Truth & Justice I #6

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Truth & Justice I #6

Written by JC Roberts (Calamityjamie)
Edited by Daniel Dyer (Spider-Man Beyond)

Clark Kent noticed the empty place setting and walked into the kitchen to ask his wife which of their children was skipping Sunday dinner. His look of disappointment reminded Lois of how she’d felt, early in their marriage, when Superman’s duties constantly separated Clark from his personal life.

“She’s standing us up, your daughter,” Lois said, handing him a casserole dish filled with steamed vegetables. He tucked the dish in an elbow and reached for a serving spoon. “Catching up on work, she says.”

Clark leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and studied her. “She says?”

“Well, it sounded like her lying voice, the one that says, ‘I just got the crap beaten out of me and I don’t want you to see the bruises’,” Lois said. “Which sounds consistent with what we heard about the big brawl in Minneapolis.”

He pushed back against the door, set the vegetables in the middle of the table and returned to his wife. “Think I should go check on her?”

She regarded him with a mix of affection and exasperation. “‘I. Don’t. Want. You. To. See. The. Bruises’,” she repeated.

Clark nodded reluctantly.

“We’ll see her next week for Christmas,” Lois said reassuringly. “She’s working New Year’s, though.”

“And Clay is working on Christmas and free on New Year’s,” said Clark.

Lois could tell he was about to launch into another rant about the dissolution of the sacred family dinner when he froze, listening intently to someone or something Lois knew had just reduced the number of diners in the Kent home that evening to two. “I’ll save you a platter,” she said automatically. But he had already kissed her on the forehead and vanished.

Lois smiled at the feel of his lips on her forehead. This had been her life for decades now, and she was used to it. She wouldn’t have traded a single day of her marriage for a full-time husband who wasn’t Clark. She did wish she’d mentioned where he was headed. Without hesitating to realize she was consigning herself to dinner alone, she picked up her cell phone and asked her son to switch on the Planet’s multi-state police radio to see if he could pick up any activity concerning Superman. It might make a good story.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Non-alcoholic beer just didn’t cut it for Wally and that was all Roy had in his fridge. Wally supposed this was because his friend had never had the real thing, having given up all potentially addictive substances before he’d reached drinking age. A heroin addiction in your mid-teens, however quickly kicked, did not make you eager to experiment with other mind-altering substances, even those as socially acceptable as a Sam Adams, Roy once explained. Wally understood. He just wished Roy wasn’t so eager to thrust a fake beer in his hand in order to prove he could be hospitable to a friend who liked an occasional brew.

He slouched back on the soft brown microfiber couch and stared through the wide living room picture window into the vast desert that was Roy’s backyard. You could see actual cacti out there – the kind you saw in Road Runner cartoons. Wally loved visiting Roy’s secluded Colorado home – it was beyond peaceful. The southwestern-style rancher was modestly furnished with Native American art and illuminated with muted energy-saving bulbs that effectively simulated candlelight.

He and Linda had spent New Year’s Eve here a few weeks ago and it had been a badly needed break. Wally understood how Roy’s marriages had crumbled. Making a relationship work when you were a superhero – or married to one – was infinitely more demanding than taking part in a lifelong struggle to keep the world safe. Wally had been married for more than 20 years now and it had never ceased to feel like work. That was why he was here now – the peaceful getaway he and Linda had enjoyed was now his refuge from a tension at home he felt certain was about to break loose in a big way.

Roy returned from the kitchen, frosty bottles of the dreaded faux beer in his hand. Wally, whose lack of tact this week had already offended Linda, forced a smile and raised the bottle in a salute to his friend.

“Go home. Apologize. And take her to bed,” Roy suggested in the face of his friend’s brooding silence.

Wally sipped the vile liquid. “Yeah. Only that doesn’t work so much anymore.” He grinned sheepishly at Roy. “I’ve used up all my quotient of ‘charming’.”

Roy stared at his knees for a moment. “I’ll always think you’re charming,” he deadpanned.

They drank together in peaceful silence for a while. Then Roy said, “The team’s coming together pretty well, I think.”

“You say this every time I see you,” said Wally. “And I always agree. And,” he added, “I always wonder what’s bothering you when you say it.”

Roy laughed self-consciously and admitted, “I worry. Gren is gunning for my job and maybe I’m afraid people will think I’ve had it too long. And maybe I have.” He took a deep breath and added, “I’m worried about Lian. You know, the way she lives. And whether we should have so much family in the League.”

Wally shifted uncomfortably.

“And I just… I want…” Roy continued.

“...a guarantee that no one else is going to die?” Wally asked.

Roy laughed again, more bitterly this time. “Yes, please,” he said.

Wally couldn’t help him with that one. He had lost his cherished uncle and predecessor as Flash when he was barely out of his teens. Barry Allen had died alone while saving the Earth and several parallel worlds besides. In this business, death was a given. Wally just hoped that when his turn came, there would be someone there to say goodbye.

“You’ve been leader this long because everyone wants you in charge,” he said. “You’re the first one who’s ever committed to running the League full-time. Grendel? Damn, Roy. No one would follow him onto a roller-coaster ride.

“As for Lian,” he continued, “she’ll be OK.” He sucked down half the bottle of fake beer and regretted it immediately.

“Thanks,” said Roy quietly. A moment later, he added, “Oh. Meera thinks the Dysfunctional Duo is a problem.” He sounded somewhat amused.

“You mean the bitch-fest between Batman and Superwoman?” asked Wally. “That’s the best part of the meetings.”

“I don’t think it’s serious, either,” said Roy.

Wally gestured towards the window. A coyote had padded across the yard and was nosing a stone bird bath Roy had put up when Lian was in first grade. They watched the creature in quiet enjoyment until he finally slouched away.

“Midori still gets jumpy around Batman,” Roy commented, studiously searching the wilderness beyond his window. “Wish I could get her to loosen up a bit.”

Wally gave him a knowing glance.

“I’m just helping her acclimate,” said Roy firmly.

“I’ll bet you are,” Wally replied.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Martha and Lucy DiTomasa slipped quietly around the darkened corridor on Arkham’s infamous third floor. Although the entire institution was, by definition, high security, this particular wing was designed to hold the most terrifying inmates, the ones who seemed superhumanly evil – and nearly impossible to confine. Each cell on the wing was custom made for the prisoner it would hold. There were some features common to each of the small rooms: They were armed with invisible cameras and with concealed, long-range weapons that most of the staff was not supposed to know about. Each cell could be sealed and pumped full of sedating gas in less than thirty seconds. Prisoners were fed through an electronic wall system that also handled hygiene issues. Human guards were not required to come within 100 feet of these inmates – and most stayed considerably farther away whenever possible. First-year fellows were not allowed on the floor unless accompanied by an attending psychiatrist.

Consigning a patient to the third floor was an acknowledgment that he was not only a hopeless case, but that it wasn’t worth treating him at all, even for the sake of research. An inmate who was assigned there had probably already killed an Arkham psychiatrist or two and would be unlikely to find a willing therapist among the surviving staff. In the 15 years since the wing was established, only a handful of hopeless cases had been assigned there. Martha knew of two – Bane and the Joker.

Lucy nudged Martha and pointed to a cell on the right hand side of the corridor. “Is that it?” she whispered. Lucy was one of the few first-year fellows besides Martha who was enjoying her training at Arkham. Most of their colleagues alternated between depression and terror; three new residents had already left – one of them on a stretcher.

“I think so,” Martha replied quietly, her eyes combing the outside of a cell that looked like it had recently undergone significant renovation. “Hope it’s as airtight as it looks.”

“I wonder if he looks like – you know, the photos,” Lucy whispered.

“I heard he does,” Martha said. “Only he’s bigger.”

Lucy shuddered involuntarily. “Ever wonder why the Batman’s never killed him?”

Martha shook her head. “The man doesn’t kill,” she said. “Maim – yeah. Kill? Not so much.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” said Lucy doubtfully.

“Hope so,” Martha replied. “Ready or not, though – here comes the Joker.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better go. I gotta get to Midvale.”

The women crept quietly down the forbidden corridor. “What kind of conference is it?” Lucy asked.

Martha ducked her head around a corner to make sure they would not be seen. “Brain surgery.”

“You’re driving all the way to Midvale to pick up a few tips on brain surgery?”

“To be honest,” said Martha, “I’m driving to Midvale to pick up a brain surgeon.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Batman rarely cursed, but he felt it was warranted under the present circumstances. Arkham’s entire computer system had shut down, preventing him from hacking into files detailing the schematics of the Joker’s new high-security cell. In less than two days, Batman was slated to assist with the transfer of the clownish psychopath from Gotham General, where he lay in an induced coma. In the meantime, he intended to pore over every detail in the cell design before personally inspecting it prior to the actual move.

He had spent the last few hours attempting to access the system, but it seemed to have crashed. The antiquated system had been screaming for an upgrade – it generally ran at an achingly slow pace and recently had been locking up constantly. Batman had found himself so frustrated with the system that he’d actually checked to see if Arkham had admitted any technopaths lately, but all the psychos currently residing there were low-tech types.

Idly, he wondered if Martha Kent had taken a peek at the cell. First-years were banned from the floor, so he was sure she’d snuck up there. Certain things you could count on.

Whether she had learned anything of value was a different story. Martha was neither an architect nor an engineer and he wasn’t in the mood to drive halfway across town in the middle of the night for a detailed description of the cell door. It did occur to him that she might be convinced to slip out the actual blueprints tomorrow long enough for him to take a few pictures. She seemed to be decent at acquiring such things.

Batman’s eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of his computer monitor. It was almost one o’clock. If she was home and awake, he might have to be pleasant in order to gain her cooperation, which meant he’d be grinding off another layer of tooth enamel. He found it increasingly difficult to be patient with someone so persistently cheerful.

He’d only had to go back to her apartment once since the League had nailed DevilDog six or seven weeks ago, when Martha had again brought home a file before entering it into the Arkham database. She had not minded the unannounced visit and, other than asking about Alfred, she had kept the conversation professional. Batman wished she could manage to do the same at Justice League meetings, where he found himself increasingly at odds with her opinions and her attitude.

He rubbed a hand over his weary face and reached for his mask. Might as well get this over with. If he was lucky, she’d have swiped the files on Joker for pleasure reading. She wouldn’t hand them over, but she might let him sit and read them for a while.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Batman had seen the light on in Martha’s bedroom from the street, so he hadn’t expected her to take so long to answer the bell. It wasn’t until he’d jabbed at the buzzer a third time that he finally heard footsteps. He told himself he should have shown up as Bruce Wayne. He felt antsy waiting here like this – Batman didn’t stand in apartment hallways ringing doorbells.

Martha cracked the door enough for her head to rest between the frame and the edge of the door. She was clutching the yellow bathrobe near the middle of her chest and seemed slightly out of breath.

“Hey,” she said.

He immediately stepped forward, expecting to be let in, but Martha did not open the door. Batman glanced at her and stopped dead, realizing instantly that her tousled hair and glassy eyes were not the result of having been roused from a deep sleep. Her voice was thick and low and he could smell the fading remnants of a man’s cologne on her glistening skin.

“I’m sorry,” Martha whispered. “I can’t let you –”

“Sorry,” he said, feeling unbelievably stupid. He backed into the hallway. “I should have… I’m… sorry.”

A conflicted look traversed her face. “Is it imp—”

“No.”

She started to close the door. Batman heard a heavier pair of footsteps coming from inside the apartment. A man’s voice asked, “What ees thees? Your trick or treat?” His accent was distinctly French.

“No,” Batman heard Martha say. “Just someone for Lian.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Bruce Wayne did not usually regard the sweet scent of Alfred’s pancakes as an unpleasant omen, but as he shambled through the dining room, scratching at a stubbly cheek, he sensed that something suspicious was transpiring on the other side of the kitchen door.

He had barely slept. When he’d gotten home sometime after 2 AM, he’d taken another crack at the Arkham database and found it had finally been repaired. He quickly downloaded the schematics for Joker’s cell to his own computer – he didn’t want to risk losing the information to another crash. What he saw on the blueprints did nothing to improve his dismal mood.

There were at least three potential faults in the security technology and one in the cell structure itself. He’d combed over the drawings for three hours, taking meticulous notes he hoped would expedite the crucial repairs. Batman would not participate in Joker’s transfer if Persky didn’t agree to them. He’d called the Arkham director at dawn to insist that the required subcontractors return to the asylum immediately. Persky had mumbled something about unions and after delivering a tersely-worded ultimatum, Batman had hung up on him.

And while he knew it was irrational, Bruce felt there was some blame to be directed at Martha Kent. He knew she’d had no reason to expect him to barge into her apartment in the middle of the night, but he still begrudged her obviously enthusiastic indulgence in a personal life. This was something he had always resented in her father: Superman had done an immeasurable amount of good, but every crime fighter in the world was still swimming against the tide. How much more could Superman have achieved if he had not selfishly insisted on holding down a demanding job and raising a family? What made his daughter think she could accomplish anywhere near as much with half the powers and a grueling psychiatric fellowship? No one in that family had a clear sense of priorities, Bruce thought. At least Clark wasn’t going around screwing Frenchmen.

Bruce had made the mistake of voicing some of these grievances to Alfred, hoping the news of Martha’s less than virginal behavior might dampen the old man’s fascination with her.

“How dare she not be exactly as you have stereotyped her,” the butler replied dryly.

As Bruce pressed his palm flat against the kitchen door, he realized what was bothering him: Alfred didn’t eat pancakes anymore; his cholesterol had gotten a bit high, and he was trying to lower it without resorting to drugs. It was an aberration for Bruce to be up at this time, so who was Alfred cooking for?

Damn it.

He shoved at the door and it swung open. Martha Kent stood at the breakfast bar, filling two teacups with boiling water. Alfred stood beside her artistically topped a stack of pancakes with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

“Worked up an appetite, have you?” Bruce asked.

Alfred shot him a reproachful look.

Martha, startled by the sudden intrusion, smiled gamely and said, “Hi. I just stopped by to see if there was still something you needed.”

“No,” said Bruce coldly.

“Are you su –”

“Do you know what ‘no’ means?”

Her smile vanished. “OK,” she said, bewildered by the force of his animosity. “I just dropped Philippe off at the airport and wanted to see if…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I’d better go.”

“Please,” Alfred said, “you must have your breakfast.” In one practiced motion, he glided around the breakfast bar, placed the pancakes on the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and looked at her imploringly.

Martha’s eyes moved uncertainly from the pancakes to Bruce.

“Alfred went to a lot of trouble,” he said, not bothering to disguise the sullenness in his voice. “You should eat.”

She continued to look at him and he was suddenly aware that he was wearing only a thin pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and a faded gray t-shirt. He hadn’t brushed his teeth and he knew his eyes were hollow and dark from lack of sleep. Without meaning to, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, then turned on his heels and strode from the room.

Alfred followed him. As soon as the kitchen door swung closed, Bruce turned on the butler and demanded. “Are you seeing her behind my back?”

“Yes,” the old man retorted. “It’s true. There’s another woman.” Only Alfred could make him feel so ridiculous. It had been a legitimate question, he thought. Alfred knew Bruce disliked Martha Kent, yet the butler was treating her like royalty. And from the way they had been working together at the breakfast bar, Bruce could tell Martha had some familiarity with his kitchen.

“I don’t want her here,” he said.

To his horror, Alfred’s eyes filled with angry tears. “I understand. Why should my desire for an occasional breakfast companion interfere with your adolescent grudge? How could it possibly matter if my final years are spent friendless and alone?”

Alfred had been the central human being in Bruce’s life since he was an orphaned eight-year-old child and the thought of the old man’s inevitable death – whether a day from now or a decade – filled Bruce with barely suppressed dread. He had never known Alfred to bring up his own mortality before. In fact, the butler had been offended by the mere suggestion that a man his age might want to take it a little easier.

Bruce held up his hands in immediate surrender. “No, it’s OK. She can come over whenever she wants,” he said quickly. “Whenever you want.”

“Thank you,” said Alfred, with quiet dignity.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Alfred did not return to the kitchen until he heard Bruce’s footsteps on a distant staircase. By the time he rejoined his guest, Martha had finished half of the stack of pancakes. She examined his dry eyes and grinned.

“Way to play the 90-year-old man card,” she said.

“One must use it judiciously,” he said, and reached for his cup of tea.

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Hospitals and prisons are hotbeds of gossip. Arkham Asylum, being a hybrid of both types of institutions, was constantly abuzz with rumors and idle talk, but Martha had never before witnessed it exchanged at such a fevered pitch. Word of the Joker’s impending re-imprisonment had been brewing for weeks, and while the exact date of his return had been kept secret, staff and inmates alike had kept abreast of the intensified construction efforts on the third floor and everyone noticed when the work seemed to have been completed.

There had been hushed excitement when the hammering and soldering on the restricted wing fell silent, but eager expectancy quickly grew into impatience and disappointment as life at the asylum plowed on as usual. Just as the latest gossip had the board of governors lacking enough faith in Persky to allow the prisoner transfer, subcontractors flooded back onto the third floor. Rumor commenced again, close to the truth this time, the upshot being that the original fitting out of the Joker’s cell had been somehow flawed. The sounds of hammers and drills rang through the night, agitating the inmate population and annoying the staff for days. Few members of the staff were present when silence fell in the middle of a Wednesday night. Martha Kent was one of them. She was working in her office with an insomniac Harvey Dent when the builder’s hammers stopped and the noise was replaced instantly by a silence so tense and electric that it made her shiver.

She looked up from her desk at the exact time Harvey caught a pen he’d been idly flipping in the air.

“You think?” Martha asked as their eyes met across her desk.

Harvey shrugged. Unlike most of the occupants of Arkham, be they professional or patient, his dread of the Joker’s arrival was not tempered by excitement. He was probably the only inmate alive who knew the insane clown personally and the memories did not sit well with him. Harvey had done some hideous things standing side-by-side with the Joker. Like Lucy DiTomasa, he had questioned the wisdom of allowing the bleached madman to live. Of course, Harvey had added off-handedly to Martha, he sometimes wondered why Batman hadn’t put an end to Two-Face as well.

Martha reached for his pen and stuck it behind her ear. “I’d better take you back.”

He nodded, his eyes distant and troubled. As she reached for the door, he put a hand on her arm and said, “Stay away from him.”

Martha turned up her palms, a gesture of helplessness. “I’m not allowed near him, Harvey.”

“He isn’t me. He isn’t Slipp. He’s like no one you’ve ever met,” said Harvey. “Follow the rules this time, Martha.”

She squeezed his forearm reassuringly. “OK, Harv.”

—

[Spider-Man Beyond]

Martha had just left Harvey when she noticed a guard who had always been friendly. Hoping for a morsel of information, Martha waved him down. But when he approached her, he wasn’t smiling. He was wearing black armor and carrying a big gun.

“You need to get back in your office,” he said. “Now. We’re in lockdown.”

“He’s here?” Martha asked, a duel surge of excitement and trepidation surging through her chest.

“Go to your office,” the guard repeated, his voice a bit harsher this time. “And stay there.”

Taken aback by his abruptness, Martha made a show of hurrying back to her office. As soon as the guard disappeared around a corridor, she stole through the roundabout route to the third floor that she and Lucy had discovered. She could hear the echo of approaching footsteps and voices and scanned the hallway quickly for a hiding place with good visibility. For good reason, though, the wing was built for transparency and Martha could find no place to conceal herself.

The voices were getting closer. One of them was Persky’s. Abandoning her hopes of a front row view, Martha ducked around a corner and listened. It wasn’t until she heard the smooth mechanical growl of the heavy pneumatic door that she dared a peek.

Two of Arkham’s burliest guards had hauled an unconscious, hooded man to the front of the open cell door. His hands were bound behind his back and covered in thick, quilted mitts, like ultra-padded oven gloves. Similar coverings swallowed his feet to mid-calf. The guards were staring alertly into the cell, as if waiting for instructions. Behind them stood Persky, Lakeeta Reardon and four Gotham City police officers in riot gear.

Batman stepped out of the cell and indicated, with a jerk of his head, that the guards should drag in the Joker. They obeyed and he disappeared behind them. In seconds, the guards had re-joined the knot of onlookers in the corridor. Several minutes of tense silence ensued before Batman emerged from the chamber, the hood, hand and foot coverings draped across his forearm. He looked at Persky, who immediately touched a button on a wall panel across from the cell. The door lumbered shut and Martha heard it seal with a hiss.

Batman tossed the restraints to Persky and said, “I’m going to stick around for a while.”

“Appreciate it, Batman,” the director replied. “Stay as long as you’d like.” He hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Batman said. He nodded at Reardon and added, “Good job. All of you.”

Reardon returned his nod and motioned her officers away with a jerk of her head. Persky and the Arkham guards followed. Batman, his gloved arms folded across his brawny chest, stared intently at the cell door for several soundless minutes.

His gaze remained trained on the door as his voice broke the silence. “You really don’t know what ‘no’ means, do you?”

Martha drew up beside him. She wrapped her arms around her slender shoulders and said, “No reason for me to be afraid of him, but… he spooks me.”

A muffled giggle escaped from the heavy door, followed by another, stronger chortle. Martha shivered.

Batman’s eyes continued to linger on the door. “Maybe you can buy him a pizza.”

Continued...