Batman 3 - Batman Forever (30 page)

Was the grating closer?

Then he heard the grinding of motors. Sure enough, the upper grating was moving toward him. And it was doing so very quickly.

He knelt to pull open the trapdoor in the grating on which he was standing. It didn’t budge. It had sealed behind him electronically.

He looked up again, and the grating was moving so fast that he quickly realized he was not going to have time to cut through with the laser torch.

It left him exactly one option. He thumbed a button on his Utility Belt, painfully aware that the last time he’d tested the device, he’d almost set himself on fire.

His costume vibrated, building up in intensity, and seconds later his boots flared. The thrusters hurled him upward toward the descending grate. He crisscrossed his arms over his head, becoming what Robin would undoubtedly have termed a “Bat”-tering ram.

The descending grating and ascending Batman collided, Batman smashing through it. The metal wrenched free of the cylinder sides, clattering downward.

And the thrusters sputtered and cut out.

Batman reached out desperately and snagged an old access ladder set into the cylinder wall. He hung there for a moment, listening to the grating crash downward. Then he hoisted himself upward, shoving his way through a rusting access hatch to face . . .

. . . a weird haircut.

The head belonged to the Riddler, and the haircut consisted of a question mark shaved into the back of his head.

He was seated on his throne, which was slowly rotating. Extending from the back of his throne was a huge antenna, stretching up into the night sky. A ring of light encircled him, feeding even more brain power into him.

Batman quickly saw that the Riddler was substantially different from when he’d last seen him. Whatever he’d been doing to his brain had apparently spread to his body. Immense muscles bulged like a steroid-pumped bodybuilder’s.

Batman moved slowly through the Riddler’s control room, staring in bleak despair at what the poor, demented creature had done to himself. For his part, the Riddler grinned down at him. He indicated his overly muscular body. In a thick Austrian accent, he said,
“Hasta la vista,
baby. It’s me. Arnold Schwarzenygma.” He awaited a reply, but there was none. So he made his own. “Riddle me this. Riddle me that. Who’s afraid of the big, black Bat?”

“No more tricks, Edward. Release Chase. This is between you and me.”

Two-Face stepped from behind the Riddler’s throne. “And me . . .” and he added, “and me.”

Batman was looking up at the antenna. “Of course. The Box does more than enhance neural energy. You’ve been sucking Gotham’s brain waves.”

“And now it’s new,” chirped the Riddler. “Improved. Better than ever,”

On the screens occupying the control room, he saw screens with schematics of flickering brains. “The disorientation I felt in the beam at your party. You’ve devised a way to map the human brain. To read men’s minds.”

“Oh, Batman, you are clever,” the Riddler said with childlike glee. And then his voice started to rise, becoming louder, more demented. “How fitting that numbers led you to me. For numbers will crown me king. My Box will sit on countless TVs around the globe, mapping brains, giving me credit card numbers, bank codes, safe combinations, numbers of infidelities, of crimes, of lies told. No secret is safe from my watchful electronic eye. I will rule the planet. For if knowledge be power, then tremble, world.
Edward Nygma has become a god!”
His voice echoed throughout the room.

He waited until the reverberations stopped and then he turned to Two-Face. “Was that over the top?” he asked in earnest concern. “I can never tell . . .” Then, as if Batman were an afterthought, he said, “By the way, B-man, I got your number.”

The images on the screen changed, becoming pictures of Bruce Wayne . . . and then of Batman . . . and then the two of them flickering, superimposing one over the other.

“I’ve seen your mind, freak,” thundered the Riddler. “Yours is the greatest riddle of all. Can Bruce Wayne and Batman ever truly coexist? Ring a bell?”

The Riddler’s hands were resting on small statues of the Thinker. He twisted the two statues and suddenly his muscular physique split right in half. It was simply a solid formfitting body suit built right onto the chair. The Riddler, dressed in his customary skintight question mark-covered leotard, trotted out of it. He stood in the center of his glowing white ring.

“I know who I really am. Let’s help you decide, once and for all, who you really are. Behind curtain number one . . .”

Sugar appeared on the edge of the room, pointing toward a curtain-draped cylinder suspended overhead. The curtain rose to reveal Chase within the tube, bound and unconscious.

“The captivating Dr. Chase Meridian. She enjoys hiking, getting her nails done, and foolishly hopes to be the love of your civilian life.”

Spice appeared on the other side of the room. She gestured toward another cylinder. Batman knew even before the rising curtain displayed it that within the tube would be . . .

“Batman’s one and only partner,” the Riddler said, continuing in his best emcee voice. “This acrobat turned orphan likes looking his best despite an endless series of bad hair days. And below our contestants, my personal favorite . . .”

Trap doors slid open beneath Chase’s and Robin’s cylinders.

“A watery grave!” declared the Riddler, and paused a moment for the applause that he no doubt heard in his head. Then he pointed to a button that was on the armrest of his chair.

“A simple touch and five seconds later these two day-players are gull feed on the rocks below. Not enough time to save them both. So who will it be? Your love? Or your partner?”

“Edward, you’ve become a monster,” said Batman.

“No,” he replied with shrug. “Just the Riddler, and here’s yours. What is without taste or sound, all around, but can’t be found?”

He began humming the music from “Jeopardy!” to pass the time.

Slowly Batman began to walk towards the two cylinders, his mind racing furiously. He heard a soft chuckle from Two-Face . . .

And froze.

As the answer sprang into his head, he suddenly became aware of what might be waiting in front of him. He studied the floor carefully, closed his eyes—and felt a very gentle breeze wafting from in front of him.

“Death,” Batman said softy, aware now that there was no floor in front of him, but only a holographic representation of one. One more step would have sent him plummeting into an abyss. More loudly and with a sudden awareness he repeated, “Death. Without taste, sound, and all around us. Because there is no way for me to save them or myself. This is one giant death trap.”

“Bzzzz. I’m sorry,” said the Riddler, sounding tragic, “your answer must be in the form of a question. But thanks for playing.” And his finger went toward the skull button.

“Wait. I have a riddle for you.”

The Riddler seemed enchanted with the notion. “For
me
? Really? Tell me.”

“I see without feeling. To me, darkness is as clear as daylight. What am I?”

Immediately the Riddler’s joy turned to disgust. “Oh, please. You’re blind as a bat.”

“Exactly!”

Batman slammed his Utility Belt, released a Batarang with a high-energy charge, and hurled it at the antenna. The Batarang smashed into the antenna and a massive charge of electrons fed into the transceiver, overloading them.

“Noooo!” screamed the Riddler, as he was bombarded with massive pulses of neural energy. His entire head started to distort, fluctuate in size, and waver. His brain actually seemed to grow, skin stretching for a second over his expanding skull before snapping back into place. It didn’t, of course, since the result would have been massive cerebral hemorrhaging and instant death. But that was what it felt like to the Riddler, and thought became holographic representation. He staggered, searching for something intelligent to say . . .

. . . and nothing came to mind.

“Bummer!” was all he could get out, and then the room went black.

The Riddler collapsed, slumping against the button . . .

And Robin and Chase Meridian fell through their cylinders, the drop yawning before them.

But the tubes hadn’t opened simultaneously. They’d opened sequentially: Chase’s first, then Robin’s. No more than a second between the two . . . but it might be all Batman needed.

In that instant, two metal lids slid shut over Batman’s eyes. Small radar screens appeared on the back of his eyepieces, revealing the phantom floor and the wild crisscross of interconnected steel beams between the Riddler’s lair and the crashing ocean below.

He leapt forward and hurled a Batarang all in the same motion. As the Batarang cable snapped taut, he swung down and caught Chase, depositing her on a steel beam while preparing to leap after Robin.

He looked down.

No sign.

My God . . . he couldn’t have fallen that far, that fast . . . he couldn’t be gone . . . he . . .

“Robin!” he shouted over the crashing of the surf.

“What’cha want?”

He looked up, his radar tracking and zeroing in.

Robin was wedged in the bottom of the tube, his arms and legs pushing against either side.

Batman started to climb the girders toward Robin when suddenly the world went white. Staggering back, Batman nearly slipped off the girder. He grabbed out and clung desperately.

Robin, craning his neck from his vantage point, spotted Two-Face on the beam in front of Batman. He had a halogen light strapped around his head, blinding Batman’s sensors. He brandished his gun.

“All those heroics for nothing. No more riddles, no more curtains one and two. Just plain old curtains.” He actually sounded disappointed.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, Harvey?” called out Batman. “You’re always of two minds about everything . . .”

To Two-Face’s chagrin, he realized that Batman was right. “Oh. Emotion is so often the enemy of justice. Thank you, Bruce.”

He took out his coin and flipped it.

And Batman threw a Batarang.

It was purely guesswork. He could hear Harvey’s voice. He knew which hand Harvey threw with. He knew how high Harvey threw it. The rest was hanging on faith.

The Batarang clipped the coin and sent it off its arc.

Batman’s intention was to knock the coin away and down, hoping that—without it—Harvey would be stymied, unable to decide.

Instead he lunged for it.

He snatched it out of midair, still clutching his gun, and then he fell.

Two yards.

Two-Face slammed against one of the lower girders. It was bone-jarring, but his crazed strength and determination were enough to enable him to cling both to the coin and the gun. He twisted himself around, bracing his feet, clinging tenaciously . . . like a bat.

“Did you think it would be that easy?
Did you?”
he howled. “After everything that was between us, Batman! After the promises you made! You, the hero, the upholder of justice . . . and look what you did to us! Look!”

And from above, Robin shouted down, “And look what you did to
us
!”

Two-Face peered up at him. “What?”

“You go around acting like that coin is making all the decisions. But it’s all bull. It’s not the coin. It’s you! You called me gutless? God, you are so damned gutless, I feel sorry for you!”

With a snarl, Two-Face brought his gun up and aimed at Robin.

Robin pressed on relentlessly, his arms and legs starting to tire. “You don’t have the guts to admit Batman was human and couldn’t do everything. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, and you’re passing judgment on
him
? How about you, hotshot? What’s that coin say about you, huh? You’re so busy passing judgment on everyone and everything except the guy who’s really on trial here! I bet you don’t have the nerve to try challenging the hand of fate yourself for once! See if it pats you on the back, or slaps you down! Go on! Do it! Forget about your coin. Decide for yourself, about yourself, you pathetic monster! Do it!
Do it!”

Two-Face stared up at him for an eternity, as the water crashed below.

Then he flipped the coin.

It spun, hanging there in the night, and then descended. Two-Face plucked it out of the air, looked at it.

He shook his head. Without looking at Robin, he said, “It seems . . . we were right the first time. You are a man after our own heart. And you managed . . . you managed to rip it out.” He chuckled softly. “You owe us, kid.”

And he released his hold on the girder.

He made no sound as he descended. None at all.

There was dead silence.

“I didn’t want to do that,” said Robin slowly. “I . . . I killed him.”

“No. You just showed Two-Face his real face. The rest was his decision. Maybe his first genuine decision in years. Robin . . . give me a moment to get these radar lids off line. Then I’ll help you out of there . . . and attend to unfinished business.”

Inside the Riddler’s control room, Sugar and Spice—surrounded by a smoke-filled world of sparks and flame—held a quick confab.

“Girl, can you swim?” asked Sugar.

“And ruin this hair?” sniffed Spice. “Hell no.” As they headed for a secret exit, Spice flipped open her portable phone. “I know a guy with a yacht.”

They disappeared into the exit, still unclear on everything that had happened. Batman’s salvation was that the Riddler and Two-Face, considering knowledge to be power, had told no one else of the connection between Batman and Bruce Wayne. Nygma had it in for his former employer, but so what? Chase Meridian was hot on Batman, but again, so what? Sugar and Spice themselves found him kind of hot.

Unfortunately, a proposed romance with Batman didn’t seem conducive to continued freedom. And so they made their escape, vanishing from Gotham entirely.

None of this was going to be of any particular interest to Edward Nygma, a lonely figure trying to piece together the charred fragments of his machinery. His voice was small, lost. Batman stood next to him, and Nygma was speaking to him . . . but it was as if he was unaware that Batman was in the room.