FIC: Gotham Nocturne Chapter 3 (3/9)
Title: Gotham Nocturne: Chapter Three
Characters/Pairings: Clark/Bruce, Leslie Thompkins, Pamela Isley, Jonathan Crane
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Series Notes: Gotham Nocturne is part of The Music of the Spheres, a combined Superman Returns/Batman Begins series. The whole series can be found here.
Rating: PG
Summary: A phobia attack at a Gotham hospital deepens Batman and Superman's suspicions about the culprit behind them.
Word Count: 1600
Pamela Isley sauntered across the lab to peer over Crane's shoulder at his computer screen. Crane didn't bother to try and block her view--Isley suspected it was because he believed she was incapable of understanding the formulae and models scrolling by. That he was largely correct merely irritated her more.
But she was picking up enough to make her own research much more interesting. Botanopsychology was an exciting new field.
Very exciting indeed.
"Any luck on the one you're supposed to be making for me?" she asked.
Crane sighed. "Dendrophobia is surprisingly difficult to synthesize. The proportions of different neurotransmitters are different in every case, and as a result some phobias are relatively easy to induce while others are quite difficult. However, I've recently managed some groundbreaking advances in specific types of phobias. Why, just last week I successfully induced folivoraphobia in a group of people in a local mall. Or at least I think I did." He frowned absently. "It's very difficult to test for a fear of tree sloths."
Isley wondered if his recent breakthroughs were at all attributable to her own experiments--namely her flooding the lab with a new plant enzyme that should sharpen mental acuity and insight. She certainly was having some extremely promising flashes of insight lately, especially in the classes of neurotransmitters linked to euphoria and sexual arousal.
But there was no need to share those discoveries with Jonathan Crane, certainly not. Let him work on fear for its own sake, while she worked on how to control people and get some concrete results in the world.
"This isn't the point, anyway," Crane was muttering, tapping at his keyboard. "All these specific phobias are just experiments. What I'm looking for is something...different." He glanced up at her and smiled, a sudden grin full of almost childish glee. Against her will Isley felt a shiver go down her back--a base mammalian response, just the kind of thing she wanted to escape from. "But the next experiment should produce an edifying set of data indeed."
: : :
Leslie Thompkins was sitting in her office at Gotham General Hospital, her head buried in her hands. A clock on the wall was ticking loudly, the hands almost at eleven, but there was no other sound beyond the rain on the glass.
"Dr. Thompkins." Leslie flinched at the sound of the dark, hoarse voice, then recoiled from her window. The shadowed shape crouched on the sill made no move as she recovered herself.
"You must be the Batman," she said a bit breathlessly after a moment. "It's a--pleasure to make your acquaintance." She winced at the banality, but her mind had gone blank beyond safe formal phrases.
The dark head inclined slightly. "The pleasure is mine."
She peered at the dark figure narrowly. "I should have known you'd come by tonight."
"You should have?" The voice sounded merely mildly curious below the obscuring rasp.
Leslie tapped the sheaf of papers on her desk. "You heard about what happened here today. To Dr. Sugiyama."
"Perhaps I have. I'd like to hear the events from your point of view."
She lifted her chin. "Why should I tell you anything?"
There was a long pause. The dark figure cleared his throat. "Please."
Leslie's shoulders slumped. "Mike--Dr. Sugiyama. He was in the middle of a very tricky heart bypass this morning. Suddenly everyone in the operating room was terrified of the blood." She looked up at Batman. "Gotham's finest medical staff, suddenly afraid of blood? It makes no sense."
"It doesn't, no."
She touched the folder on her desk, the smiling face of the man paperclipped to the front of it. "The other staff all fled the room, but Dr. Sugiyama stayed behind. He must have been as afraid as any of them, but he stayed. He managed to close up the incision and save the patient's life. But--" She felt tears stinging her eyes. "It--it broke his mind. He hasn't spoken, he hasn't responded since, he does nothing now but stare at his hands." Leslie had washed off the blood, speaking to him gently, telling him how brave he had been. He had merely stared down, unspeaking, rocking slightly, locked in his own mind.
She heard the rustle of papers, looked up to see Batman going through the file. "Sugiyama," he said. "A good surgeon."
"The best," she said defiantly. "And a good man."
Batman turned another page. "A friend of yours." It didn't sound quite like a question.
"He is." She took a breath, wondered if she was insane to say this. "He was also a good friend of Thomas Wayne's."
No reaction from the vigilante, and she wondered if certain guesses, certain intuitions based on cryptic statements by Alfred Pennyworth and her own knowledge of a small, solemn boy and an angry young man--if they were merely the delusions of a fond old woman. Then Batman put the folder down and looked at her directly. "Thank you for talking to me," he said, the polite words belying the gravelly growl. "I'll find who did this to your friend." He slipped out the window without a sound and left her alone.
The rain was loud on the glass. Leslie stared at the medical file and remembered another day of sorrow, another day of rain.
Black umbrellas were spread against the steady drizzle as they filed out of the cemetery. Leslie caught a glimpse of the boy's face, pale and silent. Alfred Pennyworth was holding an umbrella over his small form, staring into the rain.
Mike Sugiyama was holding her arm, helping her around the puddles on the muddy ground. As they passed by the child, he stopped suddenly, crouching in the rain in front of Bruce. His overcoat trailed in the mud as he gazed at the boy, who looked back at him solemnly.
"Here. Wait." Mike rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, a spare receipt. A few quick folds and he held the transformed paper in front of him: a tiny frog. "You can make it hop, see?" He tapped its tail and it bounced in the palm of his hand. "It's yours, here," he said. The boy stared at him. "I know, it's not much. I'm sorry."
Bruce reached out and took the frog delicately from Mike's palm. "Thank you," he said gravely.
Mike stood up, almost reached out to pat the boy's head, stopped himself. "Well. You're welcome," he said. He rejoined Leslie and took her arm again. "That was pathetic," he muttered fiercely. "The boy's lost his parents and I give him a paper frog. Useless."
"Hush," Leslie said hastily, looking back at the boy, who was still staring down at the origami frog. "We do what we can, Mike. It's never enough, but that isn't what matters. We do the little we can. And we hope." She gave his arm a squeeze, and Mike sighed as they made their way out of the cemetery, curtains of rain slowly drawing between them and the boy at his parents' grave.
: : :
Bruce was running tests on samples taken from the operating room where the attack had happened, trying to find any trace of the fear toxin. A window on his computer popped up: "Any luck?"
The grim line of Bruce's mouth softened just a little and he tapped his temple to activate the receiver. "Sorry. Got running the tests and forgot to turn this on." He grimaced. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it there for breakfast. I know it's the fifth time in a row something's called me away."
"Only the fourth." Clark's voice was warm and peaceful in his ear; Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into the sound. "Our shining ladies require a fair amount of time, Bruce. That's part of the deal."
"Shining ladies." Bruce snorted inelegantly, watching data scroll by. "Gotham is many things, but she's rarely a lady."
"She's a bitch queen and you wouldn't have her any other way, my love."
As always, hearing Clark use such language pulled a chuckle out of Bruce. "I suppose not."
"Shall I let you get back to work? I should get out to patrol soon, as long as breakfast is off."
"No problem, I can take just a second while this next sample processes. No luck so far, though." He sighed. "Crane has to have access to a lab, and a fairly sophisticated one, to be producting such complex toxins. Thorne might have the capacity, as would S.T.A.R. labs, and they have a branch here. There are a handful of pharmeceutical and chemical companies--Revonne, LaraMae, Stagg Industries--with the facilities. But he isn't brewing this stuff up out of a kitchen somewhere. It's just a matter of figuring out who's giving him the access."
"Any word on the doctor, the one who had the breakdown?"
Bruce shook his head. "He's semi-catatonic. I've arranged to have him cared for at the Sunninger Institute outside Gotham. No way I'm letting Arkham get its claws into him. Maybe...maybe they can get through to him. Somehow."
"I hope so."
"It's not much." Bruce reached out and gently tapped a little frog made of yellowed paper, set it hopping on his desk. "But we do the little we can. And we hope."
Characters/Pairings: Clark/Bruce, Leslie Thompkins, Pamela Isley, Jonathan Crane
Disclaimer: The boys belong to DC and to each other, but not to me.
Series Notes: Gotham Nocturne is part of The Music of the Spheres, a combined Superman Returns/Batman Begins series. The whole series can be found here.
Rating: PG
Summary: A phobia attack at a Gotham hospital deepens Batman and Superman's suspicions about the culprit behind them.
Word Count: 1600
Pamela Isley sauntered across the lab to peer over Crane's shoulder at his computer screen. Crane didn't bother to try and block her view--Isley suspected it was because he believed she was incapable of understanding the formulae and models scrolling by. That he was largely correct merely irritated her more.
But she was picking up enough to make her own research much more interesting. Botanopsychology was an exciting new field.
Very exciting indeed.
"Any luck on the one you're supposed to be making for me?" she asked.
Crane sighed. "Dendrophobia is surprisingly difficult to synthesize. The proportions of different neurotransmitters are different in every case, and as a result some phobias are relatively easy to induce while others are quite difficult. However, I've recently managed some groundbreaking advances in specific types of phobias. Why, just last week I successfully induced folivoraphobia in a group of people in a local mall. Or at least I think I did." He frowned absently. "It's very difficult to test for a fear of tree sloths."
Isley wondered if his recent breakthroughs were at all attributable to her own experiments--namely her flooding the lab with a new plant enzyme that should sharpen mental acuity and insight. She certainly was having some extremely promising flashes of insight lately, especially in the classes of neurotransmitters linked to euphoria and sexual arousal.
But there was no need to share those discoveries with Jonathan Crane, certainly not. Let him work on fear for its own sake, while she worked on how to control people and get some concrete results in the world.
"This isn't the point, anyway," Crane was muttering, tapping at his keyboard. "All these specific phobias are just experiments. What I'm looking for is something...different." He glanced up at her and smiled, a sudden grin full of almost childish glee. Against her will Isley felt a shiver go down her back--a base mammalian response, just the kind of thing she wanted to escape from. "But the next experiment should produce an edifying set of data indeed."
: : :
Leslie Thompkins was sitting in her office at Gotham General Hospital, her head buried in her hands. A clock on the wall was ticking loudly, the hands almost at eleven, but there was no other sound beyond the rain on the glass.
"Dr. Thompkins." Leslie flinched at the sound of the dark, hoarse voice, then recoiled from her window. The shadowed shape crouched on the sill made no move as she recovered herself.
"You must be the Batman," she said a bit breathlessly after a moment. "It's a--pleasure to make your acquaintance." She winced at the banality, but her mind had gone blank beyond safe formal phrases.
The dark head inclined slightly. "The pleasure is mine."
She peered at the dark figure narrowly. "I should have known you'd come by tonight."
"You should have?" The voice sounded merely mildly curious below the obscuring rasp.
Leslie tapped the sheaf of papers on her desk. "You heard about what happened here today. To Dr. Sugiyama."
"Perhaps I have. I'd like to hear the events from your point of view."
She lifted her chin. "Why should I tell you anything?"
There was a long pause. The dark figure cleared his throat. "Please."
Leslie's shoulders slumped. "Mike--Dr. Sugiyama. He was in the middle of a very tricky heart bypass this morning. Suddenly everyone in the operating room was terrified of the blood." She looked up at Batman. "Gotham's finest medical staff, suddenly afraid of blood? It makes no sense."
"It doesn't, no."
She touched the folder on her desk, the smiling face of the man paperclipped to the front of it. "The other staff all fled the room, but Dr. Sugiyama stayed behind. He must have been as afraid as any of them, but he stayed. He managed to close up the incision and save the patient's life. But--" She felt tears stinging her eyes. "It--it broke his mind. He hasn't spoken, he hasn't responded since, he does nothing now but stare at his hands." Leslie had washed off the blood, speaking to him gently, telling him how brave he had been. He had merely stared down, unspeaking, rocking slightly, locked in his own mind.
She heard the rustle of papers, looked up to see Batman going through the file. "Sugiyama," he said. "A good surgeon."
"The best," she said defiantly. "And a good man."
Batman turned another page. "A friend of yours." It didn't sound quite like a question.
"He is." She took a breath, wondered if she was insane to say this. "He was also a good friend of Thomas Wayne's."
No reaction from the vigilante, and she wondered if certain guesses, certain intuitions based on cryptic statements by Alfred Pennyworth and her own knowledge of a small, solemn boy and an angry young man--if they were merely the delusions of a fond old woman. Then Batman put the folder down and looked at her directly. "Thank you for talking to me," he said, the polite words belying the gravelly growl. "I'll find who did this to your friend." He slipped out the window without a sound and left her alone.
The rain was loud on the glass. Leslie stared at the medical file and remembered another day of sorrow, another day of rain.
Black umbrellas were spread against the steady drizzle as they filed out of the cemetery. Leslie caught a glimpse of the boy's face, pale and silent. Alfred Pennyworth was holding an umbrella over his small form, staring into the rain.
Mike Sugiyama was holding her arm, helping her around the puddles on the muddy ground. As they passed by the child, he stopped suddenly, crouching in the rain in front of Bruce. His overcoat trailed in the mud as he gazed at the boy, who looked back at him solemnly.
"Here. Wait." Mike rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, a spare receipt. A few quick folds and he held the transformed paper in front of him: a tiny frog. "You can make it hop, see?" He tapped its tail and it bounced in the palm of his hand. "It's yours, here," he said. The boy stared at him. "I know, it's not much. I'm sorry."
Bruce reached out and took the frog delicately from Mike's palm. "Thank you," he said gravely.
Mike stood up, almost reached out to pat the boy's head, stopped himself. "Well. You're welcome," he said. He rejoined Leslie and took her arm again. "That was pathetic," he muttered fiercely. "The boy's lost his parents and I give him a paper frog. Useless."
"Hush," Leslie said hastily, looking back at the boy, who was still staring down at the origami frog. "We do what we can, Mike. It's never enough, but that isn't what matters. We do the little we can. And we hope." She gave his arm a squeeze, and Mike sighed as they made their way out of the cemetery, curtains of rain slowly drawing between them and the boy at his parents' grave.
: : :
Bruce was running tests on samples taken from the operating room where the attack had happened, trying to find any trace of the fear toxin. A window on his computer popped up: "Any luck?"
The grim line of Bruce's mouth softened just a little and he tapped his temple to activate the receiver. "Sorry. Got running the tests and forgot to turn this on." He grimaced. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it there for breakfast. I know it's the fifth time in a row something's called me away."
"Only the fourth." Clark's voice was warm and peaceful in his ear; Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into the sound. "Our shining ladies require a fair amount of time, Bruce. That's part of the deal."
"Shining ladies." Bruce snorted inelegantly, watching data scroll by. "Gotham is many things, but she's rarely a lady."
"She's a bitch queen and you wouldn't have her any other way, my love."
As always, hearing Clark use such language pulled a chuckle out of Bruce. "I suppose not."
"Shall I let you get back to work? I should get out to patrol soon, as long as breakfast is off."
"No problem, I can take just a second while this next sample processes. No luck so far, though." He sighed. "Crane has to have access to a lab, and a fairly sophisticated one, to be producting such complex toxins. Thorne might have the capacity, as would S.T.A.R. labs, and they have a branch here. There are a handful of pharmeceutical and chemical companies--Revonne, LaraMae, Stagg Industries--with the facilities. But he isn't brewing this stuff up out of a kitchen somewhere. It's just a matter of figuring out who's giving him the access."
"Any word on the doctor, the one who had the breakdown?"
Bruce shook his head. "He's semi-catatonic. I've arranged to have him cared for at the Sunninger Institute outside Gotham. No way I'm letting Arkham get its claws into him. Maybe...maybe they can get through to him. Somehow."
"I hope so."
"It's not much." Bruce reached out and gently tapped a little frog made of yellowed paper, set it hopping on his desk. "But we do the little we can. And we hope."