that was the long wire attached to his headband.
Edward Nygma charged up to him, terror and concern on his face. Clearly he had not meant for this to happen, and the potential ramifications for the near fatality had . . .
Then he leaned in close, gripping the wired headband, and Stickley barely had time to realize that Nygma was concerned, not about him, but about his precious machine. With a twisted sneer of contempt he said, “Fred. Babe. You are fired. Or should I say: terminated.”
He yanked the headband off Stickley, and his former boss’s only means of support was gone. He barely had time to utter a screech before the chair tilted backwards and out, plummeting to the ground far below.
Edward didn’t even bother to hang around to see the landing. By the time Stickley hit, Nygma was already back at his cubicle. He was not, however, engaged in a flurry of activity as one might expect after having just committed his very first murder. Instead he was busy staring intensely at the photos of Bruce Wayne all over the interior of his cubicle. “Question marks, Mr. Wayne? My work raises too many questions?”
With mind-blinding fury, he started ripping the pictures down from the walls. “Two years—3.5762 percent of my estimated life span—toiling for your greater glory and profit. Well, let me ask you some questions, Mr. Smarter Than Thou. Why are you so debonair? Successful? Richer than God. Why should you have it all and not me?”
He looked around at the smashed and shattered remains of what he’d torn down. And then slowly his gaze turned to focus on a surveillance camera up on the wall. It was not being monitored, Edward knew, but it had dutifully recorded everything that had happened.
He reached up for the lens as he muttered, “Yes, you’re right, there are too many questions, Bruce Wayne. Here’s a good one. Why hasn’t anybody put you in your place? And it’s time you came up with some answers. Starting right now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he images were flying toward him . . . his parents lying in state . . . the leaves . . . the ground giving way beneath him . . . and the object . . . small, leather, clutching tightly to him . . .
And the giant bat (if it was a bat, or something worse, something spit out from Hell) lurching toward him. And it screeched at him in a voice that, for the first time, had discernible words:
You’re a killer, too . . .
Bruce Wayne lunged backwards and, in doing so, woke himself up.
He blinked against the intruding sunlight, which was pouring through the window thanks to Alfred’s having just moved the curtains aside.
“Dreams, sir?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No time for dreams,” he said, brusquely and falsely. “Status?”
Alfred didn’t even bother to point out that most mortals said something along the lines of “Good morning” rather than “status.” “The Batcomputer has been scanning the Emergency bands all night. No sign of Two-Face. He’s disappeared.”
“He’ll be back. Did you get those file tapes from Arkham Asylum?”
“In the player, sir, and ready.”
Bruce rose from the bed, bare-chested, and Alfred couldn’t help but notice the bruises that decorated his torso. “What a marvelous shade of purple.” He paused a moment and, when Bruce didn’t respond, he spoke again and made no effort to keep the concern out of his voice. “Really, if you insist on trying to get yourself killed each night . . .”
Bruce, not wanting to get into it so early in the morning, walked away from Alfred, toward the TV and video player. He stepped over the ripped, dented, and punctured costume that lay on the floor. It wasn’t that he was slovenly; it was that he had literally forgotten about it. An old costume was an old problem. He was already on to the next one.
Alfred picked up the battered uniform and continued, “. . . would it be a terrible imposition to ask you to at least take better care of your equipment?”
“Then you’d
Edward Nygma charged up to him, terror and concern on his face. Clearly he had not meant for this to happen, and the potential ramifications for the near fatality had . . .
Then he leaned in close, gripping the wired headband, and Stickley barely had time to realize that Nygma was concerned, not about him, but about his precious machine. With a twisted sneer of contempt he said, “Fred. Babe. You are fired. Or should I say: terminated.”
He yanked the headband off Stickley, and his former boss’s only means of support was gone. He barely had time to utter a screech before the chair tilted backwards and out, plummeting to the ground far below.
Edward didn’t even bother to hang around to see the landing. By the time Stickley hit, Nygma was already back at his cubicle. He was not, however, engaged in a flurry of activity as one might expect after having just committed his very first murder. Instead he was busy staring intensely at the photos of Bruce Wayne all over the interior of his cubicle. “Question marks, Mr. Wayne? My work raises too many questions?”
With mind-blinding fury, he started ripping the pictures down from the walls. “Two years—3.5762 percent of my estimated life span—toiling for your greater glory and profit. Well, let me ask you some questions, Mr. Smarter Than Thou. Why are you so debonair? Successful? Richer than God. Why should you have it all and not me?”
He looked around at the smashed and shattered remains of what he’d torn down. And then slowly his gaze turned to focus on a surveillance camera up on the wall. It was not being monitored, Edward knew, but it had dutifully recorded everything that had happened.
He reached up for the lens as he muttered, “Yes, you’re right, there are too many questions, Bruce Wayne. Here’s a good one. Why hasn’t anybody put you in your place? And it’s time you came up with some answers. Starting right now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he images were flying toward him . . . his parents lying in state . . . the leaves . . . the ground giving way beneath him . . . and the object . . . small, leather, clutching tightly to him . . .
And the giant bat (if it was a bat, or something worse, something spit out from Hell) lurching toward him. And it screeched at him in a voice that, for the first time, had discernible words:
You’re a killer, too . . .
Bruce Wayne lunged backwards and, in doing so, woke himself up.
He blinked against the intruding sunlight, which was pouring through the window thanks to Alfred’s having just moved the curtains aside.
“Dreams, sir?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No time for dreams,” he said, brusquely and falsely. “Status?”
Alfred didn’t even bother to point out that most mortals said something along the lines of “Good morning” rather than “status.” “The Batcomputer has been scanning the Emergency bands all night. No sign of Two-Face. He’s disappeared.”
“He’ll be back. Did you get those file tapes from Arkham Asylum?”
“In the player, sir, and ready.”
Bruce rose from the bed, bare-chested, and Alfred couldn’t help but notice the bruises that decorated his torso. “What a marvelous shade of purple.” He paused a moment and, when Bruce didn’t respond, he spoke again and made no effort to keep the concern out of his voice. “Really, if you insist on trying to get yourself killed each night . . .”
Bruce, not wanting to get into it so early in the morning, walked away from Alfred, toward the TV and video player. He stepped over the ripped, dented, and punctured costume that lay on the floor. It wasn’t that he was slovenly; it was that he had literally forgotten about it. An old costume was an old problem. He was already on to the next one.
Alfred picked up the battered uniform and continued, “. . . would it be a terrible imposition to ask you to at least take better care of your equipment?”
“Then you’d
Similar Books
