The worst part about writing sequels is that you have to do the introduction all over again. So here goes.
Disclaimer first: I do not own Batman, Bruce Wayne, Alfred, Rachel Dawes, Lucius Fox... umm... who else is mentioned in here... the police officer guy there... okay, to hell with it. I don't own anybody that you see in the movie Batman Begins or in any other movie with the word "Batman" in it. If the characters in this story are not in those movies, they're mine, and I'd really like you to ask permission before using them (not that anyone would).
As you all know (or at least most of you; newcomers welcome, though you'll probably want to read the original fic first) this is the continuing story of Hallie Matthews. To recap: Hallie is out of Arkham Asylum and The Small Part is out of Hallie. Some of you might be upset to learn that this story will not be written in the first person. I assure you that this was necessary. Hallie cannot be everywhere at once, and there are tons of things going on that she won't be involved in.
This should probably be said for all the romantic-fanatics out there: there will be no romance in here. Hallie may have a few flashbacks, but they won't be Hallmark worthy (no sex), and any romantic involvement that Crane starts to have with SP will probably just give you the creeps. Hell, it gave me the creeps, and I wrote it. So there. Squirming guarunteed, and no Hallie-Bruce love scenes. I hate when people start making Batman sleep with the uncannily attractive girl who shows up out of nowhere. Yuck.
Now, as for my campaign.
This time around, I can guarantee you longer chapters and faster updates... though not too fast; I love making you wait, because when you're stuck waiting, you review, and I love reviews. About those -- lots, please. Seriously. Five in one day if you feel like. Five in one day if you DON'T feel like. I want them. Tons.
I think that's pretty much it. If it's not, I'll catch you in the next chapter. Thanks sooo much for reading.
Chapter One
Bruce Wayne did not pause to consider the consequences of that particular interview. When he got the letter proposing he be featured on a segment about children who'd inherited vast fortunes, he just allowed himself to be signed up, however unwillingly. These were the types of things that spoiled, single millionaires did. Besides which, he convinced himself, it was only an hour. How bad could it be?
The interview itself wasn't bad. He sat down across from an alarmingly ancient man whose voice did not match his bodily fatigue — another Alfred, Bruce thought good-naturedly — and, for the first few minutes, was asked questions about his life, primarily about money. Bruce had never honestly considered himself to be an unintelligent man when it came to fund management. He'd made it this far without going bankrupt, so he must know something about the American dollar. He just hadn't realized until the interview how much he really did know.
So he'd answered the money questions. That didn't last long, however; it was clear enough that the interviewer (Bruce was ashamed to admit that, in spite of his immediate fondness for the man, he'd forgotten his name within the first ten minutes of sitting in his presence) wasn't particularly interested in how Bruce Wayne spent his money. No, he was more interested in how he spent his time, and what he thought about his own city.
"I've always believed that there's more to Gotham than meets the eye," he'd replied. "It was a magnificent city at one point. It's just in a low place right now. I have a feeling the sleeping giant will wake again."
Which had been a stupid answer, he realized now, because it seemed inevitable to him now, watching the broadcast, that the subject would turn to Batman.
"Batman," he'd said in what he hoped was the charming half-amused, half-exasperated voice that he had yet to master. "He's definitely one of our city's more loyal citizens. In the end, though, I think that any man who needs to wear a mask to do the community a favour cannot be considered a man at all."
Harsh. Or at least, that's what Lucius had said when he'd called Bruce after watching the interview. Alfred had said it was a very convincing performance. Well. What did either one of them expect? He was Bruce Wayne. Three different personas: Batman, Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne, the millionaire with expensive sports cars and European girlfriends. He would never be able to stay so precariously balanced without his well-honed acting skills.
So in the end, the interview itself wasn't a problem. It was what came afterwards that worried him.
The Bruce Wayne that was constantly in the limelight was not a conventional celebrity; therefore, he'd never expected an encounter with a stalker. Why would he? He didn't act, sing, or write anything that would inspire obsession. In a point of fact, he had money and that was it. The part of him that had catalyzed closet worship was the part of him that no one knew was him, if that made any sense. No one besides Rachel, Alfred, and Lucius (though Lucius rarely mentioned it) knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman. Except for maybe this one other person.
It was common knowledge that Batman was currently following the trail of a killer. The death toll was rising as this human disease ravaged Gotham, brutally murdering seemingly at random... except for the fact that nearly everyone who died was obscenely rich. Still, there were a few glitches in the pattern, like the three men found dead in alleys outside of bars. Jack the Ripper-esque, but Bruce wasn't buying the idealism behind those killings. This person was something else, something infinitely more dangerous than a psychopath. From what the profilers had said about the victims, the murderer seemed to be extremely competent. There were no silly traditions, except that every dead body had some sort of chemical on their wounds that had yet to be identified.
Freaky, and a little too sci-fi for Bruce's taste. He would have let the police handle it (after all, he was more for the comic book bad guys), but he'd been the first to the scene of the first murder. The image had stayed with him, as had every other. When he came home in the wee hours of the morning and took off the suit, the smell of death lingered on him like a sick perfume. Whoever was doing the slaying was getting in his head, and they didn't even know it. The worst part was that no one had any idea who the hell was doing it.
This stalker was particularly frightening because he claimed to know who the murderer was. And he'd already known who Batman was.
Bruce had been following a growing gang on the side, people who looked like they'd hit the big time if they weren't cut down to size. He'd pinpointed a location for a drug trade off, and if he could get some photos, he'd be able to nail the bastards. He'd gotten there and found a letter... addressed to Bruce Wayne.
Shit.
Either way, it was bad, but if one of the gang members knew who he was, bad became apocalyptic. He wouldn't sacrifice the greater good to save face, but he'd rather not have the press crowding around his house looking for a glimpse of the millionaire-turned-vigilante. It'd give him some problems. He needed to find whoever had written the letter:
To Mr. Bruce Wayne:
I know who your killer is.
That was it. There was no ultimatum, no demand for money, not even a meeting place to exchange information. And no signature. The whole thing had been typed up on what looked like an actual typewriter, one of those old dinosaurs that were impossible to track. He'd stood there and freaked out silently for a few minutes before having a huge epiphany and heading back home, where he re-watched his broadcasted interview. A convincing performance indeed. He'd blinked twice at the mention of Batman. But what kind of person would notice something like that?
Someone insane, maybe?
But he hadn't heard from them again. There were multiple ways to reach him — through Wayne Enterprises, through Alfred, through one of the supermodels he paraded around... but he hadn't gotten anything: not a phone call, not a letter, not even another typewritten scrap of paper. He thought that by now, three weeks after the incident, he'd begin to calm down, but he hadn't. He had the inexplicable urge to bury the note in the ground (oh yes, he'd kept it) and forget the whole thing before it came back to bite him in the ass. He was behaving far more superstitiously than was healthy; he hadn't even told Alfred about it. The worst part was having absolutely no control over a situation that put him in considerable danger.
He refused to let down his guard. Whenever he needed an incentive to keep on his toes, he remembered Ra's Al Ghul. The last person who'd offered to help him catch killers had turned out to be one.
How was that for ironic?
They'd told her that drinking wasn't a good idea, considering that she'd had enough damage done to her head. She wouldn't need as many drinks as other girls to be raped and killed, the doctor had told her personally. She'd wake up in some guy's basement and not remember a fucking thing, and then she'd have to start all over again with the therapy. Not that it had helped, anyway. That was why she needed the booze.
Tequila, specifically. Tequila had always been her drink, not for the taste, but for the strength. Te-kill-ya, they called it. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Well, maybe she'd skip that last part — her head had been splitting since the attempt on her life, and the idea of cracking it on the floor wasn't exactly exciting.
She lifted a shot to her lips and downed it in one, signalling for another. Drinking had become her favourite pastime, especially lately. The nightmare she had anticipated was waking up and devouring her reality. She wasn't ready for this bullshit to come up again.
She did the second shot and blinked hard to clear her head. The guy across the bar winked at her mischievously. He was handsome, but in the slimy kind of way. She smiled politely and flipped him the universal sign for "No thanks." That one finger could speak in ways that words couldn't. "I'm tired," it seemed to say. "I killed all of my past boyfriends and then I nearly died a few months ago. Fuck romance—" and, thusly, "Fuck you."
The guy flashed the classic smile of the vinyl-heating pervert, and she ignored him, turning her attention to the TV behind the bar. The Bruce Wayne interview was playing again. People were running around like chickens with their heads cut off over the thing, and he hadn't even said anything of particular interest. He talked about his life, his money, his parents, but everyone had heard all of that before. Nothing made this interview special, or scandalous, or outrageous, but the man knew how to handle the spotlight. He entered a room and the air took on a whole new quality. People clambered to get at him.
He was good looking, she had to admit. She'd have to be a statue not to.
"Like what you see, sweetheart?" asked the bartender, following her gaze.
"You gonna tell me to keep dreaming?" she asked.
He gave her another shot. "Not with your looks," he said. "You could hook him. It's just a matter of getting into the right parties. Mr. Wayne isn't a cheap man."
"I could tell."
"He bought a hotel once," the bartender continued. "Just on a whim. The man is a rock star."
"Have you met him?"
"I have. I had the honour of having some of the finer folk grace my bar once. Very nice man. Tipped well."
"I have no doubt."
The bartender eyed her empty shot glass. "You're not going to have another, are you?" he asked. "Girl your size can only handle so much alcohol before she starts making bad choices."
"I wouldn't worry about that," she replied. "Bad choices are a guarantee in my life. I'd like to see any guy in here try to take me home."
The bartender smiled. It was kind. "I trust you, kid," he said. "It's the world I don't trust. This city, these people... they're bad times. You heard about the murders?"
"Yeah," she said quietly, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "That hit pretty close to home."
"Tell me about it. The press is having a field day with it — some of the most brutal deaths Gotham's ever seen, and we've seen brutal plenty. You native?"
"Nah. But I've been here long enough to know what you mean."
He grunted. "Anyway," he said, "with the way people are exploiting it... the situation... well, it's like the world gone mad. And then that other girl, the one found on the side of the road. Head cut right open, they said. Like one of them torture victims you see in the movies."
She cleared her throat, a nervous sound, and pulled some money out of her pocket.
"Yeah," she said, "that was something else. Well, I should be going. Thanks for the talk, and the booze."
"Do you need a cab?"
"No, I'm down the road. I'll walk it."
"Take care, sweetheart."
"Be seeing you."
She walked out of the bar feeling the delightful warmth of the first drinks fading in the wake of the sickness of the third and fourth. Her head spun and the city lights turned into a merry-go-round of red and gold. Her shoes — flats, because she hadn't relearned the art of walking in high heels as of yet — made delicate noises against the rough sidewalk, leather on cement. She stumbled into the lobby of a shabby apartment building and pressed the button beside the name Stapleton.
A male's voice came on the intercom.
"You can't come in, Hallie."
She groaned and leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the intercom. She didn't want to do this right now; it was one in the morning and she just wanted to sleep.
"Come on, Fuzz. I'm tired."
"This is getting ridiculous. I can't keep putting you up without rent."
"I'm working on it."
"You're not. You're drinking it away, and I'm paying for it. It's been months since the accident. You're running out of excuses."
"One more night and I'll leave you alone. I'll go to a shelter or something."
There was a pause on the other side. "I don't want you to go to a shelter," the man said.
"Then let me in. You can't have it both ways."
The man sighed, and the door buzzed open. "One night," he said, "then I'll help you find somewhere else. I don't have enough money for this."
She yanked the door open before the buzzer stopped. "Thanks, Fuzzy."
"Yeah. Hurry your ass up."
She walked through the lobby and up the staircase on the left, each step creaking under her sore feet. Fuzzy's apartment was at the very top, number 313. He was waiting for her with the door open when she arrived. Fuzzy Stapleton was a large man who dressed as well as he could under his financial circumstances, but more importantly, he was her cousin. She would have gone to live with her parents again, but they weren't living in Gotham, and with the present problems plaguing it, she needed to be in the city. Fuzzy wasn't exactly thrilled with her presence, but she'd been expecting that. No one was ever particularly happy to have Hallie Matthews living with them, especially now that her name was connected with that girl who'd escaped from Arkham and nearly died at the side of the road. She'd almost had to go back, but a psychological assessment at the hospital had allowed her to finally be free of the asylum. Crane was facing an enquiry, though now that he knew she'd survived the surgery, the police were the least of his worries... and the least of hers. She expected that Crane would be after her soon, trying to kill her again so that she wouldn't report him to the cops.
Not that she would anyway. The police were no match for Dr. Crane's new friend.
"Were you drinking all this time?" Fuzzy asked as she walked past him into the shabby apartment. Now that they were face to face, he looked more concerned than actually angry. Hence his name. Fuzzy was a softie.
"No. I did some walking too."
"But mostly drinking. Tequila?"
"Always."
She shuffled her way through the discarded magazines and books and collapsed onto the moth eaten sofa, kicking off her shoes and shifting the pillows to near-comfort. Fuzzy watched her with his usual empty expression, the look of a man who'd eaten his share of mud. His bedroom light was on behind him, throwing his young face into the relief of a much older man.
"You know, I remember you from when we were kids," he said. "You're not that person anymore, though."
"It's been a long time, Fuzz," said Hallie heavily. "How do you know I ever was the person you think I was?"
"I know. I loved you. You were my favourite cousin. Then that thing with Ian... well the whole family kind of wrote you off."
Hallie closed her eyes. "Yeah."
"Doesn't that upset you?"
She shrugged. "Not particularly."
"It upset me."
"That's touching, Fuzz, really it is, but can we talk about it in the morning? I need to sleep."
"I've got work in the morning. I'll be gone before you wake up."
Hallie opened her eyes again and watched him fondly. He worked a crappy job with long hours and little pay, but that was typical of the slums of Gotham, and he was a good sport about it.
"I appreciate this, you know," she said quietly. "I know I don't tell you that often enough, but I do."
"What was I supposed to do? Your name was all over the news. I couldn't throw you onto the street after what happened."
"You could have."
"I guess." He scratched his head. "Maybe it's just not in my nature."
"Maybe not." She smiled. He noticed that, even though something had changed, roughed, about her face since childhood, her smile was still just as genuine as it had ever been. There was some sort of salvation when Hallie Matthews smiled, like maybe there was a God out there who'd let a beautiful girl keep her grin after everything else about her was completely defeated. It was depressing, but it was gorgeous.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "I'll call some people, see if I can find you a place. Or welfare."
She laughed. "Thanks. Sorry about this."
"Don't worry about it."
He retreated into his room, and after a few moments, the light clicked off and the apartment was thrown into darkness. The streetlight flooded Hallie's face, but she was used to it by now. In a few months you could get used to just about anything, as she had — her new place, her new habits, her new hair. She'd never had it as short as it was now, but she liked not having to worry about it in the morning or when she was throwing up, which had become part of her usual routine. She was still too thin, and her body was rejecting the amounts of alcohol she was consuming. She'd never had any in the asylum, after all.
She rolled over on the couch and grabbed the blanket off the back, throwing it over her and hugging it around her shoulders. The night wasn't cold, but it was good to be able to feel some sense of invincibility, like the children who believed that if the comforter was pulled up to their chin, the monster under the bed wouldn't be able to get them. It was a scratchy wool blanket, and it smelled like cigarettes, but it felt the same. It felt like home, and she hadn't had one of those in a long time.
Outside, night was beginning to drift in and out of consciousness, preparing for the coming sunrise. A man in black prowled the rooftops in search of something to keep him busy; the night life hadn't been the same since The League of Shadows had left Gotham. Soon, he'd return home and sit at his desk, poring over the ten words once again, unaware that he'd crossed the sender's rooftop just hours ago, when the city was engulfed in darkness. Hallie didn't hear his footsteps, and if she had, she wouldn't have done anything. She and this night crawler had many things in common, but she had yet to figure out what exactly to do about that. She'd think about it later; she kept telling herself that.
Jane Triton had noticed a significant change in the behaviour of her daughter, Persephone. At twenty two, the Triton heiress was a rich, black-haired, blue-eyed beauty with the world had her feet. Her father had seen to that since she was an infant. Persephone would have only the finest clothes, the best formula, the most expensive nanny. Jane had feared that she'd end up being the mother of one of those brats who were currently plaguing the television screen, getting out of cars without their underwear on and going to rehab like it was some sort of summer getaway. She'd been fortunate, however; somehow, Persephone had survived her father's doting with her gentle demeanour intact.
She'd always been a quiet girl, but that in itself had caused problems. She was far too trusting for someone who was living in a big (and undeniably dangerous) city. She had talked to old men on the street when she was a toddler, had allowed herself to be coaxed into cars when she was eleven and twelve. If not for her mother's clinging, she almost certainly would have been destroyed before she turned fifteen. Now a woman, she still had problems with believing that everyone was good, allowing people to treat her like a doormat because she trusted that their judgement was for the best.
Her mother was quite the opposite. No one was good enough for her daughter to talk to or be around. No one was as beautiful, no one as rich, no one was without skeletons in their closet. She wouldn't let her daughter date unless she knew the young man personally, and she absolutely didn't allow friends in the house if they were of unacceptable origin. Persephone had never objected to these rules, just gone about her way. But somehow, that had changed in the past few weeks.
She was defiant now, having somehow developed her own opinion about things that had never concerned her before. She spent money on things that Jane hadn't seen first. She went out at night and didn't come back until late the next morning. And the way she talked... she was absolutely not the same person, Jane was sure of it. She knew her own daughter, and this new person wasn't her. When she wasn't angry and lashing out, she was gone from the house or sobbing and talking to herself in her bedroom. Jane was sure that something had finally happened. After all of the years of caution, she'd been caught off guard and her daughter was suffering for it. She'd be able to confirm her suspicions if Persephone would just talk to her.
And then there was the boyfriend.
Jane didn't approve of him, of course. He wasn't old, but he was too old for Persephone. And his job was... less than favourable. Who in their right mind would think to date the head doctor of a mental asylum, especially one like Arkham? Jonathan Crane had been over for a few dinners, and Jane had immediately decided that she didn't like him. It wasn't a logical dislike — that is, there was nothing about him that she could pinpoint to hate, but the feeling was intense, and she had always trusted her instincts. There was something in that man's eyes that made her go cold all over.
And that girl who'd been on the news, Hallie Matthews — they said he'd tried to kill her before she'd escaped. She'd said herself that the last thing she remembered before waking up on the side of the road was Dr. Crane. How else did someone's head get cut up the way hers was? Jane would bet her soul he'd tried some sort of sick experiment on her, and she'd gotten out before he could try anything else. Poor girl.
What if that was Persephone? What was to stop that man from hurting her daughter? She didn't like it, any of it, and she hated that Persephone had changed so much in the months since she'd started seeing the doctor. Her husband called her crazy, but he knew she wasn't. Somehow, Dr. Crane was brainwashing her baby.
"Persie wants to have Jonathan over again this week," said Mr. Triton one night over dinner. "Is Thursday good for you?"
"I don't want that man in my house," said Jane coolly. "And since when do you call him Jonathan, like he's a part of the family?"
"He's a nice young man."
"He's not."
Mr. Triton chuckled. "Jane, you're just upset that our little girl is finally growing up, and dating a man that you haven't picked out."
Jane sucked her cheeks in angrily. She understood her husband's initial liking for Jonathan Crane. He'd made a healthy living and he was famous in his own way. But something creeping and insubstantial in the back of her mind told her that she couldn't allow herself to be consoled; she was right, damn it.
"Give it time," said her husband soothingly. "At least let the man alone until you can find some evidence against him."
Well, that seemed logical enough, Jane thought. And maybe she'd talk to Persephone, too, try to figure out what was going on with her new personality. Things would get better.
"Thursday is fine," she said at last.