More of the fic

[miss_yt]

Title: Confluence, Chapter 2

Continuity: Batman Beyond, after the end of the series and the Return of the Joker movie.

Rating: PG-13 for violence, profanity, and creepiness

Canon characters involved: Terry, Bruce, Dana, Max, Barbara, Stalker, Terminal*

Pairings: Terry and Dana - strictly canon here, folks.

Episodes referenced/Spoilerfied: Rebirth, Blood Sport, Plague, Spellbound, Eyewitness, Hidden Agenda, Rats!, Return of the Joker and the Epilogue of JLU.*

Disclaimers: DC owns the characters, the WB owns the show, and Bruce Timm, Glen Murakami and Paul Dini created this particular continuity. I'm just borrowing from them.

Summary: Terry must contend with a new gang, the return of Stalker, and a powerful villain whose machinations put Dana's life - and Terry's secret - in jeopardy.

*This list may change as the fic progresses.

Chapter Two

"Terry?" Wayne comms him. "What happened?"

"He got away," Terry says grudgingly. He's in the air and circling the apartment complex one last time, just in case. "Where are you?"

"I managed to sneak out to the car," Wayne says, "But I need to get back to the lobby. The police are questioning people here."

"You want me to change and meet you there?" Terry asks.

"Yes," Wayne replies. "It'll look suspicious if you're not here. We'll talk on the way home afterwards."

"Got it," Terry says, as he changes course and heads back to the Genevieve Hotel.


"...so I told the guards I was chasing a dangerous criminal," Terry says as he turns off the freeway. "Luckily they knew I was one of the good guys. They searched the gardens and I made a few passes around the place, but Stalker had gotten away by then." Scowling, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I walked into that one,” he confesses, bracing himself for his mentor's forthcoming criticism - or worse, sarcasm.

Wayne gives him a sidelong glance from the passenger seat. “Next time, look up,” he advises, the gruff disapproval in his voice not quite hiding his amusement. Terry tells himself that Wayne's response wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he still cringes inside.

"Yeah. The bruises will help me remember that," Terry says. "Now I'll have to track down Stalker." He slows the car a bit so he can safely drive up the winding road to Wayne Manor at the top of the hill.

"We won't be able to," Wayne says flatly. "Not before he makes his next move. Remember, he's succeeded in evading every law enforcement agency in the world for years - he did even before he got black-market cybernetic enhancements."

Terry's surprised at what seems like Wayne's early surrender. "Well, it's not like he was on the most wanted list back then. I mean, he was just a poacher - they probably weren't looking too hard. And the FBI did get him eventually."

"By accident," Wayne says dismissively, "because they happened to raid the office of the doctor who was treating his injuries, and he wasn't in any condition to run."

"Being hit by a train will do that to you," Terry says. "But what makes you think that we won't be able to find him?"

Wayne settles back into his seat as they pull up to the gates of the manor. Terry presses the button of a remote control hanging from the driver's-side visor and the gates swing open. As he drives through, Wayne says, "A lot of the criminals we deal with have connections here - gangs, relatives, employers. We can trace those lines to track them down."

"And the ones who don't have a hard time staying hidden," Terry remarks.

Bruce nods. "For various reasons, mostly because they don't have anyone to shelter them or they don't really know how to stay out of sight. Or they don't care," he adds. "Stalker's a different case." Terry has now pulled up to the front steps: he gets out and opens Wayne's door for him, and the old man picks up where he left off as he gets out of his seat. "He has no connections to trace, but since he's an expert hunter, it stands to reason that he knows how to be elusive prey. He's already demonstrated that much.”

Terry shuts the door and presses a button on the car's key remote. Its automatic systems, guided by a transmitter on the premises, steer it into the garage to shut down and wait until it's needed again. “I see your point,” Terry says. “But if we can't catch him in time to do any good, then how are we going to stop him?”

“Keep an eye on Dr. Lannaman,” Wayne answers. He unlocks and opens the front door and Terry accompanies him into the house. “I'm sure Barbara's already got him in protective custody, or at least under guard. That's going to deter Stalker for a while.” Ace, who must have heard them coming, is waiting patiently inside the front door. Wayne gives him a pat on the head in passing.

“Yeah, but he might not go after doctor Lannaman that way.” Terry says. Wayne stops in his tracks and gives Terry a quizzical look. “Stalker's obviously got some beef with Lannaman – he looks like he got pretty roughed up recently, and maybe Lannaman had something to do with it. But from what you told me...I think there's something else going on. If Stalker just wanted to kill the guy, he wouldn't have pulled that stunt earlier tonight.”

“Hm.” Wayne says thoughtfully as the two of them walk towards the parlor, accompanied by Ace. “What do you think he'll do?”

Terry's not sure whether Wayne's really asking him for his opinion or whether this is some sort of test. He shoves his hands in his pockets and thinks a few seconds before answering. “I'm not sure. He's way off his MO as it is. Seems like Stalker wants to expose whatever Lannaman did at least as much as he wants to kill him.”

Wayne settles himself into one of the parlor chairs and makes a tent of his fingers. “Maybe. But if Stalker's goal is to bring Lannaman to justice, his methods could use a little work.”

“I don't think the word 'justice' is even in his vocabulary,” Terry grumbles. “He's a criminal. A psychopath.” Terry starts pacing back and forth, hands jammed in his pockets and eyes on the ground. Ace, stretched out beside his master's chair, regards him with concern.

“He did help us track down False Face and Kobra,” Wayne points out, “and he saved your life.”

“That doesn't win him any points as far as I'm concerned,” Terry says. “First, he only went after False Face so the NSA would give him a Get Out of Jail Free card. Second, he only saved me so he could kill me later. He told me as much.”

“At least he's honest,” Wayne says with an irritating half-smile. He ignores Terry's answering scowl, then continues, in all seriousness: “He won't be able to try anything else tonight. And neither will we. Go home – I'll see what I can dig up on Stalker and Dr. Lannaman.”

Terry sighs, slowing his pacing to a halt. He's been feeling worked up ever since Stalker crashed the party, but now his frenetic energy dissipates, forcing him to realize just how slagged he is, how much he hurts from the beating he took a couple of hours ago. This kind of feeling has become all too familiar to him in the past year or so: it comes with the territory.

“Okay,” he says to Wayne. “I'll start looking for Stalker tomorrow night.”

“You have that new gang to keep an eye on, too,” Wayne reminds him.

“Yeah, the Lwa, I know,” Terry says as he heads for the door. Privately, he marks them as nothing more than an annoyance – one that will probably take care of itself.


"Hey, c'mon, man," Puck Randall entreats, his voice tight with fear, sweat beading on his grease-painted face. "Maybe we can work something out. That business on the docks, that was just a misunderstanding."

The guy he's talking to - the one standing over him, pointing the business end of a laser pistol at his forehead - does not seem impressed. His face, painted up like a white skull on a black background, twists into an expression of disgust.

Puck grins ingratiatingly, desperately. "It doesn't have to be like this, Terminal. You used to be one of us." His eyes flicker around the room, once the V.I.P. lounge in a famous Gotham nightclub, long ago transformed into a Joker hangout, and, more recently, a battleground. The other members of Puck's gang - those lucky enough to still be conscious, or alive - are in similar situations, being held at gunpoint by black-clad, skull-faced invaders.

Terminal flashes a predatory smile. "So you remember. I'm flattered," he says. His voice is soft, dispassionate, edged with cold. "But what did being in this gang ever get me, besides time in prison?" He leans down over Puck, who cringes from his terrible grin. "Your time is over. We are the winning team now. You should've joined us when we made the offer."

Puck can't repress a whimper of fear. He prostrates himself on the floor, the bells on his jester's cap jingling hollowly. "Please, man! Don't kill us! Take whatever you want, anything here, whatever part of the city you like. Just don't shoot us."

His plea is met with silence: he looks up to see Terminal frowning - not like he's angry, but like he's thinking. Then, keeping his pistol trained on Puck, he looks over his shoulder to address his comrades. "What do you think, fellas? Since he asked so nicely and all."

The other members of Terminal's new gang murmur their assent, or grin and nod, their necklaces of shell and bone rattling faintly.

Terminal looks back at Puck, who has dared to raise his head from the floor. He shrugs dismissively. "Okay," he says in an almost pleasant tone of voice. Puck blinks at Terminal, wondering if he's dreaming or if he's just gone off the deep end.

"We'll be polite and leave you alone," Terminal says. "No shooting anyone. And you won't bother us again, will you?"

"N-no," Puck assures him. "Of course not. I promise." He can't believe he's getting out of this alive and in once piece.

Terminal nods at Puck, lowering his pistol but keeping it very obviously at the ready. "Oh, you don't have to promise. I know you won't give us any more trouble." He turns to his comrades. "We're done here. Let's clear out."

While Puck and his gang look on in utter confusion, Terminal's people leave in an orderly - almost regimented - fashion, moving backwards up the entry steps of the V.I.P. room, keeping their guns out and their eyes on the Jokerz just in case one of them decides to do something stupid. Terminal is the last to leave: while Puck watches in disbelief, slowly rising from the floor, Terminal graces him with a mocking wave. The ruby eyes of his skull pendant - the only jewelry he wears, in contrast to his companions - glint briefly in the light as he turns away, walks through the door and pulls it shut behind him.

Puck and his fellow Jokerz hold their collective breath for a few moments, looking around nervously, unsure whether or not they are really off the hook. A few laugh nervously, although most are occupied with checking on their fallen comrades. If he doesn't do something soon, he's going to lose the top spot in this band. Groveling to Terminal, even though it kept everyone from getting killed, has lost him a lot of face with his gang.

First thing's first: about a quarter of his gang has been wounded, some pretty badly. A couple, he's sure, are beyond hope. "We got some medkits in back," he says loudly, getting everyone's attention. "Tiny, Blossom, Gaz, you get some water and rags to clean folks up with." Puck's already planning retaliation: maybe he can turn this around, use it to galvanize all the Jokerz into making a counterstrike. He knows the other Joker bands don't like Terminal's new gang any more than he does. If he leads the charge, he can be the top dog in every gang in the city...

Puck's eye is caught by movement at the top of the room's entrance stairs. The door creaks open, and he gets a brief glimpse of black leather, shining metal buckles and a skull-painted face. A gloved hand reaches out, holding a silver-and-red object, and throws it underhanded into the room. The object bounces and skitters to a stop in the middle of the floor as the thrower quickly slams the door shut.

The Jokerz are bewildered, not knowing what to make of this new development. The squarish silver thing is adorned with blinking red lights: every time they blink, the thing produces a beeping noise. As Puck approaches the object, the rate of its beeping and flashing increase in tempo.

Only after he picks it up does he recognize it: he's seen it in the movies and on military websites. It's called a lightweight attack munition, or LAM. Though far more advanced and powerful than the explosives from which it was descended, it is commonly referred to as a grenade.

You don't have to promise, Terminal had said. I know you won't give us any more trouble.

The LAM's lights stop blinking and blaze a steady red: the beeping becomes a sustained electronic shrill.

"Oh shi..."

Comments

[redrikki.livejournal.com]

Good Terry/Bruce dialog. The mystery thickens. What is the good Doctor up to, how does he connect to the gang? (Since I know you're too good a writer to just have them in there as a red herring) Keep it up and let me know when you post more.