Batman: The Old Knight

[Szymanski]

Closed.​

"Ah. Home sweet home. So much space! So much room! And the walls aren't padded so you can bang your head off of them all day and do yourself as much damage as you like. Oh... this is the life." He was a man of theatrics, with a laugh that struck fear in to the city. He was unpredictable, dangerous, insane. For years, he had terrorised Gotham City with his murderous rampages, and that gas that he used -- the toxin with horrible side-effects. The citizens knew him as the Joker. And he missed the meetings with his old, retired foe -- Batman. Removing his trench-coat, the Joker tossed it to the side and watched as it fluttered a short distance on to the wooden floor of his hideout. "Things to do... number one. Buy a new coat-stand."

His residence was situated in a long, open-spaced loft on top of an old building in Gotham's Industrial District. At the very end of the room were the large windows that looked north towards the remainder of the city -- and giving him a front-row view of watching his grand plan(s) going in to action. The long walk to the window took him about ten seconds with his slow pace, a noticeable spring in his step -- his worn white suit in need of repair. There was always time for changing outfits later.

One of the long walls was decorated with hundreds of newspaper cuttings and photographs of his old pal Batman. Years of writings and ramblings, made up stories and true life tales of how he had foiled another bad guy's scheme. Joker was in plenty of them, but Two-Face, Riddler and various other criminals all had their equal share of the limelight. What saddened him greatly were the ones that told the end of the Dark Knight's story. Pages upon pages of his retirement, and how it would effect Gotham. What would they do now their protector was gone? The articles that celebrated his resignation -- the outspoken members of the press and government -- were all crossed out by the Joker, who frowned upon their words. Where was the fun in committing crime if the big bad Batman wasn't there to spoil the day?

In front of the window was what really caught his attention. First, someone had kindly left an old armchair a few yards away from the glass, facing outwards like it were a throne for a King. It was badly scratched up, and was a deep purple colour that seemed to match the Joker's usual bad comical dress sense. On the right arm was a chain, which descended towards the floor. What was attached to the chain was what he was more interested in. Slumping in the chair, the Joker yanked suddenly on the chain to wake his poor prisoner up. Some of his goons had knocked her out and brought the woman here a few days ago, dressed in her cat-outfit and shackling her to the arm-chair (which itself was bolted to the ground) with a rusty chain that fastened to a thick collar around her neck. It had been tightened just a little too much to be comfortable, and it's length prevented her from actually climbing on to the chair. Rope around her wrists also restricted her movement, while a pair of cat dishes -- one with water, the other with what appeared to be cat food (it's true identity was a mystery, but it was perfectly safe to eat) would help any hunger or thirst.

Eventually Joker let the chain go, allowing her to breath once more. He leaned over, keeping his head inches away from the maximum distance she could reach with those claws of hers. "Wake up Kitty... Joker's home."

 

[lemondrop_gag]

It wasn’t the jerk of the chain that yanked her into full wakefulness, but the breath catching in her throat, gagging her as her eyes flew open to search for the source of the sudden obstruction to her already limited air supply. She’d drifted in and out of consciousness for days, never managing to be able to make herself uncomfortable enough to escape exhaustion. Not that she wanted to. She preferred to force herself into the sanctuary her muddled mind offered, rather than waste her time and energy squirming around her tether to take in her surroundings. There wasn’t much to look at, apart from her city view and the long wall of clippings – all featuring the retired Batman. She’d long since taken a gamble at where she’d been dragged to.

Selina Kyle was right. Or Catwoman. She was Catwoman right now, suited to attire. She blinked slowly at the Joker’s face as he leaned down to her, biting back a wheeze as air rushed over her parched throat, through her eager lungs. She only vaguely remembered the incident that brought her there – the flurry of movement, vibrancy of painted faces, glitter of discarded jewels and finally, the pressure to the back of her head that ended the struggle. She pulled forward against the chain – toward her captor, only to find that she’d jerked up to the end of her slack. ”Meow.”

She shifted, slipping back down to the foot of his chair. Maybe if she wasn’t the one on the receiving end of the leash, she would be able to appreciate how witty the method of incarceration was. She glanced to the side of the old wooden floors, quirking one eyebrow so that it disappeared beneath the mask of her PVC cat suit. The cat bowl of water was all too enticing, but with her hands tied, she wouldn’t be able to pick it up to get a drink. And like hell was she crouching over to lap it up. It was the same case with the food – though that was more because she hadn’t the faintest idea what the meal was composed of. She’d starve before she even nibbled at it. Just looking at the contents of the bowl caused the ache of hunger to fade. The water though… The water made her throat burn.

She shifted on the floor tucking her heeled feet under her bottom as she lifted her head to look up at her subjugator and licked her lips. The remnants of her days-old lipstick tasted oily, and only served to amplify the desiccation of her throat as her pink tongue slipped back past her teeth again. If she’d been untied, the Joker would have a whole new face to sport whenever he left his hidey hole – or maybe if she’d been untied, she wouldn’t be feeling so destructive. Straight to the point was the best path to take – provided he didn’t feel like playing games. But that was doubtful. Why go through the trouble of bending her into this position if he couldn’t take pleasure in seeing her at his mercy? She would certainly take her time to enjoy her handiwork. Still, she asked, her voice dry. “What do you want, Joker?”

 

[Szymanski]

"I want your talents, Catwoman! These days, it's so hard to find someone that's good at their job. I mean there's me, of course, but I can't be in two places at once. Who's going to help commit all my crimes when I'm sitting in my chair, laughing away at Gotham going up in smoke?" The Joker asked her, his words followed by that prolonged laughter that he just loved to do. His grin wide, yellowed teeth on full show, his pointing chin characterising an unusual demonic shape.

Finally he stopped, and got back to his feet, circling around Catwoman and looking down at her bowls. Almost as if he had memorised the safe distances down to the nearest millimetre, the Joker stood at a point that put next-to-no air between her claws and his trouser leg if she attempted it. "Aww... you never touched your Joker-branded, Extra-Meaty Kitty Food. And to think I slaved away for hours making it in the Arkham kitchen for you." He turned around, clasping his hands behind his back and putting on a saddened face. "Oh... no one ever thanks Joker." The clown then stepped towards the articles on the wall. "Not even Bats. Oh, I miss him. We had some fun times, y'know. Sent him lots of letters when he stopped coming out to play... he never wrote back." Another deep, long sigh. Then he was back to looking at Catwoman, smiling again.

Oh, she was mad. He knew it, and he loved it. Chained to a throne like some pet, the collar digging in to her throat and reminding her that right now she belonged to someone. Or at least, what ever choices he gave her over the next few hours weren't going to be ones that would help her at all. Joker had the upper hand. She may be deadly and agile, but Joker had been doing this kind of stuff for years. "I need you to steal some things for me. Do you think you can do that?" Skipping around her, one hand grabbed the rope around her wrists while the other stroked her chin. "Go on. Give Joker a nice big meow to let him know you'll help him."

 

[lemondrop_gag]

There was a damn good reason that the Joker was locked away in Arkham, and Bartholomew Wolper was an imbecile to believe in any kind of reformation. Catwoman cocked her head as the maniacal cackle continued, examining the point of his chin and the full mouth of yellowing teeth. Until now, she’d managed to steer clear of the madmen – and women – about Gotham, though that was more than likely because the great majority of them were locked up tight behind charged fences or rightfully rotting in psychiatric wards.

She was heavily tempted to take a good swipe at the leg of his dirty white suit pants, but thought better of it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds and whatnot – even if he didn’t have anything worth nibbling in his palm. “Forgive me for insulting your hospitality,” she rolled her eyes, reclining to lay on her back. That was far more comfortable than sitting up, the pressure suddenly alleviated from her all too stressed spine, even arched as she was to keep from straining her arms. She almost sighed whenever she rested her head down against the floor as well. “Kitties are finicky, Joker – and if you were really looking for my talent, you’d offer me sugar and cream.”

Though it was good for her he hadn’t. That, she may have submitted to lapping from a food bowl and licking the rim.

Selina allowed her eyes to fall shut as he spoke, listening to his rant. That was what he was up to then – luring his Batty Caped Crusader out of hiding. It only made sense – what was the fun in committing any crime if you knew you could get away with it? And Batman posed a formidable challenge to the sadistic clown. She sat up slowly, moving to her knees as she rested her shoulder against the arm of the chair. She didn’t want to get too comfortable, that was never a good idea. But maybe if she’d remained lying down, the Joker wouldn’t have had the opportunity to harness her by her bindings. She bit back a hiss in favor of a purr, blinking her cerulean eyes at him for the response. “Only after you tell me what’s in it for me. You know, your boys lost me a big hit when they knocked me upside the head to drag me here.”

She was testing her luck, but she wasn’t bowing just yet. Simply complying might get her out of there a bit faster, however. And that was important. Her husband would wonder where the hell she was – and she didn’t yet have any allies to back her on a damn good explanation. But then, that brought another question to mind – one that had her heart jumping to her throat and pounding there, cutting her breath short all on its own. Bartholomew hadn’t shut up about the talk show – the Joker’s public appearance and his victorious reformation. That was how he got out. But he would have – what did he do with Bartholomew? Did he kill him? She couldn’t very well ask – had he felt the acceleration of her pulse? No – but her might have noticed the stiffening in her shoulders.

Of course she could help him. She didn’t see how she had much of a choice, in any case. “Tell me the details so you can to let me go, funny man. I’ve got my kitty to feed, I’m not sure I left the window open for her.”

 

[Szymanski]

"Oh, don't worry about your kitty. Clive is looking after her. Or is it Morris?" He looked out of the window, hand under his chin and finger on his lip. "No. I don't know a Morris, do I? Catwoman! Remind me to recruit a henchman called Morris." He remained frozen in a pondering thought for a few moments before snapping out of it and returning to discussing more serious business with Selina. Opening up his suit jacket, he pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it in front of her. “This is what I want you to steal. Or get for me, rather. It’s not stealing when it already belongs to you, right?” On the paper, Joker had hand drawn something with what appeared to be a green crayon. A locked box, about a foot long, and roughly half the width and height. There was a handle on top, and a lock on the front. It was uniquely characterised by a small happy face on one corner.

"This is my box. But I can't get it. Because it's all the way in my old hide-out at the north of the city, but Bats decided to booby trap it all those years ago when we were still pals." He lifted his feet up, one at a time. "But because of these big clown feet, I'd probably just set it off!" Another laugh. It was an abandoned warehouse, formerly used by a clothes shop before the Joker took over. Joker didn't describe what kind of booby trap had been set, or even what entrance it had been set on, although there'd be no point in asking because she wasn't going to be told. Whether that was because he didn't know, or because he just wanted to give her a nasty surprise, Selina would find out the hard way. Unless she was as good as he heard she was, then she'd have no problem with it at all.

"Now Kitty's got to promise not to go for my face when I unchain her." He grinned, wagging his index finger from side to side. The chain was unhooked, and her wrists were finally free after being bound for days. However, there was no sign of the collar being removed, and during the little job she'd be stuck with the circular piece of metal digging in to her throat. He'd take it off if she proved useful. "Now. Just before you think about running off... we should set some ground rules first, Selina." He spoke, his voice deepening as he muttered her name, tone changing from the laughing clown from before. "I've got so much dirt on you I could build a tower up to the moon. Don't try anything funny, you hear? Because one of my guys is sitting waiting to tell every single person in this city about your little private life, and what you like to get up to while everyone's asleep."

 

[lemondrop_gag]

It took an insurmountable amount of self restraint not to whirl and sink her teeth into his hand as she sat there, listening to him talk about… Nothing. Morris. She didn’t have the patience for this. She could only imagine why the Batman had held the Joker as an enemy on such a personal level. With the green crayon sketch thrust in front of her, she could only blink, because anything she said was likely to get her strangled on the end of her chain. Or worse, left there and forced to drink from the water bowl so that she didn’t die of dehydration.

She didn’t like being sent out on a fool’s errand. And with the way he described the place, he could very well be setting her up for a death trap. That was, if she was stupid enough to get herself killed. She was the best at her job, so that was unlikely – but she’d sure like to know what was in this box that looked like little more than a toolbox or tackle kit that was so important. And what, precisely, the traps were. She wasn’t, however, interested enough to know right then. And she doubted the Joker would be sharing any more details with her if he hadn’t offered then already.

“I don’t make promises,” she muttered as the chain was unlatched from the metal collar and her wrists were freed, whereby she immediately lifted her hands to yank off her gloves, examining her chafed skin with pursed lips. That was going to take a good bit of lotion to smooth over, and long sleeves to mask unless she wanted anyone to think she had spend the last several days tethered to the head of a bed or something equally gutter-minded and terrifically untrue.

Now free, save for the collar, she rose swiftly to her feet – not bothering to distance herself from the clown. If he meant real harm, she suspected he would have made it apparent by now. Selina folded the gloves, tucking them between her thighs as she lifted her agile fingers to fiddle with the clasp of the collar. She didn’t want her claws digging into the skin of her neck, but it was no use anyhow. The circular scrap of metal was locked, and the Joker apparently didn’t plan for her to be slipping out of it any time soon. Maybe it had a tracking device in it. Or it was a nice liability to make sure she returned with what he wanted.

Or maybe he just thought it was funny.

Had she been in possession of real cat ears, they would have been perked toward the villain as he spoke – and flattened back at the sound of her name. She should have suspected he would know who she was. But that didn’t change the slow, boiling anger that was erupting in her stomach to eat its way up her throat. She swallowed it. “You’re the one tugging my chain, Joker, I’m in the palm of your glove. If you’ve got cream waiting for me when I get back, maybe I’ll bring you your box with a bow – right now I want the specifics of the location. I’m not going on a scavenger hunt.”

She paused, weighing the next question, unsure whether or not he would answer. Unsure of herself, too, and whether she needed the distraction of knowing. "What did you do with Bartholomew?" She wondered vaguely if he would mistake the note in her voice as concern. She was concerned all right. Concerned with what kind of alibi she was going to need if the bastard was dead. If that were indeed the case, the Joker could be making a thousand problems for her at the same time he solved one. How to handle the police, where to claim she was for the past - however long she'd been chained to his chair, how in the world she would be able to pretend to mourn him when she was positively ecstatic with the fact that she would never have to look at him again...

But on the bright side, she needn't worry about the expenses of a divorce, or getting him to pick up the pen and sign the papers.

 

[Szymanski]

Joker watched her attempt to remove the collar from her neck, but she learned quickly that it wasn't going to come off. It didn't matter how many times she pried her fingers underneath it and pulled, or even got something sharp like a saw to cut through it, it just wasn't going to come off. The piece of metal was a part of her as long as Joker had her by the reins, and he intended to keep it there as a reminder of who she was working for. It wouldn't be easy for her to ignore it, either, on the count of it digging in to her throat and causing her breaths to sharpen quickly.
He wouldn't let her know if there was some kind of tracking device inside of it -- the Joker always enjoyed the idea of leaving things up to the imagination of the mind. Kept her guessing, kept her in the dark, wondering what exactly the collar's purpose was for. If she knew that it didn't have any kind of tracking device inside of it, then she'd float about Gotham doing what ever she wanted in her own time. But if she thought that there was something hidden beneath it's metal coating that sent a signal back to the Joker, then that would keep her on her toes.

"Oh I think there might be some cream in your dish when you bring me back the box. Or maybe that should be 'if'. It's been so long since I've been near that place, I've got absolutely no idea what you should expect. Oh well, I guess that's all part of the fun, ain't it?" He asked, grinning and chuckling to himself a few times before she began talking about Bartholomew. Ah, the good Doctor. Selina's husband. They both knew that Joker was aware of their relationship, although the abusive part was something that could have been unknown to the clown. Once again, he wasn't going to let on. Keep her wondering. "The box is in a drawer. Has the number "004" on the front." What she didn't know, although would find out, was that the drawer was part of a much larger set-up, a filing cabinet with 20-odd drawers in rows four rows of six drawers. Each of them was locked -- which would be where Catwoman's lock-picking skill would come in. However, much to the Joker's delight, every one of the boxes had the number "004" written on the front.

Once more thinking about the woman's husband. He was safe, for now. No harm had came to him, except for the shock ad trauma of the whole events that had led up to the Joker's escape. That, and a few bruises. Selina Kyle would soon come face to face with him, although right now, Bartholomew was only a mere distraction to the Joker's main plan. "Bring me back my box, Kitty. And you can have all the cream you want!"

 

[lemondrop_gag]

He wasn’t handing out information, obviously – which was more than a little perturbing. But she shouldn’t have expected anything less. She was playing this game on his terms, and was at his every beck and call. Selina Kyle, however, was not one to let on when she was distressed, and Catwoman certainly wasn’t either. So she rolled her blue-green eyes and smoothed a hand over her front, absently plucking her claw over the zipper of her cat suit. Selina got the feeling that she’d garnered about as much as she could from the fiend, and wasn’t to keen on sticking around to have small talk. The sooner she got done, the sooner she could breathe easily again. Quite literally, with the lock around her throat, constricting her airway. Without further adieu, she turned out the way the Joker had come and slipped out into the street.

The ache of hunger in her stomach was nearly unbearable, but she could deal with it until she’d finished what he wanted. She could not, however, ignore how thirsty she was – and that was her first stop. A vending machine. She felt rather ridiculous as she pulled the water from the compartment and downed it in one long drink, but that was of little concern. She was quickly enough on her way again, to the Joker’s old headquarters.

Tripping the detection system was child’s play - five pin tumbler system, single circuit alarm. She was inside in a matter of three minutes, detecting little more than a muted beep as she gained access. More than likely a warning note, perhaps even an alert to a third party system. She scanned the room for cameras, flashed her leather bull whip and snatched the only one she could find from the corner. Still, she suspected she could be under surveillance – by sound or by more craftily hidden devices. As far as she knew, this could be one of the Joker’s fun little tricks and he was sitting back, watching her in his new hideout.

She snorted at the sight on the far wall – annoyed all over again with the predicament. A large filing cabinet of some twenty-four drawers in rows and columns, and she was willing to bet that each of them had a separate lock. No time to waste anyway. She gave herself ten minutes. Eight, if she didn’t want to grapple with any oncoming do-gooder, and was over to the filing cabinet, unlocking two of the drawers consecutively to yank them open and grab the boxes inside.

Both featured the number “004” over the front.

She unlocked another, and was greeted with the same result. She didn’t have time for this shit.