes hurtling at the caped crusader. “I’ll make sure there’s proof.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Batman’s eyes flicked toward Fray’s boots as he stamped down the toy aisle. He was manipulating the vast network of electrical wiring under the floor through contact plates attached to his soles. The Dark Knight’s hand shot into his utility belt and with a snap of his wrist, capsules filled with mineral oil burst across the floor beneath Fray’s feet, causing him to lurch forward on the slippery surface.

Immediately, Batman thrust out his right arm and triggered the small catapult in his sleeve. A volley of round lodestone magnets launched into Fray’s face, ribs and solar plexus. The technopath crashed to the ground, snarling curses as he clutched a torn cheek. But as Batman moved into to grab him, he looked up, grinning as madly as the Joker. The lodestones fell to the floor without affecting the wire battle suit and Fray reached out past the puddle of mineral oil to slap his palm onto the floor.

“I don’t need the shoes,” he shouted, as the ground thundered, shaking so hard that the shelving around him started to collapse. Batman, stumbled past a row of bicycles, springing back seconds before a yawning crack in the flooring nearly swallowed him.

A running rebound against the middle shelf stacked with electronic toddler cars helped propel him toward a low-hanging store speaker suspended from the ceiling. He was millimeters from grabbing it when the floor split beneath him and a quartet of thick electrical cables shot into the air and seized him, winding around his legs like rapacious snakes and jerking him violently to the torn ground. Ignoring the stunning pain, Batman yanked at the cables, curling around his legs, but they merely wound further up his thighs, tightening as they ascended. His left arm was completely encased in cabling, his right hand was still free though, and he could reach into his belt…

A duo of grinding mechanical wails engulfed him. Hard plastic slammed and splintered against his head and lower right leg as child-sized electric cars hit him from opposing angles. He blinked away the pain and squinted at the twin vehicles: Toy Batmobiles. The distraction lost him his right hand, now entwined in a fourth, serpentine cord of wires.

Then he heard Fray switch on the chainsaw.

“OK, then,” Fray shouted over the deafening drone of the saw. “We could just –” He nodded to the constricting cabling. “– squeeze those legs right off ‘a’ you. Or –” He waved the chainsaw. “– we could do it the old fashioned way. Either way, Bats, you’re leavin’ in pieces. This time, I’m takin’ some evidence.”

Batman felt the wire ropes contract around his limbs, watched the man who had come closer than anyone to killing him striding over for another try and found himself infused with a perfect calm. His mind was still and clear and he knew what to do.

With his eyes trained on Fray, Batman gave his right shoulder a powerful jerk and felt it dislocate for the second time in a month. There must have been pain, but it was distant, dreamlike, like the motion of his right arm as he withdrew it from the coiled wires and reached around for the claw hammer. As if he were watching a film in slow-motion, he saw the heavy tool fly from his hand and crash into Fray’s temple.

The technopath’s eyes lost focus. He started to sway and the cabling choking Batman’s limbs crashed to the floor. Batman cleared the gap between them in seconds, knocking the chainsaw out of Fray’s hands and reaching around to grab him by the back of the head. The sharp jerk may have roused Fray; intention began to form in his sharpening eyes, but whatever gadget he might have tried to summon fell dead when Batman raised his left wrist and emptied the reservoir of habanero concentrate into the technopath’s eyes.

The scream erupted from Fray’s belly and vomited out through contorted lips. He clawed wildly at his face, unwittingly smearing the pepper juice deeper into his enflamed eyes. Batman held his broken enemy up by his hair, examining the sobbing felon as it all became real: It was finally over.

Sirens keened in the distance – somebody had finally noticed something was awry at the Wal-Mart and reported the disturbance to the police. By the time they arrived at the demolished store, Batman planned to be hand-delivering Fray to Arkham Asylum.

Meanwhile, he had to do something about his captive’s sniveling. It was already getting on his nerves. A gag or some knock-out gas would have done the trick, but Batman recalled some advice he’d recently received on the handling of Sean Fray.

He just punched him.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Alfred had spent the last hour obsessively dusting the Batcave’s virtually spotless array of computers and praying feverishly for Bruce’s safe homecoming, but when the telephone rang, he answered it as though his employer was calling from an upper floor, possibly in search of a fresh cup of coffee.

“Yes, sir?”

“Arkham needs to get that cell ready,” Batman’s measured voice responded. “Can you arrange it?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Alfred said, gratitude coursing through him like a tonic. He waited for Batman to disconnect, but instead the voice on the other side of the line hesitated and then the elderly butler heard Bruce Wayne speaking.

“And can you –?”

Alfred smiled. “I’ll call her, sir.”

—

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