Warm Welcomes #3: Cutting to the Chase

==Van Cleer Manor: Then==

 

Drury was in the kitchen, singing along to the radio. There was an almost hypnotic rhythm to his movements, as he danced around the room, wooden spoon in hand. Kitten, stood on the other side of the kitchen island, giggling at her father's sporadic movements.

 

"I come home, in the mornin' light

My mother says, "When you gonna live your life right?"

Oh momma dear, we're not the fortunate ones

And girls, they wanna have fun

Oh girls just wanna have fun:"

 

He handed the wooden spoon to his daughter, like a singer handing over a microphone, and she sang the next verse:

 

"The phone rings, in the middle of the night

My father yells, "What you gonna do with your life?"

Oh daddy dear, you know you're still number one

But girls, they wanna have fun

Oh girls just wanna haaaaaave-"

 

The kitchen door swung open, as a dishevelled, blonde haired teenage boy entered the room. Axel took one look at the musical duo and shook his head, grunting a single "morning" to his dad.

 

"Afternoon!" Drury stopped singing for a moment to correct his son.

 

"Whatever," Axel shrugged, then opened the freezer, grabbing a pizza roll. "You made pastry from scratch?" he inquired, noting the floury work surface. We've got a box of stuff in the freezer still."

 

"Not good enough," Drury said as he pirouetted from one counter to the other to shoogle the saucepan, then squeezed a wedge of orange juice into the bubbling, creamy mixture. "It needs to be perfect."

 

Axel rolled his eyes as he placed the pizza roll in the microwave.

 

Drury put his fingers in the tub of raspberries beside him and sucked down a particularly plump one. "Want one?" he asked, waving the wicker basket in his son's face.

 

"I'm good," Axel said dismissively. "What's this all about anyway?"

 

A smile, like a lovesick schoolboy's, broke across Drury's face and Axel understood immediately. When it came to his stepmother, there was nothing his father wouldn't do, no matter how embarrassing it was for his kids (and Axel specifically). "Your mother... is taking a half day from the office. Thought I'd surprise her with a little something," Drury beamed. "Mille Feulle: With a twist! Orange and chocolate creme patissiere for the filling, which, when piped, ends up looking rather like a certain favourite animal of hers!" he nudged his son playfully.

 

Kitten, flicked a spoonful of frosting onto Axel's cheek.

 

==The GCPD==

 

The precinct was filled with the mundane tapping on keyboards, the beeping of broken photocopiers and heated discussion over that night's college football match. Drury, stood at the entrance, guided by a group of four police officers. A fifth, stood by the full-body scanner, hands on his hips.

 

"Empty your pockets. Place your shoes, belt and any other belongings on the tray beside me," he instructed the man.

 

Drury nodded slowly, removing his watch, his moth-shaped cufflinks and his wedding band and placed them in the plastic tray, followed by his leather belt, and his scuffed black shoes. Satisfied, the officer consulted a sheet of paper, and read aloud the contents of the questionnaire:

 

"Do you have any metal fillings?"

 

"No."

 

"Piercings?"

 

"No."

 

"Sigh Any cybernetic augmentations?"

 

"That can't be on the list."

 

"Answer the question."

 

"No, I don't."

 

"Have you had any surgery that has resulted in a metal plate being installed in your skull?"

 

"Wouldn't that come under cybernetic- nevermind." Drury tapped the side of his skull as a demonstration. "No."

 

"Please step through the x-ray machine. Slowly, please."

 

The scan completed, Drury was directed to the desk sergeant, who read out another series of questions:

 

"Do you have any dietary requirements?"

 

"No."

 

"Do you take any prescribed medication?"

 

"Lithium tablets. I'm bipolar."

 

"Are you a metahuman, or have you displayed any metahuman abilities in the last 48 hours?"

 

"I wish. Never met-a-human I didn't like."

 

...

 

"That was a no. Not recently. This should all already be in my file," Drury stated tiredly.

 

"Just standard procedure."

 

Drury looked over the desk, glancing at the sargent filling in the form. Was this all his life amounted to? A series of ticks and crosses on a coffee-marked sheet of paper?

 

"You're still a size 34?" the officer handed him a poorly folded orange jumpsuit.

 

Drury bit the inside of his cheek. "Right, that you remembered."

 

==ISA Headquarters==

 

Gar and Joey were escorted into the main meeting room by a group of six red-robed figures. Chuck finished writing something on the whiteboard, then walked over to greet them. The rest of the Misfits, were already seated at the red leather chairs.

 

"Gar, Joey, thanks for coming," he spoke, hugging Joey, then shaking Gar's hand.

 

"Your doormen frisked me on the way in," Gar stated, glaring at Dr Ito's red robed assistants, now retreating back into the shadows.

 

"Yeah, sorry about that. They're probably checking for... viable organs," Chuck trailed off.

 

"Hey, you're safe, Lynns, your lungs are black as shit," Sharpe smirked, miming a pair of finger guns.

 

"You said you had something, Chuck?" Joey interrupted.

 

"Right, yes... Where do I even begin..."

 

"Soon would be good," Gar said.

 

"I'll do my best; it might be better if you sat down first." Chuck slumped his shoulders, directing them to his drawings on the whiteboard. "There was this telephone in Sionis' office. A purple rotary. Julian must've brought it in with him. When I broke into the room, I flew into the desk and knocked the phone off it. There was this voice on the other end. And it told a joke."

 

The group was silent for a moment, before Sharpe chirped up. "Could've been Bart Simpson," he smirked dismissively.

 

"The phone was purple! I know that voice! It was him." Chuck said defensively. “But even if we put that aside, we know Julian has partners, plural, and I don't think he was hyping up the Pirate or the King of Cats either. Sure, we know Zoom is involved. Yes, we know the only person able to build a cloudburst and who wasn’t, um, blown up, is Crane. But when he was overdosing, Julian confessed that someone told him he was special. And I never viewed Scarecrow as the sentimental type."

 

"I thought Crane was in Arkham?" Ten asked.

 

"Oh, right, you came from Blackgate... 'Thing you need to know about the Asylum is, it's really more of a 'hostel,'" Sharpe stated.

 

As they spoke, Mayo drifted off, his eyes drawn to the large portrait hanging on the wall, depicting the members of the ISA, painted by Ito himself. His eyes narrowed as he recognised a purple-clad gentleman in a matching hat and a white goatee. "The Colonel..." he muttered under his breath.

 

"So, that's Scarecrow, Joker, Zoom. King of Cats, that pirate guy... Krill and Julian are in lock-up... I'd hate to see the chatroom they met each other in," Blake remarked, counting them on his fingers as he listed them off.

 

Kuttler scoffed. "There was no chatroom. The Society brought Zolomon and Joker together."

 

"I'm sorry, you knew about this?" Ten asked.

 

"Shocking," Gar said dryly.

 

Kuttler removed his glasses and rubbed his eyelids. "No, not all of it. But when we lost Eobard Thawne, The Society reached out to his protégé, Hunter Zolomon. He was never going to sit on the council, of course, but he was a useful tool for a while.

And when The Joker escaped Arkham and threatened to disrupt our plans, we found a place for him too; nothing too outrageous; an assignment to keep his deranged mind busy and his knives pointed away from our backs. Zolomon, served as our liaison with him. I simply assumed they dissolved their partnership when the Society collapsed. Evidently not. The clown must have appealed to his sensibilities, offered Walker up as a guinea pig..."

 

"Here's what I don't get: So, Joker; if it even is Joker; brings these all guys together, riles up Carson, then has Jules attack the Royal Hotel with a couple of bombs and some of Crane's gas? Why?" Joey inquired.

 

"I'm with Joseph. If this all circles back to Walker, why didn't Day grab him? Why not deliver him to his partners right then and there?" Bridget added.

 

"It's Joey, you can call me Joey," Joey waved across the table.

 

"I don't know," Chuck admitted. "There's still a lot here that doesn't make sense. We don't even know where Joker is."

 

"We can deal with him later. What about the kids?" Gar asked. "The clown's made a move on them before."

 

"Tiger Shark's been looking after them. He's been keeping his distance from us, for the most part, but we know he's got Flannegan with him, watching their backs," Ten explained.

 

"Good. Good," Gar nodded stiffly. "Does Drury know? About Joker?"

 

Chuck paused. "No. No, not yet. But I'm going to the GCPD tomorrow. It'll give me a chance to clue him in, and to see if Julian can give us any answers."

 

~-~

 

"So, what happens now?" Gar walked alongside a trio of Chuck, Bridget and Ten, his hands in his pockets.

 

"Dragon King's letting us stay for as long as we need. But there's still a lot of pieces missing. Obviously, Julian might be able to answer some of them, but-"

 

"But you gave him a near-lethal overdose of experimental anti-psychotics," Bridget's brow furrowed.

 

"I think I preferred it when you were trying to kill us," Chuck replied. "The files we got from the Batcave on Zoom were pretty thorough; Psycho Pirate's still a loose cannon, mind, and everything we thought we knew about King of Cats was probably a load of crap."

 

"Not everything," Ten spoke.

 

~-~

 

"Doctor Ito? Doctor Ito?" Chuck chapped the back of his hand against the door, before entering the kitchen. The good doctor, was hunched over the stove, skillet in hand.

 

"I am frying Paella. The secret ingredient is saffron," Ito declared, tapping the side of his hood knowingly.

 

"And I'm sure it's delicious! Listen, you studied the King of Cats, didn’t you?”

 

“Indeed, I did. Alas, my research was co-opted and corrupted by that confounding Crazy Quilt, and passed off to an unseemly associate of his, to profit off the gullible and weak minded.”

 

“Oh, yeah! Those, uh, gullible weak-minders...” Chuck scoffed loudly and unconvincingly. Bridget rolled her eyes.

 

“Where’s Dekker now?” Ten asked. "Have you kept in touch with him at all?"

 

Ito stared at Ten peculiarly, as though the answer was obvious. “In the dungeons.”

 

The Misfits frowned. “This isn’t the dungeon?” Bridget spoke in disbelief.

 

“Goodness gracious, no. It’s the master suite."

 

~-~

 

In captivity, Dekker's neatly trimmed mustache had grown into a shabby beard and his black hair had grown to shoulder length, with the odd strand of grey scattered throughout. Although he couldn't have been imprisoned for more than a week or two, the lack of access to his usual selection of exotic face creams and hair products had aged him dramatically. He moistened his cracked lips with his tongue, and chuckled at the group assembled before him: Gar, Chuck, Blake, Joey, Sharpe, Bridget, Ten and Mayo (Kuttler, had decided the visit was not worth his time or dignity), all in costume. “You know, trapped in a dungeon, tied to a chair, surrounded by a dozen suitors in tight fitting spandex... This reminds of my 50th birthday bash. Anyone bring a paddle?" he asked expectantly.

 

"Let's skip the foreplay, shall we?" Gar said coldly, his arms folded.

 

"Hmph. Up to you, my sweet Garfield, but I think you're missing out," Dekker shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "While I have you all, let's talk about the reptile in the house: Far be it from me to judge anyone, but I fear that hostile homo-reptilian host of yours has a crooked cloaca."

 

"Yeah? How d'you figure that?" Gar asked, a bemused look on his face.

 

"Well, why else I would be quite so unfairly persecuted?" Dekker queried, a question that stunned the Misfits with its' lack of self awareness.

 

"Maybe 'cause you stole his research?" Blake offered an explanation.

 

"That? Hmph, nothing more than a little exercise in tit for tat warfare. I may have- may have -stolen his research; he may have bombed Pearl Harbor."

 

"Hey, that's way over the line-" Chuck interjected.

 

"I say 'may have,' but he definitely did." Dekker examined the Misfits disgusted faces and his teasing smile dropped. "You really have no idea, do you? That 'man' is a snake! A duplicitous reptile who has no concept of decency! Whereas I am an entrepreneur, a businessman really, and I'm feeling philanthropic! And if you let me go, I promise I can make it worth your while!" he promised, a grin once again creeping up his wrinkled face.

 

Blake's nose wrinkled. “Gross.”

 

...

 

“What? I can’t be the only guy whose mind went there."

 

Chuck stepped forward. “That's just it, Dekker. We might not trust Ito, let's be honest, we'd be idiots if we did."

 

"Hey!" Sharpe protested.

 

"But we'd be even bigger idiots to take your word. Or are you going to deny working with Hellhound? Setting us up? Scamming us? Stealing our money?"

 

Dekker pondered the question for a moment, placing a balled fist under his chin, then answered: "My trademark deception and patented guile has served me well thus far."

 

"You’re in a dungeon," Ten observed.

 

“Besides! Hellhound is no longer a part of the equation, my well-hung Hang Glider," Dekker declared cheerfully, to the Misfits' surprise.

 

“He isn’t? Then what the hell happened to him?” Gar was the first to ask.

 

“Oh, dreadful business really. Let's see... I was conducting business over at the Stacked Deck: Now now, nibblings, don't give me that look; I was on the up and up; strictly professional! A client of mine wanted some adjustments made to a new costume, more zing, more pep, more concealed weapons, the usual... We had a few drinks; he paid, not that he realised it, and after popping a few pills in the back, we parted ways. I found Kai, Hellhound, in the back alley; bruised, bleeding and dripping in saliva that I'm sure wasn't his. He wouldn't speak, and when he tried, bless him, a high-pitched warble came out in lieu of words.

I wish I could say I was torn up about it, but the truth was, he blew me off the night before and I was feeling proportionately bitter about it," Dekker paused for a moment as he reconsidered his wording. "Oops. What I meant to say, was that he was supposed to give me my cut for another 'successful' exorcism but he jilted me. Never showed. Havishhammed by a mongrel! Although, I suppose, come to think of it, that must've been when the King of Cats found him... Never mind!" he chuckled.

 

"The King of Cats? You're sure?" Chuck asked, his face white.

 

"Oh yes, even high on ecstasy, I know that fleabag's handiwork... Who else could be quite so debaucherous? And don't say yours truly," Dekker winked back.

 

"What about Hellhound? What'd he do to him?" Blake piped up.

 

"Fine. Fine. Tell me, what does every doggie dread the most? Tell me, why does every nasty horndog fear the vet's scalpel?"

 

“You mean to say-?" Joey asked, mouth agape.

 

"Mhmm," Dekker nodded stiffly. “Neutered. Although, I suppose the more appropriate term would be cats-tration."

 

The Misfits were silent for a moment and then:

 

“Ok, I know we’ve long passed the point of What the Fuckery, but what the fuck!” Blake yelled in disgust.

 

"You asked," Dekker tutted.

 

“Well I have a question!" Mayo declared suddenly from the back of the crowd.

 

"You do?" the group asked in unison.

 

"Yeah," he replied, shoving Ten and Gar aside as he made his way to the front. "If you’re really an expert on all things fiendish, what are the Colonel’s 11 herbs and spices?”

 

Dekker's smile faltered. "Why would I know-"

 

“Mitch, it’s ok, we have this," Chuck urged.

 

“It might come up later...” Mayo protested.

 

“Not... not unless we’re fighting the Colonel.”

 

"Hey, to be fair, I do kinda get where the kid's coming from," Blake defended him. "Why the hell is there a painting of Colonel Sanders upstairs anyway?"

 

...

 

Sharpe frowned. “Blake, that's my grandpa and you killed him.”

 

"And you forgot to feed my panther, so I guess we’re even," Blake countered, arms crossed.

 

"Aw, no, Sasha starved?" Joey asked.

 

"What? No, she ate our landlord," Blake answered in an irate tone.

 

"‘s a win to me,” Sharpe replied."

 

Dekker, clapped his hands together, breaking up the boy's argument before it could turn ugly. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! So, Tommy killed a landlord! So, Monty ate his granddad-"

 

"None of that is right."

 

"The world keeps turning! Let us not quibble over the minute details, the itty bitty highly debatable hearsay regarding what ate what, who scammed who etcetera etcetera...” Dekker smiled broadly, seizing the opportunity to barter for his freedom. "Let us put this unpleasant matter to bed. Hah. As a token of good faith, and made possible due to my increased wealth (thanks to your recent and highly generous donation)-"

 

“Well, it wasn’t a donation, we were expecting a service. You didn’t deliver,” Chuck stated.

 

“Poppet, please, let me finish! Haha, oh, I’m so naughty. You will have priority seating at Crazy Quilt’s! And free Drinky Poos! (When you spend over $100! Per person)”

 

“I can hear the brackets," Gar frowned.

 

“Hang on a minute, Gar. Chuck, we've been cooped up here for two days now. Maybe a night out would do us all some good,” Ten proposed. “Take our minds off of things.”

 

“Fine, but you’re not saying Drinky Poo ever again," Chuck instructed Dekker.

 

Mayo nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I really don’t want to turn my nose up at you, Mr Crazy Quilt, but I’m not drinking any poop.”

 

==The GCPD==

 

The GCPD bullpen; so often subjected to the juvenile verbal sparring matches of cops and lawyers. One such attorney delicately removed the teabag from his paper cup and discarded it in the nearby trashcan. A portly looking policeman approached him, dressed in a grubby grey trenchcoat and strangely, a fedora.

 

"Wow, if it ain't Adrian freakin' Chase! New York's 'best and most psychotic...,'" the cop applauded mockingly. "Secretary Walker must've really splashed the cash to get you out all the way out here. He must really love his baby brother."

 

The lawyer smiled politely, but there was an intensity behind his deep brown eyes. "Ah, Detective Bullock, never a pleasure," he spoke, offering him a handshake. Bullock declined. "My client has been fully cooperative since handing himself into your custody, almost to a fault. And in return, he has been treated with nothing but hostility. What's this I here about... a fruitcake?"

 

"So?" Bullock shrugged. "'Was just a bit of fun: The Three Stooges got away with it all the time, why you gotta ride my ass about it?"

 

"The Three Stooges, didn't throw pies in the faces of prisoners under their care. On Christmas," Chase replied sternly, sipping his tea slowly.

 

"Yeah? Bah humbug, he's a cop killer. He should be thankful it wasn't a grenade I threw at him."

 

"Cop killer? That's a little strong, no? If you're referring to the incident in June, I have it on good authority he employed non-lethal tactics only."

 

"Oh, so it was just run of the mill assault and property damage. Good for him!" Bullock exclaimed sarcastically.

 

Chase smirked. "I'll cut to the chase. My client, gift-wrapped three of the city's biggest at-large criminals. And a fourth, who I understand, escaped from under your boys' watchful eyes."

 

"The three biggest? Ya mean Polka Dot Man and Ted Carson? Gimme a break. And don't you worry about that "fourth." King of Cats isn't getting far; We have people on that."

 

"Those people the same ones who were guarding the Royal when he escaped? Boy, I feel safer already."

 

Bullock took an invasive step forward, waving a finger in Chase's face. "I know what you're trying to do, Chase, but there's no deal. The GCPD has always had a zero-tolerance policy towards vigilante 'justice.'"

 

"Is that right? That spotlight on your roof says differently," Chase stepped forward. Their noses were almost touching now.

 

"For all intents and purposes, that's a piece of modern art, installed by civilians for civilians, and we don't touch it."

 

"Cut the crap, Bullock. Your department is Batman Incorporated in all but name. Mr Walker's vigilantism isn't the issue, it's his branding."

 

"Yeah? You wanna maybe consider that Bug Boy don't want a lawyer? That maybe he's done the one decent thing in his miserable life and actually owned up, and faced the music for his bullcrap?"

 

"Harvey, that's enough," another cop interjected, stepping between the two and pouring herself a cup of coffee from the pot.

 

Bullock scowled, then stormed off down the hall.

 

Renée Montoya finished stirring her coffee, then offered her hand to Chase. "It's good to have you back. You're about the only guy I know who can wind Harvey up like that without a cape."

 

"From my experience, detective, capes are overrated," Chase smiled, then shook her hand firmly.

Done