LAST NIGHT "G'night, Doc," the night watchman said with a smile as he took the clipboard back from her. Everyone signs in and everyone signs out. That was his motto, and Doctor Gretchen Bridges was no exception. "Good night, Stu," she said wearily and stepped out into Arkham Asylum's inner courtyard. Today had been a particularly rough day, and she was ready to get home with the hope of enjoying a long, hot bath. First, one of what she referred to as her more stable patients went on a naked, screaming rampage all over the third floor dining hall. Minutes after that bit of chaos died down, one of their Level 4s went into cardiac arrest caused by an allergic reaction to a new medication. As if that didn't put the icing on a shit day, a Level 6 inmate attacked her during a regular therapy session. Gretchen was an average-looking woman. Not drop-dead gorgeous by any means, but not too plain, either. Her face was narrow with thin lips. She had a dimpled chin, a freckled nose, and kind, brown eyes. Her long, wavy brown hair was pulled back unceremoniously and held in check by a thin blue ribbon. Under her white lab coat she wore a plain blue shirt and a pair of white slacks. To save time she always cut across the courtyard. At this time of night, the inmates were all locked up. From up above they stared down at her through their windows with hollow eyes. Some waved absentmindedly while others displayed less friendly gestures for her. She casually noted that it was unusually quiet outside this evening, but the passing observation soon slipped away as she reminded herself how good it would feel to get home and relax. On the other side of the courtyard was a reinforced gate equipped with a card lock. All doors outside of the asylum required a key card. She reached inside her coat and pulled out her card. The control pad beeped as she swiped the card, and the gate slowly opened, revealing the parking garage beyond it. She passed through the gate and skipped down a short flight of steps. She was halfway to the garage entrance when she heard the noise. It sounded almost like paper ripping, a sharp tearing sound that cut through the air. Gretchen spun around on her heels, but nothing was there, save for the courtyard gate locking back into place. She shook her head and dismissed it as stress. It was time to go home and get away from the madness. She swiped her card again, and the parking garage door opened. Cool air rolled out, making the hairs on her neck stand up. Normally they did a better job of keeping the temperature controlled in the garage. The lights flickered momentarily as she entered. "Hello? Is someone there?" she called out. Inside she was scolding herself. She had gotten spooked and was acting like a teenage girl instead of an established doctor. It was all in her head. The ripping sound echoed through the parking garage. Wasting no time, she headed straight for her car. Her white work shoes slapped against the pavement as she ran. Skidding to a stop beside her vehicle, she shoved her hands into her pockets frantically feeling for her keys. Her stomach turned when she realized the keys weren't there. "Shit," she cursed through gritted teeth. She looked up and glanced around the garage. The lights began to cut off. She watched, frozen in horror, from her parking space as the lights on the ceiling began to go dark row by row, coming closer and closer to where she stood. "Stop it! This is isn't funny," she cried out. The lights began to shut off faster, coming ever closer to her. "Gretchen..." a voice whispered. She turned back towards the garage entrance and made a dash for the door. The ripping sound sliced through the air again, louder this time. "Come to me, Gretchen..." Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she approached the door. She slammed into it and fumbled with her key card, trying to make her fingers work. The lights were almost all out. Finally, she got the card through the slot, and the door lurched open. She slipped and fell through the doorway, hitting the hard ground with a thud. Her left knee blossomed with pain, and she winced. She bit her lower lip and rose to her feet. Her knee was bleeding, but she didn't care. Survival was foremost on her mind right now. Without looking over her shoulder, she limped as fast as she could over to the courtyard gate. Inside she kept telling herself she would be safe in the courtyard. She tripped and fell again a yard away from the door. She cried out in frustration and crawled the rest of the way. Her arm shook, and she reached up and slid the card through the keypad. As soon as there was enough room, she squeezed through the gate and punched a button on the keypad to shut it again. Up above she could hear them laughing. The boisterous giggling of a hundred delusional inmates amused at her pain. She crawled farther into the courtyard, sobbing and trying to shake off the fear that gripped her heart. The laughing became louder now and more obnoxious. Gretchen stretched out her fingers and tore out fistfuls of sod, but she could not go any farther. This was it, the end of the line. She rolled over on her back, and everything went silent. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart throbbing in her ears. She gazed upward into the dark sky. The stars were brilliant on this rare cloudless night. She breathed a sigh of relief and laughed uneasily. A great sense of calm came over her, and she closed her eyes. Pain roared through her limp body, and her eyes snapped open. Unspeakable horror filled her vision in the form of grinning jack-o'-lantern covered in unholy blue flames. Surely her eyes deceived her. Gretchen tried to scream, but nothing came out. The pumpkin-headed thing leered at her and rose up to its full height. She could have sworn she heard the sound of it laughing in her head. It raised a slender, gnarled hand up above its head. The last thing she saw was a flash of moonlight through its long, sharp fingers. The creature raised a bloody claw to the sky, and the Arkham inmates erupted into maniacal laughter that echoed throughout the courtyard. *********************************** THE DCFuture Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns Batman, Nightwing, and ALL related characters and retains complete rights to said characters. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. We also acknowledge that the concepts and original characters introduced here are the intellectual property of the author. *********************************** BATMAN/NIGHTWING: Waking Nightmare #1 (of 3) October 1998 "Welcome to Gotham" Written/Created By: Erik Burnham (darvey@rocketmail.com) Tony Wilson (kilroy@si-net.com) Edited By: Jason Tippitt Special thanks to Tommy Hancock This LS takes place between Nightwing #10 and #11. *********************************** TODAY "Quit your moping. You look like a lost puppy," Frank said, teasing his young friend. "I'm sorry, it's just that I'm still not sold on this trip," Marc replied apologetically. Frank looked up at him with a lopsided grin. "If it's about that girl, she'll be there when you get back. Besides, after your trip to the hospital courtesy of the Sandman, you need to get some rest. Which means no being 'you know who' and running the rooftops." (See Nightwing: DCF #9-10) Marc stood there sulking on the doorstep with his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in a light blue T-shirt, a pair of worn-out blue jeans, and his black boots. His wavy black hair lifted as a soft breeze blew through the neighborhood, stirring up what few leaves there were on the ground. He had been in Gotham for over an hour now, and he already hated it. It was all Frank's idea to get him out of the apartment and Kingston for a few days. His brother Jon wasn't taking the incident with the Sandman too well, so when Frank suggested taking Marc along to Gotham when he went to visit his sister, well, it wasn't ten minutes before Jon was packing him a suitcase. So there they stood on her doorstep, ringing the bell again. She lived in a moderate-sized apartment building in one of Gotham's nicer neighborhoods, if there was such a thing. Gotham City was a whole different beast when compared to Kingston. Marc had already seen three hovercars and a holographic billboard on the taxi ride here. It was an odd feeling to see things like that up close. Kingston was a little backwards when it came to the latest technologies. Footsteps on the stairs inside pulled him back to the moment. He watched over Frank's shoulder as a silhouette behind the yellow lace curtains unlocked the door. Frank cleared his throat nervously, and Marc noted that he stood up straighter than he normally did. "Frank! Hello, come in," the woman smiled. She was about Frank's height with long brown hair past her shoulders with streaks of gray it. Her face was round, with bright hazel eyes. She stepped back inside to open the door for them. "Lauren, this is Marc. Marc, this vibrant young woman is my sister Lauren," Frank said, introducing them to each other. Marc shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, ma'am." "Call me Lauren. It's nice to finally meet you, too. Frank's always talking about you on the phone. And don't let him fool you with his sweet talk; I'm older than he is," she said, heading up the stairs. "Come on in; let's get you guys something to eat. You have to be starving." **** After a hefty dinner, the likes of which Marc nor Frank had seen in a long time, Lauren and Frank left for a night on the town. They had told Marc he was welcome to join them, but after discovering what sat in her living room he politely declined in favor of a quiet night at home. He sat sprawled out on the unnaturally comfortable couch fiddling with the holo-vid player remote control, trying to figure out how it worked. He mashed down the power button, and the machine across the room came to life in a swirl of colored lights. "Heh. Boring night on the town or last summer's action movie blockbuster on holo-vid? You be the judge." Puzzled, he moved down the wide black remote, trying to bring up a menu. He pushed a blue button, and a holographic image roared into being across the opposite wall. He quickly hunted for the volume button so he wouldn't disturb the people downstairs. "--Authorities are already following up several leads in the bizarre murder of Doctor Gretchen Bridges. Several inmates are being questioned about the event last night, but the process is slow going. Many of the staff members held a mini-memorial service here in the courtyard, leaving flowers in remembrance of their colleague. This is Jackson Keats, WGBS News, on assignment at Arkham Asylum, signing off." The camera faded to black, and the studio news crew returned. Marc sat up and leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Must be pretty big story if a Metropolis station sent someone all the way down here to cover it." He quickly located the channel buttons and searched for more news stations. The story was everywhere. All the major news stations had something about it. A woman had been killed last night in the courtyard of the old asylum here in Gotham. The details weren't for the squeamish, either. He scanned the reports curiously. Why was it such a big deal? Murders happened all the time. The answer came soon enough from a New York station. Ten years ago to the day, a string of similar murders began in Metropolis. They lasted several days, and the killer was never caught nor heard from again. "They think he's back, another round. Why wait--" **** "--all this time, though?" Tim Drake pondered, studying the screen before him. "Perhaps he didn't have the guts for it, Master Tim," Alfred replied dryly. "And decided to collect some?" Tim let out a groan, closing his eyes and running his fingers through his short dark hair. "Alfred, that was... that was terrible." "Perhaps," Alfred answered nonchalantly as his tendrils shot out to clean the many trophies within the Batcave, trophies won by Bruce Wayne during his legendary tenure as the Dark Knight. "Master Tim," Alfred asked as he put a shine to the giant penny, "I don't suppose you've come across anything we can add to the collection, hmm? I was thinking of putting up a WebTour in the Holo-Wing of the Internet Museum of MetaHuman Artifacts and..." "Alfred, don't start with me." "But why not, sir? It's a wholesome family environment. True, it could be a little more elaborate, but then that's why I..." "No, Alfred. N-O. Go talk to Clark about putting up a Superman wing, help me with this case, or find something to do that won't distract me, all right?" "I can monitor all InfoNet, radio, and television frequencies for relevant information. I shall also keep my senses tuned to the police reports, in case anything should come up." "Thank you." "What else could I do, Master Tim? Master Clark is asleep, and nothing interesting is on the television tonight. The dancing llamas promised by Droid Letterman have come down with the flu." "Poor baby," Tim cooed as he appropriated the garb of the Batman. "I'm going out." "I never would have guessed, sir. Have a pleasant evening with your serial killer. And if you feel the urge, don't hesitate to give him a swift kick in the..." "Alfred, if you keep talking like that, I'll have to take away your premium movie channels." "Please forgive me, sir. I can't miss the blaxploitation marathon next month. I hear tell the Pimp Daddy Wilson story may run at last." Tim paused as he took his seat in the Batmobile, mulling over Alfred watching movies from the mid-1970's and the various 70's-style films that appeared periodically over the last hundred years, deciding at last it would probably be harmless. "As long as you don't start talking like Shaft, Alfred." "I can dig it, Master Tim." Alfred just couldn't resist pushing the envelope one final time as his ebon-clad patron commanded the automated hovercar off into the dark of the night. **** Marc sprinted across the rooftop, arms pumping, head down. At the last possible moment he leaped from the building top with the grace of a cat. Wind rushed across his face and adrenaline darted through his veins like lightning. After a moment of free fall, his boots hit gravel, and he rolled to lessen the impact. He sat in a crouch momentarily to catch a quick breath. This wasn't Kingston, but it felt good to get out. It was hard for him to leave the city, even if it wasn't for very long. The Huntress was out there somewhere, but he was still unsure of her motivations. Jon was still fuming over the Sandman incident, ready to send Marc on the first bus back home. He promised himself that when he got home, finding the Sandman would be near the top of the list. "So, what am I really doing out here?" Marc asked himself as he hurdled a metal rail and dropped down onto a rickety balcony. The news he had heard back at Lauren's apartment was nothing more than an excuse to suit up and sneak out the window. Arkham Asylum was quite a ways off, and there was no way he could make it on foot. It would be a fool's errand; the killer had struck there once and certainly wouldn't again. Any evidence would have already been collected or lost by the Gotham Police Department. Truth be told, Marc was bored. He hated being cooped up, and sometimes it was easier to hop out the nearest window than face the icy chill of cold, hard reality. He had a better chance of getting mugged in Gotham than bumping into this killer. Deep inside Marc felt the need to justify this little excursion, and it was as good of an excuse as any. He hung over the side of the balcony and lowered himself down to the next level. The steel toes in his boots found the ledge, and he eased his way down. Two more balconies to go, and he would be street level. Marc sat poised on the ledge preparing to swing his leg over when the ripping sound echoed through the empty alleyways. He cocked his head to the side, trying to determine where it was coming from. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of light. He snatched the grappling hook off his belt and secured it on the ledge. With a short twist, he slid off the ledge and slid down the rope. His gloves smelled of hot synth-leather as he eased off the line. With the click of a button the prongs retracted, and the end of the grappling hook dropped down into the alley with a clink. Marc pushed two buttons on his belt simultaneously, and the cord zipped back into its casing. He straightened his jacket and headed off towards where he'd seen the light. **** Tim had decided to eschew the efficient yet ostentatious Batmobile well over twenty minutes ago, preferring by far his own two legs -- not to mention his airfoils -- to navigate the crowded mess that was downtown Gotham, a no-brainer for Tim. No matter what the crime, no matter what the criminal, sooner or later a trail could be picked up in this part of town. At least that was the theory. It had always worked before. Of course, in all previous circumstances, the troublemakers happened to live or work in the concrete jungles that spread out before Tim's eyes in all directions. Arkham Asylum -- the new Arkham, that is -- was off the island that comprised the bulk of Gotham City. This could prove to be something of a problem. Maybe he should head out there for a peek? No. Tim had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. Those same instincts had saved his father's company a hundred times or more, extended that empire, and saved Tim's life more than a few times since he had taken up the crusade of the Dark Knight. Tim's instincts had never been wrong. It was like a little computer in his brain took stock of all the data presented, the superstitions and rumors, the guesses and desires, and quickly sent a response to Tim's gut. And then Tim acted. And it was ALWAYS the right call in the long run. So Tim flew through the canyons of Gotham's seedier downtown districts, noting pawn shops, 'massage parlors,' and every once in a while, a startled tourist in a hover car that had taken a wrong turn. But no overly suspicious... Tim stopped mid-thought, pulling up quickly. On a rooftop to his right he noticed a blur of motion and the shine of a leather jacket? Whatever. It was an anomaly for anyone in this town to be prancing around on the rooftops unless they were either nuts or Tim Drake. And Tim knew he didn't have any clones running around. "Hello, my shadowy friend. You've just assisted in killing some monotony. Let me come on over and offer you my gratitude..." Tim muttered, deftly maneuvering his airfoils to bring him to the alley in which the leather-jacketed shadow had dropped. 'Ouch!' Tim thought as he heard a shrill rip through the added power of his cowl's audio enhancement. 'That jacket can't still be in one piece.' **** "Relax, honey. I'm just a lawyer." Stephen Dee tried to comfort the nervous prostitute. The words he chose did not do the trick. Dammit. What good was a nervous whore? She might bite. A gasp from the kneeling hooker caused Stephen Dee to look behind him. The presence of a tall, dark figure emanated from the shadows. His eyes cut into Stephen's very soul. "Leave," a deep voice commanded. Stephen Dee did not have to be told twice; there were other hookers, less nervous, of course. And he would find them, certainly. "Velma," the voice said, addressing the shivering prostitute. "How has life been treating you?" The voice was changing now; it was getting less deep -- more... scratchy. Disjointed. Terrifying. "I haven't seen you since you were knee high to a snail." The silhouette's voice allowed itself to properly slither through the words. "Nice to know you've built a nice life for yourself." "Stay away from me!" "Stay away? Why, Velma -- that hurts me. You don't know how far I've come." A spark of light emanated from the direction of the voice. "I was hoping you'd be one of the smart ones," the voice continued, eliciting a brighter spark. "And at least give me a bit of a challenge. A reason to let you live. But of course, you're just another fool." The voice laughed and erupted into a brilliant burst of bluish flame, brightening the alley a thousand-fold. "And fools get Jack!" The laughter continued. **** From the rooftop, Tim could see a tiny explosion, one that temporarily blinded him as it shocked his infravison, sending splinters of pain through his eyes until he managed to switch it off. And oh, what a sight there was to see when he did. The figure was bent down slightly, but at its full height it could easily be eight feet tall. Ragged clothes hung from its twisted, gnarled form like a death shroud. A sinister mist swirled about the ground at the monster's feet, as though it had a life of its own. On the figure's shoulders, a hideous jack-o'-lantern was balanced precariously, threatening to fall off at any second. An eerie red glow shone through its eyes and jagged smile from within. Blue flames danced about the head. It was a nightmare given birth. It was impossible. It was Jack of the Lantern. Hallow's Jack... the embodiment of fear itself, Hell given legs. 'And wouldn't you know it, I gotta be the guy to find him,' Tim thought, his muscles coiling. **** "No... no... you're not really real..." Velma tried to convince herself as the grinning abomination drew closer. "I am real, Velma. Your reprieve is at an end. I've found you. I've found you." Jack's fingers grew in length, hardening and sharpening themselves on the whispers of the night, audibly tearing through the air and leaving it to bleed. Tim leapt. Three stories down from his perch to the alley where Jack was attacking Velma. Three stories. It took seconds. Tim was still too late. He bounced off the back of the creature, ricocheting into the wall and -- credibly -- landing on his feet, pulling a batarang for immediate use. "Hello, there!" Jack said through his demon's grin. "Stay where you are," Tim said, adding as much menace to his voice as he could, considering he was facing down the boogeyman. "No," Jack mused, grinning even more. His bladed fingers slashed into the sky, pulling it apart. The ghoul stepped inside, and, with a wave, disappeared. The hole closed. Tim exhaled. Velma moaned. Velma! Tim rushed to her side, hoping there was something he could do. Velma's abdomen was cut open; if she could get hospitalized in time, she could survive. Tim's hands flew to her body, applying pressure to slow the bleeding as Tim opened a channel to the cave. "Word up, Master Tim," came Alfred's voice in Tim's earpiece. "Not now, Alfred. Patch me directly through to the Gotham Police Department. Isaacs' office. If he's on a line already, break through. DO IT!" Alfred didn't even bother to reply. Instead, a gruff voice came through. "--Packers will, Tony. Bet on it." "Isaacs," Tim said with authority. "This is Batman. Don't talk, listen. I've just witnessed an attempted murder. The perpetrator got away, leaving his intended badly wounded. I'm holding back the flow of blood as best I can, but she will not last long at this rate. I need EMTs, Isaacs, and I need them now. Trace this signal." "This better not be a joke," Isaacs said as he disconnected. Tim trusted him. Not completely, but enough. Isaacs bemoaned the loss of any life, however, and that was good enough. "Don't move," a deep voice breathed behind Tim. The voice was slow, measured. Unsure, but not nervous. Tim cocked his head. The voice belonged to a man in a mask. **** "My latest copy of Super-Heroes Illustrated said that sidekicks are out this season. Who are you supposed to be? Bat Boy?" Tim asked, shifting his weight to get a better look. Marc answered without missing a beat, "That's good. You write your own material?" "Well, I try." Tim smiled uneasily under his cowl. The woman's bleeding had slowed just a bit, but nothing drastic. Marc turned his hand over to reveal three of his razor-sharp bat discs. He moved his arm back, prepared to launch them if necessary. "Enough chitchat; you've got two seconds to explain yourself before I get rude." Tim debated on whether or not to take him down now or play it all out to see whom he was. He decided to go with the latter. "Well, Bat Boy--" "Nightwing." The name caused Tim to pause. Rather than let the man know he had caught him off guard, he continued. "Well, Nightwing," he said mockingly, "I'm trying to save this woman's life. If you'd be kind enough to put your toys away, I could use some help here." Marc looked past Batman at the woman and saw the blood seeping through his gloved fingers. He pulled the bat discs together and popped them back into his belt buckle. Slowly he approached them. Tim had already moved his attention back to Velma. Her eyes were open now, and she opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Marc tore off the bottom part of her dress and handed it to him. "So you're the Batman?" Marc inquired. "What gave it away? The big red bat on my chest or was it something else?" Tim chuckled nervously. The amount of blood was frustrating. He did his best to keep pressure on the wound. "What happened here? Someone try to take her purse and she refused?" Tim laughed again. Marc wondered what was so funny. His laugh grated on him. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Tim muttered, the face of Hallow's Jack still planted firmly in his mind. Marc stood up and looked around the alley. "Try me," he said, almost disinterested. He walked over to the side and bent down to pick up a wallet. "Xanadu warned me about this thing last time I saw her. At least I think so. Her comments were a bit cryptic." "What thing?" "Hallow's Jack, she called it. I did a little research. Back in the 17th Century over in Europe, there were stories of a man with a long grin and evil, fiery eyes that stalked children in the countryside. Wives-tale stuff you told your kids to keep them home at night. According to the legend, the people got tired of it after awhile so one night they went out and tracked this guy down. They found him, all right. He wore a bag over his head coated in phosphorus, and he had long knives on his fingers attached to mesh gloves. He would light up the bag and do his wicked little deeds. A real basket case." "So, what'd they do?" "They ripped the bag off of his head and tied him up. Children came and throw rocks at him. Broken and bleeding, he vowed revenge. They carved up a pumpkin from the harvest, put it over his head, and then they set his freaky ass on fire. The Legend of Hallow's Jack spins off from there." "What's this ghost story have to do with anything?" Marc asked, confused at the story's relevance. "Supposedly this entity 'Hallow's Jack' shows up to stalk the ancestors of the people who put him to death. He keeps coming back, tracking down the survivors every so many years. Not just one bloodline, either, so I'd say he pops up in different places on different years. Same MO, the glowing jack-o-lantern head and bladed fingers. Slicing and dicing." Marc stared at the black featureless face of the Batman. He couldn't hold it in any longer. He erupted in laughter and clutched his ribs. "What?" Tim demanded. "Bullshit! You just made that all up. Come on. What really happened here? And how does Stephen Dee fit into it, because he left this here," Marc said, waving the wallet around. Tim heard sirens approaching quickly. "Look, I'm serious. He was standing right here. I dropped down into the alley to try and save her, but I was too late. He pulled a disappearing act, and I called in an ambulance. Then you showed up." "Whatever. Look, I don't believe in ghosts. If this guy was here like you say, it's probably just someone taking advantage of the legend. A wacko in a rubber suit." Tim heard cars screeching to a halt outside the alley. "I haven't got time to argue with you. The cops and the EMTs will be here in just a second, so you better make yourself scarce and let me handle it. Don't stray too far, though; we need to talk. I'm not going to have a loose cannon moving into to my city." "Don't flatter yourself, big ears," Marc said, throwing his grappling hook. "I'll be waiting." Nightwing scampered up the wall towards the roof, leaving Tim alone in the alley with Velma. "Hold on, they're almost here," he whispered to her quietly, looking into her terrified blue eyes. Red and blue lights flooded the alley. Seconds became hours, and Tim could've sworn he heard the faint sounds of laughter. **** TO BE CONTINUED...