For Laughs - Batman/Criminal Minds - Chapter 11 - 12/17
Title: For Laughs
Fandom: Batman (Nolan universe, mostly)/Criminal Minds
Links: Prologue + Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7 + Chapter 8 + Chapter 9 + Chapter 10
Rating: T (overall), but ventures into M
Warnings: Joker-level violence, serial killer activities
Summary: If the BAU wants to catch the Joker, they'll need to profile the Batman. But will all of the team survive to close the case? Gen fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
Chapter 11
Ain't It Funny
For another man, a man without purpose, the suit would have been met with shame, putting it on would have been a chore, walking out in it an embarrassment. But Bruce felt no such thing. Once the cowl fell over his form, both freedom and the heavy weight of responsibility met him with equal footing. He was a Wayne no longer. Money, society, self didn't matter. He became a truer form, he became the Batman.
As was his habit, he released a breath, himself once more, and felt a comfort that was in no way physical.
"Master Bruce, you missed a call. From the hotel."
Batman turned his head in response, thankful that Lucius had made the updates required for the movement not to trigger some small device, and saw Alfred approaching across the slick floor of the newly renovated Cave.
"I know, Alfred," Batman breathed, his voice not quite as hard yet, the costume not complete. "I need to check on one of Zsasz's past hangouts on the east side. As soon as I finish, I'm going to talk to Spencer Reid. I think that, if Batman speaks to him, he can be convinced to…"
Alfred's frown was tight. "Master Bruce," he interrupted. "You need to turn on the monitor." But the butler was already doing that for him. The multiple video feeds buzzed to life and Alfred set the local channel on the largest screen.
Batman took a step forward, watching the scene behind the reporter. Smoke, fire trucks, the hint of flames soon to be extinguished. He opened his mouth to ask, but the answer was before him. He recognized the building. He owned it. The Menagerie.
The reporter, a young Asian woman with a short bob, stood against crime tape, a hand over her ear so she could hear the latest update.
"…The Menagerie Hotel earlier this evening when an explosion blew out a fourth floor room. Reports are coming that at least four guests staying at the hotel were badly injured, and there is at least one suspected…" She paused, tapping her ear to listen in over the outbursts from the crowd surrounding her. "No longer suspected, authorities are confirming one fatality found at the source of the blast."
Batman could feel the old butler's eyes on him, but he refused to turn away from the screen.
"Susan," a man's voice interrupted. The screen split, showing an immaculately groomed man inside the studio, "rumors are spreading like wild fire amongst our Facebook and Twitter fan viewers that the explosion was meant to target the F.B.I. unit staying at the hotel. Any word on whether there's any truth to that? And if so, could the fatality be a Federal Agent?"
Susan cocked her head, "We won't know until an official statement has been made. Also, there has been no word yet on what was responsible for the explosion, but, according to sources in the GCPD, foul play is suspected. Rick, that would seem a likely explanation since officers from the Major Crimes Unit arrived on scene almost immediately following..."
Batman turned to Alfred, as if looking for a confirmation. Alfred shook his head. "It must have happened moments after I dropped the boy off. I'm sorry, Master Bruce."
There was no reply. Batman turned, ready to walk away, when the news flashed away from Susan at the hotel front and back to the station.
There was a slightly panicked expression on the news broadcaster's face. Rick opened his mouth. "Breaking news," left his lips, and Batman came to a complete stop, glancing back at the screen. "We're just getting word," Rick continued, "trouble at Elizabeth Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A riot broke out only minutes ago when the security system detaining the south wing of the asylum suffered a complete shut down…According to early reports, no detainees have escaped the outside perimeter of the facility, and officials say that the situation is under control. We have our sky cam set up for a better view of the violent attempted break out."
The helicopter view was shaky, but the image clear, the bright spot lights dancing over the grounds of Arkham lighting the world below. Patients ran across the yard, dogs chasing them toward the waiting guards. The movement reminded Batman of an anthill met with a rainstorm. Across the roof, though, that was what caught his eye. Flames danced, spread over the gravel dust, an S.O.S. of sorts, written for a bird's eye view. Or a bat's. The words were easy to make out:
HA HA HA
"The Joker's had a busy night," Alfred said, his voice as quiet as a whisper.
Batman stiffened, switching off the monitor. "It's a message. For me. For Gotham."
"But what does it say?" Alfred questioned. Before he could receive a reply, he took a quit step forward. "Who are you going to go after? There could be bigger fish than our Mr. Zsasz. If the Joker has plans for Arkham…"
The tension built. Batman's eyes were black with intensity when he turned back. "Or that's what the Joker wants us to believe. This is a game to him."
Alfred raised his head. "Do we call his bluff?"
Burning fish hearts. He could smell them. He could hear them popping and searing. They were there, in the room, warding off the devil.
Reid pulled himself from the memory. It wasn't real. It was in the past. No matter how vivid, no matter how much the very thought made him want to vomit, the past was the past, and this place smelled nothing like fish. Plastic, rust, mold: but no searing hearts and livers.
He forced his eyes open, but the light above was bright, blinding, and he winced, turning his head to one side. The last he time he'd regained consciousness after being taken by an unsub, he had been strapped and handcuffed to a chair. This time was different, if only slightly. He was lying down, his body secured by a strap across his waist, looping over his forearms, and another at his knees. Also, it was not Tobias Hankel looming over him.
Truthfully, for a split second, Reid almost missed Hankel.
The light above was blocked by the shadow of his kidnapper's form, and, without realizing it, the agent found himself staring up at the upside down painted face above.
"Well, look who's up past curfew," the Joker announced. His smiled down, the puckered shape of his scars wrinkling at the gesture. "You know, it is a school night, kiddo. Why don't you give me Mom and Pop's number and I'll give 'em a ring. Let 'em know you're going to be out late."
Reid was disoriented. It didn't help that the Joker seemed to be sitting above his head, leaning over him. Spencer could smell popcorn on the criminal's breath. It was an odd observance, but seemed disturbingly fitting: according to the profile, the Joker would find this perfect entertainment. And what better accompaniment to entertainment?
The Joker sat up, slightly, letting the light blind Reid again. "Spencer Reid," he read, and then flapped the ID badge in front of the agent's face. "Been doing a little light reading on you, doctor." He rapped his gloved knuckles over Reid's temple. "The brain of the operation."
If his laugh was any judge, the Joker found this highly amusing. After he'd caught his breath, he leaned forward again, hovering half a foot above Reid's face. Spencer knew this was a delicate situation. One slip was all it would take.
"That's right," Spencer agreed. "I'm Dr. Reid of the Behavior Analysis Unit of the F.B.I." He paused, swallowing hard. "I've, I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Joker. We all have."
"Talk to me? Ya don't say," the Joker replied. He cocked his head, as if curious. "What ever about?"
Reid opened his mouth to speak, and a resounding pop echoed in his ear. The sting on his cheek came secondary. The agent blinked up, realizing he'd been slapped. There was something about the contact that felt worse than the kicks to the gut, the bruising bash to his temple.
"Say again?" the Joker asked, cupping one ear. Reid's jaw twitched and the Joker slapped him again, harder.
Reid felt the humiliation building in his reddened cheeks. He blinked, hoping to shy away the tears that were threatening to form. The Joker reached over him, a tight, clawing vice on the agent's chin, bruising the pale flesh.
"See, kiddo, you're not going to do the talking," he spat. His green hair fell down, a curl tickling Reid's forehead. "You're going to listen. Then I'm going to ask you a simple, simple question and you're going to give me a two word answer."
The grip was loosened and Reid nodded.
"See, kiddo, you are the smart one."
The clown's face disappeared. The Joker sat up, unfolding his legs and sliding off of the conveyor belt. His shoes hit the floor with a loud slap. Without pause, he snatched a pile of papers from a nearby table top, leaving a heavy book behind, and he quickly spun around, back to the agent. A little skip in his footing. Reid had turned his head to follow the movement. The Joker licked a finger and flipped through the forms like a doctor reviewing his charts.
"Eidetic memory," the Joker read, "and an IQ of 187..." He looked up in mock shock, mouthing "Wow!" before glancing back down at the papers. "Doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. Undergraduate degrees in blah blah blah…" The Joker tossed the papers over his shoulder, bored, and leaned down on his elbows, staring at the young man. He sighed, and reached out. Reid flinched, expecting a blow, but, instead, the Joker roughly ruffled his hair. "A little paranoid, aren't you?"
Reid forced his lips closed.
"So, all those titles under your belt and you end up profiling 'bad guys' for the F.B.I.- sounds like a bit of waste, doesn't it?" The Joker mused. "I mean, how can you be absolutely sure that you've found your true calling if all you do all day is stop others from finding theirs?"
The Joker stepped away. Reid craned his neck to see what lay ahead. At the corner of the room, he could see two men, large, burly, their faces hidden by blue and red painted hosiery, but Reid wasn't interested in them or the heavy weaponry laying across their laps. The clown moved along the assembly line, laying molded rubber baby dolls along the conveyor belt. "Speaking of calling…" the Joker noted, continuing his work, "that reminds me. Gotta make a phone call."
He pulled out a cell phone. From the glimpse alone, Reid could tell that it was his own. For a split second, his panic lightened. Garcia could trace the call, could find him. But then he recalled a very important detail: the explosion. His room, incinerated. The implications of that fire finally processed...His team, they'd think he was already dead.
The Joker paused before he dialed the number, taking two steps back and pressing a button on a control panel. Reid jerked forward, the belt below him moving. A strange, stamping noise echoed from ahead. His neck popped at the strain, but he didn't care. He had to see… Ahead of him, a naked doll slid down a short slide, landing under a rotating machine. Two poles jutted down, depositing plastic eyes into the doll's rubber head.
And Reid was four dolls away from the eye punch. He squirmed against his restraints, terror sweeping over him.
"Eidetic memory," the Joker muttered. Speaking up, he continued, "that's a photographic memory, right, kiddo? So, you see something and you have a hard time getting it out of your head. That must just drive you crazy. Of course, there's a simple solution to that particular problem."
Three dolls away.
The Joker pressed call, holding the phone to his head and listening to the ring. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if annoyed.
Two dolls.
Reid's managed to still himself long enough to sputter, "You're going to break it." The Joker raised a brow. The agent kept the man's attention, tapping his fingertips against the belt. "The restrains on this belt won't give way at the dumping slide, and even if they did, the slide wouldn't be able to withstand my weight, instead collapsing in on itself and tearing the wash and bolts from the floor support." He forced a calm over his face. "I'll be dumped onto the floor. Unharmed." When the Joker simply stared on, he added, "degree in engineering."
The last doll hit the slide.
The Joker frowned. Rolling his eyes, he pressed the button, and the belt wrenched to an immediate stop. He lazily stepped up to the belt, closing and pocketing the phone once more.
"See, kiddo," the Joker said, "all that wasted potential. You could have made an eye punch machine that would actually pop your eyes like grapes, if you really wanted. It's such a shame you chose something as silly as profiling."
The Joker appeared truly distressed, shaking his head like a disappointed father.
Reid took a nervous breath. "I guess we had different career counselors."
A psychopath. Asocial. Compulsive. He lusted for power, control, and blood.
And he could not be reasoned with.
It was not the kind of situation any agent wanted to be in, because for all the profiling, for all the study, there was no way to talk her way out of his grasp, to prove to him that she was a human and not an object. Because it was her very humanity he wished to attack. To destroy.
J.J. knew she had two options. Find a way out or distract him, occupy him, until her team could find her.
She blinked, wincing when her right eye refused to open completely. Zsasz's boredom had led him to try out new methods, a few punches to the face. But he had found no satisfaction in it and had perched himself on the box springs, waiting. The razor glistened in the faint light as he flipped it overtop his fingers, letting it dance up and down his fist. Reid used to do that, with a coin, when he was finishing reports; J.J. hated the man in front of her for ruining that simple memory.
"Cut, cut, cut," he muttered, as if teasing her. "Cut, cut, cut…"
"You're wrong," J.J. said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Zsasz's mantra faded to nothingness. He paused the blade between his fingers.
J.J. swallowed, noting the coppery taste of blood against her gum. "There's meaning in what I do," she said. "Just like there's meaning in what you do."
Zsasz stood, slowly, as if stretching out his back, his wide shoulders, and strolled forward. "There is no meaning. To anything," he replied.
J.J. opened her mouth, but the sound of a phone ringing cut her off. Zsasz pulled the mobile from his pocket, but didn't move to answer, only staring, fixedly, at the blinking screen. It cast an eerie green glow over his face. One. Two. Three. And the ringing came to a quick stop. Zsasz dropped the phone to the floor, no longer in need of it, and stared up at the young agent with a crocodile grin.
"It's time," he said, and stepped forward.
J.J. squirmed against the bindings, her chest heaving with a single breath that refused to escape. Panic pushed her back against the chair, as if she could somehow will the furniture to release her.
Zsasz only shushed with a chiding shake of his head. "None of that now," he cooed. "Your salvation has arrived, Jennifer."
He tapped the razor against her neck, stroking it, but not slicing the pale strip of flesh. "This is my gift to you," he whispered.
J.J. forced a hardness to her face, refusing to look at the man in front of her. A shadow fell over the faint moonlight outside the window. And in a moment of illogical blindness, she thought that it might be death, coming to collect.
The razor bit, a flush of ice against heat as it cut into her throat and threw a red spray over Zsasz's fingertips.
READ CHAPTER 12