Post by Spider-Man Beyond on Oct 30, 2007 19:57:30 GMT -5
One of the biggest pains about hiding out was that you had to do so much in the dark, Fray thought, as he pushed through the swinging door to the girl’s locker room. Once night fell, you couldn’t let anyone from the outside see a light on in a building that was supposed to be abandoned. He aimed a heavy black flashlight at the floor, illuminating the way to the showers. He was faintly amused to be using a girls’ locker room – wouldn’t that have horrified the nuns at his own parochial school? But there were no boys’ facilities here, and anyway, a shower was a shower.
He had been in a better mood since the Joker had made it clear to their new partner that Fray should be in on every aspect of the plan. The new guy had been reluctant at first – he somehow knew what Fray could do and it probably gave him the willies, considering. But after a man-to-man with Joker, it had all hashed out OK. So the guy never cracked a smile or even a note in that monotone of his. Fray was working with two legends now and maybe on his way to becoming a third.
He set the flashlight on its base on a locker room bench so that a halo of light illuminated a corner of the changing area and part of the showers, then he stripped off his shirt and threw it down alongside his watch and gun. Stretching, he walked over to the closest shower, eyes scanning the cement floor in front of him for roaches. Fray had stepped barefoot on a three-inch waterbug last week and nearly screamed like a girl. Now he kept his shoes on and his eyes to the ground.
He spun the circular faucet around full blast to the hottest setting. It took him less than a second to realize it wasn’t water coming from the shower head.
It was gas.
Fray scrambled back to the changing bench, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth and nose. He grabbed his flashlight and barreled towards the locker room door, slamming into it with his shoulder in his desperation to get out. It didn’t budge. It was locked.
He ran the light frantically over the walls in search of a window, but the nuns hadn’t wanted anyone peeking in on their showering charges. Fray struggled against the desperate impulse to suck down some air and aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. He cursed himself for not thinking of dismantling the shower head before the gas started to spread. It was now billowing across half of the locker room.
The beam of the flashlight hit a panel of florescent lights. Fray leaped onto a bench and started ripping at the fixture with one hand, but he was weak from lack of oxygen and he couldn’t get it to budge. He reluctantly pulled the other hand from his face, instinctively clamping his lips harder together. With two hands and a whopping shot of adrenaline, he was able to tear down the panel. He grabbed at the mass of wires just above the fixture and desperately willed himself to concentrate. As he felt the thick cluster of wires pulse against his palm like a massive snake, Fray aimed the flashlight at the ceiling again, this time finding a cobweb-encased air duct a few feet away.
He withdrew his hand from the light fixture, bringing down the tangle of wires, which were now formed into a long, almost sinewy column. Then he leaped onto the adjoining bench, thrust the cabling upwards toward the air duct cover and watched dizzily as the uppermost wires twisted themselves into four talon-like red and blue fingers and closed around the duct cover.
Fray wasn’t sure for a minute if the snap he heard came from above his head or inside it. He was seconds away from passing out, from inhaling the bastard Joker’s Smilex gas as he lay on the concrete floor gasping for breath. A surge of anger coursed through him, bringing with it another blast of adrenaline. He watched the duct cover fall to the floor, then he looked up into the air duct and extended the thick wiry hand into its blackened depths. Fray could feel the tips of the skinny copper fingers as if they were his own, scrabbling through the smooth, sealed, duct in search of a hole, a crack – any fault in the ductwork that would serve as a handhold.
They found one – a small hole, maybe a centimeter wide – probably meant for a bolt one of the builders had missed. It was too tiny for a human hand to latch onto, but one of Fray’s wiry digits flexed easily through the opening, securing itself to an exterior brace designed to support the ventilation system. Dropping the flashlight, the technopath gripped his wire life rope with both hands and willed it to pull him up into the ductwork.
He risked sucking in one wracking lungful of air as he dropped heavily onto the metallic tunnel and was relieved to find that the Smilex hadn’t spread to the ventilation system yet. Fray scrambled through the narrow passageway on his elbows and knees, following the ductwork as it lead on an upward slope toward the roof of the building. He nearly slammed headfirst into the metal plate that sealed the ductwork from the harsh elements outside. Fray smashed at the panel with both fists, but it wouldn’t give. He threw his shoulder into it and heard a rusty cracking sound. A second attempt nearly dislocated his shoulder, but left him no closer to freedom. He was sure the Smilex gas was wafting though the ducts and would overtake him at any minute. Fray thought hard, then pressed both hands against the thin walls of the duct, trying to widen the passage as much as possible. If he could get enough room to twist around, he could kick out the panel, he thought.
But it was no good. A contortionist might have had a chance, but there was no way Fray was going to be able to turn around in that narrow passageway.
There was also no way they were going to find him dead in a long metal coffin, the Joker’s hideous smile distorting his face.
Bracing his knees against the floor of the ductwork for leverage, Fray rammed his uninjured shoulder into the panel and glimpsed light from a nearby street lamp as some rusty bolts broke away from the plate. He gritted his teeth, drew a few steadying breaths, then launched himself against the hatch again, this time knocking the decaying panel off of its rusty hinges.
He scrambled through the opening and onto the roof, racing to the edge in search of a way down to the street. He shimmied halfway down the drainpipe before it broke. The one-story fall to the street knocked the wind out of him, but he forced himself to his feet and he ran until he made it to the corner lamppost he had seen from the other side of the ventilation hatch. He leaned against the thick pole, chest heaving, then turned and looked back at the roof of the Catholic school. A thinning cloud of gas was drifting out of the ventilation shaft. Fray watched it scatter in the bitter winter wind.
Fine, you grinning son-of-a-bitch, Fray thought. Try to take on the Justice League without me. Let’s see how far you and your new pal get before you’re back at Arkham, or this time maybe dead.
It would all come out then, after they’d thrown the crazy bastard back into that special cell they’d made for him. He could hear it now: That psycho clown’s busted minions telling the cops and the papers the truth – that before their jealous boss had blown it by trying to kill him, the real power behind the Joker this past year had been Sean Fray.
It would make him even more famous when he finally killed Batman.
He had been in a better mood since the Joker had made it clear to their new partner that Fray should be in on every aspect of the plan. The new guy had been reluctant at first – he somehow knew what Fray could do and it probably gave him the willies, considering. But after a man-to-man with Joker, it had all hashed out OK. So the guy never cracked a smile or even a note in that monotone of his. Fray was working with two legends now and maybe on his way to becoming a third.
He set the flashlight on its base on a locker room bench so that a halo of light illuminated a corner of the changing area and part of the showers, then he stripped off his shirt and threw it down alongside his watch and gun. Stretching, he walked over to the closest shower, eyes scanning the cement floor in front of him for roaches. Fray had stepped barefoot on a three-inch waterbug last week and nearly screamed like a girl. Now he kept his shoes on and his eyes to the ground.
He spun the circular faucet around full blast to the hottest setting. It took him less than a second to realize it wasn’t water coming from the shower head.
It was gas.
Fray scrambled back to the changing bench, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth and nose. He grabbed his flashlight and barreled towards the locker room door, slamming into it with his shoulder in his desperation to get out. It didn’t budge. It was locked.
He ran the light frantically over the walls in search of a window, but the nuns hadn’t wanted anyone peeking in on their showering charges. Fray struggled against the desperate impulse to suck down some air and aimed his flashlight at the ceiling. He cursed himself for not thinking of dismantling the shower head before the gas started to spread. It was now billowing across half of the locker room.
The beam of the flashlight hit a panel of florescent lights. Fray leaped onto a bench and started ripping at the fixture with one hand, but he was weak from lack of oxygen and he couldn’t get it to budge. He reluctantly pulled the other hand from his face, instinctively clamping his lips harder together. With two hands and a whopping shot of adrenaline, he was able to tear down the panel. He grabbed at the mass of wires just above the fixture and desperately willed himself to concentrate. As he felt the thick cluster of wires pulse against his palm like a massive snake, Fray aimed the flashlight at the ceiling again, this time finding a cobweb-encased air duct a few feet away.
He withdrew his hand from the light fixture, bringing down the tangle of wires, which were now formed into a long, almost sinewy column. Then he leaped onto the adjoining bench, thrust the cabling upwards toward the air duct cover and watched dizzily as the uppermost wires twisted themselves into four talon-like red and blue fingers and closed around the duct cover.
Fray wasn’t sure for a minute if the snap he heard came from above his head or inside it. He was seconds away from passing out, from inhaling the bastard Joker’s Smilex gas as he lay on the concrete floor gasping for breath. A surge of anger coursed through him, bringing with it another blast of adrenaline. He watched the duct cover fall to the floor, then he looked up into the air duct and extended the thick wiry hand into its blackened depths. Fray could feel the tips of the skinny copper fingers as if they were his own, scrabbling through the smooth, sealed, duct in search of a hole, a crack – any fault in the ductwork that would serve as a handhold.
They found one – a small hole, maybe a centimeter wide – probably meant for a bolt one of the builders had missed. It was too tiny for a human hand to latch onto, but one of Fray’s wiry digits flexed easily through the opening, securing itself to an exterior brace designed to support the ventilation system. Dropping the flashlight, the technopath gripped his wire life rope with both hands and willed it to pull him up into the ductwork.
He risked sucking in one wracking lungful of air as he dropped heavily onto the metallic tunnel and was relieved to find that the Smilex hadn’t spread to the ventilation system yet. Fray scrambled through the narrow passageway on his elbows and knees, following the ductwork as it lead on an upward slope toward the roof of the building. He nearly slammed headfirst into the metal plate that sealed the ductwork from the harsh elements outside. Fray smashed at the panel with both fists, but it wouldn’t give. He threw his shoulder into it and heard a rusty cracking sound. A second attempt nearly dislocated his shoulder, but left him no closer to freedom. He was sure the Smilex gas was wafting though the ducts and would overtake him at any minute. Fray thought hard, then pressed both hands against the thin walls of the duct, trying to widen the passage as much as possible. If he could get enough room to twist around, he could kick out the panel, he thought.
But it was no good. A contortionist might have had a chance, but there was no way Fray was going to be able to turn around in that narrow passageway.
There was also no way they were going to find him dead in a long metal coffin, the Joker’s hideous smile distorting his face.
Bracing his knees against the floor of the ductwork for leverage, Fray rammed his uninjured shoulder into the panel and glimpsed light from a nearby street lamp as some rusty bolts broke away from the plate. He gritted his teeth, drew a few steadying breaths, then launched himself against the hatch again, this time knocking the decaying panel off of its rusty hinges.
He scrambled through the opening and onto the roof, racing to the edge in search of a way down to the street. He shimmied halfway down the drainpipe before it broke. The one-story fall to the street knocked the wind out of him, but he forced himself to his feet and he ran until he made it to the corner lamppost he had seen from the other side of the ventilation hatch. He leaned against the thick pole, chest heaving, then turned and looked back at the roof of the Catholic school. A thinning cloud of gas was drifting out of the ventilation shaft. Fray watched it scatter in the bitter winter wind.
Fine, you grinning son-of-a-bitch, Fray thought. Try to take on the Justice League without me. Let’s see how far you and your new pal get before you’re back at Arkham, or this time maybe dead.
It would all come out then, after they’d thrown the crazy bastard back into that special cell they’d made for him. He could hear it now: That psycho clown’s busted minions telling the cops and the papers the truth – that before their jealous boss had blown it by trying to kill him, the real power behind the Joker this past year had been Sean Fray.
It would make him even more famous when he finally killed Batman.
Continued...