Batman: The Blind Cut
The Acme of Control
K Arsenault Rivera
Two months. She counted. Hard to keep track, sometimes, but important all the same. When she got out of here, Cobblepot was going to pay for every day she spent in this prison.
Two months. Sixty days. Could she even call them days? There was no sunlight here, no moonlight, no concept of day or night—only the vats laid out in front of her like the Hanging Gardens themselves, only the gentle click and whirr of the machinery. Every four hours the Galapagos vats emptied. Six sets of empty vats—that was what made a day.
Galapagos didn’t care how much time had gone by. In a way, that was soothing. Her limbs withered and shriveled; her body shrank and weakened; Galapagos grew and grew. She made sure of it. Cobblepot may have burned her, may have invited her to a business meeting where he drained all the water right out of the air until she agreed to this, but Galapagos was innocent. The crimes of the father need not be visited upon his children.
She told it so every day.
These days she was too weak to wander the aisles; her voice cracked when she tried to speak. She persisted. It was important. Kelp was temperamental to begin with, and as she tried to explain to Cobblepot, it wasn’t even really a plant. What he’d done to it—what he was making her do—wasn’t natural. They were both in extraordinary pain. A life of constant confusion and bereavement, a life knowing you were meant to be one thing yet you were being hammered into another—the thought filled her with dread. Galapagos was innocent. It should grow innocently.
So she told it of the sun, this thing that should be feeding them both, and hoped it would dream.
The first week was the most difficult. There were so many adjustments. The sunlight, of course, but also the size of her space: the vats took up the majority of it, with only a six-foot square room she might call her own beside them. There was no bed, no food, nothing but a stool and a computer from which to make adjustments to the vats. A sprinkler activated for two minutes every morning; in all likelihood, it was the only thing keeping her alive. Her only company was the occasional drift of voices from the casino floor above, and the black and white security monitor left on in the corner like a television for a lonely dog.
Every morning Cobblepot’s voice chimed in through the intercom. He asked about the Galapagos. He never asked about her. At first she told him she’d need more comfort if she was going to do anything at all.
“Ivy, don’t be so wishy-washy. Are you a plant or aren’t you one? You get watered in the mornings, and that’s me being generous.”
It infuriated her. That was the day she tried the lock the first time—summoned up what strength she could, used Galapagos as her base, tried to create a bludgeon. It didn’t work. The door didn’t budge at all.
In the morning Cobblepot noted the downturn in production. The next day, there was no water.
The next day she tried more subtle methods—dropping some Galapagos on the ground and urging it to grow, hoping that it might slip beneath the threshold and out onto the other side. In truth she had no idea where she even was—any little detail would help. Parched and weak she urged it to grow, and grow, and grow.
But the moment it touched the threshold, something incinerated the Galapagos. The feedback from its misery was enough to leave her huddled in the corner and wailing. So hot had it burned that the metal flooring was now warped where it happened. When at last she came to, the thought occurred to her that she might be able to get out by repeatedly trying the door, warping it more and more—but the searing pain of it was too much to imagine.
There’d be another way.
But all this time had passed and she hadn’t yet found one. The vats emptied six times a day—but they did so through slats she could not break. There were no other doors, no windows. Nothing but the steel walls, the computer, the vats. Galapagos.
As time passed she abandoned her efforts. One week, two weeks, three. Cobblepot would slip up eventually, she told herself. When he did—that was the moment to strike.
As long as she didn’t wither away to nothing by then. Already her “skin” had gone pale to adjust for the lack of sunlight. Only spite for Cobblepot, care for the plants, and the morning mist of water kept her alive.
But they kept her alive long enough to see the door swing open at last.
The light was so bright and so blinding that it caused her pain. The rush of sound that came with it was too loud by far, too chaotic; every clack-clack-clack of the machinery outside was a battering ram against her eardrums. Within the light there was a figure—but Ivy turned away, unable to bear the light, equally unable to hold back the pathetic “Help me” that escaped her cracked lips.
“Ivy? Is that you?”
And this woman’s voice, too, was loud and shrill and unwanted—but welcome. What remained of her pride bristled at being seen this way; she huddled further in on herself.
“Who’s asking?” she rasped.
“Zatanna Zatara. Are you all right? Wh-what is this place?”
So loud, so loud. “What does it look like? It’s a prison. Here to move me to the next one?”
A pause between them. The vats emptied. Artificial light played on her skin; her cells, hungry for it, started to hum. Breathing came easier.
“That depends. Can you answer some questions for me?”
She scoffed. Why was it that Gotham’s so-called heroes never did good for free? She opened her eyes. Shadows disguised Zatanna’s face. Maybe it was for the better; she probably had some smug look on. “Ask away.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two months,” she said, without having to think. “Home sweet home.”
“And you haven’t left in all that time?” She sounded almost concerned. Almost. Never trust a human. Especially a hero.
A bitter laugh left Ivy’s lips. On shaky feet she stood, leaning against the wall. Strength was coming back to her limbs, at least. “No. No, I haven’t. That door you opened just now is the only way in or out. I couldn’t force it.”
Zatanna was coming into focus. To Ivy’s surprise, Zatanna’s disgust for this place was unmasked. “Cobblepot was keeping you here? But . . . I knew the guy was slimy, but this . . . Why?”
It was hard to believe in human honesty. No matter how contrite Zatanna sounded, she could always change her mind. This might be a ploy. Maybe she’d leave and lock the door behind her. For now, the best thing to do was keep talking with her—the light was helping, bit by bit. Soon, she’d be strong enough to leave with or without help.
An explanation wouldn’t hurt. She gestured to the vats, emptying of their writhing dark. “I’ve been making Galapagos. Cobblepot wanted something with psychoactive properties, so he called me in to consult. Something that would make people more pliable to suggestion. He said he wanted to be able to hold a gun to someone’s head and know they wouldn’t run. I objected—he wanted to use kelp as a starting point, and kelp isn’t a plant, besides all the other problems—so he decided to play dirty. Threw me in here and told me I had no choice in the matter. The process he’s asking for is a delicate one; grafting plant matter with algae to produce something new causes pain for both parties. I thought that the least I could do while I was trapped here was look after the poor darlings.”
Zatanna walked to the other room. Ivy, terrified that the door might lock forever behind her, stopped it with a vine. Zatanna didn’t even give it a second glance. In she went. A soft gasp left her at the sight of the vats. Good. Ivy took pride in what she did. Cobblepot could lock her away, but he couldn’t snuff out her talent.
“Why’s he need so much of this? And what kind of suggestion are we talking, here?”
Ivy glanced out the half-open door. She’d taken a few steps toward it, now, and Zatanna hadn’t stopped her.
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me the details, and I didn’t care to ask. I see chlorophyll, sodium, protein clusters, pneumatocysts, carbohydrates. Business ventures don’t interest me.”
Zatanna pinched her nose. “You still agreed to meet with him.”
“That doesn’t make this my fault,” Ivy answered evenly.
“Did you ever see who installed the door?”
“No,” Ivy says. “It was here when I woke up.”
Zatanna turned. The two women shared a glance—Ivy on her shaky feet, Zatanna in her working clothes. Ivy lost her sense for human expression long ago, but even she could see the muscles of Zatanna’s jaw work.
It infuriated her.
“If I were any other woman, you’d let me go,” Ivy said.
“You’re a murderer,” came the inevitable, reductive answer.
“I’ve been tortured.”
Zatanna flinched. Another glance. Something like recognition. Something like care. “Fine. You can go. Don’t make me regret it.”
Ivy didn’t stop to ask her if she was certain. You couldn’t give heroes like that a second chance to think over what they were doing, couldn’t let their twisted sense of justice prevail.
Freedom was just outside the door.
But most of what was once Pamela Isley hesitated.
“He won’t be happy. You can tell him I overpowered you. If you need to. Just . . . don’t tell him you saw me like that. Don’t tell anyone. Please.”
And then she was gone.
One step after another. No matter if those steps were awful, no matter if she shambled through the place like a wounded deer. All she had to do was keep walking.
The first turn down the hallway revealed she was in a casino. She wasn’t surprised—in fact, she was grateful. Cobblepot was good at his job—it’s hard to look away from the slots, hard to take notice of a woman limping along to safety. There must have been hundreds of fleshbags in this place and not a one spared her a glance.
Human nature.
She’d be free of it soon. Not soon enough, but soon. One step, another. Pain shot up her legs, but she kept going.
Her first breath of fresh air felt like the first breath she’d ever taken. Moonlight played upon her skin and her cells drank it in; she stood taller with every passing second. Gotham is a concrete jungle, they said, but soon she’d be able to lay claim to it again. Maybe not tonight—but soon.
She made her way through the parking lot, sticking to the shadows where the others wouldn’t see her. There wasn’t much to her strength—but there was enough to form a hat from moss, a cloak from the same. People didn’t notice her in the casino. They might here.
No sooner did she have the thought than she heard a boot scuffing against the pavement.
“Ma’am, I think you forgot something back there.”
A man’s voice, sweet on the surface. Ivy knew how effective a poison could be when you made it sweet.
Ivy picked up the pace. She had to get to Harley. It had been two months. She’d be worried sick.
“I don’t think you heard me. You forgot something.”
She kept walking.
But as she made another turn, she caught sight of three more socialites up ahead. Well—they dressed like socialites, but their bearing gave them away. Menace hid in their clenched fists, in the set of their jaws, in a cutting glance from one of the women.
“Wrong way, Ivy,” said a man in white.
She’d been in this position before. Years ago, before she had any powers at all—when she was a scientist coming home from work, risking a walk to the subway every night because she didn’t make enough for a car. It was terrifying then to be accosted.
Much less so now.
The man behind her pressed a sharp point against her back. She held up her hands.
“So you all know who I am?” she said.
The other three surrounded her. A half-circle of debauchery, hidden away in the dark.
“We do. And we know where you’re supposed to be.”
There was a tree above them, a stately oak surviving in the smog-filled air of Gotham. Ivy called to it: will you help?
A terrible, hanging moment of dread. What if her darlings had forgotten her?
No—they could never. The oak answered in its ancient voice: we missed you.
Warmth filled her chest. Finally—she was home.
“I just wanted to be sure you understood the mistake you’re making,” she said.
Ivy snapped her fingers. The oak’s branch came down like Gaia’s hammer.
“Got what we needed. It’s time to go.”
Good. Deft hand though he may have been when it came to card games, this one was wearing thin. The whole casino was.
“And for Mr. Wayne? What’ll the bet be?”
He smiled. “No bet, but you can put me down for a two-million donation. I’m folding.”
“Already?” said the dealer.
Bruce laid his cards out on the table: aces and eights. With the sort of showmanship he did enjoy, he slid his stack of chips over to the dealer, then drained the rest of his watered-down drink in one go. “I’m afraid I’ve got a business call.”
Pouts all around. Teasing, too—he’d just come out and he was leaving so early? Well, it couldn’t be helped, could it? Bruce Wayne out on the town two nights in a row with his old friends, what a sight . . .
And what a sight, too, how quickly he vanished. That trick always spooked Gordon. All Bruce did was wait until no one was looking. The slightest bit of distraction went a long way.
With a smirk, he realized he was sounding like Zatanna. Explaining his tricks.
Festivities were in full swing as he made his way through the casino. Casualties, too. A cluster of guards carried out a man on a stretcher, soaked in sweat. Not that any of the revelers took notice. Married men with girls on every arm; a woman doing shots off a trim young man’s abs. Cobblepot set up a living sushi table—bedecked, of course, in Galapagos. Blaring lights proclaimed the jackpot was up to ten million dollars. The smiling faces of purported winners stared down from the screens above the gambling hall. Bruce knew that trick. Cobblepot’s goons cleaned up and put in suits.
No one won in places like this. Except the house.
He spotted Zatanna refusing a drink from one of the cigarette girls, having changed into a sleek black cocktail dress. No one would question if Bruce Wayne offered a pretty girl his arm, and so that’s what he did—Zatanna took it without much hesitation. In a place like this they’d stand out more if they stood apart.
“What’d you find?” he asked. Click-clacking coins, squawking birds, announcements uncomfortably loud—these things would drown out their conversation better than any tech.
“Definitive proof that it wasn’t Ivy,” she answered. Her grip on his arm was loose—all for show. Still, her smile and moony eyes would fool anyone watching them. “I found her.”
He laughed, as if she’d just told him some amazing joke, mostly to keep from frowning. His tone was anything but jovial. “She isn’t with you.”
Zatanna answered with easy unconcern. “We had a talk, the two of us. Cobblepot’s been keeping her locked away for the past two months. I left home at fifteen with a single one of my dad’s dollars. Stayed in some real broom closets, but that place was worse. No sun, no water, no anything. She looked just about ready to die—”
“Where is she?”
“My point is, if she’s been away for two months then there’s no way she’s committing these murders,” she said.
“You let her go.”
“I wanted information. That was the price of it. What did you want me to do, bring her in when she could hardly walk? And send her where—Arkham? From one dark cage to another?” Zatanna said. It was odd to argue with someone while you were both putting on such friendly faces. Lent everything more acid.
“Pamela’s a danger to herself and others. You should have called me earlier. I would have found some way to extract her—”
“Extraction? In the middle of a casino? Bruce, please, you can’t always play soldier,” she said.
It stung. He let the crack slide. “What else did you find? Why was he keeping her?”
“Galapagos. Penguin was forcing her to make it—said it made people more pliable. Said he didn’t want them running off, no matter what they see in here. He had vats of the stuff—enough for this whole casino twice over. No wonder he’s cleaning the place up. Don’t like the sound of that.”
A cigarette girl called to them, the tray of Galapagos-rimmed glasses now something of a threat. Bruce waved her off with a smile. He already had a sample.
“Why’s he making so much of it? Just for tonight? It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Zatanna. “You know what else doesn’t? The door to that chamber she was in. The lock was enchanted—and powerfully, at that. No wonder she couldn’t get out of there on her own; it took me a while to crack it.”
A magical lock? He couldn’t help but think of a wizard’s tower in a fantasy novel. Why here? Pamela wasn’t some kind of sorceress; she was a scientist first and foremost. Cobblepot had never shown any interest in the arcane, either—although everything had a price when it came to him.
Still. This was an unwelcome complication.
He held open the door to the casino. She opened her own, and he followed. Outside the air was crisp and cool. Once they cleared the watchful eye of security, they were alone.
“So. I was right. There is magic involved—and it’s heavy, too, whatever it is,” she said. “You’re going to need my help to deal with it.”
“And if it’s anything like what happened at the graveyard, you’re going to need my help,” he shot back.
She flinched. He had the good grace to feel bad about it. “Sorry—that was pointed. I mean that—”
“I know what you meant,” she snapped. From her pocket she took a small thumb drive. This she shoved into his hand. “Here. This is all the data on Galapagos I could find. Knock yourself out. And when you’re ready to confront what’s going on, let me know.”
She took off. He stood, watching, then finally pocketed the thumb drive.
Well. He probably deserved that.
“Bruce?”
The woman’s voice startled him from his thoughts. Familiar, but not familiar enough that he could place it without looking. Whoever it was—why couldn’t he remember?––she sounded concerned. All the better. He could afford to be unguarded about his mood if she was already in a bad place.
He turned to find Palmyra Lent. Far from the usual composure he’d come to expect from her, she was glancing over her shoulder, a tight grip on her clutch.
“Palmyra? Is something wrong?”
“I’m so happy I found you here,” she answered. “I . . . It’s almost hard to believe, I can’t . . . ”
She trailed off. Behind him—somewhere farther down in the parking lot—he heard a shout. Lent flinched.
“What’s going on?” Bruce asked. Fights broke out at Cobblepot’s casino every night. Security would be with them shortly. Unless this was something more? He looked in the direction of the shout.
Lent touched his shoulder. “Bruce, it’s awful. You must have noticed it yourself by now.”
Desperation. Fear. He turned back toward her. “What do you mean?”
“The others. I thought I was imagining things at first, but then . . . It’s terrible, you’re never going to believe me.”
Palmyra wasn’t one for parties and he wasn’t either. To see her now on the verge of tears raised his hackles. “You’ll find I’m more trusting than most. If you’d like, we can find somewhere more private to speak.”
“That would be—oh, I knew I was right to talk with you about this,” she said. She sniffed, just as another shout rang out, and casually took his arm. “Please, my car isn’t far from here.”
“Do you want to call your driver?” he offered, but she was already walking. Her pace was quick for someone in her fifties.
“Driver? No, I do that myself. It keeps me sharp. And these days, you can’t be certain who to trust. I’m sure you know what that’s like.” She fixed him with a sidelong look. “That’s why you thought to ask all those questions about the murders. I should have seen it earlier. You’re just like me, really. Careful.”
A crack in the distance. Whatever was going on in that fight was about to be over shortly, from the sound of it—that was a broken bone if he’d ever heard one. As covertly as he could, he pressed a button on his watch. Alfred would alert the authorities to investigate his current location. Useful when he couldn’t investigate something himself.
There were other Bats to break up the fight—but Palmyra trusted only Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne would never take the subway. Why would he? He had a private chauffeur driving a fancy hotrod he didn’t even remember buying. A nice, quiet ride in the solitude of his own wealth was only a phone call away for him. Maybe less with all those gadgets of his. Why would he ever take anything else?
Zatanna rolled her eyes just imagining it. Even if he did, he’d do it wrong. He’d probably lean against the center pole so no one else could get a hold of it. Stand on the wrong side when the doors opened up, never getting out of the way to let people in. How long would it take him, she wondered, to figure out that tokens got phased out ten years ago?
If she tried to explain it to him, he’d just ask why she was even considering taking the subway, doesn’t she know there are other options, why doesn’t he just call a ride . . .
Ugh. Her kingdom for a ride.
Zatanna shoved her work outfit into the duffel bag with increasing frustration. The bathroom of a twenty-four-hour diner wasn’t the most glamorous place in the world to change, but she’d had worse, and the waitresses were at least friendly enough to let her stash her things. The glamorous face looking back at her felt like a betrayal of her own anger—the image disjointed and unreal, a woman changing into a hoodie and jeans from a cocktail dress, the phone numbers scrawled on the stall doors, the stains on the mirror.
She could have quick changed—but her stomach was rumbling as it stood, and she didn’t want to stay in that place any longer than she had to.
She could wipe away the makeup, at least. Didn’t match the look anymore.
Outside the overnight services continued as usual: truckers, EMTs, performers, graveyard shifters all sitting outside at their tables. Three waitresses tended to their needs as best they could. Zatanna melted into the dinner break. She knew her share of the nightlife folks, after all.
“Hey, Z! Didn’t know you were in town. Come on, let’s have a drink,” called Gatecrusher Gail. She was a strongwoman—her whole act based on bending as much iron as she could. Must have been less impressive in a metahuman town, Zatanna thought, but work’s work, people blow wherever the wind takes them. Gail was a sweetheart. So were the others with their martinis and double order of mozzarella sticks. There was an open space just there now that everyone had scooted over.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll catch you some other time.”
“Bad gig?” Gail said. She punched her palm, the smack rivalling anything Zatanna had heard from the Justice League. “You just say the word—”
She laughed. “Believe me, that’ll only start more problems. Thanks, Gail. You working tomorrow?”
“Yeah—got a show down on Fucci Street. Variety act, you know, we all got a part. We’re closing the joint down every night this week,” Gail said.
“I’ll have to stop by,” Zatanna said. She helped herself to a few of the mozzarella sticks. “See you then.”
They waved her off, and she had to admit she felt a little better. Hard to beat camaraderie and carbohydrates when things got rough. She stopped to thank the waitresses for letting her change, filled the tip jar, and then headed back out onto the street.
The rough squeak of the door gave way to the rushing sounds of the city: the cars, the people, the yawning winds. No city was ever quiet. Gotham was louder than most. Felt like everywhere she went she could hear police sirens.
Bruce was probably working through his frustrations out there. She sighed. It was an unkind thought. For all she knew they were trying to catch Ivy. She doubted it, though. If only Bruce had seen the state she was in, then maybe he’d understand. Sure, Ivy had her issues, and she wasn’t anyone’s definition of an angel—but that didn’t mean she deserved to swap magical chains for official ones while the Penguin chugged champagne with free hands.
Besides, if whoever they were dealing with was messing with the natural world, Ivy was a good ally to have.
Zatanna groaned. God. Why was she thinking so cynically? She didn’t have to justify her own thoughts. It wasn’t like she was still arguing with him!
Whatever. She’d get on the train and put this whole thing behind her, or at least take time to think about what her next move was going to be.
Zatanna popped in her earbuds and queued up her playlist. Drums started just as she headed downstairs. She tried to time her steps to match. Sometimes that sort of thing cleared her mind, got her more into the music.
The air changed three steps down.
Magic has a certain feel. Ears tingling, a sudden chill down the spine, a taste at the roof of your mouth you can’t explain—even mundane humans knew it when they felt it. For Zatanna it felt like the first bite of a perfectly cooked burger.
Usually.
This felt . . . like the meat had gone dry, the bun stale, stopped up in her throat. It tasted at once foul and verdant, as if that sweet tomato and lettuce had rotted to sludge.
She looked over her shoulder. A plume of spectral energy rose up in the distance, not far from the casino.
Whatever was over there might be dangerous to her body, but it probably wouldn’t be able to affect her spirit. Especially if she kept herself moving, and double especially if she was several yards underground at the time.
Time for another trip to Europe.
Zatanna booked it down the stairs. Years of long, lean nights showed in how easily she leapt the turnstile. Cops shouted behind her, but she knew her game—there were another two flights of stairs at this platform. Shoving her fellow straphangers aside, she ran. More than one obscenity followed her. Truth be told, she didn’t blame them; she’d be pissed if some broad shouldered her way through the crowd instead of waiting on the platform like the good lord intended.
But there was a lot at stake here—enough that she was willing to brave the disapproval of Gotham’s surliest residents.
It was only going to get worse from here.
The cops closed in behind her as the train roared into the station. She had only a second to judge the cars. Normally if you were trying to ditch the police you picked the most crowded one and slipped away at the next stop—but when you were looking to complete a ritual you wanted as much space and as few witnesses as you could manage. The next car over had mostly readers; that would do. She slid into it just before the doors chimed and closed. Unable to resist temptation, she gave the cops a grin as the car pulled away.
Step one complete. Good. What did she have to work with? Time to rifle through the contents of her bag. Lipstick, too many pens, coins in a sock—ah. There. Chalk. She dropped her bag on the floor and got to scrawling on the walls. For this to work, she was going to need some conduit lines.
Strange things happened all the time in cities. No one stopped her from doing this, no one said anything—the most she got were some odd looks now and again. There might have been a camera on her. She didn’t mind, not yet. If Billy wanted to post mystical sigils on the internet, he could try all he wanted; arcane energy didn’t play well with most networks.
But for the next part she needed to be alone.
Now—she could stand here and explain that there was something going on, official metahuman business, could they please leave?
But that would take too long.
Controlling other people’s minds wasn’t exactly ethical; she avoided it whenever possible. This would be more of a psychic kick than anything else. After all, there was one surefire way to get people to leave a subway car. One finger on her chalked sigil, she spoke: “Elbirret gnihtemos llems meht tel.”
Zatanna was safe from the illusion. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She didn’t care how tough a hero purported to be; subway stench could take anyone down. She took no joy in watching the straphangers of Gotham stagger to their feet and lurch toward the door. No one was brave enough to walk into the car at the next station.
She was alone. First things first: she took off her jacket and laid it on the filthy floor of the car. Times were desperate—but not that desperate. With her back against the sigils, she could start.
Zatanna took another deep breath. Magic flowed from the symbols into the pit of her stomach. There it blossomed. Her body became a bellows. If it lingered too long it’d burn. This was the trick—she had to keep circulating it, holding it in herself only long enough to use a bit before sending it rushing back into the sigils. They were so complicated because the circuits needed to be precise. Otherwise the doors were going to open on a charred skeleton in a comfortable hoodie.
But that wasn’t where she should be focusing. Regulating the flow of magical energy was bad enough on its own—the thrilling, dangerous heat in her veins—but worse than this was separating her soul from her body. Holding onto enough magic for that sent sweat rolling down her forehead; pressure built behind her eyes, threatening to burst. Only when she felt herself strain to keep together did she speak the spell.
An unseen gust of steam seared her connection to her flesh. Already she felt . . . lighter. A strange feeling, to be sure, and one she didn’t like very much. Stepping out of her body she turned to view it. Magic lit the sigil and surrounded her. For a few breaths she stood and watched the circuit work. Glow and dim, glow and dim. All those years of practice paid off: her body knew what to do even when she wasn’t in it.
Zatanna kicked up off the ground. Her spirit soared high up, through yards of tunnels and asphalt. A car whipped through her ghostly form, not even bothering to honk; she caught a snatch of conversation about where the family inside would eat tonight.
Higher still, up past the high-rise windows where crooked execs surveyed their ill-gotten gains. Higher than the tallest spires, until—there.
Like a spotlight shining into a cave, the light of whatever was going on by the museum. This time she pressed her ghostly feet against the flat glass of someone’s office window. Momentum carried her through building after building, through person after person, through memory after memory. Anniversaries, dinner dates, deaths, clandestine meetings, things left unsaid too long—the spirit of Gotham was a morose one.
She crested the last of the buildings. There, below her, there was some sort of gathering. A meeting on the top of a private parking lot was rarely legit—but this was something else. A slick black car, six people standing in front of it, a body curled up before them.
Zatanna didn’t have a spine in this form, but she felt a chill nonetheless. Closer and closer. Someone knelt down next to their victim and patted his shoulder. Maybe they were helping him up?
It was only when she came closer that she realized what was going on.
For when she got closer, the disguises these people wore flickered. No longer did she see their earthbound forms—the spirits behind them took precedence: a woman with a harpoon, a man with a flashlight strapped to his head, a medieval lord draped in finery, a man in what looked to be some sort of . . . chef’s costume. Another woman with them, too, though her aura clung to her—flowers and spectral grass growing around her shoulders.
It was the man lying on the ground that surprised her.
Because as he got up, she realized that the man was Bruce Wayne, his eyes alight with unearthly energy. Behind him was the figure of a pilgrim.
What . . .?
She didn’t have much time to think on it. As the woman surrounded by flowers incanted a ritual Zatanna could only half-understand, the spirit behind Bruce Wayne grew more and more well-defined.
And the Bruce she knew—the Bruce palling around Europe without even realizing—began to fade.
She reached out for him, but her ghostly hands closed around only so much ectoplasm.
This was bad.
This was so bad.
She turned toward the woman. Better to get a good look at her—later she’d try and track her down.
But when you stared at a ghost, sometimes, they stared back.
“Oh waitress,” the singsong voice of Palmyra Lent cut through the throbbing waves of eldritch energy. “Fetch us another round, won’t you? My treat.”