Dead Man Walker #7: Joe is Afraid

===Rigger Residence, Gotham City===

 

Joey entered the dining room by his father’s side; although they lived a modest life, the Rigger family had always ensured that they enjoyed a proper Sunday dinner every week with all the delicious trimmings that their matriarch could conjure up. His father hoisted baby Maggie above his shoulders and placed her into her plastic high chair, then pecked his wife on the cheek.

 

“Mama?” Joey called out, his throat dry. As he approached the table, he noticed it was set for five people, not four; his mother had even brought out the good plates.

 

“Joseph!” his mother beamed back, as she stepped aside to reveal their guest. Joey’s stomach lurched, as he made eye contact with a familiar ginger-haired man. “This is Mr Billings. He just moved in down the hall; he’s a movie star.”

 

“Oh, not a star by any means, my dear, I can’t abide the spotlight... I prefer to stand behind the camera,” Billings flapped his hands about as he talked, prevaricating like an especially dishonest member of the House of Lords. He was dressed in his Sunday Bests; a white dress shirt, an orange sweater and a black tie.

 

“Isn’t he a charmer?” Mrs Rigger smiled. “He’s still getting settled in, so I invited him over for dinner tonight.”

 

“He’s something,’’ Joey scowled. A little too loudly.

 

“Joseph Rigger! Don’t be rude,” his mother chided him.

 

“I- sorry, mama,” Joey slid into his seat, the scolding regressing him into the young boy whose home this was a lifetime ago.

 

“I'm awfully sorry, Dellbert.”

 

“It’s alright, ma’am. Joseph- Can I call you Joey?” Billings asked, well aware that if Joseph Rigger had any say, the answer would be a flat 'no.' “Your gem of a mother tells me that you’re into film. I actually know a little about cinema myself. Even made a film of my own! Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

 

“You’re rotten,” Joey stated flatly, earning him a reprieve from his father. Billings continued undeterred.

 

“Fresh, actually. Certified fresh. Anyway, I was thinking that, after dinner, I could show you one of my old tapes. Dig up some old props. If you’re interested.”

 

“Ooh, Joey, wouldn't that be nice? You're always talking about those Star Treks,” his mother recalled.

 

“Wars, mama. And I don't really like those films anymore.”

 

“Aw, hit too close to home?” Billings grinned.

 

“Nah. They're cheap and they're corny,” Joey said pointedly, staring down their guest of honour. For a brief moment, Billings smile faltered.

 

“Hey, Joseph, how's about you say Grace tonight?” his father asked. Billings watched on with a broad smile; elbows on the table, as he rubbed his palms together.

 

“Yes, sir,” Joey nodded, deflated, as he joined hands with his father’s right and, under duress, Billings’ left, and recited the family’s prayers.

 

“Beautiful,” Billings cheered. “B-U-T-Fool! Now, I’ll take some of those yams, please, ma’am,” he announced, as he greedily began piling up his plate. “And don't think I've forgotten about you l'il lady,” Billings sang, tickling Maggie's chin. “Here comes the aeroplane!”

 

Joey's stomach gurgled, as he watched as Billings sent a spoon of mashed potato Maggie's way. “You know, your big bro flew in airplanes all the time.”

 

“Weawwy?” was the toddler's mash-mumbled response.

 

“Uhuh. Say, Joey. How many planes do you reckon you’ve flown in? How many of them were armed? Broad estimate,” Billings inquired, pouring gravy in the centre of his mashed yams.

 

Joey, didn't respond.

 

“Oops, sorry, I guess I forgot the golden rule,” Billings feigned ignorance. “No politics at the dinner table.”

 

~-~

 

Gar walked upstairs, a match in his hand; as he wandered, he began to realise that the house was his own; the one he had lost when Josie's meta powers first manifested and burned it, and a squad of corrupt Stryker Guards, into cinders. He reached the upstairs landing, then entered his daughter's bedroom; his skin no longer crackled like a well-cooked pork belly, his desire was simple; He just wanted to hold his baby. He blew out the match, approached the crib, then paused. Empty.

 

Suddenly, the lights came on, blinding and sterile, like a hospital's, and when his eyes adjusted to the light, Gar could finally see his Josie.

 

Nestled in the arms of Dellbert Billings.

 

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” he bellowed, his run developing into a sprint, then a charge and finally, nothing.

 

“Ssh,” Billings hushed Gar, as he tucked Josie into her crib. “She’s sleeping.”

 

“Do you know how flammable alcohol is? Cause I do,” Gar hissed, his voice hushed but his blood boiling. “Why don’t I stick a match down your throat, and you can find out.”

 

Billings feigned fear, then glanced at Gar's raised fist. “Who’s the lucky lady?” he queried. Gar stared back confused, then he looked at his right hand; he hadn’t noticed that there was a gold wedding band wrapped around his ring finger.

 

“Jenna...”

 

“Jenna,” Billings repeated. “D'aww... Of course, no self-respecting father would ever walk their little princess down the aisle if there was a scrotum faced groom awaiting her, would he? And it’s not like the bridesmaids would keep their lunches down when you’re sucking face and she’s sucking bacon. That’s the reality. Who wants to face that? The truth is guys like us don’t get happy endings. Only in our heads. And if you find the right masseuse. Hah.”

 

Gar’s fist went forwards, and Billings’ face came away like paper. His head turned back, revealing a featureless, wax-like orange surface adorned with an unsettling black swirl beneath the torn skin and sinew. “How's that for gratitude?”

 

“It’s an improvement,” Gar drawled.

 

“Sure, let's ignore the Elephant Man in the room,” Billings grumbled, peeling back his scalp, his swirling face pulsing as he spoke. “Feeling better?”

 

“Yes, actually.”

 

~-~

 

"Eric, can you get Mikey’s cereal? I left the bowl on the counter. Should be Sugar Spectres in the cupboard," Linda asked, gesturing to the shelf above her.

 

“Sure,” Needham nodded, his voice shaking slightly. He poured out some cereal (the box was nearly empty), then a packet of white powder plopped into his son’s dish.

 

"The hell-?" Needham didn't need to investigate to know precisely what it was; the same powder that had killed his son and girlfriend in another life.

 

'No,' Needham shook his head. 'Not 'another' life; real life.' He put the bag inside his leather jacket for safekeeping, then turned to the purple rotary phone positioned beside the TV, now ringing. 'What now?' he wondered.

 

“You should probably answer that,” a man's voice advised.

 

Instinctively, Needham threw his knife, and it landed in Billings forehead. “Ow," Billings remarked, surprisingly calm given the circumstances, as a stream of fresh blood trickled down his face. With minimal effort, he dragged the knife out of his skull, then ran his finger along the wound, sealing it.

 

"Neat trick, huh? Guys along the boardwalk charge you 15 bucks to watch them put knives down their throat."

 

“Sick bastard-!” Needham snarled.

 

"I said," Billings frowned. "You should probably answer that."

 

Needham grimaced, then looked at the phone. Still ringing. While he watched it, Billings positioned himself on the sofa.

 

“Pick it up. Come on. Come on. Oh, come on, answer it!” Billings sat on the edge, his hands on his knees. Erring on the side of caution, Needham picked it up, not breaking eye contact with his house guest. Then, he heard the voice.

 

“Pop? Is that you-?” His voice cracked slightly. “Y-yeah, I’m fine. We- We’re all fine. It’s just... Just good to hear your voice. Yeah- Yeah, talk to you soon," Needham finished the call, sitting in silence for a few moments, just holding the phone in his hand. Of course, with Billings buzzing in his ear like a housefly, the silence was short lived, as a static-like crackling filled the air.

 

"My, aren't you popular today," Billings beamed, as he gestured to a piece of hardware sat on the coffee table. An active police radio.

 

Needham stood up, then picked up the receiver. “Suspected drug deal in the East End. Looks like LaMonica," the device chirped.

 

“Read you dispatch, over," a beat cop's voice responded.

 

“Hm, sounds important! Seems you’d better swing on over!” Billings suggested, then covered his mouth in faux realisation. "But wait a minute! Isn’t LaMonica the dealer that got you on Ferris' radar? Isn't he the reason little Mikey and Linda are worm food one world over? You don't think- Why, you don't think that if you leave, it'll happen again, do you?"

 

"Do you?" Needham growled.

 

"Well, as a passing observer, I think Santayana said it best; those who cannot remember the past-"

 

"Are condemned to repeat it," Needham muttered. "You son of a bitch."

 

~-~

 

Chuck stood frozen in the doorway, his heart racing. “C-Charlie? Charlie, it's you? It's really you?” he gasped.

 

“Of course it is, daddy, who else would it be?” the child replied. Instinctively, Chuck flung himself forwards, embracing his child in a tight hug, hiding the river of tears flowing down his face.

 

“Daddy, you're being weird,” Charlie giggled. Chuck couldn't help himself, and laughed back. An earnest, honest laugh unlike any he had since- since-

 

Since The Riddler murdered his son.

 

“Woo!” a voice like a foghorn bellowed, ending the tender reunion all too soon. Chuck reopened his eyes and looked up in horror; Billings was standing in the rear doorway leading out into the garden, a pair of metal tongs in hand. He was wearing a long chef's apron, stained with barbecue sauce over a black t-shirt, shorts and garish orange socks. “Look who finally made it! Hey, champ, how’s about you take your kite outside, your old man and I need to have a chat,” Billings tousled young Charlie’s hair.

 

“Ok!” Charlie complied, and he took off, disappearing into the green groves outside, his white and purple kite trailing behind him.

 

“Cute kid,” Billings cooed. “For a corpse.”

 

“Stop,” Chuck pleaded. “Stop this.”

 

“What's the matter?” Billings faked surprise. “I heard you like a garden party."

 

Chuck paused, caught off guard by the emphasis of that word. He looked past Billings, and caught a flash of long flowing red hair, blowing in the wind, attached to a slender figure. Pamela looked back at Chuck, and smiled warmly, blowing him a scented kiss. Billings, let out a mocking whistle. “Did you know she was on Task Force X? Our Presidential Defect's little side hustle? Guess that makes her a government plant,” he laughed. Chuck didn't.

 

“I said stop,” he repeated coldly.

 

“Hell no!” Billings sneered. “I put too much work into these!”

 

Chuck was about to argue, then paused. “These-? Then I’m not the only one?”

 

“Of course not. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this isn’t the Charlie Brown show and this ain’t a Peanuts mag. No, Crane did some cute little psych-evaluations; Zoom put his Rogue-Profiling to work. But Day was the linchpin. His insights set the foundations for this. All of this. ‘Oh, Charlie, sweet Charlie. Why can’t he see that he has been released from the shackles of mediocrity and placed on a path to greatness!’”

 

“That's enough! Whatever Joker offered you cannot be worth it!” Chuck yelled.

 

“What he OFFERED me?” slobber spewed from Billings’ lips. “He OFFERED not to steal my prosthetic and leave me hopping across the freeway at rush hour. All you need to worry about is what I'm offering you,” he spoke, making a broad sweeping gesture with his right arm. “All of this can be yours; I'm sure we can even get you your own Earth, with the right belt. All for the low, low price of Drury Walker.”

 

==The Bowman Estate==

 

Mayo was sat on the frozen ground outside; the grass had begun to thaw from his body heat, wetting his backside with cold water. He didn’t seem to notice. His red gloves lay beside him, as his frigid fingers clutched Jenna’s phone and he entered a sixth phone number into the touchpad.

 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Pick up, please…” he begged. He’d tried Gar, he’d tried Chuck, he’d tried Joey and Sharpe and Blake. And as he waited for Reardon’s response, he sighed. Still nothing. He looked back up at the mansion, a pale blue glow emanating from its windows. And his mind was made up.

 

~-~

 

Cobb stared at Jenna; his face was gaunt and corpse-like; his eyes were pupilless, white ovals, fixed on her unusual attire and paired with an expression that she couldn’t discern. As he advanced towards her, his appearance glitched back and forth; switching between that of the Bowman, the Signalman, Phillip Cobb as he used to be and the corpse he was now. Jenna’s back hit something and she suddenly realised that she had backed into the wall out of terror. Driven into a dead end by a dead man.

 

“Get back, this screwdriver’s... sonic,” Jenna warned, unearthing a metal rod from her sock; spouting nonsense in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Her fear betrayed her; her arm shaking as she aimed the screwdriver at Phillip's head.

 

“Sonic?” Cobb repeated, a skepticism in his tone.

 

“It... makes a noise,” Jenna said, her voice wavering slightly.

 

“Uhuh. You, must be here to fix the pipes,” Cobb reasoned, undeterred by the minimal threat that Jenna’s screwdriver posed, sonic or otherwise.

 

“The pipes-?” Jenna asked, her brow furrowing, caught off guard by Cobb’s assumption.

 

“Based on your outfit,” Cobb explained, casting his sunken white eyes down at the tool belt around her waist. “And, that there’s a large shit downstairs that just. Won’t. Leave.”

 

Jenna’s lips pursed together. “Ah.”

 

“Well,” Cobb smiled. “You’re five foot one and crying; I rather doubt you’re here as my executioner.”

 

Jenna conceded with a quiet whimper, lowering the screwdriver. As her arm moved, Cobb’s previously playful expression changed. “Ketchup or blood?” he asked, preceded by a prolonged sigh; perhaps more empathetic than he wished to be, as he gestured to a dark stain on the strap of Jenna's overalls. She didn't answer.

 

“Blood, then,” Cobb nodded with an all-knowing frown. “I'm sorry but the man was an idiot. Immensely clever, but socially inept. Ah, but I'm sure you're already well acquainted with the incompetent and insecure inhabitants of the criminal underworld. One of the many perks of the job, eh, Miss Duffy?”

 

Jenna froze.

 

“Or do you prefer Carpenter?” Cobb asked coolly.

 

“Are you going to kill me?” Jenna swallowed after a moment's pause, her beating heart louder than any of the generators downstairs.

 

“Kill you?” Cobb stammered. “Why would I kill you? You've done nothing to me, nor could you,” he confirmed, a genuine sadness in his voice.

 

“Did they?” Jenna pushed, taking a cautious step forward.

 

“Did they what?”

 

“The people of Havenrock. Did they do anything to you?”

 

“No,” Cobb admitted, stepping back. “But I had a very good reason for that.”

 

“Which was?” Jenna pressed the topic, her hand tightening into a ball.

 

“I was dying.”

 

Jenna blinked twice in quick succession as she processed his response. “Well, now you're dead. J Cobbert Oppenheimer. Floating pixels,” she retorted, her voice returning.

 

“Think how you look to me,” Cobb replied, the thinnest smile on his skull-like features. “A short skeleton piloting a suit of skin. On principle, I should kill you for that pun, but I wouldn't want to appear... flippant.” He sat down, and his cape clipped through the seat. Jenna ignored that. “Let’s not barter on an empty stomach. There’s a bottle of Port behind that picture; should be glasses too,” Cobb waved his arm. “I'm afraid it's been open for a couple of decades; it may be a little... foosty.”

 

Jenna stayed still.

 

“For god’s sake... it’s not poisonous. I can’t programme Port.”

 

Accepting his logic, Jenna approached the painting, depicting a rather miserable red-haired boy and his father, and slid it to the left. She poured herself a glass, then offered a second glass to Cobb; Cobb stayed silent, allowing Jenna to realise her mistake by herself.

 

“How does it taste?” Cobb asked quietly, watching Jenna take a sip.

 

“I- uh, I dunno. A little fruity?” Jenna theorised, taking a second, slow sip.

 

“Hm. You can cross sommelier off of your career options. Pity, Jesus could do both; wine and carpentry, that is.”

 

“Well, I'm not Jesus, am I?”

 

“No,” Cobb smirked, a bitterness bubbling beneath his calm facade. “I suppose only one of us has been nailed to a cross and risen again.”

 

Jenna stared into the burgundy liquid and realised she was no longer thirsty.

 

“If your thoughts dwell on Kuttler, they needn’t,” Cobb responded, watching as she placed the glass down on the table beside her, his pale eyes watching the swirling liquid longingly.

 

“Of course they don’t need to, but he’s lying downstairs in a pool of his own blood and I’m drinking Sherry!” Jenna rose to her feet, her nostrils flaring.

 

“Port.”

 

“Who gives a shit!”

 

“From someone who has been dead for one year now, I assure you, he isn’t thinking about you,” Cobb replied, his hologram flickering like a dwindling flame. “Drink.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s... foosty,” Jenna scowled, in dispirited defeat, retreating into the armchair.

 

“They sent you here to disable Billings illusions, didn't they?” Cobb sought confirmation, uncrossing his legs in anticipation of her answer.

 

Jenna rubbed her right eye with the tips of her fingers. “Yes.”

 

“Then they set you up to fail and him to die. You can’t switch it on and off willy-nilly like one of your ‘power’ tools. Certainly not as easily as you might presume. The affected, or infected is perhaps more apt, must make a conscious choice to recognise their false reality for what it is. And reject it of their own accord. Ingenious, really; thank god Billings isn’t around to hear that,” he added as a disclaimer, as if praise of Billings scorched his digital soul.

 

“Taking you out disrupts the signal though. Doesn’t it?” Jenna leaned forward, placing her hands in her lap.

 

“Of course. Of course, it might also fry the delicate minds of those partaking in Billings’ precious little parlour games. A scattered mind can be a terrible thing. It can leave you unable to discern fact from fiction, reality from fantasy. How could you ever trust the one that you love, the one you cherish, when she could be a simulation staring back with empty eyes?”

 

Jenna avoided eye contact, her thoughts on Gar, no doubt caught in Billings’ thrall. “You're lying,” she stated.

 

“I'm not.”

 

“Gar- They're stronger than you could ever know. They'll beat it.”

 

“They might well do,” Cobb agreed. “In fact, I hope so. But they need time, which is the one thing you don't have.”

 

Jenna stood up, this time not out of anger, but determination. “Then help me stop him. You and me, together. We can beat Nygma. Save the Misfits, save the world.”

 

Cobb scoffed derisively. “Now, Miss Duffy; I said I wouldn’t hurt you. I never said I would help you.”

 

“Listen,” Jenna warned. “You wanna sit in your panic bunker-”

 

“That’s downstairs.”

 

“Shut it! You want to hide in here, that’s fine, but I’m not letting him get his three wishes from you, not when one of them could be nuclear Armageddon.”

 

“Oh, please, Nygma wouldn’t destroy the world. He’s too proud to die,” Cobb waved his hand in the air. “Besides, it’d deprive him of an audience.”

 

“But he would destroy you. Right now, he’s downstairs, tapping his keyboard, breaching your firewalls; leeching the life from you. Taking everything that you are; doesn’t that bother you?”

 

“I suppose it should, but if you're trying to appeal to my humanity, you’re a year late,” Cobb was still smiling, but the warmth had left his voice. “I lived a miserable life and I live a miserable afterlife; I lost my autonomy a long time ago. In the end, we all do. We’re all just lines of code, really; social security numbers, PINs, a hundred different forms of insurance we’ll never need. And if you go out there, they will kill you.”

 

“If you stay here, they’ll kill you,” Jenna countered.

 

“I've been dead. I am dead. Either Nygma shuts me down or I shut him out; the outcome remains the same,” Cobb replied, a weariness behind his words. “Perhaps that’s a sign. My sign.”

 

“So, that's it then? What do you think a world run by the Riddler will look like?” Jenna interrogated him. “Because I see him killing everyone who’s ever made fun of him; everyone who didn’t take him seriously, or who didn’t play along; killing everyone dumber than him; everyone smarter than him too, because who needs that noise. And he’ll do it with a bunch of lazy, bullshit riddles.”

 

Cobb cocked his head to one side, pursing his lips. “They are bullshit, aren’t they?” he asked.

 

“The worst,” Jenna agreed.

 

“Hm. Oh, well, what’s the harm in dying twice?” Cobb arose from his chair. “It’s done wonders for Barson. Look at that, even I’m doing it...”

 

“Can’t you just zap him? Lock him out of the system?” Jenna inquired.

 

“I'm afraid not,” Cobb shook his head. “He’s using a backdoor- don’t you dare smile, that idiot Kuttler gave him access.” He hastily added a ‘sorry’ upon seeing Jenna’s expression change at the word ‘idiot.’ “I’d be better off destroying this whole bunker. No, our only advantage is that, right now, Nygma is approaching this 'puzzle' as a programmer, not a neurobiologist. Operating as though he's hacking a computer. Not a brain.”

 

“But that won't last,” Jenna stated.

 

“No. It won't.”

 

~-~

 

“I have to hand it to you; hah, hand, get it?” Billings was goading Ten, as he refilled his glass with the dark bottle on the counter. “You, were the fastest. Took a few, flailing minutes for the others to realise what I'd done; but not you. Guess that makes you the Smartie in a bag of M&Ms.”

 

Ten folded his arms, then stated calmly “You’re going to Hell.”

 

“Rude,” Billings replied, taking a calculated glug of booze for effect. “Rude and blasphemous; in five minutes, I’ve done more for the blind than JC in the AD.”

 

Ten raised a skeptical eyebrow.

 

“Nah, I’ve seen Hell, Tenny,” Billings continued. “I’ve been to Hollywood. Hell, is an invitation to the Oscars where you’re sat between a robot and a gay mummy.”

 

“You’re not exactly endearing yourself to me,” Ten said coolly.

 

“Yeah? That robot told me he fucked my mother,” Billings stated, his cheeks turning pink.

 

Sensing another anecdote brewing and not wishing to further swerve off topic, Ten joined Billings on his side of the kitchen island. “You may do what you like with me, but let the others go; let Drury go. He has a family; children.”

 

Billings chuckled. “Don’t try to trip me up with sentiment. I sold my soul to showbiz. Like you did to the Vatican, huh?”

 

“That's blasphemy.”

 

“And you are a sanctimonious prat. Why would the clown want you? You're damaged goods, pal. A broken toy. An Action Man that's missing its hands, what good are you, out there?” he pressed.

 

“He wanted you,” Ten stated bluntly.

 

“I, am an auteur,” Billings claimed, placing a hand over his heart, a prideful smile on his face.

 

“Now you’re the one fantasising. You’re a drunk and a villain,” Ten argued.

 

Billings scoffed. “Is Woody Allen a villain? Is Polanski?”

 

“Famously, yes.”

 

“And Shelley Duvall cried all through filming, but she still made The Shining. Sometimes, sometimes you gotta make tears to make art. And just you wait. When we're done with Walker, we're gonna get Best Picture.”

 

Done