Chapter 5 - Rage
The door to the back of the van opened, and Bruce braced himself for the bright light. It was at that moment when the light blinded him that he was at his most vulnerable.
But because he was playing the helpless millionaire, he just winced at the light and lowered his head.
Arms grabbed him and pulled him out.
"Good grief," Jonathan Crane panted as he helped herd Bruce along. "You weigh a ton, Wayne. You live at the gym?"
"Something like that," Bruce muttered, resisting the urge to thrust his elbow to the side and knock the wind out of the thin man. Bruce knew he could fight Jonathan and Mad Hatter, who was on the other side, with his hands still tied behind his back. Jervis was a small, goofy looking man whose absurd facial expressions made Bruce want to punch him right between the eyes every time he saw him. Stupid men deserved to be punished accordingly, in Batman's opinion.
They were dragging him into a warehouse that seemed deserted, except for a bunch of worn crates and tables. Bruce glanced around, feigning helplessness as he quickly spotted each possible escape route. There were so many doors and windows and hiding places behind the large crates that Bruce wanted to snort in disgust at their choice of hideouts. Batman would have turned this place upside down in a few seconds.
Bruce scowled – why couldn't have Tim been kidnapped? If they had grabbed Tim and held him for ransom, Batman could have stormed this place and rescued Tim who knew enough to pretend to be helpless if he was ever kidnapped as Tim Drake and not Robin, and then they would have been back home by now.
Of course, Bruce would have been furious with Tim and given him a well-earned lectured before sending him up to bed to think about his careless behavior. The fact that Bruce had gotten kidnapped only made him more upset. He would have to get himself out of here and find a way to get back home so no one ever found out that Jonathan and Jervis had overpowered him.
"Sit him here," the two smaller men pushed Bruce in a wooden chair and tied him down to it.
"Hurry, hurry," Jonathan urged. "If Penguin found out we borrowed his van, he's going to pitch a fit until we find a way to repay him."
"I told you we should have ripped off a van," Jervis retorted, adjusting his huge hat.
"That would have alerted Batman before we had a chance to nab the millionaire."
"You're so scared of Batman," Jervis jeered. "Afraid he's going beat you up while you beg for mercy."
"I don't beg," Jonathan declared. "And he doesn't scare me. He's just a big buffoon in a stupid mask."
"Glad you're not scared – because there he is," Jervis pointed up to the rafters.
Jonathan immediately ducked and ran back a few feet before Jervis burst into laughter.
"Psych!" Jervis laughed. "You sure you're not scared?"
Swearing, Jonathan marched back to face Jervis. Bruce waited for a few minutes, hoping the two men might start fighting and he figure out an escape while they bickered. But Jonathan just marched over to a table and ordered, "Help me write a ransom note, moron, before I stuff your face in that stupid hat."
They pulled out a laptop and opened it, and then there was a slight scuffle for who would get to sit in the chair in front of the table. Jonathan won and he got to sit down and Jervis had to bend over him to watch Jonathan type.
"All right," Jonathan opened a word-processing document, "let's get this rolling."
"Who are you writing the ransom note to?" Bruce asked, careful to keep his voice neutral and not challenging. He didn't want to get them riled up too soon. He knew he could get himself free in a matter of seconds, but if either of them had a gun, it might be too late.
"Your butler," Jervis said with satisfaction. "Albert."
"Alfred's out for the weekend," Bruce told him.
"Then that brat that lives with you – Tom."
"Tim, and he's only fourteen. How' s he going to get money for you? He doesn't have more than his allowance. Are you sure it's worth kidnapping me for a few twenties?"
"That older kid," Jervis insisted. "He'll have money."
"Dick was disinherited," Bruce said sharply. This was not true, but the fact that they thought Dick could find a way to the fortune made Bruce angry. Dick only got whatever his adopted father gave him, though the boy was never grateful and never wanted to take it.
"Jeez, man," Jervis blinked, "kind of harsh. I thought you millionaires were supposed to go easy on your kids and spoil them."
"We'll ransom you to your company," Jonathan snapped. "Wayne Industries will pay millions to get you back."
"It's Friday night, and no one is at the office," Bruce said. "And the only person who could authorize a move of that much money is me!"
"There has to be someone who would pay to get you back," Jervis argued. "Come on – we need money."
"Get a job," Bruce said flatly.
Jonathan jumped up and whirled around, pulling out a black gun and pointing it right at Bruce's face. "Shut up," he ordered. "You got fine seconds to tell us how to get money, or I'm shooting you."
Bruce wanted to ground out "I do not help terrorists," but he knew that was not something Bruce Wayne would say. So he flinched away from the gun and whimpered, "Okay, okay, let me get to the computer and I'll send you money."
"That's what I thought," Jonathan smirked. "See," he brandished the gun at Jervis, "a little fear makes the greatest men turn into sniveling cowards."
Jervis nodded in agreement as he untied Bruce from the chair.
"I knew Wayne here would be particularly afraid of guns," Jonathan continued with an awful satisfied look on his face. "Ever since his parents were gunned down, he can't stand the sight of them."
"Don't talk about my parents," Bruce said in a low voice as he stood.
"Oh, what are you going to do?" Jonathan sneered. "You're so frightened by the sight of this you're about to wet your pants. Hate the reminder of poor mommy and daddy getting shot while you stood by helpless and crying. Nice to see that cowardice runs in the family."
Bruce grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and whirled around to slam it into Jonathan. The thin man went down with a cry and the gun skidded across the concrete floor. Jervis went for it, but Bruce stuck his foot out and Jervis tripped over it, falling to the floor. Bruce bent to yank the huge hat down over Jervis's face before turning back to Jonathan.
"Don't talk about my parents," Bruce yelled as he grabbed a leg of the broken chair and began beating Jonathan over the back with it. Even in his white-hot fury, Bruce knew not to use all his strength, but he hit Jonathan with all the force that a man in his late-thirties who exercised frequently would have. "Don't ever talk about my parents. My father could have beaten you any time he wanted, you ugly bastard!"
Jonathan screamed bloody-murder on the ground as Bruce hit him. The wooden leg thudded against bone and muscle in Crane's back, and Bruce knew the man would have huge bruises for a long time, but Bruce did not care.
No one talked about his parents that way. The thought that someone would try to tear them down, would mock their deaths, unleashed a rage inside that made him angry enough to tear people apart with his bare hands. He wanted Jonathan to feel his pain, to understand the devastation that came from watching your parents shot in front of you. Your sweet mother, who kissed your forehead everyday before you left for school and held you in her lap when you got upset because bullies teased you at school, who called you her Brucie though you thought you were too old for such a nickname – to see her shot and hear her screaming as she died.
And your father, the man who was bigger than the whole world, who read to you each night before bed in a gentle voice, who let you come sit in his study while he worked, who used to greet you with a hug everyday when he came home from work and would sometimes lift you off your feet in a bear hug and tickle your sides while you squealed and hugged him back – to see him looking in your eyes as he died and you watched his blood pool onto the red snow as you stood alone in the alley with their bodies . . .
Bruce brought the wood up and prepared to smash it down on Jonathan's skull.
"Mr. Wayne," a new voice spoke out of the haze of anger and rage.
Bruce glanced up at he saw Superman floating down from an open window. Bruce stepped back, blinking as he lowered the club. On the ground, Jonathan did not move. Jervis had disappeared.
"He – he was talking about my parents," Bruce stammered. He felt so overwhelmed that he wanted to be sick. His stomach was twisting and his eyes were burning and he wished he could just start running until he outran the pain and hurt.
"Okay, I understand, Mr. Wayne," Superman kept up the ruse in case Jonathan was still coherent enough to hear. "Let's get you out of here and then I'll take Dr. Crane to a hospital."
"I'm fine," Bruce insisted. "Just take him and I'll get back home by myself."
Superman looked doubtful, but he reached down and scooped up Jonathan who groaned when his tenderized back hit Superman's rock-hard arms.
Bruce went out into the darkening night and tried to take several breaths to calm himself. It had been nearly thirty years since he watched his parents die, and he still left that same helpless fury whenever someone mentioned their deaths.
A low rumble filled the night, and he turned to see the Batmobile gliding up behind him followed by Tim on the bike. The car and bike drove into the open doorway of the warehouse, parking right behind the Penguin's van.
A second later, Nightwing swung out of the Batmobile. "We found him," Nightwing said, touching a hand to activate the small mic on his mask. "See you at base, Superman. Oracle, Nightwing signing out."
"What do you think you're doing?" Bruce growled as he approached his car.
"We're rescuing you, Mr. Wayne," Robin said from the bike. "We heard you were kidnapped, and we're here to help you."
"Shut up, Robin," Bruce ordered before turning to Nightwing. "Why are you driving the Batmobile without Batman?"
"Um, Batman was unavailable," Nightwing smirked. "Batman couldn't figure out how to escape two very weak criminals so the younger superheroes were called in to assist the – ahem! – helpless Dark Knight."
Bruce looked right at Nightwing, and for a second, Robin grew so dizzy on the bike he nearly fell off. It was one thing to challenge Bruce at home in the Manor, but no one ever questioned Batman while they were on the job.
"You're disinherited," Bruce hissed, so low no one but Nightwing could hear.
"Whatever, old man," Nightwing quipped. "Now do you want a ride home in the Batmobile, or do you need us to call for a ride? I understand your adopted son, Mr. Grayson, is visiting you this weekend. Perhaps he can be troubled to come pick you up. I've heard he's very understanding of his father's insane impulses."
Bruce stalked over to the passenger side of the Batmobile and yanked the door open. He got in and slammed it, and Robin rode the bike forward to whisper to Nightwing,
"Don't make him mad."
"Are you kidding?" Nightwing grinned. "I have waited years for the chance to rub something like this in his face. I'm enjoying every moment of the ride home. Stay close, Robin."
Dick swung into the Batmobile and started the car. Bruce was sitting rigid in the seat. Nightwing opened his mouth, ready to make his adopted father absolutely miserable. But then he hesitated, and slipped off his mask. He pushed the mask between the seat and the controls, wedging it in.
"You okay, Bruce?" Dick asked.
"Drive home," Bruce ordered.
"No, man, you're shaking," Dick realized. "What happened in there? Superman said you were having problems controlling yourself. Did you beat Crane up?"
"Drive home," Bruce repeated.
Dick looked at his father's stony face, the coldness in his eyes. "Damn it, Bruce," Dick said softly. "Just talk about it – tell me what's going on. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."
Bruce said nothing.
"I'm your son," Dick went on. "I lived with you for years. I fought beside you as Robin. I was ready to die for you out there in battle. If anything ever happens to you, I'm going to take care of Tim and Alfred. Talk to me. Tell me what happened."
Bruce did not move – he did not even seem to be breathing.
Dick waited a second and then slowly put the car into drive. They pulled out of the warehouse with Tim trailing behind. Bruce stayed silent, and Dick felt himself dying inside as he realized that the man who meant so much to him would not share the pain inside.
High above Metropolis, Superman flew back to the Manor, after delivering Jonathan to the ER. The doctors had asked him what was wrong, but Superman had handed him over without a word and flown away.
As he got airborne, he suddenly heard Dick's voice. It took a moment, but Superman finally realized that the young man must have taken his mask off and somehow the talk button on the mic got jammed on.
Superman felt guilty for listening, but the longer Dick kept pleading for Bruce to talk, the more upset Superman got. He could hear the pleading in Dick's voice, the need to have his father act like a responsible adult.
The moment Superman landed at the Manor, he changed back in Clark Kent and went straight down to the Cave. He was few minutes ahead of the others getting back.
"Hey, Clark," Barbara smiled from the computers. "Good work – we're extra fast with your vision and speed."
"Yeah," Clark nodded. "I'm going upstairs to heat the pizza. Will you tell the guys to come on up when they get here? You, too – we'd like to have you stay."
"Sure thing," Barbara said as she started turning the machine off. "Though you know Bruce is going to want to go fight someone tonight."
"That," Clark said grimly, "is exactly what I'm counting on."
But because he was playing the helpless millionaire, he just winced at the light and lowered his head.
Arms grabbed him and pulled him out.
"Good grief," Jonathan Crane panted as he helped herd Bruce along. "You weigh a ton, Wayne. You live at the gym?"
"Something like that," Bruce muttered, resisting the urge to thrust his elbow to the side and knock the wind out of the thin man. Bruce knew he could fight Jonathan and Mad Hatter, who was on the other side, with his hands still tied behind his back. Jervis was a small, goofy looking man whose absurd facial expressions made Bruce want to punch him right between the eyes every time he saw him. Stupid men deserved to be punished accordingly, in Batman's opinion.
They were dragging him into a warehouse that seemed deserted, except for a bunch of worn crates and tables. Bruce glanced around, feigning helplessness as he quickly spotted each possible escape route. There were so many doors and windows and hiding places behind the large crates that Bruce wanted to snort in disgust at their choice of hideouts. Batman would have turned this place upside down in a few seconds.
Bruce scowled – why couldn't have Tim been kidnapped? If they had grabbed Tim and held him for ransom, Batman could have stormed this place and rescued Tim who knew enough to pretend to be helpless if he was ever kidnapped as Tim Drake and not Robin, and then they would have been back home by now.
Of course, Bruce would have been furious with Tim and given him a well-earned lectured before sending him up to bed to think about his careless behavior. The fact that Bruce had gotten kidnapped only made him more upset. He would have to get himself out of here and find a way to get back home so no one ever found out that Jonathan and Jervis had overpowered him.
"Sit him here," the two smaller men pushed Bruce in a wooden chair and tied him down to it.
"Hurry, hurry," Jonathan urged. "If Penguin found out we borrowed his van, he's going to pitch a fit until we find a way to repay him."
"I told you we should have ripped off a van," Jervis retorted, adjusting his huge hat.
"That would have alerted Batman before we had a chance to nab the millionaire."
"You're so scared of Batman," Jervis jeered. "Afraid he's going beat you up while you beg for mercy."
"I don't beg," Jonathan declared. "And he doesn't scare me. He's just a big buffoon in a stupid mask."
"Glad you're not scared – because there he is," Jervis pointed up to the rafters.
Jonathan immediately ducked and ran back a few feet before Jervis burst into laughter.
"Psych!" Jervis laughed. "You sure you're not scared?"
Swearing, Jonathan marched back to face Jervis. Bruce waited for a few minutes, hoping the two men might start fighting and he figure out an escape while they bickered. But Jonathan just marched over to a table and ordered, "Help me write a ransom note, moron, before I stuff your face in that stupid hat."
They pulled out a laptop and opened it, and then there was a slight scuffle for who would get to sit in the chair in front of the table. Jonathan won and he got to sit down and Jervis had to bend over him to watch Jonathan type.
"All right," Jonathan opened a word-processing document, "let's get this rolling."
"Who are you writing the ransom note to?" Bruce asked, careful to keep his voice neutral and not challenging. He didn't want to get them riled up too soon. He knew he could get himself free in a matter of seconds, but if either of them had a gun, it might be too late.
"Your butler," Jervis said with satisfaction. "Albert."
"Alfred's out for the weekend," Bruce told him.
"Then that brat that lives with you – Tom."
"Tim, and he's only fourteen. How' s he going to get money for you? He doesn't have more than his allowance. Are you sure it's worth kidnapping me for a few twenties?"
"That older kid," Jervis insisted. "He'll have money."
"Dick was disinherited," Bruce said sharply. This was not true, but the fact that they thought Dick could find a way to the fortune made Bruce angry. Dick only got whatever his adopted father gave him, though the boy was never grateful and never wanted to take it.
"Jeez, man," Jervis blinked, "kind of harsh. I thought you millionaires were supposed to go easy on your kids and spoil them."
"We'll ransom you to your company," Jonathan snapped. "Wayne Industries will pay millions to get you back."
"It's Friday night, and no one is at the office," Bruce said. "And the only person who could authorize a move of that much money is me!"
"There has to be someone who would pay to get you back," Jervis argued. "Come on – we need money."
"Get a job," Bruce said flatly.
Jonathan jumped up and whirled around, pulling out a black gun and pointing it right at Bruce's face. "Shut up," he ordered. "You got fine seconds to tell us how to get money, or I'm shooting you."
Bruce wanted to ground out "I do not help terrorists," but he knew that was not something Bruce Wayne would say. So he flinched away from the gun and whimpered, "Okay, okay, let me get to the computer and I'll send you money."
"That's what I thought," Jonathan smirked. "See," he brandished the gun at Jervis, "a little fear makes the greatest men turn into sniveling cowards."
Jervis nodded in agreement as he untied Bruce from the chair.
"I knew Wayne here would be particularly afraid of guns," Jonathan continued with an awful satisfied look on his face. "Ever since his parents were gunned down, he can't stand the sight of them."
"Don't talk about my parents," Bruce said in a low voice as he stood.
"Oh, what are you going to do?" Jonathan sneered. "You're so frightened by the sight of this you're about to wet your pants. Hate the reminder of poor mommy and daddy getting shot while you stood by helpless and crying. Nice to see that cowardice runs in the family."
Bruce grabbed the chair he had been sitting in and whirled around to slam it into Jonathan. The thin man went down with a cry and the gun skidded across the concrete floor. Jervis went for it, but Bruce stuck his foot out and Jervis tripped over it, falling to the floor. Bruce bent to yank the huge hat down over Jervis's face before turning back to Jonathan.
"Don't talk about my parents," Bruce yelled as he grabbed a leg of the broken chair and began beating Jonathan over the back with it. Even in his white-hot fury, Bruce knew not to use all his strength, but he hit Jonathan with all the force that a man in his late-thirties who exercised frequently would have. "Don't ever talk about my parents. My father could have beaten you any time he wanted, you ugly bastard!"
Jonathan screamed bloody-murder on the ground as Bruce hit him. The wooden leg thudded against bone and muscle in Crane's back, and Bruce knew the man would have huge bruises for a long time, but Bruce did not care.
No one talked about his parents that way. The thought that someone would try to tear them down, would mock their deaths, unleashed a rage inside that made him angry enough to tear people apart with his bare hands. He wanted Jonathan to feel his pain, to understand the devastation that came from watching your parents shot in front of you. Your sweet mother, who kissed your forehead everyday before you left for school and held you in her lap when you got upset because bullies teased you at school, who called you her Brucie though you thought you were too old for such a nickname – to see her shot and hear her screaming as she died.
And your father, the man who was bigger than the whole world, who read to you each night before bed in a gentle voice, who let you come sit in his study while he worked, who used to greet you with a hug everyday when he came home from work and would sometimes lift you off your feet in a bear hug and tickle your sides while you squealed and hugged him back – to see him looking in your eyes as he died and you watched his blood pool onto the red snow as you stood alone in the alley with their bodies . . .
Bruce brought the wood up and prepared to smash it down on Jonathan's skull.
"Mr. Wayne," a new voice spoke out of the haze of anger and rage.
Bruce glanced up at he saw Superman floating down from an open window. Bruce stepped back, blinking as he lowered the club. On the ground, Jonathan did not move. Jervis had disappeared.
"He – he was talking about my parents," Bruce stammered. He felt so overwhelmed that he wanted to be sick. His stomach was twisting and his eyes were burning and he wished he could just start running until he outran the pain and hurt.
"Okay, I understand, Mr. Wayne," Superman kept up the ruse in case Jonathan was still coherent enough to hear. "Let's get you out of here and then I'll take Dr. Crane to a hospital."
"I'm fine," Bruce insisted. "Just take him and I'll get back home by myself."
Superman looked doubtful, but he reached down and scooped up Jonathan who groaned when his tenderized back hit Superman's rock-hard arms.
Bruce went out into the darkening night and tried to take several breaths to calm himself. It had been nearly thirty years since he watched his parents die, and he still left that same helpless fury whenever someone mentioned their deaths.
A low rumble filled the night, and he turned to see the Batmobile gliding up behind him followed by Tim on the bike. The car and bike drove into the open doorway of the warehouse, parking right behind the Penguin's van.
A second later, Nightwing swung out of the Batmobile. "We found him," Nightwing said, touching a hand to activate the small mic on his mask. "See you at base, Superman. Oracle, Nightwing signing out."
"What do you think you're doing?" Bruce growled as he approached his car.
"We're rescuing you, Mr. Wayne," Robin said from the bike. "We heard you were kidnapped, and we're here to help you."
"Shut up, Robin," Bruce ordered before turning to Nightwing. "Why are you driving the Batmobile without Batman?"
"Um, Batman was unavailable," Nightwing smirked. "Batman couldn't figure out how to escape two very weak criminals so the younger superheroes were called in to assist the – ahem! – helpless Dark Knight."
Bruce looked right at Nightwing, and for a second, Robin grew so dizzy on the bike he nearly fell off. It was one thing to challenge Bruce at home in the Manor, but no one ever questioned Batman while they were on the job.
"You're disinherited," Bruce hissed, so low no one but Nightwing could hear.
"Whatever, old man," Nightwing quipped. "Now do you want a ride home in the Batmobile, or do you need us to call for a ride? I understand your adopted son, Mr. Grayson, is visiting you this weekend. Perhaps he can be troubled to come pick you up. I've heard he's very understanding of his father's insane impulses."
Bruce stalked over to the passenger side of the Batmobile and yanked the door open. He got in and slammed it, and Robin rode the bike forward to whisper to Nightwing,
"Don't make him mad."
"Are you kidding?" Nightwing grinned. "I have waited years for the chance to rub something like this in his face. I'm enjoying every moment of the ride home. Stay close, Robin."
Dick swung into the Batmobile and started the car. Bruce was sitting rigid in the seat. Nightwing opened his mouth, ready to make his adopted father absolutely miserable. But then he hesitated, and slipped off his mask. He pushed the mask between the seat and the controls, wedging it in.
"You okay, Bruce?" Dick asked.
"Drive home," Bruce ordered.
"No, man, you're shaking," Dick realized. "What happened in there? Superman said you were having problems controlling yourself. Did you beat Crane up?"
"Drive home," Bruce repeated.
Dick looked at his father's stony face, the coldness in his eyes. "Damn it, Bruce," Dick said softly. "Just talk about it – tell me what's going on. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."
Bruce said nothing.
"I'm your son," Dick went on. "I lived with you for years. I fought beside you as Robin. I was ready to die for you out there in battle. If anything ever happens to you, I'm going to take care of Tim and Alfred. Talk to me. Tell me what happened."
Bruce did not move – he did not even seem to be breathing.
Dick waited a second and then slowly put the car into drive. They pulled out of the warehouse with Tim trailing behind. Bruce stayed silent, and Dick felt himself dying inside as he realized that the man who meant so much to him would not share the pain inside.
High above Metropolis, Superman flew back to the Manor, after delivering Jonathan to the ER. The doctors had asked him what was wrong, but Superman had handed him over without a word and flown away.
As he got airborne, he suddenly heard Dick's voice. It took a moment, but Superman finally realized that the young man must have taken his mask off and somehow the talk button on the mic got jammed on.
Superman felt guilty for listening, but the longer Dick kept pleading for Bruce to talk, the more upset Superman got. He could hear the pleading in Dick's voice, the need to have his father act like a responsible adult.
The moment Superman landed at the Manor, he changed back in Clark Kent and went straight down to the Cave. He was few minutes ahead of the others getting back.
"Hey, Clark," Barbara smiled from the computers. "Good work – we're extra fast with your vision and speed."
"Yeah," Clark nodded. "I'm going upstairs to heat the pizza. Will you tell the guys to come on up when they get here? You, too – we'd like to have you stay."
"Sure thing," Barbara said as she started turning the machine off. "Though you know Bruce is going to want to go fight someone tonight."
"That," Clark said grimly, "is exactly what I'm counting on."