Issue# 5, May Yr. 2

"Family Values"

By Rory O'Sullivan

---

 

They didn't talk about the kidnapping, though it reigned heavily in both their minds.
Terry McGinnis stared at his mother over the offered plate of pasta. It had been nearly a week since he'd been freed from the mad clutches of the serial killer Holiday, a week in which every night the glinting blade the killer wielded flashed through his dreams. But he was the Batman, and he would not let such a mis-event visibly rattle him. He had to stay strong for his mother's sake, anyway.
She'd plunged into action once he'd returned, as any good twenty-first century mother would. Stress counselors, grief counselors, psychiatrists and psychologists, nervous disorder specialists, at her behest they descended upon him like a swarm of angry bees. They poked and prodded their way into his mind, doing their best to work a magic that wasn't needed. If Terry had had an actual problem, he would've been more appreciative, but he would not let himself have one. So the team of what were still called 'quacks' was just invasive.
All that seemed to be drawing to a close now, he noticed. The smile lines around his mother's eyes had returned, and she carried herself a bit straighter. No more touchy feely "How are you doing?" or "Are you okay?" every time they passed each other. It was back to the way things were.
Mrs. McGinnis stood suddenly, and shuffled off to their apartment's kitchenette with her plate. "I'm going out tonight, Terry," she said. Her delivery had a ring of guilt to it, but Terry put that aside. All the better that she was allowing herself some recreation. "Will you be okay here on your own? Your brother's staying at his friend's," she implored.
"I'll be fine, Mom. Go. Enjoy."
She nodded solemnly, and retreated into her bedroom.
Terry breathed a long sigh. Finally, peace and quiet, without someone analyzing his every move, every impulse. Manna from Heaven.
He collapsed onto the couch, flipped on the holo-screen, and settled in. A 'Super Friends' rerun was on, and he lapsed into a vegetable state, enjoying every moment of serenity.
It would be a good night.

---

John Patrick O'Reilly smiled as he closed the book.
It was a beaten old textbook he'd found in the park outside Gotham General Hospital, a book titled 'A STUDY IN ADVANCED HYPNOSIS.' When you lived on the streets, such lavish entertainments as books were hard to come by, and he'd absorbed every word.
Now what to do with this newfound knowledge?
At two in the morning, Gotham City became eerily deserted. A few stragglers roamed the street, nervously avoiding one another as they steered themselves home to their families.
Home. He and this word had developed a love-hate relationship over the years. While he despised the happy home-life of the nuclear family, there was nothing he longed for more. Yet another twisted aspect of the life of a homeless man.
A particular straggler caught his eye, a woman in her early forties, obviously intoxicated, but not unaware of her surroundings. She did her best to walk rapidly, obviously hurrying home, as if on urgent business.
She would directly cross his path.

---

Mrs. McGinnis was dimly aware of a detached sense of danger about her. The streets of Gotham City were crude and mean after hours, and she hadn't intended to end up walking them alone. But the pleasant buzz of something called Beerzak had made it seem like a good idea as she'd left the discotheque. She drew her coat closer about her, shaking her head every now and again as if trying to shoo away the nagging chemical muddiness that had descended on her brain.
O'Reilly stepped directly into her path. "Excuse me, ma'am, any change?"
Mrs. McGinnis's heart leapt to her throat, but she pressed on, managing a strained, "No."
O'Reilly seized her wrist. Panicked, she whirled on him---
Their eyes met. Suddenly, his were intense, and they bore into hers. "Yes, you do."
Mrs. McGinnis gulped. Something was happening. What was he doing? She was losing...
"Yes... I... do..."
Zombie-like, she reached into her handbag, and deposited a few coins in the man's hand.
O'Reilly smiled again. He was going to enjoy this.
"Okay, then, ma'am, let's go for a walk, okay?"
"Yes..."

---

They ambled away from what had become known as Nightclub Boulevard, toward the more upstanding inner city neighborhoods that had been deserted since a much earlier hour.
O'Reilly paused before the Gotham First National Bank, and peered through the window.
A security guard peered back, gesturing with his billy club for O'Reilly to move along.
O'Reilly stepped back, and muttered a few words to his new captive.
Mrs. McGinnis moved with robotic precision at his behest. Slipping out of her high heels, she gave the bank's Plexiglas window a solid kick. The glass reverberated without giving in, but the guard was startled sufficiently that he ran to the door. He opened it, and as he stepped into the street, she was ready. She pounced, knocking him backward, and seizing the door before it could swing shut. As the guard regained his senses, she held the door open for O'Reilly to scoot through.
He practically pranced past the various alarms and sensors, as klaxons ignited with sound. He really didn't mind, for his eyes were glowing with images of fresh dollar bills and piles of gold.
Like an old fashioned bank robber, he found a canvas sack, with a dollar sign on the side, kept around as a joke by the staff. Into the bag he shoved any and every piece of currency he could lay his hands on.
Mrs. McGinnis rejoined him at the entrance, having once more dispatched the guard.
"Excellent work, Madame!" he offered. "Now, then... take me... home."

---

'Super Friends' cut into commercials, and Terry hoisted himself off the couch. He stumbled into the apartment's kitchenette, working to restore blood circulation to his left leg. He busied himself making a sandwich in the kitchen, and listening with half-interest to the sudden news bulletin.
"A well-dressed woman and what appears to have been a homeless man have robbed the Gotham City First National Bank. They are heading due east along Seventh Avenue. The police are doing their best to intercept, but the couple's motives and state of mind are unclear at this point---"
Terry smiled as he returned to the couch. That sounded like a doozy of a case. Good thing it was Batman's night off. Bruce wouldn't approve of him dodging the Call of Duty, but a city needed one little bank robbery every now and again, to keep it on it's toes. Right?
He started his sandwich, lazily absorbing the images on the holoscreen, when there came a noise outside the apartment door. Not a loud noise, not something he should've noticed. But he was instantly suspicious. Bruce had taught him well on that account.
He rolled over the back of the couch into a fighting stance, and slowly advanced on the door.
Just as he reached it, it opened, and Mrs. McGinnis stepped in.
"Mom!" Terry exclaimed, "I thought---"
She looked at him curiously, without blinking. Then O'Reilly bounded in behind her, and whistled, "Nice place!"
Terry bristled. "Who the hell are you?"
O'Reilly swung around, almost crestfallen as he fixed his eyes on Terry. "Oh. We have company." He motioned at Mrs. McGinnis, who suddenly seized her son by the neck, and tossed him across the room.
Shocked less by the fall than by disbelief, Terry scrambled to his feet. "Mom, what's wrong with you?" The vacant look in her eyes spoke volumes. Mrs. McGinnis was not herself.
Terry decided that the rough-looking, yet gentlemanly, guy at her side was the source. He catapulted over the couch, and lashed out, taking O'Reilly where his shoulder and neck connected, with a vicious karate chop.
Mrs. McGinnis was between them then, shoving her son back.
Terry regained his feet yet again, and looked about frantically. What a tight spot. If only Batman were here, he mused...
"Terry?" The gravelly voice, always carrying a suspicious lilt, wafted in from the half-open doorway. Bruce Wayne entered the room, and took in the twisted scene. He reacted with neither surprise nor shock, nor astonishment. For he had once been the Batman, and he'd seen stranger things happen.
As Terry had, he identified O'Reilly as the source, and speared him with his gaze. "What is going on here?"
O'Reilly ignored them both. He emptied a tray of spare change into his cloth bag, and motioned for his 'slave' to do the same.
"Mom!" Terry exclaimed. "What's wrong? What're you---?"
O'Reilly took one last long look around the apartment, smirked, and led the woman out into the hall.
Terry bounded after them, but Bruce stopped him with a raised hand. "Where's the costume?"
"I left it in the Cave," Terry admitted.
Bruce sighed. "Go get it. I'll follow them."
Terry nodded. "Bruce... What's wrong with her?"
"I've seen that bewildered look many times before. Hypnosis. There's a text book in the study back at the Cave, you should glance through it when you pick up the costume. " Without further ado, the old man darted into the hall.
At the opposite end of the hall, a GCPD officer appeared, gun raised. "Freeze!" He barked, and his cry electrified the air.
O'Reilly held nothing but contempt for the police force, but he was not stupid enough to underestimate them. Seizing Mrs. McGinnis by the arm, he led her down an adjoining hallway and into the stairwell.
The stairwell door hissed shut behind him. "They're quicker than I thought! Do you have a car?"
She nodded, and he smiled.
Bruce introduced himself curtly to the young officer as the two ran in tandem towards the stairwell.
"What are you doing out here?" the cop queried.
"My... apprentice's mother is being held by this guy," he allowed. "What do you have on him?"
"John O'Reilly. Homeless guy, usually hangs around Nightclub Boulevard. Convictions for loitering, breaking and entering, public mischief, a few other misdemeanors."
"This could be decidedly more serious," Bruce remarked as the officer threw open the stairwell door. Inside, it was empty. "I assume you have backup en route."

---

The McGinnis family car was in it's assigned space, a 2010 Thunder sedan. O'Reilly reveled in the pure luxury of it all. It had been twenty years since he'd been seated in a car, aside from the odd patrol vehicle. He assumed he could still drive, naturally enough, so---
"Where's the gear shift?" he asked. Mrs. McGinnis, in the passenger seat, looked on blankly. "Damn," he huffed. He had to think fast. The closest thing he could find to the gearshift was what he would later discover was the hoverdrive collective, in the center of the dashboard. He yanked on it, and the Thunder levitated to about a foot. Carefully, learning as he went, he manipulated the small compressed-air jets that lined the framework, backing out of the parking space.
Soon enough, he'd found the accelerator, and, after dinging only a handful of other cars, they were racing for the exit.
Bruce and the officer burst into the parking lot just as the Thunder raced past, ironically enough, like a bat out of Hell. Already the cop's hand was on his radio mic, while Bruce scanned the row of cars. Amid protests from the young lawman, the former vigilante jimmied open the door of a late-model Jetstream, and powered it up.
Grudgingly, the cop slid into the passenger seat. "Mister Wayne, I must advice you that this action is in violation of several laws---"
Bruce smiled at him in that odd, experienced way of his, and sent the hovercar careening forward.

---

It was barely four thirty in the morning, and traffic was scarce. Bruce Wayne offered a prayer of thanks for that. O'Reilly's spirited driving left much to be desired.
The two cars were almost neck and neck, barreling as they were down one of Gotham's steeper hills. Bruce winced as the Thunder cleaved through a newsstand, and fishtailed around a blind corner. All he could do was follow. Any amusement he might've held at the uncomfortable officer's white knuckles was lost as his amazing mind focused on his one objective. He flashed back, as his and his opponent's cars wrestled for space, to that epic scene from 'Ben Hur,' the chariot race. It had been his father's favorite part.
An odd thing to think, Bruce, you must be getting old. Where's your adrenaline?
Adrenaline would return momentarily. At a junction further down the street, a pair of squad cars appeared, forming a roadblock of which O'Reilly seemed heedless. The medley of blue and red light was distracting, and oddly inspiring at the same time. Perhaps for the same reason that the forefathers of America, and, incidentally, of France, had chosen such a combination as a national symbol. The reason itself was lost in the tension of the moment.
Like a brilliant dark angel, Batman was pacing the Thunder sedan, skirting the asphalt as the roadblock neared. Bruce tightened his grip on the wheel, gaze intensifying as the scene unfolded before him.
With a sudden burst of energy, Batman shouldered into the sedan. O'Reilly fought for control as the car skewed hard toward the bordering row of buildings. He twisted the collective sharply, and the car rotated up onto its side, obediently continuing along an old brownstone's pockmarked surface. It shot past the roadblock, affording it little more than a rearward glance.
Bruce duplicated the maneuver as best he could, grimacing as open road unwound before them once more. Batman still dogged the sedan's tail, however, and suddenly all the old man's hopes rested squarely on the shoulders of the young man in the costume.
Batman arched in the air, across the sleek front of his mother's car. He was almost intimidated for an instant; it had been designed in almost a predatory stance, the grille serving as the mouth, the headlights evil-looking eyes.
He clawed his way across the hood, glaring into the tinted front window. O'Reilly struggled constantly to keep the car out of harm's way as he craned his neck to see past the oncoming vigilante.
Think rationally! Terry's mind screamed at the man, For the love of God, stop the car! I'm blocking your view!
The car accelerated.
Terry squared his shoulders. He'd been wary of trying this, but desperate times called for desperate measures. As he sent a volt of sizzling electricity through his arm into the car's hood, he wondered if insurance would cover vigilante action.
The engine exploded, tossing him clear. As he looked on, the sedan ground to a halt slowly, painfully slowly. Before anyone would dare move, the purloined Jetstream had nosed around to block its path.
Bruce Wayne burst from the driver's seat, the officer warily in tow. The old man threw open the Thunder's door, and dumped John Patrick O'Reilly unceremoniously into the street.
Mrs. McGinnis stepped clear, looking dazed and confused, but none the worse for wear. "Mister... Mister Wayne?"
Bruce turned from the hapless criminal. "Mrs. McGinnis," he stated warmly. "You sound like you're back to normal."
"Back to..." She shook her head. "Okay. Where's... Where's Terry?"
"Right here, Mom." And he was, having stepped out of costume and into street clothes only moments before, shielded in a back alley. "You've had quite a night."
"You say so," she said shakily. Then her eyes came to rest on the shattered remnants of her precious car. "Oh--- Oh, God---"
Terry guided her away from the scene, as though guiding a parishioner away from a casket. "C'mon, Mom. I'll tell you about it later. Let's go home."
And they did.