Title: Gotham X 2: Don't Fear the Pusher (or: "Stuck Inside of Gotham With the X-Files Blues Again")
Author: Chuck Miller
Series: Gotham X
Written: September 1999
Feedback: cmiller@mobileregister.com
Category: X-Files/Batman crossover story
Spoilers: None that I can think of
Rating: PG-13 for cussing and sick violence

Summary: A sequel to "Gotham X"

Note: Strict adherence to continuity would make this story extremely difficult to tell, so I have decided to throw both Batman and X-Files continuity out the window for the duration. Consider this an "Elseworlds" story if that helps. However, events take place during and after "Batman: Cataclysm," though I have taken several liberties with established continuity. As far as X-Files continuity goes, this story happens during a time when it won't conflict with anything else.

Dedication: To my co-workers, Catherine and Jean, for comments, assistance and encouragement. To Andrew "Captain Comics" Smith for the same. And, first and foremost, to Debi, for introducing me to Mulder and Scully in the first place. Legal stuff: This work is not for profit and is copyright 1999 Chuck Miller. Batman, Cameron Chase and related characters are copyright 1999 DC Comics Inc. X-Files and related characters are copyright 1999 Fox Broadcasting Corp.

One Year Ago:

Modell didn't die, not quite. His sister, his dear sister, had told him to. She thought she was doing what was best. But he had always been stronger. So he told himself NOT to. His body stopped functioning, almost. The activity in his brain ceased, almost. But Modell went deeper, into the 90 percent of the brain we humans never use, and hid there. He knew what he could do. He would be taken to the morgue. No one would bother him for a few hours. He could wake up at leisure, get out of here. He'd been shot, but the wound was very minor. He'd given the paramedics and doctors a little "push" to make them think it was worse than it actually was. But something would have to be done about the tumor. He couldn't have it removed. Without the ability to "push," he really wouldn't want to live. There had to be a way, and he would find it.

Unfortunately for Modell's plans, his body went into a cryogenic storage unit just a half hour after his "death." Someone wanted a look inside that remarkable brain of his. Wanted to find out how he "pushed" people.

Modell slept. It was almost death, but not quite. He would be back. ** Gotham City
S.T.A.R. Labs Facility
Six Months Ago
7:33 p.m.

"Bring him this way," said Agent Chase. She was tired, very tired. She needed a vacation, and hauling a cryogenic unit containing the body of a psychic psychopath to a lab in Gotham City did not qualify. Three Army privates, temporarily attached to the DEO, were handling the unit, pushing it smoothly along the polished white corridors of the S.T.A.R. facility. Chase briefly checked the indicators on the side of the unit. Robert Modell's body had been thawing for the past hour. He ought to be ready for the autopsy by now.

Dr. Cassandra Anderson was flying in from Washington to do the work. She would be accompanied by Dana Scully, and FBI agent who had been involved in Modell's case. Anderson was a brain specialist. She had worked at S.T.A.R. in Metropolis a few years ago when they had Brainiac on ice there. Now she was director of the Gotham branch. She had been in D.C. for a conference and was on her way back. Chase looked at her watch. The plane should be coming into Gotham International within the next hour. Please, she thought, let this one go smoothly. I don't need another paranormal mess tonight. Not tonight. Just let me get through this one, and you can throw anything you like at me next week.

"It should be right around this corner," Chase said to one of the soldiers. As she spoke, a slim brunette woman in a lab coat rounded the corner in question, approached them.

"Agent Chase? I'm Dr. Wayne. Alice Wayne."

"Wayne, huh?" Chase said, shaking the other woman's hand. "Any relation to you-know-who?"

Alice Wayne chuckled. "I get asked that all the time. We may be distant cousins, I don't know." She turned her attention to the container. "This is Modell? Okay, the autopsy room is ready. We're just waiting for Anderson and Scully to get here. In the meantime we can..."

Chase never found out what Dr. Wayne planned to do in the meantime, because, at that moment, the lights went out and the floor started to shake. Chase lost her footing and hit the floor. She heard one of the soldiers curse and the sound of metal striking plaster. Glass shattered. There was a hissing sound and the sharp aroma of leaking coolant. Sirens started blaring. People started yelling. And, above it all, a deep crackling rumble, coming up through the floor. Thank you, Chase thought grimly, trying to get to her feet. Thank you so much. I ask for One goddamn favor....

The floor refused to stop moving, so Chase just sat down and waited. The building groaned and shuddered. Dim emergency lighting eventually came on. She crawled over to the tank. The two soldiers were on their feet, trying to keep the thing steady. Coolant had pooled up on the floor around it, making it extremely difficult for the men to keep their footing. There was another violent lurch, the corridor seemed to turn on its side for a moment, and the cryogenic tank and its beleaguered custodians hit the floor. The heavy metal container dug a shallow trench in the tiles where it hit. Chase crawled the rest of the distance, got her hands on the thing, pulled herself up so she could look inside.

The glass cover had shattered. There was Modell, still a little blue from his long freeze. Ugly fucker, Chase thought. Or maybe it's just because I know about the things he did. Sure, the actual number of people he'd killed wasn't a third of what someone like the Joker could manage before Sunday brunch, but he'd been a wicked bastard just the same.

Chase clung to the container until the building stopped shaking. It seemed to happen rather abruptly. One moment everything was shaking and cracking and groaning, the next all was quiet, except for the hooting sirens and confused voices. Those were loud enough, but seemed like tranquility itself compared to the holocaust of sound and motion she'd just endured.

"Okay," she said, a little shakily. "Okay." She stood up, slowly and carefully.

Dr. Wayne, Chase saw, had gotten to her feet and was speaking into a cell telephone. Chase moved over to her side.

"I see... Okay... Yes, I understand. Thank you for calling."

"What?" Chase said. "What happened?"

"Well," said Dr. Wayne, "that was Gotham International. We just had an earthquake, Agent Chase. About a 7 on the Richter scale." Chase let out a low whistle. "Obviously no more flights are going to be coming into Gotham tonight. The plane with Dr. Anderson and Agent Scully had to turn around and head back to Washington." The Doctor looked very pale. Chase noticed a small trickle of blood seeping from beneath her hairline.

"You better sit down," Chase said. "You don't look so good." She took the doctor's elbow and led her to a chair.

"I'll be okay," Wayne said, gingerly fingering her head. "Just a little bump."

Chase sighed. "Well," she said, "the unit we brought Modell in is a loss. It smacked into the wall when the first tremor hit and went to pieces. Cheap government surplus crap. The body looks okay so far, but I bet he'll start getting ripe pretty soon. We NEED somebody to do the autopsy, but quick."

Dr. Wayne shook her head. There's no one here qualified to do it. I'm an M.D. and I've done autopsies, but all I know to do with a brain is remove it and put it in a jar. We could do that, I suppose, and someone could look at it later."

Chase was shaking her head. "No good. First rule in paranormal autopsies is get it while it's fresh. Some of these mutations and things don't last an hour in room temperature before they decay beyond hope. We don't have a clue how Modell did what he did. He supposedly had a tumor in his brain, but for all we know it could be an extraterrestrial organism or something." Dr. Wayne gave her a skeptical look, but Chase said, "Hey, I've seen weirder things. Hell, Modell was dead for half an hour before we even got to the body to freeze it. It may ALREADY be too late to learn anything. But we have to try."

Wayne shrugged. "I don't know where you'll find anyone. Anyhow, I'm afraid we've got lots bigger problems than that. This city has just been devastated, from what the man at the airport told me."

"You're forgetting where we are," Chase said grimly. She opened her cell phone and punched in a number. "I hate to do something like this, but... Yes, hello. This is Agent Cameron Chase. I'm with the DEO. Yes, Department of Extranormal Operations. Uh-huh. Could I please speak to Doctor Arkham? Thank you."

"What are you doing?" Dr. Wayne asked.

"Looking for help," Chase replied.

"Agent Chase... Do you appreciate the gravity of what I just told you? This city has just been hit by a MASSIVE earthquake. I would think that would be a bigger priority than this Modell thing."

"So I'm a little focused on my work. Sue me."

Almost six minutes went by before a soft, cultured voice came from the other end of the line:

"This is Jeremiah Arkham. May I help you?"

"Yes sir. My name is Cameron Chase, I work with the..."

"DEO, yes, I know. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, I know this is a bad time to be calling for favors, but...."

"Actually, Miss Chase," Arkham said, "the Asylum was spared any damage from the quake, thank God." Thank God, indeed. That was a real relief to Chase. At least none of THOSE psychos would be running around loose.

"That's good, Doctor. Very good." She explained the situation at S.T.A.R. "I was hoping, sir, that you could release one of your patients into my care for a few hours. This man Modell seemed to be able to control other peoples' minds. One of your charges there, I know, is an expert in such things, and I thought..."

"Ah, you mean Jervis Tetch, don't you?"

"Yes, the Mad Hatter."

"Jervis Tetch," Arkham said rather pointedly. "The 'Mad Hatter' is a fantasy persona. We don't like to..."

"Yes, Doctor, of course," Chase interrupted. She didn't have time for a lecture from Arkham on treatment methods. "I'm sorry. I was wondering if Doctor Tetch..."

"Ah, I'm afraid that won't be possible. Tetch had an... episode earlier this week. He's practically catatonic right now."

Shit, thought Chase. Meanwhile, Modell's rotting away, and this whole assignment is going with him. "Well, if that's the way it is..."

"Excuse me, Agent Chase," Arkham said, "but I do have another patient... His specialty isn't exactly mind control, but, next to Tetch, he knows more about the workings of the human brain than anyone alive, I would venture to say. I could make him available to you. Doing a little clinical work might be very therapeutic for him, actually..."

Chase had a bad feeling. She hoped he wasn't talking about the man she thought he was talking about. With forced cheerfulness she said, "That's great, Doctor. Who is it?"

"Professor Crane. Jonathan Crane." Chase sighed heavily. Shit, shit, shit. Crane was a stone psycho. But Arkham was right about his skill... If they kept him under HEAVY guard, it might be okay. God damn it. Okay. Okay. We'll go with Crane, Chase told herself, and I'll make damn sure nothing goes wrong.

"Jonathan Crane," Chase repeated. She very deliberately did NOT use the name of his "fantasy persona." "Sounds good, sir. I have a chopper here, we can pick him up in..." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty minutes?"

"That will be fine, Agent Chase. I'll have him ready for you." Chase thanked him and cut the connection.

She stuffed the cell phone into a pocket of her jacket, lit a cigarette, ignoring the "NO SMOKING" signs posted every five feet down the corridor. She held out a hand, looked at it angrily. "You are NOT shaking," she told the hand. Marvelous. The Scarecrow...

Well, Chase thought, once they had returned to S.T.A.R., that had gone rather well. Crane hadn't given them any trouble at all. She had never encountered him in person, knew him only by reputation, and she had been ready for anything. But Jonathan Crane had proven to be very quiet and low-key, almost prim. He had insisted on being allowed to wash up and even brush his teeth before leaving the asylum. He seemed like nothing more or less than the college professor he had been so many years ago.

He had barely spoken on the copter ride back to S.T.A.R., except to give brief responses to Chase's inquiries about his comfort. He had stared out the window of the chopper at the devastation below them, obsessively polishing his spectacles with the hem of the lab coat they'd given him at Arkham. He had glanced over the folder on Modell that Chase had given him, but hadn't seemed to pay it much attention.

No one had said much of anything on the chopper ride, actually, including Chase. If Gotham had been unpleasant before, it was hell tonight. Fires burned everywhere, buildings had collapsed. It was awful. Chase had seen some bad things in her time, but nothing quite like this. She'd seen paranormals go on rampages and level buildings, even whole city blocks. But this was an entire city, and it hadn't been the work of a paranormal. This was done by nature, by the earth itself. How could you fight something like that? Chase shook her head. Gotham had survived the Joker and Two-Face, but she might never recover from this. Chase wondered where the Bat was right now....

Well, she told herself, fuck it. Not my problem. I have a job to do and I am by God going to do it, come earthquake, flood, fire or cometary impact.

Chase and the two guards led Crane to the small autopsy room where Dr. Wayne had already seen to the preparations. Modell's body, still slightly blue, lay naked on a gleaming chrome table.

"Okay," Chase said to Crane, "here's your subject. Robert Patrick Modell. He has..."

"I'm completely familiar with his condition, Agent," Crane said a bit haughtily. "I read the folder quite thoroughly."

"You barely glanced at it. I was watching you."

"Heh. Yes, I know. I'm a speed reader, Agent, and am blessed with total recall. Frankly, this is quite an opportunity. If it weren't for all the poor souls out there suffering tonight, I might almost thank Providence for the disaster which gave me the opportunity to study this subject. Yes."

"Yeah," Chase said blandly, "I can tell your heart is breaking. Well, I guess we might as well get started. 'If 'twere done when 'twere done,' and all that. You can..."

She was cut off by a howling siren in the corridor outside. What now? An aftershock? The building didn't seem to be shaking. Dr. Wayne came trotting through the door, stopped, out of breath. "Agent Chase," she said, struggling to slow her respiration. "We have a situation on the lower level."

"What!?!" Chase shouted over the blare of the alarms. "What's going on down there?"

"One of the containment tanks ruptured during the quake!" Dr. Wayne yelled back. "We've got a 'client' on the loose in the basement. We need to get him wrapped up, but quick!"

"Who is it?"

"Basil Karlo. Clayface."

"FUCK!" Chase shouted. She had encountered Clayface once before, and she knew he wasn't anything to play around with. They'd have to take him down FAST. "Okay," she shouted in Wayne's ear. "You mind if I take charge of this?"

"If there's anything you can do, we'd be more than grateful. The weapons room got automatically locked down when the quake hit and now the door won't respond. We don't have access to anything we could use against him."

"I've got something that might work," Chase said, rummaging in an overcoat pocket. "Neural scrambler. Yeah, here it is." She produced a small device that looked something like an ordinary pager. "This ought to mess up his neural network to where he won't be able to control his body. These things work like a charm on diffuse-consciousness paras. If you can find any CO2 fire extinguishers, we can freeze the glop and shove it in a tank or something."

Wayne raised an eyebrow. "You carry things like that around with you all the time?"

"No," Chase replied a little sheepishly. "I just forgot to clean out my pockets after we took down Metallo last week. Let's go." She turned to the two soldiers. "You two keep an eye on Crane. Don't let him touch anything or do anything til I get back. he has permission to breathe, and that's it."

"Yes ma'am."

Chase and Wayne rushed off down the corridor. One of the soldiers took a position outside the autopsy room. The other went inside to watch Crane. The skinny little man was poking around in a tray of instruments. Then he moved over to the metal table and began running his long fingers over Modell's forehead.

"I don't think you need to touch him right now," said the guard. "Please wait until Agent Chase gets back."

Crane was looking at the wall, digging in the back of his mouth with a forefinger. The guard winced. He hated to see people pick their teeth that way. Crane removed the finger, looked at it. There was something on the tip of the finger, like a tiny glass bead. The guard squinted at it, became alarmed, started to raise his weapon...

Too late. Crane flicked the thing at the guard, saying, "You're rather annoying." It exploded against his chest, a muffled "whump" sound, and produced a small gray cloud. The guard gasped, sucking in some of the gas. "That should keep you busy," Crane said absently, turning his attention to the tray of surgical instruments.

The guard had begun to tremble violently. He dropped his gun. "Oh my God," he said softly. "No." He sat down on the floor, slowly. "No, no," he whimpered. "Not THAT!" He lay down on the polished tiles, curled up like a child. He gazed at something only he could see, moaning softly. The other man ignored him completely.

"Well," said Crane, bending over the autopsy table to peer at the waxy face of his new charge. "Alone at last." He picked up a scalpel to make the cut across the forehead and peel back Modell's scalp in preparation for the bone saw that would open his skull. "Let's see what you've got in there, eh?"

Very slowly, Modell's hand moved. When his fingers closed around Crane's wrist, the Professor gave a start. He moved his wrist back and forth experimentally, but couldn't break Modell's grip. "How extraordinary," he muttered, bending closer to the "corpse's" face. Modell opened his eyes, looked into Crane's.

"Hello," Modell said hoarsely. "You have very interesting blue eyes. What shade would you call that?"

As paranormal takedowns went, this one wasn't so bad, Chase reflected. They had caught Karlo trying to squeeze through a crack in the wall to get out of the building, but his long cryogenic sleep had left his body less pliable than it normally would have been. When Chase confronted him he made a half hearted attempt to kill her by turning his left arm into a sort of buzzsaw, but one jolt from the neural scrambler turned him into mud pudding. They sprayed him good with CO2 and sealed him up in a big industrial garbage can. Chase supervised the team that welded the can shut; she wanted to make damn sure there weren't any spaces for Karlo to crawl out of once he got himself together again. The whole thing took about 30 minutes, which was damn good for a customer like Clayface. Of course, he hadn't been at his peak, but still... Once Chase made sure the drum was sealed properly and there were no errant pieces of Karlo's body laying around in the basement to cause trouble, she'd head back up and supervise the Modell autopsy. All in all, a pretty good night. She'd handled herself well under adverse circumstances, and that made her happy.

Modell sat up groggily. "We don't have much time," he said. "I need your help. I want you to undress that guard, give me his uniform, then cut your own throat with that scalpel. Can you do that for me?"

Crane raised his eyebrows. "Don't be absurd. I'll do no such thing."

Modell looked him squarely in the eyes, started "pushing." "Yes, you will. I need for you to do that."

Crane gave him a pitying look. "I know what you're trying to do, Mr. Modell. I know about you. But whatever it is you do evidently doesn't work on me. I feel no compulsion whatsoever to obey your outlandish instructions." He quickly moved over to where the guard lay, picked up the pistol from between his feet. "You're a dangerous man, Mr. Modell. But a fascinating one. I still want a look inside your skull." Sirens continued to sound outside the autopsy room. Crane leveled the pistol at Modell, keeping a grip on the scalpel with his other hand. "We ought to get out of here. Why don't you get up, dress yourself in the uniform, and let's be on our way. Perhaps we can... help one another."

Modell grimaced. His head hurt. Not as badly as it had before, not as badly as it soon would. "Who ARE you? You're not a doctor."

"Actually, I am," Crane replied. "I'm also a mental patient and am considered to be a highly dangerous felon. Just like you, sir."

Modell slowly shook his head. The pain was rapidly getting worse. It would soon be more than he could bear. "Whoever you are, you can go fuck yourself."

"That is neither desirable nor physically possible." Crane pocketed the scalpel and dug in the back of his mouth with a forefinger, producing another of his "beads." "This may make you a little more docile." He flipped the thing at Modell, it popped against his chest, released the gas. Modell couldn't help but breathe some in before he could clap a hand over his nose and mouth. Not much of a dose, Crane thought, but perhaps it would suffice...

Modell swayed back and forth on the metal table for a few moments. An expression of panic flashed across his faced, quickly replaced by a tight-lipped grimace of controlled fear. He glared at Crane. "What...did...you...do...to...me?"

"That," Crane said, "was a little of my 'fear gas.' In scientific terms, it is composed of..."

"Shut up," Modell said through clenched teeth. "I'm going to kill you." He stood up, fully intent on making good his threat, gun or no gun.

Then he noticed something.

His head had stopped hurting.

He felt like hell, he was trembling and scared shitless of nothing at all, but his head didn't hurt. It felt absolutely clear. The terrible pressure was gone.

Modell spoke again, same words, different tone. "What did you DO to me?"

Crane cocked his head. "I don't know. How do you feel?"

"Like shit. But my head doesn't hurt."

"Good," Crane said, nodding. "That will have to do for now. We must get out of here. We may not have much time. We'll consider the situation later, when we're someplace safe."

"Okay." Modell nodded. "We'll play it that way for now." He quickly stripped the guard, donned the uniform. "Give me the gun, Crane," he said. The Scarecrow balked, but Modell insisted. "I'm supposed to be the guard. How's it gonna look if you're the one with the gun? I'm not gonna kill you. If you know how to stop my tumor, you're too important to me." Reluctantly, Crane handed over the pistol.

"Thanks," Modell said, and shot the whimpering guard through the head.

"Was that necessary?" Crane asked, wiping a small spatter of the guard's blood from his glasses.

"I think so," Modell said. "He may be tripping on your gas, but he could have seen and heard things we don't want anyone to know about."

Crane was about to speak when the door opened. "Was that a shot?" The other guard, the one who had been stationed in the hall, looked at the scene in the autopsy room. "Charlie?" He glanced from the body on the floor to the man in Charlie's uniform. "What did you do to Charlie?" he asked, leveling his gun at Modell.

"What do you mean?" Modell asked softly. "I AM Charlie. That man there," he gestured at the body on the floor, "tried to kill me."

"Oh...uh, yeah. Charlie. God, for a second you looked like..." He shook his head, lowered his gun. "We'd better call the..." That was as far as he got before Modell shot him through the heart

"Well," Modell said, "at least I can still push. Why doesn't it work on you?"

"Casual violence seems to be your strong suit," Crane observed drily, ignoring the question. "I suppose that could come in handy in the current circumstances. If we hurry, we can get out of here and away. I have one or two places in the city where we can take refuge, assuming they haven't been destroyed. We'll need a couple things from here, some medical equipment and what-not. That shouldn't be a problem, since you are, after all, a member of the United States Army and I am a distinguished doctor. Yes. Heh. We might even be able to commandeer a van. The chaos will work in our favor, I think. Yes." **

By the time Chase got back upstairs, Crane was long gone, the two Army privates were dead, and Modell's body had disappeared. Her textbook perfect evening had turned to shit. She was NOT happy. F.B.I. Headquarters, Washington D.C. TODAY 3:45 p.m.

"Mulder, you are NOT going into Gotham City," Scully said sharply, leaning across her partner's desk and looking him in the eye. "That is NOT an option."

Mulder looked back at her, face immobile, with that annoying air of nonchalance he affected when he was planning on doing something stupid. "Sure it is, Scully," he replied. "I hear this is the best time to visit. No tourists, hardly any natives. Should be the ideal vacation spot."

Scully straightened, shaking her head. She glanced at the UFO poster on Mulder's office wall. "You know something, Mulder?" she said, pointing at the poster. "I want to believe, too. I want to believe that my partner is a sane, rational human being. But you are making that impossible. There are SO many reasons why you shouldn't even CONSIDER doing this. Do I need to list them for you?"

"No," Mulder replied, "But you will anyhow."

"Number one," Scully said, ignoring him, "Skinner will hang you out to dry if he finds out."

"I'm on vacation, Scully. This has nothing to do with F.B.I. business. I can go wherever I want to on my own time."

"You are going there to chase after a man who has been dead for over a year. Now, I won't even go INTO that, because, after all, this is you, Mulder, and by your standards, that's pretty mild. But he IS dead. Mulder, I was on my way to Gotham to attend his autopsy when the quake hit. And even if he somehow... cheated death, that tumor in his brain would have killed him by now."

"You know the body was missing, Scully. We found that out before Gotham was closed off."

"Jonathan Crane stole Modell's body, God knows why. He killed two guards in the process."

"Uh-huh."

"And of course you know full well that Gotham City is off-limits. No-Man's Land? The government has closed the city, destroyed all the bridges and tunnels leading to it, and forbidden anyone to even attempt to get in."

"Uh-huh."

"AND, as a government employee yourself, you should be especially aware of that, and of the penalties you'll face if you get caught. That is, if you're not shot on sight."

"Uh-huh."

Scully stared at him, her mouth slightly open. If green eyes could blaze, hers were doing it. She took a few deep breaths, tugged at the hem of her jacket. She nodded. "'Uh-huh.' That's all you can say. 'Uh-huh.' Very good, Mulder, very good." She paced back and forth a few times. "And would you mind telling me one more time WHY you think Modell is alive in what's left of Gotham City?"

Mulder muttered something indistinct. Scully moved to lean over the desk once again, turning her right ear in his direction. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?"

Mulder took a deep breath of his own, exhaled. When he spoke his voice was a little too loud, yet sheepish at the same time. "Batman said he might be there."

Scully pursed her lips and nodded. She kept on nodding rapidly as she spoke. She had her arms crossed over her chest, too. Mulder had no trouble deciphering this body language. Scully was pissed. "Batman," she repeated. "BATman told you. Do you have any idea how that sounds? You are a grown man, Mulder, and you are sitting there telling me that Batman told you Modell might be in Gotham. Is that it?"

Mulder was silent for a moment. He knew he shouldn't say it, but he couldn't help himself. "Uh-huh."

He smiled weakly at Scully's back as she stormed out of the office. Then he sat quietly for a while, staring at the wall. Modell was alive. He knew it. He thought back to the phone call he'd received two hours earlier. He'd been in the middle of planning a trip to Connecticut when his cell phone had chirped.

"Mulder," he'd said by way of greeting.

"I see you've started scrambling your private cell phones," had come a familiar voice. It took Mulder almost a second to place it... "It took me almost eight minutes to make this connection."

"You!" Mulder had exclaimed. "I'm... kind of surprised to be hearing from you. I figured you had your hands full right now."

"I do. I'm not calling to exchange gossip. I've got more problems in Gotham than I can count on both hands, and I think one of them may be yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes. A man named Robert Modell. He's one of yours, yes?"

"Well, I worked on his case, arrested him a couple times. I guess you could say that makes him 'one of mine.' I never thought of it that way. Sort of like the Joker is yours and Brainiac is that other guy's. Cool. I have my own rogue's gallery. Maybe I should..."

"Listen, Mulder. I think Modell is in Gotham. I don't know him, you do. I could use some help if you're up for it."

"Hell, yes. Only one thing. Modell's dead. He's been dead for over a year."

Silence from the other end of the connection.

"Okay, right," Mulder finally said. "Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to. Won't happen again."

"Good. Can you meet me across the bay from Gotham tonight? Eight o'clock? I'll tell you exactly where."

"Go ahead," Mulder had said. Goodbye Connecticut, hello more bad craziness... HIGHWAY 143, Eight Miles Outside of No Man's Land 7:56 p.m.

Mulder took a short commuter flight from Washington To Bludhaven, a small city a few miles south of Gotham, where he rented a car and proceeded to follow the instructions Batman had given him. The closer he got to No Man's Land, the more uneasy he felt. As he drove over the crest of a small hill, he caught sight of what was left of the Gotham skyline, barely visible from what little light originated in the city. Mostly from fires, he imagined. It was a sad, frightening sight.

He found the small clearing Batman had described and pulled the car off the road, into the shelter some overhanging trees.

He shut off the engine, pocketed the keys and stepped out of the car. It was quiet. Really, really quiet. Mulder was a city boy. He wasn't used to the kind of silence you find in rural areas. Or disaster areas, he supposed.

He was dressed in the sort of clothing he imagined one might wear into a disaster zone: hiking boots, jeans, a flannel shirt and a leather jacket. He slung his backpack over one shoulder. It contained some items he thought might come in handy. He took a deep breath, glanced at the lighted face of his watch, and stood. He hoped he wouldn't have too long to wait, it was a little eerie out here. Maybe Batman would...

"You made it," came a voice from somewhere behind him. "Glad to see you, Agent Mulder."

Mulder turned around, slowly. He had sworn to himself he'd be prepared, wouldn't overreact the way he had the first time. And he made a good show of it, never mind the fact that he'd nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Hello," he said, squinting into the darkness. "I assume you're here and I'm not talking to an auditory hallucination..."

"No hallucination," came the voice again, much closer. A dark-garbed figure seemed to... materialize from the darkness a couple feet in front of Mulder. That was a hell of a trick. How did he DO that?

"I'll take your word for that," Mulder said, shaking the black-gloved hand that was extended to him. "It's good to see you, too. At least partially." All he could make out in the gloom was the vague, bat-like shape of the other man's cloak and the occasional glint of starlight from the eye-slits in the cowl.

"Are you prepared?" Batman asked. "Gotham is a pretty rough place these days."

Mulder hefted his backpack. "I think I can take care of myself," he replied. "But how are we going to get in?"

"I have a number of routes we could use," Batman said, "but all of them would require more time and effort than we have to spare right now. Fortunately, I have associates whose limitations are far beyond those of... guys like us." He turned his head toward the trees. "Come on out. It's him."

A figure emerged from the foliage, indistinct in the darkness. A man, a large man, also wearing a cape of some kind. Mulder squinted at him as he approached, making no sound... almost as though his feet weren't quite touching the.... Oh no, thought Mulder, this COULDN'T be.... Then a stray shaft of moonlight momentarily touched the chest of the advancing man, illuminating for a second a stylized red letter emblazoned on a diamond-shaped shield....

"Oh," Mulder said. "My. God."

"No," Batman said drily, "but the closest I could get on short notice."

Afterward, Mulder would swear that he hadn't stuttered. He had never stuttered in his life, so he surely hadn't started at that moment. The other caped figure had reached Batman and Mulder. Mulder said, "This would be, uh, your friend from...."

"Fox Mulder," Batman said, "I'd like you to meet... Well, I won't belabor the obvious."

"Nice to meet you, son," said the other man, shaking Mulder's hand. Surprisingly, his grip seemed gentler than the Batman's, though Mulder knew this individual could bend... no, better not to think about that. At least not until he got the hand back.

"Nice to, ah, meet you, too," Mulder replied. For one of the few times in his life, he was unable to come up with a quip of any kind. The man's face was barely visible in the gloom, but Mulder could make out the strong jaw, the heavy dark eyebrows, the small curl of black hair falling over the forehead. Mulder felt a bit light-headed. Batman was impressive, sure, but THIS guy... It was like meeting Uncle Sam or... or GOD or something...

"We should get going," the man said. "I need to be in Indonesia in the next 10 minutes. I got a tip the Parasite might be running illegal plutonium through a location outside of Binjai."

Sure, Mulder thought. Indonesia, ten minutes. Why not?

The Batman nodded. "Okay, let's go then. Just drop us in the middle and be on your way. Mulder, you ready to fly?"

Mulder nodded. A nod was about the best he could do. The man put one arm around the Batman's back, the other around Mulder's, supporting him beneath the crook of his shoulder. "Comfortable?" he asked. Mulder nodded again. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, "So, it's time to go up, up and..."

Afterward, Mulder would swear that he hadn't blacked out...

The SCARECROW's HIDEOUT 8 P.M.

Crane-- the Scarecrow-- had set up shop in one of his old hideouts, the only one he could find that hadn't been destroyed by the earthquake. It was small, a back room in an old costume shop, but large enough for the present purpose. He'd furnished the place with as much equipment as he and Modell had been able to steal before things in Gotham had gone from bad to worse. Most of the illumination came from candles, dozens of them placed randomly about the little room.

Crane, clad in an ordinary suit and a lab coat, had just completed another test on Modell's blood. "We now understand your condition a lot more clearly, sir," he said. He removed the lab coat, hung it on a peg on the wall. "Yes. Your tumor is held in check while certain chemicals are present in large quantities in your brain. Chiefly, adrenaline and serotonin. Heh. The components of fear..." Crane removed his trousers, folded them neatly, placed them on a chair. Modell grimaced. The man's legs were like sticks, spindly and pale. "My gas, administered carefully, can do that for you. The effect, I know, is unpleasant. You have been in a constant state of fear for six months now. You have done an excellent job of controlling yourself, but I wonder what scars it may be carving into your psyche. Heh. That should make an interesting study in itself. You're a gold mine, Mr. Modell." He rummaged in an old steamer trunk, took out a pair of tattered brown pants and a ragged brown shirt.

"I can handle it," Modell said. "It's not so bad. You kind of... get used to it after a while."

"Well, of course, it's a relatively small dosage," Crane replied, pulling on the pants and shirt. "And I've removed the hallucenogenic component. We can't have you climbing the walls, raving about spiders or snakes or whatever it is that scares you." He took huge handsful of straw from a canvas bag, stuffed them into his pants and shirt.

"Nothing much scares me."

"That's what they all say." Crane took a burlap mask from the trunk, held it in the palms of his hands for a moment. "That's what they all say... Some people actually believe it. They have no idea..." He quickly pulled the mask over his head. "Ahhh," he sighed. "That's much, much better."

"Is that getup really necessary?" Modell wanted to know.

"Yes," Crane replied absently, "it certainly is." He rubbed a gloved hand over his burlap-covered chin. "You know something, Mr. Modell? I envy you right now. I really do. It's been a long time since I've felt fear."

Modell gritted his teeth. "You're a weirdo, Crane."

"Yes. Yes, I am. I find that, without fear, life is a lot less rich."

"What happened to you?"

"Oh, I did it to myself, of course. Yes. I fell victim to so-called 'poetic justice' once too often, you see. It's embarrassing to relate, but... Well, I kept getting exposed to my own gas, wound up in a heap, whimpering about bats and birds... So, I removed my capacity to experience fear. Yes. It was quite simple. Sort of a 'chemical castration' of the brain, you might say."

Modell shivered. "That's fucked up. You're one sick fuck, Crane."

"That's what they say at Arkham. Only they don't use such colorful language. Heh. Well, some of them do... At any rate, I suspect that's why your abilities don't affect me. I think your power may be fear-based." He tapped his long fingers against his chin. "Oh, Mr. Modell? Would you mind addressing me as 'scarecrow?' When I'm dressed like this, I'm not Jonathan Crane, you see. No. Not Crane at all."

"Whatever."

"Fortunately," the Scarecrow went on, "the barbituates allow you to sleep. But what dreams you must have! I wish you'd tell me about them, Mr. Modell, really I do. I AM a psychiatrist, you know."

"Fuck you."

"No thank you." The Scarecrow sighed. "UNfortunately, we are running low on the drugs. We're running low on everything. Under other circumstances, I could really enjoy this No Man's Land situation. But it comes at a most cursedly inconvenient time. We shall have to stock up. We'll have to part with some of our treasure now."

"You can get what we need?"

"No. But I know someone who can." GeorgeTOWN, Virginia 8:04 P.M.

Dana Scully was fretting. She regretted walking out on Mulder the way she had that afternoon. She had cooled off and tried calling him on his cell phone, but it was turned off. He wasn't at his apartment, either. She should have stayed and kept trying to talk him out of going to Gotham. She realized she felt a little guilty and shook her head. I am not Mulder's keeper, she told herself. He's a grown man, even if he refuses to act like one, and whatever he does is his own responsibility, not mine.

She was milling around her apartment, drinking cup after cup of coffee, switching the TV on and off. She felt a little helpless. She wondered if she ought to call Skinner and tell him what was going on. But that could put the final nail in the almost-finished coffin for Mulder's career. On the other hand, Mulder could very easily get arrested or worse if things went bad. She made and discarded a dozen resolutions to act in one way or another. She had lots of options, but none of them seemed very good.

So she fretted.

When the telephone rang, she knocked over her coffee cup and nearly tripped on a throw rug as she scrambled across the room to answer it. She snatched up the receiver, said, "Mulder?"

"Agent Scully? Dana Scully?" The voice was female, unfamiliar.

"Yes."

"My name is Cameron Chase. I'm a Special Agent with the DEO. I think you and I need to talk."

"Talk about what?"

"Your partner, Fox Mulder. And a man named Modell. And a few other things."

Scully stood up straighter. "Do you know anything about what's happening in Gotham?"

"Yes, I do. Your partner is there, and so is Robert Modell. Modell is alive, Agent Scully, don't ask me how. He's involved with a man named Jonathan Crane."

"The Scarecrow. Great. Listen, Agent Chase..."

"Whoa! Not on the phone, okay? Let's meet someplace and talk this over. There's more going on here than you know."

"I don't know ANYthing!"

"See? And, Agent Scully... If you want to pack a bag, I might offer to take you on a little trip." Somewhere NEAR LANGLEY, Virginia 8:12 p.m.

A man in a black uniform stood at the edge of a small airfield, speaking softly to another man. The second man was older, clad in a trench coat and nondescript brown suit. His face was lined and hard-looking and he smoked one cigarette after another. Out on the field, crews were working over a pair of odd-looking black helicopters.

"If our information is correct," the older man was saying, "and I have no reason to suspect that it isn't, the subject is in Gotham City right now. It should be a simple operation. You and your men go in, sanitize, and come out. If you're caught-- by whom, I couldn't imagine-- you're on your own. You don't work for anybody. But I don't think it will come to that."

The other man nodded. "I understand, sir."

"The subject shouldn't be difficult to find. He has a small transponder in his head. The range is limited, but you should be able to pick up the signal once you're inside the city. Do it, do it quickly, and get out. When can we get started?"

"We want to make sure the choppers are in peak condition, sir. Another two hours and we're in the air."

"Very good," said the other, tossing his cigarette onto the grass and grinding it out with the toe of his shoe. "Another loose end clipped off. Go to your men, help with the final preparations. If all goes well, we won't be speaking again."

"I understand, sir." He gave the older man a sharp salute and moved off toward the helicopters. The man stood for a moment, a look that was almost like sadness passing across his face. "This is what it's come to," he said to himself. "Killing children. Well. It's for the greater good." He nodded, lit up another cigarette. "The greater good." He was grateful at that moment that he didn't have much of a conscience. He only wished he didn't have any at all.... No Man's Land 8:27 p.m.

Mulder was leaning against the remains of a brick wall, being sick. Batman placed a hand on his shoulder. "That kind of travel takes some getting used to. Sorry. Should have given you some dramamine first."

Mulder coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's okay. I just hope he'll be able to get his cape cleaned without too much trouble. Anyhow, it was worth it. If I ever have grandchildren, I'll have a story none of the other grandfathers could touch with a ten-foot pole. Of course," he reflected, staring up at the sooty sky above No Man's Land, "I'll have to have children first. And I understand that whole process involves a woman, somehow..."

"So I've heard," Batman said, removing a small walkie-talkie from his belt. He keyed it on, spoke softly into the mouthpiece. "Barbara? It's me. We're in."

"Good," came a female voice, overlaid with faint static. "Did you get the FBI guy?"

"Yes. He's here with me now. You have anything on the Scarecrow and his buddy?"

"Funny you should ask. Just got a tip that Crane was spotted going into the Penguin's place. Alone. Don't know where this Modell character is."

"Okay, good work. We'll drop in on Cobblepot, see if we can get anything out of him. Maybe catch Crane before he can leave. You okay, Barbara?"

"Never better. You better beat feet over to the Penguin's. Transponder says you're near Robinson Park. That's four miles of bad road. Or no road. Catch you later."

"We'll stop by and see you when we can. You need anything?"

"Oh... maybe a couple things. A can of cling peaches, some toilet paper, a world where things make sense..."

"Afraid I'm out of all of those. I did get you a fresh Bartlett pear, though."

There was a brief silence. "You did? Damn. You're something, you know that?"

"Take care, Barbara. Batman out." He shut off the walkie-talkie, returned it to his belt.

"Who was that?" Mulder asked blandly. "The little woman?"

"There is no 'little woman.' That was... an old friend. A very dear friend. Come on, we need to get going." He set off toward the park across the street. Actually, it looked more like a jungle than a park. Mulder had to walk double-quick to keep up.

"Say," Mulder said, "I wanted to ask you... Whatever happened to Batgirl? I always wondered if you and she were..."

Batman stopped in his tracks, turned to look coldly at Mulder.

"That is not a topic for discussion." The tone of his voice gave Mulder a chill. His stomach, which had finally settled down, did a little flip-flop. They started walking again.

"I... I'm sorry," Mulder said.

They walked in silence for a few moments, crossing the cracked asphalt, picking their way cautiously through the tangle of foliage at the entrance to Robinson Park.

"No," Batman said finally. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten angry at you. You couldn't understand... It may surprise you to learn this, but my life hasn't been exactly what you would call normal, in any respect. That includes relationships. Of every kind." They made their way through the foliage and found themselves on a surprisingly clear cobblestone path. Vegetation grew wild in all directions, towering above them, cutting off the view of the sky. But the footpath was clear.

"Well," Mulder said, "Don't feel like the Lone Ranger. Maybe I don't dress up like a bat and hang out with godlike beings from exploded planets, but my life hasn't been the typical American dream, either. You know, go to college, get a job with the FBI, good retirement plan, 401k, medical and dental, fight vampires and mutant psychos who can squeeze through drainpipes, throw the occasional monkey wrench into far-reaching government conspiracies that threaten the lives of every man, woman and child on the planet... watch my friends and family disappear, die or go crazy...."

"Huhh," Batman sighed. "Tell me about it. I...never really had a family. I don't think I could ever understand the dynamics behind it. A 'normal' life. Heh. 'Normal' to me is a murderous psychopath on a rampage every Tuesday. Bringing down the Joker or Mr. Freeze is a day at the office for me. Sitting down with a wife and kids at the end of the day? It's inconceivable. Tell me, Mulder. Have you ever been married?"

Mulder gave Batman a bland look. "That," he said in a fair imitation of Batman's "scary" voice, "is not a topic for discussion."

The Batman actually chuckled. "Okay." They walked in silence, the deep silence of an overgrown park in the middle of a dead city.

Mulder cleared his throat. "Was there ever... you know... anyone?"

Batman took a deep breath. "One or two."

"What happened?"

"One of them is a wanted felon. A wonderful, strong woman...She just can't seem to keep her fingers off of other people's jewelry. The other one... Well, her father is a near-immortal psychopath with delusions of godhood who tries to wipe out the human race every couple of years."

"In-laws," Mulder said.

"What about you?" Batman asked. "You may not be Johnny Average, but, as you pointed out, at least you... dress a little more sensibly. I presume you're closer to 'normal' than I'll ever be. Is there anyone special?"

"No," Mulder said, a bit too quickly. "No one like that."

Batman turned to look at him. "I see. You're sure about that?"

"Well," Mulder said slowly, "if you must know..."

That was as far as he got before the naked green woman jumped out of the trees in front of them. West CAFE Washington D.C. 8:30 p.m.

Dana Scully met Cameron Chase at a little coffee shop on "E" street. Chase was about Scully's age, but she had a hard edge to her which would have been more appropriate in a much older woman. She smoked cigarette after cigarette as they talked over cups of coffee.

"So, you're with the DEO?" Scully asked.

"Yep. You know much about us?"

"Not a whole lot," Scully admitted. Actually, from what little she had heard, Scully had the impression that, as far as super-secret government alphabet soup agencies went, the Department of Extranormal Operations was just about as close to above-board as you could get. Which still didn't make them the Little Sisters of the Poor by a long shot. But, then, neither was the FBI.

"We handle the REALLY weird stuff," Chase said. "I know about your and Mulder's work on the X-Files. That kind of thing isn't really up our alley, though we have had a couple investigations that dovetailed with yours. Not that you were aware of our involvement," she added with a sheepish little grin. "We generally deal in the world-class paranormals like the Parasite, Brainiac, those guys. We leave the Flukemen and adipose tissue vampires to you."

"Thanks awfully," Scully said icily.

"Oh, shit," Chase said, grimacing and shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'm really getting off on the wrong foot with you, and I don't want to do that. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." She glanced at her watch. "And I'm wasting time, too. Listen. I've got to talk fast, and when I'm done, I hope you'll agree to accompany me to Gotham City."

"You said Mulder was there?"

"That's right. Now, officially, the DEO has nothing to do with Gotham these days, even though the place is crawling with paras. But you and I both know the government isn't just letting it sit there. The CIA and the DOD are both keeping tabs. Anyhow, we have a source in the DOD who has been keeping us up to date on the situation. I had a call from him this afternoon, then another one, just 20 minutes ago.

"Robert Modell is in Gotham, and he's alive. Fox Mulder is there, looking for him. And Modell's not the only one of your old friends who's there."

"What do you mean?"

"You know a boy named Gibson Praise, don't you?"

Scully almost dropped the cup of coffee she was raising to her lips. "Gibson? Gibson is in Gotham?"

"That's what our source says." Chase sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, leaks can go in all directions. We aren't the only ones who know he's there."

Scully swallowed heavily. She knew she wasn't going to like what she was about to hear.

"I believe you are familiar, Agent Scully, with a man who calls himself, among other things, C.G.B. Spender?"

"Am I ever."

Chase nodded. "Us, too. We don't even know who he works for. He flits in and out of situations like a ghost. He's got ties to everyone-- CIA, DOD, DDI, Lexcorp... and a few groups that don't even have names or initials. But we know that he is aware of the boy's presence in Gotham. Right now, while we're sitting here, a team is being assembled to go into No Man's Land after Gibson Praise."

"They want to kidnap Gibson?"

"No, Agent Scully. Kidnapping is not on the agenda."

Both women were silent for a moment, sipping their coffee, thinking their own thoughts.

"I see," Scully finally said. "They're going to take care of him, just like they've done with everyone else who's ever crossed them."

"That would be my guess. And, since Mulder is there, too, they might take the opportunity to do the same thing with him. That's why I called you. I thought you'd be interested, and I can't do this on my own.

"Now, I won't lie to you. My main motivation for going there is Modell. He was my assignment and I blew it. I let him get away. I don't like it when that happens. He and the Scarecrow killed two men who were under my command. I REALLY don't like that. I want to get him back. You want to be sure your partner and the boy are safe. If my information is accurate, the strike team will be going into Gotham in the next 12 hours. If we hurry, we can be there in one." Chase drained her cup, leaned back, lit another smoke.

"So. Are you in, Scully?"

Scully finished her coffee, nodded. "Yes. Yes I am."

"You know we'll be going in alone. No DEO or FBI backup. My bosses have forbidden me to have anything to do with Gotham, and I assume yours wouldn't take kindly to the notion, either."

Scully nodded. "Not a problem. Hell, I hardly know what it feels like to HAVE agency backup any more."

Chase smiled. "I think we could be friends, Agent Scully."

Scully returned the smile, a bit cautiously. "Maybe... Cameron." She extended her hand across the table and the two women shook.

"Okay, then, Dana," Chase said, slipping quickly from her seat. "Let's do it!" The PENGUIN's Place 9 p.m.

"I need things, Cobblepot," the Scarecrow said. "I've made a list." He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, handed it to the little man.

The Penguin quickly scanned the list. "Dear me. You don't ask for much, do you? Some of these items will be extremely difficult to provide. Not impossible, I think, but... costly. What in Heaven's name do you need with trepanning equipment?" The Scarecrow started to speak, but Cobblepot held up a hand. "No, please. I'm sure I'll sleep better if I don't know. The real question is, can you pay?"

"Certainly," the Scarecrow replied, placing his satchel on the Penguin's desk and opening it. Cobblepot's eyebrows went up as he caught sight of the contents. Jewelry, coins, cash. He reached in, removed a small diamond ring, held it close to his monocle. "This appears to be the real thing. Wherever did you get all this?"

"The owners were persuaded to part with it," the Scarecrow said flatly.

"I see. Well, of course, you know items like this really aren't worth much in Gotham these days." Cobblepot dropped the ring back into the satchel. "Batteries, ammunition, canned goods... those are the true jewels nowadays."

"Don't play games with me, Penguin. We're both too old for that. I know you must have pipelines in and out of No Man's Land. That stuff is worth quite a bit to you and we both know it. And I can get more. Lots more."

The Penguin nodded. "Very well." He returned his attention to the list. "Most of this I can get. But where on earth am I supposed to obtain human adrenal glands?"

The Scarecrow shrugged. "Not a priority item. I can get those myself."

Cobblepot shuddered. "I suppose we can do business. Come back here in three days and I'll have what you want," he snapped the satchel shut, hefted it in his hands. "And you bring me another of these. Do we have a bargain?"

The Scarecrow nodded. "Yes, I believe so," he said. "I'd best be going. I can see myself out."

"Yes,' the Penguin said, "You do that." As the Scarecrow walked out of the room, Cobblepot pressed a button on his intercom. "Jake, be sure that bag of straw and psychosis goes straight out of here. Don't let him touch anything. Don't let him look at anything. And have him followed."

"Right, boss."

Cobblepot cut off the intercom and turned to a rich velvet curtain hanging on the wall behind his desk. "Boy!" he shouted. "Come on out."

From behind the curtain stepped a solemn-faced boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years of age. He was small and rather delicate-looking, with shoulder-length blond hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with round lenses. A small crack ran horizontally across the left lens. He was dressed in a clean pair of blue jeans, a red t-shirt and a pair of new-looking sneakers.

"Well, my lad," said the Penguin, "what do you think of our friend?"

The boy shook his head. "He's strange. His mind isn't right."

Cobblepot rolled his eyes. "Thank you for the news flash. What's he up to?"

"I don't know, exactly. He's a doctor, isn't he? There's someone he's trying to help. But not like a regular doctor would want to help someone. He's doing something bad. He has a hold over someone, someone with power. That's why he wants that equipment. He doesn't care if this person lives or dies. He just wants to find out how the power works."

"Power, you say? What kind of power?"

The boy looked at Cobblepot. "I don't know."

The Penguin studied the boy's face. "I believe, young man, that you know more than you let on. I'd advise you to think about that. There is such a thing as being too clever for your own good, you know." He sighed. "Very well, you may go. Get something to eat."

The boy didn't move. He stood there, head cocked like a curious dog, looking at Cobblepot.

"What is it?" the Penguin said in an exasperated tone. "I said you could go."

The boy spoke. "You're strange, too, Mr. Cobblepot. You don't care much about people, either. You hate them. But you like me, don't you? Why do you like me?"

The Penguin lit a cigarette. "I don't care what happens to you one way or the other," he said shortly. "Your talent makes you valuable to me, that's all. You're a commodity, just like fresh water or batteries. I don't like you."

The boy shook his head. "Yes, you do. I remind you of someone, don't I? You're very sad and hurt, deep down. I don't think you even know it, but you are."

"Pfaugh! Enough of this! I told you to go, now go! When I need you again, I'll call you, boy!"

The child was silent for just a moment. "Gibson," he said. "My name is Gibson."

"Who cares?" the Penguin replied, waving a hand. "Just go... please."

He watched the boy turn and go back behind the curtain. A small, frail boy, smarter than anyone else his age, probably a target for bullies and self-important adults... just like...

The Penguin shook his head. I'm not a sentimentalist, he told himself. The boy can go hang for all I care. He jabbed another button on the intercom. "Margaret!" he squawked. "Bring me another glass of champagne, for God's sake!"

Scully got her small satchel and backpack from her car and rode with Chase to a small, private airfield several miles north of Washington. The place appeared to be practically derelict. There were few lights, just a couple of streetlamp-style globes on wooden poles at either side of the field. But if the field itself was primitive, the vehicle which sat perched at its center was anything but. It was a helicopter, but it wasn't like any chopper Scully had ever seen. In fact, it looked like what she imagined helicopters would look like twenty or thirty years in the future.

"Impressive, huh?" chase said, parking the car near the tumbledown shack at the field's edge. "Come on." Scully started to speak, but Chase kept talking. "That's our ride. I know how to fly it. It's just you and me on this, like I said." The two women carried their respective bags across the field to the machine. It was jet black, and appeared to be made of a seamless metal. The cockpit windows were tinted. it struck Scully as a little sinister. Chase produced a small device about the size of a keychain keyless-entry unit, which is exactly what it proved to be. She thumbed a red button on the thing and the cockpit doors on either side of the copter popped open.

"This is a new stealth helicopter," Chase explained. "State of the art doesn't even begin to do it justice. It's under development now at Lexcorp. Luthor would shit in his thousand-dollar slacks if he knew we had a copy already functioning. And I don't even wanna KNOW what MY bosses would do if they found out I had it." She climbed into the pilot's seat and stowed her gear in a small compartment behind her. Scully joined her on the passenger side and tossed her bags back with Chase's. She started to ask a question, but Chase interrupted her. "And, believe me, YOU don't wanna know how I got it."

Scully nodded. "I'm sure you're right. Are you aware that you have a very annoying habit of answering questions before they're asked?" Chase glanced over at her, but saw that she was smiling.

"Saves lots of time," she replied with a grin, pressing a switch on the control panel. Nothing happened. A couple of indicator lights winked on, but there was no sound, no vibration, nothing.

"It's broken," Scully said.

"Nope," Chase said brightly, pulling back on the control stick. "Get a load of this." Scully could tell by the way the lights outside the cockpit fell away that they were rising into the air. But there was no sound, almost no sense of motion.

"When Lex Luthor says stealth," Chase remarked, "he means STEALTH."

Scully shook her head. It was going to be SOME evening....

Robinson Park

"Hello Ivy," Batman said calmly. Mulder, standing next to him, had drawn his pistol and was pointing it at the apparition in front of them. It was a woman. At least, Mulder THOUGHT it was a woman. She was naked, her skin was light green, and she appeared to have some kind of foliage for hair.

"Oh," the woman said, relaxing visibly. "It's you."

"Yes," Batman replied. "Is everything under control here?"

The woman pouted. She was really quite attractive, Mulder noticed, if you disregarded certain aspects of her appearance.

"Of course," she said. "If there's one thing I know, it's how to make a garden grow." She spread her arms wide, taking in the expanse of the park with the gesture. "No problems at all. I just wish you'd come visit me more often."

"You know I'm busy, Ivy. But I do appreciate the work you're doing." He turned his head slightly to speak in an undertone to Mulder. "You can put the gun away, Mulder. She isn't a threat. And please close your mouth and push your eyes back into their sockets."

"Who's your friend, Bats?" Ivy asked coyly. "He's cute. What do you boys think of my new look? It's amazing what a little mutated chlorophyll in a girl's diet can do, don't you think?"

"Well," Mulder said, "I'll never think of the word 'bush' in the same way again."

Batman shot him a scolding look as Ivy giggled. "You need to cover yourself," he said coldly.

"Spoilsport," said Ivy and Mulder in unison.

"We're on our way," Batman went on, "to see the Penguin. We're looking for the Scarecrow."

"You sound just like little Dorothy," Ivy said. "I've seen him once or twice. The Scarecrow, I mean. He's up to something."

"Do you know anything about it?"

"Not really. I hear a few things, but not much. He has a new friend, they say."

"What's his friend's name?"

Ivy shrugged. "That, I don't know. But he and Johnny have been cleaning up on the West Side, I hear. Collecting things. Valuables."

"How are they doing it? Do they have a gang?"

"No. Just the two of them. From what I've heard, Johnny's friend is very... persuasive."

Batman and Mulder exchanged a quick glance.

"You don't know this man's name?" Batman asked.

"Nope. Johnny keeps him under wraps someplace. When he brings him out, he doesn't let him out of his sight. Leads him around like a puppy."

Mulder shook his head. "That sure doesn't sound like the Modell I know."

Batman grunted. "This may NOT be the Modell you know. You said he had a brain tumor, right? That it was killing him?"

"Yeah, but if the tumor was going to kill him, he'd be dead by now. He must have gotten rid of it somehow."

Batman shook his head. "If he'd done that, his power wouldn't work. No, something's going on here. Crane is a doctor. He could be keeping Modell's condition stable somehow. That would give him quite a hold. Well, whatever's going on, we need to get to the bottom of it yesterday. Keep up the good work, Ivy. I'll see you later." Batman and Mulder took off at a fast trot through the park.

"I'll be here!" Ivy called out from behind them. "Bring your friend back next time!"

"Say," Mulder asked, "is SHE one of your..."

"NO!"

They ran the rest of the way through the park in silence. The PENGUIN's Place 9:24 p.m.

"I do wish you'd learn to use the front door," Cobblepot said disgustedly, looking around at the broken glass on the floor of his study. "I thought we were operating under a policy of detante these days."

"No time for politesse, Oswald," Batman said. "Sorry about the window, but I didn't have time to go through the usual rigmarole with your boys downstairs. I'm looking for the Scarecrow."

"Best of luck. He was the one who wanted a brain, wasn't he? Have you tried the Wizard?"

"YOU are the Wizard, Oswald. If anyone wants anything, they come to you. I know he was here. Tell me what you know."

"Dear boy," the Penguin said languidly, "I haven't see Jonathan Crane in months." Which was quite true, Cobblepot told himself. All he had seen was a burlap mask.

"Please don't lie to me, Oswald," Batman said, stooping to pick something up from the carpet. He held the object up to the light. "Straw. Are you keeping chickens in your office now?"

The Penguin sighed heavily. Whatever Crane had to offer, it wasn't worth this. Trouble with the Bat was the very last thing he needed.

"Very well. He was here. He wanted... items." Cobblepot reached into his vest pocket, removed the list Crane had given him.

Batman looked it over quickly. "Hm. Well, you're right about one thing, the Scarecrow certainly seems to be looking for a brain. Did he give you any hint as to what he plans to do with this stuff?"

"No."

Batman studied the other man's face carefully. "Okay. Maybe you're being straight. I don't like you, Oswald. You're a bastard. But I don't think you're a monster. Not like Crane."

"Thank you so much. I'll treasure your sentiments until my dying day."

"Which could come sooner than you think, if you keep dealing with people like the Scarecrow. You're smart, Oswald, and capable. You may think you can keep people like him in line. But you have something he doesn't, and in your case, it could be a serious liability."

"What are you blathering about?"

"You're civilized. Ruthless, but civilized. You may even have a conscience in there somewhere. You're a human being. Crane isn't, not any more. He walks around on two legs, but the resemblance ends there. Don't get in over your head. There's such a thing as being too smart for your own good, Oswald."

The Penguin started. Why had the Bat chosen those precise words? Cobblepot had the building swept for bugs every day. There was no way the Bat could have heard his conversation with the boy. He suppressed a shudder. Sometimes this man seemed positively supernatural.

The intercom on the desk buzzed. Cobblepot looked at his visitor. Batman stood stock still, arms crossed over his chest. Cobblepot sighed and pressed a button. "Yes."

"Boss," came an agitated voice from the speaker. "Crane got away. Davis was tailing him, he's our best shadow. Was our best shadow."

"WAS? What do you mean 'was?'"

"He's... He's sick or something, boss. He hadn't been gone five minutes before he came running back here like a scared puppy. There's something wrong with him, he's been doped up or something. He's screaming, boss, shaking and crying... And there was a note pinned to his shirt."

Cobblepot cursed. "What did it say?"

The man at the other end of the connection cleared his throat, proceeded like a schoolboy reciting a lesson. "'I told you, no games. I let this one live. I won't make that a habit.' That's all."

Cobblepot was about to speak, but the Batman leaned across the desk, said, "I presume you have a supply of drugs here? Give that man some atavan. That should calm him down. If you have anything for sleep, give him that, too. Keep him warm. The toxin should run its course in a day or two."

"Boss?" The voice from the intercom was puzzled, concerned.

"Damn it," Cobblepot roared, "do as he says! I'll talk to you later!" He switched off the intercom.

The Penguin held up a hand. "DON'T... say anything. Your point is taken. You know everything I know about Crane's activities. My men can at least give you an idea of the direction he was heading in before... I'll tell them to answer your questions. You should be able to pick up a trail. That is what you DO after all..."

"Oswald, I..."

"Just go, please. Use the stairs. I'll relay my instructions while you're on your way down."

Batman nodded and moved silently out of the room. Cobblepot switched the intercom back on and told his man downstairs to cooperate fully with the Bat. Then he sat down wearily and lit a cigarette.

Gibson Praise lay on his bed in the Penguin's Place, staring at the ceiling. Mr. Cobblepot was a criminal, Gibson knew. But Gibson didn't think he was evil, not really. He could look inside Mr. Cobblepot's head and, underneath all the cynicism and hatred and rage, there was something soft and vulnerable and human. Something he tried hard to hide. He wasn't at all like some of the other men Gibson had encountered. Not like the cigarette smoking man and his cohorts. They were dead inside, all of them. They were filled with fear and hate and lust for power and security, nothing else. They were why he had come to Gotham City.

After the earthquake, things had been confused, chaotic. It had made a good hiding place for Gibson and his friend. They had found an abandoned building and moved in.

Things weren't so bad for them in the first few weeks following the quake. There had been enough disorder to allow them to hide easily, but enough people and supplies coming in to make it possible to eke out a tolerable living.

But when the government had cut Gotham off and turned it into No Man's Land, all that had changed. There was very little order anymore. It was like... Gibson didn't know WHAT it was like. He'd never seen anything to equal it. There was looting and killing.... His friend, already sick because he could no longer obtain the proper food, was shot to death by a roving gang one night. Gibson had barely escaped the encounter. For a while, he had roamed the streets, eating when he could find food, using his talent to keep himself safe. But things had gotten steadily worse, and so he had come to this place, to the man he had heard about who traded things.

Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

Gibson figured that his talent was a valuable thing, and he was right. Once he had demonstrated to Cobblepot's satisfaction that he was the real thing, the little man had taken him in, fed him, clothed him, kept him safe and warm. He asked for Gibson's help every now and then, as he had tonight with that Scarecrow guy, but he didn't exploit him, the way he exploited any- and everything else under his control.

His attitude had puzzled Gibson at first. He had worried for a time that Cobblepot might be one of those men he'd heard of who like to do things to little boys, but that wasn't the case, not at all. Cobblepot LIKED Gibson. The boy knew it. Cobblepot would never admit it, but he cared for Gibson, wanted to protect him. Cobblepot-- the Penguin as some people called him-- was a strange man.

Gibson yawned and rolled over on his side. Might as well try and get some sleep, he thought.

No Man's Land 10 p.m.

Batman joined Mulder out on the street in front of the Penguin's Place. "I got everything Cobblepot knows about the Scarecrow, I think," he said grimly. "From the looks of Crane's wish list, I think he's getting ready to do more to Modell than lead him around like a pet. My guess is, he's tired of the guy, has learned all he can by keeping him alive, and wants to get a look at his brain."

"A charming man," Mulder observed.

"A complete psychopath," Batman said. "As bad in his own way as the Joker. He left here not long ago. The Penguin had a tail on him, but Crane took care of that."

"That must have been the guy I saw a few minutes ago, scampering back here like a scalded cat. Big bastard, didn't seem the type to frighten easily, but he looked like he'd had a glimpse of Janet Reno in the shower."

"That's what Crane does to people."

"Must be a hell of a guy."

"No," Batman said, stooping to study the ground. "He uses a gas... Hmmm.... Here's a footprint, looks to be Crane's size. The Penguin's men said he was headed in this direction." He straightened, looked around. "There aren't many places around here he could be holed up. A gas main blew right after the quake, burned out most of the buildings... There's a section over on Sprang Street, a couple of blocks this way, where he might have found something. Let's go." He started moving slowly along the dark street, eyes to the ground, Mulder following.

"More straw," Batman muttered. "We're on the right track."

They walked for several minutes, Batman studying the ground, Mulder gaping at the ruined buildings. It was one of the most terrible scenes he had ever witnessed, and that was saying something. A whole city, one of the largest in the country, reduced to... this. It made him feel very small and fragile. He was lost in contemplation when Batman placed a hand against his chest. He glanced around. They were on a streetcorner in an area where the damage wasn't so severe.

"Over there," Batman whispered. "That costume shop on the corner? That's it."

"You're sure? How..."

Batman pointed up at the top corner of the building. "Look at that line there." Mulder saw what appeared to be an ordinary power line, running from a light pole to the building. "That's brand-new," Batman said. The power situation in Gotham is pretty dicey. Sometimes it's on, sometimes it's not. But nobody is running brand-new lines anywhere. Somebody tapped into that pole and ran a line to the building."

Mulder nodded. "You remind me a little of my partner, Dana Scully. You both notice things. It's a handy trait to have. Wish I could develop it a little better myself."

Batman only grunted. "This seems to be the place. Now we have to decide on strategy. Do we want subtlety or do we want to get this over with?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you know what I think, Agent Mulder."

"Let's do it, then."

The Scarecrow had some misgivings. Maybe it had been a mistake to try and cut a deal with Cobblepot. But he DID need those supplies. He was feeling uneasy, though. Something was going to go wrong, he could feel it. Three days was too long to wait. He needed to conclude his business with Mr. Modell tonight. He'd already pushed his luck too far, hanging onto him for six months. Once Modell was taken care of, he could wait for the equipment and still get his research done. Yes. That was how it would have to be. Modell had served his purpose. The Scarecrow had a trunk full of valuables they had collected together. More than enough to buy whatever he needed from the Penguin. Yes. Modell would die tonight, this time for real and for good.

Modell, as usual, was seated in a ratty old armchair in the corner of the laboratory, drinking warm beer from a can. The Scarecrow moved about the room, lighting the candles he used for illumination. He had an electric line running into his lair, but too much light wasn't a good idea.

"Hey, Crane," Modell said. "What did your friend say?"

"He can get us what we need. Yes. He's very resourceful. Well. How are you feeling this evening?"

"Not bad, I guess." He held up the beer can. "Alcohol takes a little of the edge off."

"Just be careful you don't get TOO relaxed. If your adrenaline level gets too low, you know what will happen."

"Oh, I'll be okay. I haven't had so much as a headache in six months. The fear part... it isn't too bad. You can get used to it."

"I'll take your word. And, speaking of which, it's time for this evening's treatment. Yes. Mustn't neglect our medication."

"Okay."

The Scarecrow turned his attention to one of his lab tables, began preparing a syringe. Tonight, though, Modell wouldn't be receiving just his dose of fear toxin. He would get a special cocktail containing enough barbituates to put him to sleep. Not to kill him, but to drive him nearly into a coma. It had occurred to Crane that it might be more instructive to examine Modell's brain while he was still alive. He didn't have the ideal equipment, but he could more than make do with what he had on hand. He carefully filled the syringe with a mixture of contents from two small bottles, shook it gently, squirted a small stream out of the needle and turned around...

... to Find Modell, standing, holding a gun on him.

"Well," Crane said. "What's this, then?"

"You filled that needle from two different bottles. You've never done that before."

"I'm modifying your dosage. Your tolerance is increasing. It needs to be a little stronger."

"I don't buy that, Crane. I know you want to open up my skull. That's the only reason you keep me alive. It's not gonna happen. I figure you'll kill me sooner or later. And I don't need you anymore, anyhow. I've been listening and watching. I know what to do to keep myself alive. You're nothing but a dangerous liability. Now that you've set your little deal in motion, all I have to do is pick up the stuff when it's ready. I have access to all the money and jewels, you know."

"But you don't know who I made the deal with."

"I'll bet I can find out. I'll bet I can persuade someone around here to tell me something. There aren't many places you can go. I shouldn't have any trouble."

"Hm," the Scarecrow said expressionlessly. "You seem to have left me no room to squirm out."

"That's right. And now I'm going to shoot you. I wish I could enjoy your fear while I kill you, but you don't have any. Oh well. Can't have everything." Modell steadied his arm and fired.

A split-second before Modell's finger pressed the trigger all the way, the Scarecrow hurled the hypo at his face. It didn't prevent Modell from shooting, but it did spoil his aim. The needle jabbed him in the cheek and bounced off, clattering to the floor. The Scarecrow, meanwhile, bounced off the lab table, a bullet in his shoulder. He staggered but did not fall. Modell smiled at him, raised the gun to fire again.

And yelped in pain as something smashed into his gun hand, knocking him for a half-turn. he held onto the gun, though his hand was cut and bleeding, and turned toward the curtain that led from the front of the shop.

Two men were there. One of then, Modell recognized. Mulder. Fox Mulder, the big F.B.I. man. The other one...

Modell laughed. "I don't believe this," he said. Mulder had a gun trained on him. The other one, the one in the black bodysuit and mask and cape, crouched beside Mulder, another of the black boomerang-things, like the one he had just tried to disarm Modell with, held loosely between the fingers of his right hand.

"Batman and Robin, eh?" Modell said. "Nice to see you, Fox. You thought the fox hunt was over a year ago, didn't you?"

"Shut up, Modell. Or I will kill you where you stand."

"No," the Batman said. "That isn't..."

"You don't know him," Mulder said out of the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes from Modell. "If you listen to him, if you let him talk too much, he can..."

Modell dropped to a crouch. Mulder fired but missed, his shot slamming into the rear wall. Modell's gun barked once and Batman jerked back against the curtain, nearly losing his balance. Mulder adjusted his aim to cover Modell, said, "That's it, you son of a bitch." Batman was wobbling, but stayed on his feet. "I'm okay, Mulder. I'm okay."

Modell and Mulder had one another covered. It was a standoff, and there was no time for it. Batman made a sudden lunge at Modell. Modell fired, but hit nothing this time. One black-gloved hand slammed into his jaw, the other plucked the gun from his grip. He went down. Batman tossed the gun across the room, stooped to grab Modell by his shirtfront and lifted him to his feet. Modell started to speak, but the Batman clamped a hand over his mouth. "Uh-uh," he said. "You don't get to talk. Mulder, hand me that roll of duct tape on the table there."

Mulder holstered his gun and handed the tape to Batman, who quickly wrapped it around Modell's jaw, sealing his mouth. "I'll be damned," Mulder said. "Now why didn't someone think of that a long time ago?" Batman bound Modell hand and foot and tossed him onto the autopsy table. "Mulder, I need you to keep an eye on him. While we were scuffling in here, I saw Crane slip out. He had a tank of something with him, and I'm betting it's not helium for balloons."

"Fear gas?"

"Almost certainly. I don't know what he has planned, but he needs to be taken down fast. I'll be back."

"But what about your shoulder? You're..." Mulder realized he was talking to himself. The Batman was gone. He turned to Modell, who glared at him from the table. "Just you and me, Sunshine," Mulder said, taking a seat in a wooden chair, his pistol on his lap. "Think I'll just sit here for a while and enjoy the silence."

No Man's Land 11:14 p.m.

The Scarecrow's trail wasn't easy to follow in all the debris. A straw here, a drop of blood there. The night-vision lenses helped, but not much. The trail led down the ruins of Sprang Street and around a corner into an alley. Batman rounded the corner at a good clip and ran smack into a slim young woman, knocking her to the ground. She yelped, and her companion, another woman about the same age, quickly pulled a pistol. "Freeze!" the woman shouted. Then she said, "Huh?" Then, "Oh, it's you. Should have expected that." She lowered the gun.

"Agent Chase," Batman said, nodding at her. He turned to the woman he'd knocked down, extended a hand to help her up. "I'm sorry... Agent Scully?"

Scully seemed to be in a mild state of shock. She was staring at him, looking him up and down, slowly. Her eyes were wide as they fixed on his face. "You are NOT who you look like," she said firmly. "I mean, you don't exist."

"That's a relief," Batman said, pulling her to her feet. "That means I don't have to deal with this mess any longer. I hope you're okay. I didn't injure you, did I?" The Batman wasn't usually this loquacious, but he realized he had made a grave error calling Scully by name. Batman had never met her; Bruce Wayne had. He was normally very good at keeping the two separate, but he'd been caught off guard. It was one of those nights... But if he could keep his slip-up from registering...

"How did you know my name?" Scully asked. "Who are you?"

Batman sighed. He was tired and his shoulder hurt like hell, but he managed to dredge up enough of his mysterious night creature persona to say, "There's isn't much I don't know. As for your second question..."

"He's Batman," Chase offered. "Who does he look like, the Wicked Witch of the West?"

"I've heard enough 'Wizard of Oz' references for one night, Chase."

"Sorry."

"Wait a minute," Scully said, shaking her head. "No. I just can't accept this. I am NOT going to have to go to Mulder and admit that he was right. Not about THIS."

"We're going to have to table this for the moment," Batman said shortly. "I'm after the Scarecrow, and I think he came this way. I don't suppose either of you saw him?" Both women shook their heads.

"Where's Mulder?" Scully demanded.

"Where's Modell?" Chase wanted to know.

"Both of them are back there," he replied, pointing. "In what's left of the costume shop on the corner of Sprang and Black. Your partner is fine, Agent Scully. Modell is under control. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Scully had been squinting at him through the gloom. It had been hard to pick up against the black of his costume, but she had finally noted that his shoulder was covered in blood. "You're injured," she said. "What happened?"

"I got shot. Now, if you two want to..."

Scully turned to Chase. "Why don't you go check on Mulder and Modell? This man, whoever he is..." She regarded Batman again with mild bemusement. "WHATever he is, needs medical attention." Chase nodded and trotted off before Batman could raise any objection. Scully was already rummaging in her backpack for her first aid kit. She looked up in time to see the Batman stalking off down the alley, peering intently at the ground.

"Hey!" she called out. "Wait!" She ran to catch up with the black-cloaked figure.

"I don't have time. Crane is going to..."

"Whatever Crane is going to do," Scully said forcefully, "you'll be in a much better position to prevent it if you don't bleed to death." She grabbed him by his uninjured shoulder. "Look at you!"

"It isn't that bad," he said, looking Scully in the face. This, Scully thought, is weird. Evidently, this guy is for real. She had to admit, the effect was more impressive than she would have expected. The black bodysuit, the cloak, the mask with those eerie, blank eye slits. The phrase "wouldn't want to run into him in a dark alley" came to mind, but of course that was quite literally what she had done. "I'll be alright."

"Sure you will," Scully replied, nodding. She gingerly touched the shredded shoulder of his costume. Her fingertip came away wet. "You've only got a hole in you the size of a dinner plate. You ought to live a long, healthy three or four minutes before you bleed out. Just let me close this, for God's sake, then you can run off and get one to match in your other shoulder."

Batman, exasperated, blew air through his pursed lips. "Okay," he finally said. "You're right. Just hurry it up, okay?" He did feel like hell, he had to admit, if only to himself. His head was swimmy and he felt sick at his stomach.

"Sit down." Batman complied, taking a seat on an upturned milk crate. Scully pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then found her small pen-sized flashlight and, holding it between her teeth, she ripped away the tattered shoulder of the costume, as delicately as she could. She saw the Batman wince. "Don't worry," she said around the flashlight. "I'm an M.D. I can't work miracles, but I always try, at the very least, to uphold the first tenet of the Hippocratic Oath..."

"Right," Batman said through gritted teeth as Scully applied antiseptic to his wound. "'First, do no harm.' I'm familiar with it. My father was a..." He stopped himself. Damn it, he was hurting, he was tired, and he was getting too damn sloppy.

Scully said nothing, working swiftly and efficiently on the shoulder. Perhaps his almost-disclosure hadn't registered. Somehow, he doubted it. She extracted the slug, which had only penetrated a couple of inches, dressed and closed the wound.

"There," she said. "That should hold you for a while."

"Thanks," Batman said. "Could I have the slug, please?"

Scully shrugged, handed it to him. "Trophy?" she asked.

"No. You work for the F.B.I. I imagine there's enough of my tissue on there to run a DNA match-- if anyone wanted to."

Scully shook her head. "There's also enough tissue on my gloves and probably under my fingernail where I touched you. I thought Mulder was paranoid. Well, let's go."

"Let's what?"

"Go. We need to find the Scarecrow, right?"

"'WE' don't need to do anything. I'M going after Crane."

"Uh-uh. Not by yourself, you're not. You're in no shape, and you're still officially my patient. I'm going with, whether you like it or not."

"No, Agent Scully. The Scarecrow is much too dangerous. I may not be running at peak efficiency, but I CAN stop you."

"I don't doubt it," Scully said. "In which case, I would feel obliged to try that DNA match you mentioned earlier."

"Are you threatening me? In order to do that match, you'd at least have to have a candidate to compare samples with."

"That's right," Scully said, affecting an attitude of deep thought. "Hmmm... Now, who do we know that lives in Gotham City, knows me by sight in a dark alley, had a father who was a doctor... yes, I caught that... has a compelling reason to fight criminals and has enough money to do it? Gosh... there must be, oh, at least... I don't know..."

Batman was silent for what seemed like a very long time, staring at Scully. She began to sweat a little. Had she pushed her luck too far? After all, she didn't know anything about this man, had no idea what he might be capable of.

At last, he spoke. "Okay. I'm not going to confirm or deny anything. But I am injured, and, in addition to being a physician, you are a trained law-enforcement officer. It makes sense to have you accompany me. That's why I'm letting you come. Because it's logical. NOT because I'm submitting to blackmail. Your fanciful speculations have nothing to do with it."

Scully relaxed muscles which she hadn't even realized had tensed up. "Of course," she said. "That's all. Logic."

"Yes. Well, let's get on with it then," Batman said. He pressed a finger to his temple and the lenses in his mask turned from white to green. "Night vision," he said. "Crane is injured, too. he's bleeding. Keep an eye out for blood. Straw, too."

"Right," Scully said. She followed the urban legend through the gloom of the alley, picking out the Scarecrow's trail of blood and straw.

"Agent Mulder," Chase said, stepping gingerly through the doorway. "You in here? My name is Cameron Chase. I'm a Special Agent with the DEO."

"Back here," came a voice from behind a curtain in the rear of the shop. "If you're who you say you are, you won't mind that I have a gun trained on the doorway and will shoot you if necessary."

"I understand. I'm lowering my weapon. I'll be stepping through the curtain...now."

The back room was an odd place indeed. It was lit by dozens of candles. There was medical equipment everywhere. In the center of the room, the man she presumed must be Fox Mulder sat in a straight backed wooden chair, pistol pointed in her direction. Another man sat on the edge of a metal table, his legs and arms bound together with cord, a piece of duct tape plastered over his mouth. He glared at her as she made her way into the room, displaying her credentials for Mulder's examination.

Satisfied, Mulder lowered the gun to his lap. "Nice to meet you Agent chase," he said.

"Same here," Chase said, shaking hands.

"So," Mulder said, "what are you doing here?"

"Looking for him," Chase jerked her head in Modell's direction.

Chase looked at the man on the table. "Well," she said. "So this is Robert Modell. I'll be damned. He's alive, alright. He doesn't look good, though." He had blood all over his face, though Chase couldn't see any cuts anywhere.

"He never did," Mulder said drily. "And for the past six months, he's been under the 'care' of Professor Jonathan Crane. When I got here, Crane was getting ready to do an autopsy on Modell-- it didn't seem to bother him much that his patient wasn't dead. There was a little... scuffle."

Chase nodded. "I ran into the Batman outside. Or rather your partner did. Literally."

Mulder's eyebrows went up. "Scully's here?"

"Yep. She's with Batman now. He had a pretty bad wound in his shoulder. Scully's patching it up, even though he tried to make out like it was nothing."

"It's a guy thing," Mulder said. "The Scarecrow got shot, too."

"Uh-huh. So... What happens to him? Modell. I came here to get him, you know. He was my assignment."

Mulder shrugged. "Officially, I'm not here. I just wanted to see him for myself and make sure he got taken care of. I have a history with him, too. But if you want him, you got him."

Chase grunted. "I guess so. Well... I'm not sure if we should sit tight til Batman and Scully come back or what."

Mulder stood up, stretched a bit. "I'm going to go take a look around outside. You can keep an eye on him if you'd like. I'll be back soon." He quickly exited the room. Chase supposed he was eager to check on Scully.

She sighed, lit a cigarette, sat down in the chair Mulder had just vacated. Modell glared at her from the table. She studied his face. Actually, he wasn't glaring. The look in his eyes was more... pleading. She stood up, moved closer to him, looked into his hazel eyes.

Hazel? But Modell's eyes were....

Oh shit...

"You have any idea what Crane is planning?" Scully asked.

"Not exactly," Batman said. "He had a tank of concentrated fear toxin with him. I suppose he plans to release it someplace where it could do a lot of harm. That's what he usually does." Batman sighed. "It's getting kind of old, to tell you the truth."

"Same old same old, huh?" Scully looked around. "So, where would it do any harm? This place looks totally deserted."

"Oh, there are plenty of people here. Mostly, they don't come out at night. Gotham is not a very nice place at all, Agent Scully, since your bosses cut us off."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Scully said sharply. "Congress did that. A lot of people in Washington disagreed with that, but there was nothing anyone could do. And the FBI, my bosses as you say, had NOTHING to do with it."

"Okay," Batman said. "I don't feel like a debate right now. I imagine he'll be heading for the closest place where he can find a large group of people. And I think I have an idea where that might be..." The PENGUIN's Place Midnight

Gibson had been dozing, almost asleep, when something had tickled a corner of his mind. He took hold of the small impression, examined it, let it get stronger. Then, in an instant, he realized what it was. He sat bolt upright in bed.

"Dana!" he exclaimed. "Dana is here. And she's in trouble!" He hopped out of bed, pulled on a pair of trousers and shoes, and rushed through the curtain into Mr. Cobblepot's study. The Penguin was there, behind his desk, staring off into space. When he noticed Gibson he said, "What is it boy? What's wrong?"

"Mr. Cobblepot," he said seriously, "A friend of mine is here and she's in danger."

"What! Talk sense, boy!"

"You know how I know things. Well, I know this. A friend of mine, someone who saved my life once, she's here, and I have to go to her."

"Don't be absurd, boy. You'll do no such thing. I won't have you tearing around these ruins at night."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I HAVE to."

"And I say you will NOT. I'll put a stop to this foolishness right... Waugh! What is this?" The Penguin intended to activate his intercom, but found that he could not move his arm. "Is this your doing?" He glared at Gibson.

The boy nodded. "I'm really sorry, sir, please don't be mad."

"Since when can you do things like THIS? Have you been holding out on me?"

Gibson looked sheepish. "A little, I guess. I've been getting stronger. I can do more things than I used to. This won't hurt you, Mr. Cobblepot, I promise. I wouldn't do that. But I have to help Dana. I HAVE to."

"This is ridiculous," Cobblepot said. He found that he could move neither his arms nor his legs. "I won't have this!"

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I have to go. You'll be able to move again when I'm gone." And he dashed through the office door. The Penguin could hear him clattering down the steps. After a minute or two, he found that he could once more move his arm. He jabbed a finger onto a button on his intercom. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Don't 'Yeah, Boss' me!" he shouted. "Did you see the brat leave here?"

"Uh... Yeah. He said you were sending him on an errand."

"Waugh! Get somebody on his trail! Now! He's much too valuable for us to lose!"

"Right boss!"

"Much too valuable," the Penguin said to himself after he'd cut the connection. He sighed and stood up. "And God help anyone who tries to hurt him..."

"Here," Batman said. "Just around that corner, right over a little rise formed by two collapsed towers, is a cleared-out area. Lots of people sleep there, and they even have a small clinic set up. That would be just the sort of place Crane would pick. He and Scully moved softly around the corner. Sure enough, there was Crane, scrambling up the pile of rubble. "Just in the nick of time, eh?" Scully said. They raced toward the bottom of the pile, making as little noise as possible. The Scarecrow reached the top. Batman and Scully could see lights shining from the other side of the artificial embankment, hear voices, even music.

Batman skidded to a halt at the foot of the rise, shouted, "Crane! Give it up!"

The Scarecrow whirled around. "Oh," he said matter-of-factly. "It's you. I'll be right down. I just want to give these people over here a little gift."

"Come on, Crane," Batman said wearily. "I really, REALLY don't need this right now. Just give it up. Give me that tank and go. I don't care what you do, just stay out of my way."

"Or what? You'll kill me? You don't kill, and I believe I'm dying anyhow. Mr. Modell's shot clipped an artery, I think. I'm bleeding slowly but surely. Most of it is internal." A hollow cough came from beneath the burlap mask. "Might as well go out on a high note, eh?"

"Agent Scully here is a doctor, Crane. She can help you."

"Thank you, no. I think I've had enough. Sure would've liked to have gotten a look at Modell's brain, though. Ah well..." he started to twist the valve at the top of the tank.

"NO!" Batman shouted, lunging in the Scarecrow's direction. But they were at least 20 feet apart, and in his weakened condition, there was no way....

A gunshot sounded from behind him. The Scarecrow's hand jerked violently, spewed a small cloud of red mist. He dropped the tank and it rolled down the incline, toward Batman, who scooped it up on the run. He whirled to see Scully, still standing in a legs-spread stance, her smoking service weapon held in a two-handed grip. "Put that thing DOWN!" Batman roared. Scully holstered the weapon and started walking in his direction. He checked the tank to make sure the valve was secure, then cautiously approached the Scarecrow.

Batman was glaring at her. "What?" she asked. "I kept him from..."

"I don't like guns, Agent Scully," he said. "Civilized people don't need them. And it's a mistake to rely too heavily on them."

Crane had his bleeding hand stuffed under his armpit. "Some doctor," he said drily. "That HURT."

"Sit down, Crane," Batman said. "Let her take a look at you."

"Full service, eh? Shoot them, then fix them? Heh. Yes. Very convenient." He sat down heavily on a chunk of masonry which had evidently fallen from the top of a nearby building. The concrete block he sat on was topped by an ornate and grotesque statue of a gargoyle.

"Let me see that hand first," Scully said, pulling on a pair of gloves.

"The hand is not that interesting. How about this instead?"

Batman was already moving, but it was too late. With amazing speed and dexterity, the Scarecrow had pulled a little plastic skull from somewhere inside his shirt. It was actually an aerosol device, Batman knew. Crane triggered the thing and all three of them were enveloped in a cloud of gray smoke. Too late for nose filters. Too late for anything. Batman felt a terrible chill in his gut, rising up through his chest...

Fear. Pure, raw, illogical fear.

The Scarecrow stood there, clutching the little skull in his bleeding hand for a moment, before he whirled and dashed off. Batman wanted to give chase, but he was starting to feel disoriented. Instead, he turned his attention to Agent Scully, who had collapsed to the ground. He moved to her side, fighting the fear he felt. It's nothing, he told himself over and over. Nothing to fear. Be calm, calm.

He knelt down beside Scully, took her hand. Her eyes were open wide, pupils dilated. "No," she said softly, "please don't. Don't put that thing in me. Let me go. PLEASE let me go." She writhed on the ground, clapped her free hand over her nose. "No, DON'T!"

Batman didn't know what Scully was experiencing, but he knew it wasn't pleasant. He was fighting the hallucinations himself. From the corner of his eye he saw something that looked a lot like Jason Todd, the second Robin, who had been killed by the Joker. Jason isn't here, he told himself. Jason is dead. He looked directly at the object. It was a mailbox. A mailbox, not Jason.

"Scully," he said, bending close to her ear. "Dana. This isn't real. Not real." Scully's face seemed to be draining of color, turning white. Her lips were peeling back slowly, jaw muscles setting into a horrible grin... He shook his head. No, that wasn't real, either. Scarecrow's gas... Scarecrow's gas... That's all that's happening.

"They're going to take me again. They're going to put me on that table again," Scully was whimpering.

"NO!" Batman said. "Nobody's going to do anything to you." He didn't know if she could hear him or not. Dana Scully was a strong woman, he knew, but she'd never encountered the Scarecrow's toxin before. He was barely keeping it together himself, and he doubted if Scully had the advantage of having spent nine months with a group of Tibetan monks who taught a very special biofeedback technique. He looked around. There was a drugstore across the street. It had probably already been looted clean, but it was worth a try. Anything he could find that would calm her down would help.

He picked her up, wincing as a stitch popped open in his shoulder. He moved carefully across the rubble-strewn street, ignoring anything that didn't make sense. That was NOT Two-Face in that store window pointing a pistol at him; it was a mannequin. He concentrated on slowing his breathing and heart rate. That helped some; the toxin wasn't spreading as quickly. The downside of that was that it would remain in his system that much longer.

Scully had her face pressed tight against his chest. She was crying. He held onto her as he made his way to the front of the drugstore, stepped gingerly through the shattered doorway. The Joker stood in the shadows, hefting a crowbar, laughing softly. Could that be for real? Probably not. He ignored it.

He lowered Scully to the floor and, producing a small flashlight, made his way behind the prescription counter. The shelves were pretty much empty. Damn it. He looked around. The thin beam of the flashlight played over something shiny in one of the cracked walls. What was it? He moved closer. A safe. The door was about the size of a small refrigerator. There were scuff marks around the lock, like someone had tried to get in but couldn't. He smiled. Holding the light between his teeth, he took a small wad of plastic explosive and an electronic detonator from a pouch in his belt, attached it to the front of the safe door, set the little timer for ten seconds.

He moved quickly back to Scully, covered her body with his as the blast went off. A little plaster drifted down from the ceiling, the building groaned softly once, but nothing else. Good. He knew it was an awful chance to take in an unstable structure like this, but...

He went back to the safe, the door of which now hung twisted from the ruined hinges. He waved away the smoke and played the light around inside. Drugs. Lots of them. They'd probably stashed the stuff just after the quake, when the looting had started. There were any number of reasons why the proprietors had never retrieved their stock before they abandoned the store, most of them unpleasant to contemplate.

Batman pulled handfuls of bottles from the safe, quickly scanning the labels and discarding useless items. He held onto several vials of morphine. They wouldn't help him and Scully right now, but somebody in No Man's Land might need them later on. Finally, he found things he could use. Valium. Atavan. Other tranquilizers. They would knock the edge off of the Scarecrow's brew. Some anti-psychotics that might help with the hallucinations. He popped a couple valiums himself, swallowed them dry, then went back to Scully.

"Here," he said, raising her head and placing it on his lap. "Take these." He gave her a small handful of pills. He had to practically force them down her throat with his index finger. She resisted, biting and slapping at him, but the pills finally went down. Then he held her still and waited. He worked on his own breathing and heart rate while he waited for Scully to calm down. By the time she stopped squirming in his grasp, he was feeling appreciably better. When she spoke, it startled him.

"THAT was lots of fun," she said, her teeth still chattering. "A regular Coney Island of the mind."

"How do you feel?"

"Terrible, but in control. You?"

"The same. I think we ought to..."

"I THINK," came a voice from the doorway, "you ought to stay right where you are. Mister... Batman, is it? I THINK you ought to take those powerful hands of yours and strangle the life out of Miss Scully. Don't you?"

"Oh, great," Scully said. There in the doorway was the dead man Mulder had come to Gotham to find.

Robert Modell. Alive.

"I am SO sorry, Agent Mulder," Chase said. She jerked the piece of duct tape from his jaw, eliciting a yelp of pain and a small flood of tears from Mulder. "And I'm sorry for that, too." Mulder rubbed his jaw while Chase cut the cords around his wrists and ankles.

"No," Mulder said. "I'M the one who should be sorry. I got rooked like a goddamn cadet. Modell actually made himself throw up, with that tape over his mouth. He'd have drowned in his own vomit if I hadn't removed the tape. I should have let him."

"He knew you wouldn't, though," Chase said. "Don't blame yourself. You got 'rooked' as you call it because you're a human being. Modell isn't."

"Okay. I guess that'll have to do for now. Anyhow, once he could speak, he got me to cut him loose. He tied me up, gagged me, smeared some of his own blood all over my face..." Chase handed him a towel so he could clean himself. "Thanks. I don't know what he would have done if you hadn't shown up. I don't think he would have just killed me outright. He had some kind of head game planned, I'm sure. I'm grateful to you for canceling it."

"All part of the service. So. What now?"

"Well... If Batman and Scully are after the Scarecrow, somebody needs to try and pick up on Modell's trail. That would be us, I guess."

"Good," Chase said, nodding. "I fucked up badly last time I dealt with Modell. It will be a real pleasure to take him out."

Mulder grinned at her. "What you said."

They dashed out of the costume shop.

After fifteen minutes, Mulder and Chase were ready to admit that they had no clue which direction Modell had taken. "Lucky us," Mulder said, "The two deductive geniuses, Batman and Scully, are working together. That kind of leaves us SOL in the Sherlock Holmes department."

Chase nodded grimly. "I've always been more of a doer than a thinker or observer. Shit. Maybe we can..." She was interrupted by the sound of a garbage can crashing to the pavement of an alley across the street. She put her finger to her lips and motioned for Mulder to follow her. They both stopped as a figure emerged from the alley mouth. "I'll be damned," Chase whispered. "I'd rather have Modell, but this fucker will do in a pinch." She raised her weapon, shouted, "FREEZE, SCARECROW!"

The Scarecrow twirled around to face them. "I can't seem to get away from you people," he said tartly.

"Get down on your knees, Crane," Chase said, "and put your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked."

Crane ignored her. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, brandishing what looked like a little toy skull.

"Don't tell me he's gonna do 'Hamlet,' "Mulder said.

"This," the Scarecrow continued, "is a container of my fear gas. One shot of this and the both of you will crumple to the ground, lost in the depths of your own terror. Yes."

Chase held out her pistol. "Do you know what THIS is? This is a container of .44 caliber bullets. You wanna see crumple?" She calmly shot Crane in both his kneecaps, sending him sprawling to the ground, howling in pain. "THERE's your crumple."

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "You do have a certain style, Agent Chase."

"Call me Cameron," she said. She holstered her gun and walked to where the Scarecrow lay writhing. She knelt beside him and performed an examination. "Hmmmm," she said, reaching a hand into his shirt and pulling out a wad of straw. She looked at it carefully, twirled it between her fingers.

"Look at this, Mulder," she said. "This looks like straw, but it isn't. It's actually woven Kevlar. Probably protected him from a lot of the damage he should have sustained from the shots he's taken tonight. Not as efficient as a vest or pad, but then, he's a lunatic after all." She ripped open the Scarecrow's shirt, tossed the "straw" aside, examined his wounds. "Still pretty bad, but he'd probably be dead by now if not for that stuff."

The Scarecrow moaned. Chase pulled the burlap mask off of his head.

"I'm dying, you idiot," Crane said. "Just let me do it in peace, wouldn't you?"

"I'm sorry Crane-- and I mean that sincerely-- I don't think you're gonna die. But you won't be causing anyone any trouble for a while."

"Go ahead," Modell said. "Do it. That isn't who you think it is, Batman. That isn't Dana Scully at all."

"Shut up, Modell!" Scully shouted, groping underneath her for the gun that was no longer in her holster. Shit. Where was it? She must have lost it somewhere along the line, while she was tripping on the Scarecrow's gas. "Batman, don't listen to him."

Batman was swaying back and forth gently, Scully's head still in his lap. He was beat, Modell figured, worn out. ordinarily, he might be able to resist me. Maybe. But not tonight. "That isn't Scully. That's the person you hate most in all the world. The person who has caused most of your suffering. You can get rid of that person now."

Scully was trying to squirm loose, but Batman had her shoulders pinned. Even depleted as he was, he was strong. Too strong for her, even if SHE were at her best. He peered at her face, those eerie white slits glinting dimly.

"J--Joker?" he asked.

"Yesssss," Model wheedled, "It's the Joker. You hate him, don't you. You ought to kill him. You've wanted to for years. Admit it."

Batman's hands moved slowly from Scully's shoulders to her throat. "You... killed Jason." The fingers began to tighten. "You hurt Barbara."

"No," Scully gasped. "Listen to me. I'm NOT the Joker. I didn't kill... Jason. But... but even if I had, even if I was... is this the right way? Is this how you do things?" The fingers loosened a bit.

"Come on now, " Modell said. he had advanced to within a couple feet of Batman and Scully. "You know it's for the best. You can sacrifice your principles just this once, can't you? Of course you can. Think of all the lives you'll save in the long run. This isn't vengeance. This is logic."

"Yes," Batman muttered. "Yes... of course." The fingers began to close once more, like a steel band around Scully's throat."

"No," she choked. Her head was throbbing, her vision beginning to dim. "You don't want to do this, Batman. You don't want to do this... BRUCE!" The fingers jerked convulsively, loosening their grip so that Scully could speak more clearly. "Is this why your parents died? So you could become a killer? What would they think, Bruce? What would they say? Would they approve?"

"No," Batman whispered. "It isn't... They wouldn't... Dana... Thanks." And he smiled down at her. The Batman, smiling. Dana returned it, with gratitude and relief.

"Oh, fuck this shit," Modell said with exasperation, slamming a heavy iron pipe into the side of Batman's head. "I'll do it myself." Batman slumped and fell to the floor at Scully's side.

Scully scrambled to her feet to face Modell. Alone. Unarmed.

"Okay, Modell said. "Now that he's out of the way, I guess I'll take care of you myself. Nothing fancy, Dana. No pushing this time. Might as well go ahead and get my hands dirty, eh?" He moved toward her. She felt awful, her gun was gone, there was nothing she could do. So she stood, staring at the man who approached her, showing no sign of the fear she felt. "Come on, then, Modell. If you're man enough." Maybe, even in her weakened condition, she could take him hand-to-hand. He wasn't in such great shape either. He looked very, very tired. His hands were trembling. His eyes were red, with dark circles underneath them. He was grinning, but it wasn't a grin of pleasure; it was more like the forced merriment of a man who was.... very, very frightened.

"Oh, I think I am," he said, taking a small, gleaming scalpel from his jacket pocket. "Let's open you up, Scully, and see if you look as good on the inside as you do on the outside."

Scully really, really wished she had her gun right now. But she didn't. Get over it, she told herself. Batman doesn't use guns. Remember what he said?

Modell lunged at her, swinging his arm in an arc that would plunge the scalpel right into her neck. She blocked it with her left forearm, drove the palm of her right hand into the underside of Modell's nose. She felt the cartilege give way. Modell reeled back a few steps. He still had the scalpel in his right hand. He covered his nose with his left, blood leaking out from between his fingers.

"Why Biss Scuddy," he said. "I bedieve you've broken by dose."

Scully stood still, waiting to see what Modell would do next. He bent forward at the waist, moaning softly. Blood dripped onto the floor. Had she hit him too hard? A blow to the nose like that could be fatal if....

Suddenly, Modell was moving. He drove his left fist into Scully's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her and making her see stars. He swung the scalpel again, but she somehow managed to strike his moving arm with the flat of her hand, right on the wrist, sending the glittering little blade flying from his grasp. That was something, at least. But she was in incredible pain and was having trouble orienting herself to her surroundings. her vision was blurry. Where was Modell?

She felt a pair of hands close around her already-bruised throat. Oh, not again, she thought. Modell forced her to her knees, stood over her, blood from his shattered nose dripping onto her face.

"Thatd's all I'b taking frob you," he said. "And when I'b done here, I'b gonna do your friend, Bulder." Scully clawed at Modell's hands, but she couldn't budge them. Her vision was quickly going from dim to black. Was this it, then? Was she going to be taken down by a sick, slimy little shit like Robert Modell?

NO!

She brought her arms up in a quick jerking motion, striking Modell's forearms with her wrists. He howled and his grip loosened. Scully got her fingers between his hands and her neck and pulled them away. It was painful for her, his fingertips seemed to be digging trenches in her flesh as she pried them loose. But she broke his grip and held his wrists tightly, spreading his arms wide. She struggled to her feet and kicked Modell squarely between the legs with all the strength she could muster.

Modell doubled over again, in what Scully knew had to be genuine, intense pain. He was breathing heavily and leaking blood like water from a garden sprinkler. She stood there, watching him, not daring to get too close again.

And he slowly straightened up.

And he had a gun in his had.

Oh shit, Scully thought. She sighed, wiped sweat out of her eyes. Maybe this really WAS it, then. Maybe she really WOULD be taken down by this piece of...

"STOP!"

The voice came from the doorway of the drugstore. It was a small voice, almost timid, but shaking with fear and tension. It was a voice she knew.

"Gibson?" she asked.

"Dana!" came the reply. "Here I am! Don't worry, I'll save you."

Modell turned to look at the figure in the doorway. A boy. A small, skinny boy with glasses. He laughed through the blood on his face. "Now this is really rich," he said. "A little kid is gonna save you, huh? Come here, boy. Now."

"No," Gibson said firmly. "I won't. You drop that gun."

"Are you out of your fucking..." That was as far as Modell got before he realized he had, in fact, dropped the gun. He looked up again. "What...?"

"I know what you do, Mr. Modell, and how you do it," Gibson said calmly. "I can do it, too."

"Kid," Modell said. "You don't wanna..."

"Shut up. I know all about you. You want to kill Dana. You won't. I know everything. I know about your tumor and I know why it isn't hurting you any more."

"No."

"Yes." The boy started walking, slowly, moving toward Dana. "Listen to me, Mr. Modell. Listen. You aren't afraid anymore, Mr. Modell. You aren't afraid of anything."

"Shut up," Modell said. "You just shut up."

"There's no reason to be afraid."

Modell could feel it. His heart rate slowed, his teeth stopped chattering. Calm. No fear, no fear...

Then came the pain. Worse than it had ever been. His head felt as though it were filled with hot metal, pushing against the backs of his eyeballs.

"No fear," the boy repeated softly, "No fear, Mr. Modell." He reached Scully's side and took her hand.

The pain in Modell's head flared. He gasped and staggered a couple of steps. The pressure was awful. It felt as though his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

And they did.

Modell fell to his knees, in incredible pain. Pain without fear. It was almost humorous. His eyeballs rolled against his cheeks, still attached to their sockets by tendrils of pink tissue. Modell could see the floor, twisting about wildly. No, no. He couldn't close his eyes. Gibson watched him, his own eyes wide, feeling the terror of what he had done. "Oh," the boy whispered. "I didn't want to..."

Modell reached up gingerly and took hold of his left eyeball. For a moment, it looked as though he would try to stick it back into the socket.

Then he ripped it loose. Dark blood jetted out of the empty socket. Gibson screamed. Scully, choking down the urge to vomit, pulled the boy to her, put her arms around him. "It's okay, Gibson," she said soothingly, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

Modell, meanwhile, had removed his other eyeball. He was motionless, quiet, on his knees as though in prayer. Blood poured from his eye sockets. All he had now was the pain. Nowhere left to go. No options. He raised his head and spoke.

"Modell," he said softly. "Die."

And he did.

Scully grabbed Gibson's hand. "Let's get out of here," she said, as Modell crumpled slowly to the floor. "Help me here," she said, releasing Gibson and stooping to get a grip underneath Batman's shoulders. "We need to get him out of here, too. Can you help with his feet, Gibson?" The boy nodded, dashed around to do as Scully instructed. Together, they moved the Batman out of the ruins of the drugstore onto the street.

Scully bent to put an ear to the man's lips. He was breathing, albeit faintly. Blood oozed from beneath the edge of his mask. "This will have to come off," she said, pulling the fabric slowly away from the man's face. She glanced at Gibson. "Maybe you shouldn't look. He likes to keep this a secret."

Gibson tapped the side of his head. "I already know, Dana," he said.

"Oh... of course." She got the heavy cowl off, bunched it up behind his head like a small pillow. There was some kind of flexible armor underneath the hood, she noted. That was good. Maybe the blow he took hadn't been as bad as it had looked.

Bruce Wayne. Batman really was Bruce Wayne. This morning, she hadn't even believed the Batman existed. Tonight, she knew his secret.

She quickly examined his head. There was a large gash on his scalp, beneath the hair. It ought to be stitched, but it wasn't too bad. For now, an alcohol swab and a couple of butterfly bandaids would do. She gently pried open his eyelids, checked the pupils with her flashlight. Not bad. He was in surprisingly good shape for a man who'd been through what he'd been through in the past couple of hours.

Scully sighed. She still felt nervous, but the tranquilizers were keeping her fear under control. She sat there on the dirty, cracked asphalt, Bruce Wayne's head in her lap, Gibson Praise's hand on her shoulder, breathing, calming herself, enjoying the quiet....

...until something started creeping into that quiet, gradually, a small sound, like a broken ceiling fan, or a swarm of bugs, or... or a helicopter.

Oh, shit. She had completely forgotten. The strike team. The strike team that was coming after Gibson. Before she knew exactly what she was going to do, the sound became abruptly louder. She looked up at the smutty sky. Two slender black copters, like evil dragonflies, were swooping around the side of one of the few skyscrapers that had withstood the quake, just two blocks from Scully's group . The machines were probing the streets with bright beams of light, searching. Was this just random, or did they have some means of tracking Gibson? Did those bastards put something in his body, like they had in hers? Could they follow him with it? No way of knowing that....

The first thing she did was to pull Batman's cowl back over his head. Next, she quickly covered him with a ragged tarp which lay discarded nearby. She tried to crawl under the tarp with Gibson, but it was too late. The light washed over them, stopped. She looked up into the awful glare.

"Attention!" came a loud, metallic voice from the light in the sky. "Stand where you are or you WILL be shot." Dana and Gibson exchanged a glance. She had expected to see fear in the boy's face, but instead found something that looked like quiet resignation. No, she thought, no. He's expecting this. That's what his view of life has come to.

"NO!" she shouted, grabbing the boy up in her arms and running. Wildly, without direction, panic taking hold of her again; her own natural panic and the unnatural fear the Scarecrow had given her. Her heart pounded and she ran faster than she had ever run before, away from the lights, away from the noise. It was raining, she thought for a second, huge raindrops spattering all over the surrounding rubble. She rain, keeping ahead of the deadly rain, ran for the safety of the other side of the street. There must be something, an opening, a doorway...

... and she saw a cave. No, not a cave. What was left of the entrance to a subway tunnel. She made for it, the light and the noise and the leaden raindrops right behind her. She ducked beneath the nearly-collapsed archway, skidded down the smashed stairs. If they could get into the tunnel itself, get onto the tracks, maybe they could...

She pulled up short. She was on the subway concourse itself, the passenger platform. But the tracks were gone, covered in tons and tons of rubble from above.

They were trapped.

It was over. She sat down on the cool tile floor, pulled Gibson down with her, hugging him tightly. They listened together as the two choppers came to rest on the street outside, listened to the shouted orders and responses of the men disembarking from them. They watched the opening through which they had come, saw the flashlight beams playing on the rubble, the silhouetted figures of the men in paramilitary garb as they carefully made their way down the shattered staircase. The men wore black uniforms and helmets with opaque visors. Each one carried an assault rifle. The man in the lead shone a powerful beam of light into their faces, dazzling them.

"Step away from the boy, Agent Scully," came the cold voice of the team leader from behind the dark visor.

"No!" Scully shouted, clinging to Gibson.

"Maybe you better do what he says, Dana," the boy whispered. "He doesn't want you. I'm not afraid."

"I'm not going to let this happen, Gibson," Scully said.

"You can't stop them. They'll just kill us both. They don't care."

"Five seconds, Agent Scully," the team leader said harshly. To the rest of the team he said, "Get ready." Scully heard the terrible sound of rifles being locked. She held Gibson close.

"Then I won't let you die alone. Close your eyes," she said.

"Five... four... three... two..."

Scully's body tensed, waiting for the impact. She would be dead, she knew, before she even heard the sound of the guns.

"...one..."

There was a blaze of light and noise. More weapons being locked into firing position. Scully shuddered, hugged Gibson even tighter. She felt no pain, but she might already be in shock from the impact of the slugs. Any second now... Then, a voice rose above all the other noises: "WAUGH! That's far enough, G.I. Joe! Tell your men to stand down, or my boys will fill you all full of holes, don't think we won't!"

Gibson squirmed in Scully's arms. "Mr. Cobblepot!" he said. "It's Mr. Cobblepot!"

Slowly, Scully turned and opened her eyes. In the tunnel mouth behind the strike team were at least a dozen well-dressed and well-armed men, covering the team members with a variety of automatic and semi-automatic weapons. And, at the head of this formidable force was... a rotund little man in a tuxedo and top hat, carrying an... umbrella?

At a signal from their leader, the team members dropped their weapons. The team leader regarded the little man coldly. "Cobblepot. I know who you are. You're making a BIG mistake. I'm an authorized agent of the federal government."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Cobblepot replied. "And, even were it so, you are no longer within your jurisdiction. Remember? This is No Man's Land, my friend. Didn't you see the signs coming in? 'You are now leaving the United States of America.' Whatever authority you may think you have ended when you came here. The only law in Gotham is 'might makes right.' And I have more guns and more men than you do, sir."

The team leader shook his head. "You'll regret this, Cobblepot. Or should I call you Penguin?" He made it sound like an insult. "We'll leave, because you're holding all the cards. But we'll be back. Mark my words."

The Penguin shook his head. "You misunderstand me, sir. I said nothing about letting you leave." He turned his attention to Scully and the boy. "Miss?" he asked almost affably. "Would you mind taking young Gibson away from here? I don't want him to see this."

Scully nodded dumbly. She knew what was going to happen, knew it was wrong, but she was just too tired to give a damn. Too tired, too worn-out, too frightened. She took Gibson by the hand and led him past the captive strike team, past the Penguin and his men.

"Mr. Cobblepot," the boy said softly. "Please don't do this. It's wrong."

Cobblepot gave the boy a sad little smile. "You're young yet, son," he said softly. "There are lots of things you don't understand. With luck, maybe you'll never have to." He reached out a tentative hand, briefly stroked Gibson's hair. Then his face turned hard. He looked at Scully, barked, "Get this brat out of here! Now!" Scully nodded, hurried Gibson along up the tunnel into the open air. "Dana," Gibson was saying, "Dana, we can't..."

"Shhh, Gibson. Shhh...." They made their way through the rubble as fast as Scully could go. They had reached the tarp under which Batman lay before she heard the first of the gunshots, hollow-sounding and far away.

She sat there for a time, after she had removed the tarp from Batman... Bruce. She examined him as best she could. His breathing and pulse were stronger. Gibson sat by her side, saying nothing.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Gibson," Scully told him. "You did what you had to do."

The boy nodded. "I know. I had to save you. I'd do it again if I had to. But I don't like it. I didn't enjoy watching him die like that... Knowing I'd made it happen."

"You didn't make it happen, Gibson." Scully took both his hands and looked into his eyes. "Modell made his own choices. They led him to his end. It was HIS fault, not yours. Do you understand that?"

"I guess so."

There was sound and motion from the direction of the subway entrance. Cobblepot and his men clearing out, she supposed. She heard someone's voice saying, "Put the charges here and here and... here, I think. That ought to seal it up." She almost laughed. The remains of the strike team were going to get "disappeared" by the Penguin and his men. It was appropriate, it was ironic, all that shit... She hugged Gibson, held him tight as a small series of explosions went off, followed by the sound of collapsing steel and stone.

Presently, Batman began to stir. He moaned a little. Scully looked at his face, his mask. She couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. She bent over him.

"Hello, Dana," he said softly.

"Hi," she said.

"Do I look as bad as I feel?" Batman asked.

"Probably not. I don't know."

Batman nodded, stood up-- a little shaky, but not too bad, all things considered.

"Hm. I've felt worse. Who's your friend?"

"This is Gibson. Gibson Praise. Gibson, this is Batman."

"Hello," the boy said, not sure whether he should offer to shake hands. Batman extended a gloved had in his direction. "Nice to meet you, son." They shook. Gibson seemed suitably impressed, if not overawed.

"I take it he's a friend of yours," Batman said to Scully.

"Yes. He saved both of our lives back in the drugstore."

"Thank you very much," Batman said gravely to Gibson.

"I was glad to do it," Gibson replied with equal gravity.

"Gibson," Scully explained, "is a... telepath. Evidently he's learned some new tricks. He was able to beat Modell at his own game."

"Where IS Modell?"

Scully looked him in the eyeslits. "Dead. It wasn't Gibson's fault."

Batman nodded. He had the feeling that the less that was said about that, the better. He touched his cowl, felt the bandage underneath his mask. "Hm," he said. "I guess there's no doubt now, eh?"

Scully shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. It was much too dark for me to see your face."

"But light enough for you to clean and bandage a head wound."

Scully shrugged.

Batman's head dipped for a second. He was trying to hide a smile, Scully thought. When he looked up again, his face-- at least the visible part of it-- was expressionless. "Thank you, Dana," he said. "For everything."

"Thank YOU. This whole thing has been quite an experience. Twice I've been to Gotham, twice I've almost gotten killed by psychopaths. Much more exciting than Disneyland."

"Well... If Gotham ever recovers, perhaps you'll consider visiting again. Third time's the charm, they say. You might have a peaceful visit."

"I may do that. I know a guy who lives here who owes me a raincheck on a dinner."

"I'm sure he'd be more than happy to see you again... under better circumstances."

"If you see him, why don't you tell him I feel the same way."

Batman gave a bitter little laugh. "I haven't seen him in quite a while... Can't say when he'll be back-- if ever."

"I'm sure he will be," Scully said, taking one of Batman's hands in hers, giving him a reassuring little squeeze. "Can't keep a good man down, you know." They looked at one another. For a moment, Batman thought he might kiss her; for a moment, Scully thought she might want him to. But the moment passed. The softness that had crept in around the Batman's mouth abruptly disappeared.

"The Scarecrow!" he exclaimed. "Damn it, I forgot about him." He released Scully's hand. "I have to..."

"NOT a problem, Caped Crusader," came a voice from a short distance down the street. Batman and Scully turned to see Cameron Chase trotting in their direction. "Mulder and I took care of him. Mulder's with him now, dropping him off at a little makeshift clinic we spotted. He's shot up, but ought to live. I heard an explosion from this direction and came to investigate. What's up?"

"Nothing," Scully said. "It was nothing at all."

Chase gave her a skeptical look. Then she noticed the two strike team choppers. "Where did those come from?"

"No idea," Scully said. "But I will say this, Cameron... Our 'friend' Mr. Spender won't be going to bed happy tonight."

Chase grinned. "Good. This must be Gibson," she said. "Hi."

Gibson gave her a shy little wave. "Hello."

Batman was examining the choppers. "What exactly happened while I was unconscious, Scully?"

Scully and Gibson exchanged a glance.

"I... I'd rather not say. Will you just take my word that justice was served tonight, and let it go at that? For now? You can take the choppers. I can guarantee their owner won't come looking for them."

Batman said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded sharply. "Good enough. I have enough troubles of my own without worrying about shadow government black bag jobs. Chase, you think you can try and keep this stuff out of my back yard from now on?"

"I'll do my best."

"I'd appreciate it. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes?"

He looked at her. "'Caped... Crusader'?"

Chase shrugged. She looked at Dana Scully and they both laughed. Gibson regarded them both with puzzlement, then joined in the laughter, though he didn't get it at all.

Epilogue:Four Days Later
FBI Headquarters Fox Mulder's Basement Office 6 p.m.

"So, you met him, huh?" Mulder prodded. "You met the Batman?"

Scully sighed, "Yes, Mulder, I met the Batman, there is a Batman, you were telling the truth, I'm sorry I ever doubted you, yadda-yadda-yadda."

"Well?" He was grinning like a little kid. "What did you think of him? Pretty impressive, huh? I got to ride in his car once, you know."

Scully rolled her eyes. "He was okay. I guess."

Mulder's jaw dropped. "Okay? OKAY? That's it?"

Scully shrugged. "Eh... He doesn't do much for me. Too bad Gotham was in such a shambles, though. I'd like to have had dinner with Bruce Wayne again. Now THERE's an interesting man."

Mulder snorted. "Bruce Wayne? What's HE ever done? He's a lecher, a useless, idle rich boy. Since when does your taste run in THAT direction?"

Scully just shrugged again. Mulder sat down heavily. "I don't believe you ever met Bruce Wayne to begin with. I think you're just jealous because the Batman and I are so tight."

"Whatever you say, Mulder," Scully said absently, looking over the folder on her desk.

"Bruce WAYNE," Mulder muttered. "Huh. Well, he's no Batman, I'll tell you that."

"Of course he is, Mulder," Scully said, still not taking her eyes from the folder. "The playboy thing is just an act. He has a big cave underneath his mansion where he keeps that fancy car you got to ride in. Idle playboy by day, grim avenger of evil by night."

Mulder stared at her for a moment. "You're making fun of me," he said.

Scully said nothing, continuing to study the folder. Mulder, too, was silent, but his jaw was working.

After a time Scully said, "Are you miffed, Mulder?"

"Miffed? Where did you get a word like that? I don't get 'miffed,' Scully. I get 'pissed off.' And I'm not pissed off. Or miffed."

"Okay."

"Or peeved or perturbed or anything like that."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They sat for a time in silence. Mulder, serious now, said, "You think it was really a good idea to let Gibson stay in Gotham?"

Scully closed the folder. "Yes, I do. I doubt our 'friend' will make another attempt on him after what happened this time."

"But he's living with the PENGUIN."

Scully sighed. "I'll admit, Oswald Cobblepot wouldn't be my first choice for Father Figure of the Year, but... He has a genuine concern for Gibson. He won't let anything happen to him. And Gibson wanted to stay in No Man's Land. He thinks he can be of help there. I'm inclined to agree with him. His... abilities are getting stronger. If he were out in the world, you know what would happen. Cancer Man or someone like him would eventually snatch Gibson and try to dissect him."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. The expression on his face made Scully a little uneasy. What she saw in her partner's eyes was pure hatred. Hatred for the Cancer Man and what he represented, for the chaos and horror he had brought to Mulder's life. Mulder was a gentle man by nature, and would never have experienced such emotions if not for the things 'spender' had done over the years. Scully found herself hating the man, too, for doing what he had done to her partner's life, starting when Fox Mulder was just a boy. The Cancer Man had robbed him of a normal childhood... Just like a nameless mugger had done years ago to another young boy, in another place...Two different dramas of violence and treachery, perpetrated by cold, hateful men.

Scully smiled a bit. What those men could not have anticipated was that their selfish actions would spur at least two of their victims to push themselves to their respective limits to fight the kind of callous evil that had shattered their worlds. Her life was not what she had forseen when she was a girl. It had, at times, been horrifying. But at this moment, right now, she wouldn't trade it for anything. She felt proud to be accepted in the company of men like Fox Mulder and Bruce Wayne, to be regarded by them as a friend and an equal.

"Okay," she said decicively, rising to her feet. "It's getting way too serious on the inside of my head, Mulder." She tossed the folder onto her desk. "Let's go to that bar you like-- the one where you have to go out to the alley to pee."

Mulder's eyebrows went up. "Well," he said, "you don't actually HAVE to do that. It just..."

"Never mind," she said on her way out of the little office. "I'm buying. You coming?"

Mulder scrambled to his feet, threw on his jacket.

"Scully!" he yelled, heading for the door. "Wait for me!"

The End