Dead Man Walker Prelude: Bars on Doors

==Jumbo’s Apartment: October 31st==

 

Ted Carson stood over a workbench, repairing the large yellow fuel tank he used to fly. That 'suit' of Walker's had blown it half to bits, but it wasn't unsalvageable. Supervising the Fireflies on his partners' behalf, Julian Day watched him with a simmering contempt. How could the Misfits become something more, reach their true potential, when this was the calibre of their opposition? A disgraced billionaire with a petty vendetta. Bridget, stood against the wall, once again phoning her uncle on the off-chance he might pick up. On a kitchen stool, chewing on a stick of bubblegum, Abner Krill piped up suddenly, cutting through the silence with his usual disregard for others. "So! Who's the most powerful man on the planet?" he asked the assembly of outcasts.

 

Putting her phone down for a moment, Bridget's brow furrowed. "The president?" she asked.

 

Krill nodded, as he blew a large bubble. "The president, yeah? People listen to him, people nuke who he tells them to nuke, that's powerful, yeah. But words aren't stopping a bullet to the head. Political power is all well and good, but it is fleeting. And words? Words don't mean shit when the big bad wolf comes knocking. So, who is the most powerful man on the planet?"

 

Carson scoffed. "The Calculator."

 

Krill's eyes darted towards him, as the pink bubble popped. "Hah! The Calculator? What makes you say that."

 

Ted smiled, resting his flamethrower on the table. "Simple. Power is only useful in the hand of someone who knows how to use it. And he does know how to use it," he continued, a slight hint of admiration in his tone.

 

Krill clapped his hands together. "Very good! But intelligence doesn't come from how many books you read, or how much time you've spent over a microscope. You know how many middle school geniuses we'd have if all it took was a copy of Hamlet and a poster of the periodic table? Hah! Facts and figures, recall, that's grand. But what do you have, when there's a gun pointed in your face? Science? Hah. True intelligence, comes when you know when to walk away. And Noah Kuttler walked all the way into Nanda Parbat. So, I ask you, who's the most powerful man on the planet."

 

Carson's back straightened. "Powerful, yeah? Really powerful?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Superman," he declared, clearly pleased with himself.

 

Krill rolled his eyes. "Heh. Now you're getting it. Superman can laser bastards, he can freeze bastards, I heard he could rebuild the Great Wall with just his eyes. Lovely idea, bit stupid. Thing about Superman is, despite his great power, and wisdom, he has a weakness so potent it's earned itself a place in the English lexicon! We talk about weaknesses nowadays? We don't mention Achilles; Achilles is old school, Achilles is boring. We mention Kryptonite. And so long as there is an enormous- one might say ludicrous- range of oddly coloured rocks out there, Superman ain't doing shit. So who, then? Who is the most powerful man on the planet? Which silver tongued, omnipotent, crafty little survivor could it possibly be?"

 

"You, I suppose," Julian interrupted.

 

Krill grinned as he spat the gum through a portal, landing in a nearby trashcan. "Me."

 

"I call bull," Carson growled. "Superman has power. It's in his blood. You have a belt."

 

"Yeah," Krill smiled. "I have a belt. Who's coming to take it from me?"

 

==The Clocktower==

 

Eric Needham closed the lift shutter behind him and walked towards the makeshift infirmary at the end of the hall. A grey-haired woman in a white doctor’s coat and bloody surgical gloves stuck her head through the blue curtain, a spent roll of gauze in her hand. Her kindly eyes spied Needham and she greeted him with a smile. “Eric, am I correct in assuming this isn’t a social call?” she pried.

 

“Sorry doc, never been all that sociable,” Needham admitted. "How is he?" he asked.

 

The doctor tutted. "Stubborn, as always. But he's going to pull through. As long as he doesn't try to leap out of the window again."

 

"I wasn't- There was a draught," Bruce stated unconvincingly from behind the sheet. Evidently the World's Greatest Detective was far from the World's Greatest Liar.

 

Needham stepped into the ward, an empathetic look on his face. "Bats," he nodded dutifully.

 

"Spider. Report," Bruce grunted, straight to business as though he hadn't been tossed through a one way mirror just 12 hours ago; his bare torso was a torn tapestry of scars and cuts; a metal tray to his right was filled with blood covered shards of glass, mementos from the GCPD.

 

Before Needham could answer, the doctor reappeared at his side, a fresh set of bandages in her hand. "Don't you start," she warned him. "He needs his rest."

 

"I need to be out on patrol," Bruce countered, as he propped himself up against the metal headboard. "It's my fault Joker got to Walker."

 

"Well, you won't be able to atone if you bleed to death," the doctor replied dryly.

 

Bruce sighed. "I don't care for your bedside manner, Leslie."

 

"Well, a word to the wise, Bruce, don't antagonise the doctor holding the scalpel," Leslie warned, threading a needle through the first of many open wounds.

 

"Hhn. They told me you'd lost a lot of blood. Didn't believe it ‘til you started cracking jokes," Needham folded his arms, leaning back against the wall with an amused smile.

 

==Night Owl Renovations==

 

Norbert Walker tapped his hoof-like foot against the carpeted floor anxiously, shooting an nervous glance at Adrian Chase in the corner of the room, who was checking his watch, no doubt internalising his own concerns.

 

At last, the conference door swung back and two figures entered; a man with greying brown hair and a pair of distinctive, tinted black goggles, and a pink bullet of manic energy.

 

“Uncle Bertie!” the bullet squealed, launching itself into its' uncle's arms.

 

“Kitten!” Norbert grinned broadly, perhaps a little more winded than he was ten seconds ago. As he reciprocated his niece's affection, his mouth clicked involuntarily.

 

"Sorry to keep you waiting, I'm Philip," the goggled man introduced himself, closing the door behind him gently. "We spoke on the phone."

 

"Ten, yes, of course," Norbert rose from his seat, Kitten still attached to him, and shook his prosthetic hand, "Drury told me about you."

 

"He never stopped talking about you," Ten replied with a smile. "Every night when we were in Blackgate, when he thought I was asleep, he'd say the say thing, the same pledge; 'I'll find you, Norbert, I'll bring you home.'"

 

"Of course..." Norbert whispered hoarsely, tears rolling down his inky black hide. "Oh, Drury..." he sniffled, then returned to the matter at hand; "I'm sorry, where are my manners... this is Adrian Chase, he's been representing Drury."

 

Kitten peeled herself away from Norbert's chest and looked up at the attorney, her eyes shimmering, one thought dancing around her head, cautioning her from doing or saying anything improper. 'You're dating Fang.'

 

"Mr Walker's a good man," Chase said, offering his own hand, "Our upmost concern is getting him home safely."

 

"That's appreciated, of course; we need as much help as we can get- huh, firm grip," Ten observed.

 

"Likewise," Chase noted, a sly smile on his face.

 

The handshake was interrupted by a shriek of abject terror:

 

"You're bleeding!" Kitten was gasping shrilly, who might not have noticed if she hadn't been staring at Chase's chest for the last thirty seconds.

 

"Hm?" Chase peeled back his navy jacket, revealing a wet patch below his ribs, staining his shirt red. "Ah," he muttered with an concerning indifference. "I had my appendix taken out the other day. Guess it's what I deserve for walking out early," he explained unsatisfyingly.

 

"It... shouldn't be bleeding, though," Ten noted.

 

"No," Chase deflected. "But Gotham General's been booked out since the GCPD attack, so I visited an independent clinic. It's fine, I knew they had a spotty track record."

 

"I... I see," Ten frowned, still unconvinced.

 

"Ten," Norbert interrupted, politely but with underlying urgency. "Have you found him?"

 

"Yes," Ten replied. "We have a location: Arkham. Gar and Chuck have been calling in old favours, well, more like every favour, gathering as many people as we can."

 

“Then," Norbert urged him. "Promise me you can bring him home."

 

Ten turned to him and then to Kitten, and swallowing any doubts and apprehension he had allowed to linger, nodded. "I promise."

 

==GCPD==

 

Another Christmas locked behind bars... Julian sighed, pulling away the sheet of paper displaying yesterday's date on his small calendar; it was the one personal effect the cops had allowed him to keep whilst incarcerated. He suspected Drury had advocated for it. Save for a small skeleton crew, most of the GCPD officers had moved to a secondary precinct; Zoom's rampage had left much of the facility beyond repair and forever tainted its walls with blood. But Julian remained.

 

Julian, and the only other inmate Joker didn't release.

 

Day rolled his eyes, his back facing the gated door: An orange silhouette behind him slid a stolen key card against the lock and opened his cell door. Day needn't turn around; he already knew his visitor, and why they were here:

 

"Hm. It seems any idiot can break out of their cell these days," he exhaled sharply.

 

"You couldn't," the intruder growled.

 

"I chose not to."

 

"Sure," Ted Carson replied with a false acceptance of Day's assertion. "Me and you still have a score to settle. But maybe I can 'reduce your sentence' if you tell where your pals are keeping Walker."

 

"Tempting, but I prefer the solitude incarceration provides. Infinitely preferable to listening to your inane, borderline brainless protestations."

 

He saw Carson's fist coming, but he didn't dodge; He fell backwards; his round head cracked off the metal toilet bowl and trickled blood into the water. "I mispoke," he mumbled, spitting a tooth onto the concrete floor.

 

"Forget borderline."

 

Carson pulled him to his feet, even without his armour a force to be reckoned with. "This all stops as soon as you talk. Where's the clown and the rest of his circus troupe? Where's Walker?"

 

A trail of blood dribbled down Day's forehead. "You want directions? Walk into traffic."

 

A second punch; a second set of teeth went flying. Blood gushed out of Day's mouth like a fountain.

 

"Where?!" Carson threw another haymaker. "Where are they?!"

 

"Go... to hell. I believe you know the way."

 

"Don't bullshit me, you bald bastard! Your partners! Where are they? Where did they take Walker?" Carson demanded, his hands wrapped around Day's throat, channelling all his hatred, all his rage, towards Walker, towards the clown, towards anyone who had ever hurt him, into his grip.

 

Day was silent at first, something that infuriated Carson even more than his repeated attacks on his character. So he choked him harder. But what Carson mistook for loyalty to the clown was perhaps something far more powerful. Whether Chuck's words had resonated with him, or if time alone had allowed him the opportunity to self reflect, the outcome was the same; Day whistled through broken teeth and bloodied gums a final defiant taunt.

 

"Who?"

 

With a quiet crack, Christmas Day claimed another victim. And perhaps Julian preferred it that way. Carson's grip released and Day's body hit the ground, followed by a few loose dates blown free from the still hanging calendar.

 

"Fuck," Carson croaked, staggering out of the cell, his eyes fixed to Day's lifeless stare, shaken by the slight traces of a smile on his cold lips. He shook off any lingering feelings of regret and moved onwards. "Fucking idiot."

Done