"... fault runs from Spillkin Hill across the harbor to Chalfonte and through the heart of Gotham-- Yet the Plate Ridge runs hundreds of miles North and South, and you'll never guess where, along that line, I have placed my ultra-low frequency tectonic activator. So just look around and consider-- seven-point-six on the Richter Scale was nothing. Force my hand and I'll trigger a second quake measuring nine or even ten."
"All right, stop the tape right there for now." Jim Gordon officially looks more tired than I've ever seen him, which is saying a lot, come to think of it. I know exactly how he feels. Only reasons I'm still on my feet after the Longest Night is a combination of the one highly suspect super-stimulant (that I'm increasing sure had meth in it) and magic's amazing ability to simultaneously exhaust a body and leave it too jazzed to rest.
The good news is, we made it through the night, and I'm reasonably sure a lot of people are alive this morning who wouldn't have been without my aid, so yay me. The bad news, in no particular order; the city is still fucked and more buildings are collapsing all the time, the people are various shades of shell-shocked, hurt and dying, the National Guard still won't be here for another two days or more and God alone knows about FEMA. We'll still be digging people out for days, and whether or not I can, I desperately need to sleep.
For instance, there was apparently a riot at Blackgate prison last night after quake damage popped open a bunch of cells, and the entire situation came up and was resolved without my knowledge. I mean, I suppose someone at some point must have told me something about it, I honestly can't remember. I guess if somebody did, I probably told them exactly how low that sat on my priority list at the moment and told them to handle it while I went back to saving lives.
The flying monkeys, being not terribly stronger than the average primates, were of limited use once we exhausted the supply of distressed people in or near open air, and I was all happy to dismiss them. Something about them really gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I'm firmly resolved never to summon them again, outside of an emergency. Now why should that be? They were a useful resource tonight, and could be again. No, James. Just no.
We did find a couple civic engineers who shooed everyone out of the GCPD while they made sure it wouldn't be the next building to implode on itself. I respect that, first rule of any rescue worker, don't become yourself a person in need of rescue.
Which is why, when we found the anonymously dropped VHS tape by a "Quakemaster" claiming credit for the quake and demanding a hundred million dollars to prevent a second, we all wound up watching it in the street, on a TV sitting on the hood of a squadcar. Myself, Gordon, and detectives Montoya and Bullock. Everyone else seeming uncomfortable with myself as their new boss. Ah well, sure I've had run-ins with all of them, but I like to think I've above petty vengeance. Of the overt kind.
"Have you any suggestion to make?" I was startled to hear Holmes' perfect clipped English from Jim Gordon's mouth, and before I could quite stop myself, my hand dashed into my pocket and clenched the phaser there, my mouth twisting into a snarl before I could right it. I saw Bullock and Montoya's hands likewise go for their guns.
"I beg your pardon. What did you say?"
"I said, any thoughts?" Gordon has never been one to back down, and his eyes have a hint of steel as they meet mine levelly. Right then. Auditory hallucinations, one of the key signs to all the good little libriomancers that it's time to set aside the magic and go play outside. Not sure exactly when those started, but I think it was around midnight.
"Right. Sorry. Been a long night." I carefully bring my hand back out, empty. "I knew a Quakemaster, back in my Secret Society of Supervillains days. Guy had a souped up jackhammer that could rattle the ground some, and could bring down buildings but only because he was an architect and could quickly figure out what weak points to use it on. This guy-" I stabbed a finger at the shadowy figure on the screen, "-is clearly not him. Which may not mean a lot. Could be a legacy, or a name-theft. I wasn't exactly the first Bookworm, you'll remember."
Bullock perked up. "Right, the guy with the hat-lamp and the exploding gas books? He was weird." Then he gives me a very suspicious side-eye. "'An what's this about a secret society of supervillains?"
"Oh yeah, we beat Darkseid once." disbelieving stares, "Well, it's a really long story and not terribly relevant to anything."
"Getting back to this Quakemaster," Montoya piped up, "He's masked and kept his face in shadow too, and used an electronic voice modulator, so we have hardly any chance of identifying him."
"Screw identifying him! The question we should be asking is if he can really do what he says. What're your thoughts, oh Mistah Mayor?"
I started pacing, a bad habit of mine. I... think I can dimly recall something about a C or D-list villain claiming credit for the Cataclysm for money, but bluffing. It would surprise some people to hear, but not every single detail of a comic book I read thirty years is inscribed indelibly into my brain, and besides, No Man's Land was so much more interesting. So, I'm at least strongly skeptical that this guy is who he says and can do as he says. Confident enough to risk everyone's lives? Maybe not. For starters, this assumes that my instinct that this is the Catalclysm and No Man's Land is right.
"My experience is to never discount mad science out of hand. A lot of these crazy devices work even if they can't possibly work the way their creator says. That said... my first instinct is to say that he's a fake. There's too many pauses, and odd stressing of words in his speech, and while I'm not an expert in geology by any means, it sounds like he's mixing buzzwords with no idea what they really mean. Consider next, his demand. One hundred million dollars is quite a payoff for the average Joe, but a mere fraction of what, say, the Pentagon would pay for this technology."
"And?" Jim asked. "I've seen lots of people commit crimes with technology they could have sold for a much bigger payday."
"Please don't interrupt. And yes, you undoubtedly have. Such people have motives beyond the merely financial, or are envious and protective of their hardware. They desire power first and foremost, or perhaps revenge, and the money is a means to an end. Or if they want it, they want to obtain it in their way. Which admittedly makes it no less frustrating when they could obtain riches and their other goals by going legit. But that's really not the impression I get here. If he wanted to lord his power over us, he'd have announced himself before the money-shot quake. He'd want us to have no doubt about it being his work, and not a natural disaster. If money is what he's after... he could make a lot more of it, either by selling the tech, or just demanding a larger ransom." Technically, Gotham City doesn't have a hundred mill to throw around, but it'd knock just a single-digit percentage off my net worth. "And consider a final point, if this Quakemaster really caused the quake, he's killed at least a million people. He'd have to understand, we, meaning all America, the Justice League and more, could never stop hunting him. Not while there was the slightest chance he might still be alive and free."
"So you think he's a fake." Montoya said.
"I think he's a fake. Hope he's a fake. The other, far more worrying possibility is he's new. Baby's first supervillain outing. Putting all that power in the hands of a simpleton who doesn't understand how these things work, doesn't understand the value of money, and doesn't understand the simple principle that extreme actions have consequences." I paused a moment. "I don't think it's the latter. I really don't. But until we know, I suppose we must treat this somewhat seriously and honor the threat. At least until we're sure I'm right."
"How d'you figure to do that?"
"Well, detective Bullock. There happens to be a world-class university less than six miles thataway, and I know they offer a geology degree. I suspect a lot of people aren't coming in to work today, but there will at least be records, and some students living there. Find me a geologist, or better yet, a seismologist, to watch the tape." I made a little shooing motion, and off he went grumbling under his breath.
It's good to be the boss. Sometimes, anyways.
The drop specified in the tape was on a ruined highway ramp, at midnight tonight. I had a quick chat with Gordon, and if we hadn't found anything by nightfall, he'd put together a duffle bag full of newspaper, monopoly money, and dye packs. Hey, you never know, we might get lucky. Jimbo promised if he saw the Bat to inform of the situation, and for the most part I considered the problem resolved enough to start my next project: rounding up a larger group of engineers who might be able to certify one or more of the bridges as still safe, so we could take on relief supplies, get the guard in when they showed, even let the people who want to leave the city out. But first...
"Play the rest? I want to see if my big theories hold any water."
"...If you don't want me to trigger the same crustal displacement that made such a catastrophic mess of the tertiary, you'll meet my demand. Just keep in mind what happened to the Wooly mammoths, and avoid their fate!"
....
Sheesh. The amateur-hour supervillain theory is gaining a lot of ground.
Well, that's all there is to see. Back to work.
===========================================================================
On and on the relief work goes, an endless tide. Things did get tons easier with the space situation when Wayne Enterprises opened it's doors, putting people up in their office space and halls, digging up thousands of cots and blankets, distributing food and first aid kits. Pretty sure I know who was behind that, but I'm still grateful. Not like you see Stagg Industries doing the same. Oh, wait. Simon Stagg died recently. Heart attack, just a short while after the Clench resurgence, I went to his funeral, even. Such a pity. C'est la guerre, mon ami.
On a much grimmer note, we started the first mass grave today, throwing in bodies and burning them to limit the spread of disease. We did get a priest to read over them, kind of a miracle in and of itself, since Gotham Cathedral is gone.
I feel pretty ambiguous about that still. I have a lot of memories involving that place, a couple are even good.
Still, there was constant work to be done preventing the meltdown of the social order, and I sort of let the whole Quakemaster thing slide a bit until after midnight. To put it mildly, we cocked up. The "ransom" was picked up a helicopter, on which Batman hitched a ride, to a TV studio, where the ransom demand had been filmed. Batman then took down the two goons in the chopper, but was so distracted he didn't notice a third party slip away with the bag. Then Batman thrust the two goons at the nearest cops, Bullock and Montoya who had independently concluded Quakemaster was using the studio from rewatching the tape.
Our two newest friends answered to Mo and Dunk, each swore they'd never even laid eyes on their boss, instead finding a note with instructions attached to the rubble-heap that had been their home. They each had a rapsheet that... okay, was pretty much a footnote compared to mine, but anywhere outside of Jersey would mark them as hardened lifelong felons. Detective Bullock was questioning them now. I whip him up a phial of Veritaserum, just to confirm they don't actually know anything. Then I have to stop Harvey from pocketing the still mostly full glass tube.
I swear, you can hardly tell the cops from the crooks in this town.
============================================================================
The evening after that, things got interesting again. I was moving some things from Town Hall to GCPD, where one was sure to be stable and the other less so. Also taking over Gordon's office, which is fun.
But as I'm loading the surviving knick-knacks into a box, three kids burst in, barely, if even, out of high school and waving guns. Oh I can just tell this is gonna be good.
Blond guy in a red hoody with those silly barred sunglasses, kid in an armless denim vest and a blueshirt with a truly unfortunate mohawk, and a black guy with very curly hair. I immediately mentally dub the last two Mo and Curly, which I guess makes blondie Larry.
"Where's the money, man?" says Larry.
"One hundred million. We're here to collect." I'm thinking Mo is the leader of this particular gathering of Mensa.
I mean, Curly in the back there is holding a gun on me "gangsta style" i.e. sideways. I'm sorry, I just can't take anyone seriously who doesn't get how a gunsight works. He's barely twelve feet away, but I'm not sure he could hit me.
I had only one response to the entire tableau.
"Naturally, you must be joking."
"Oh we're real serious, old man." says Mo, "Quakemaster expects his payday, and if you don't pony up things'll get a lot worse in this town."
I had a thought.
"So, just to make sure we're all on the same page here, you three work for Quakemaster?" nods all around "You're not some kind of dupes, or concerned citizens afraid of his retaliation if I mess with him?" Unlikely, given we hadn't exactly spread the tape's existence around. Or the second, much whinier one we found this morning.
"Yo, man. We work for him. You got the money or no?"
I resist the urge to shake my head. Someday, when all this is fixed and the city functioning again, I have to do something about our public schools. "You boys ever seen his face, since you're the real deal and all?"
Curly laughs.
"Nobody's seen the boss's face. He likes it that way."
Quakemaster must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel for henchmen. In my organization these kids would be, at best, running messages and maybe a little numbers. My respect for my mysterious opponent plummets a bit more.
"Did he really not tell you who I am?"
Mo raises his gun a little up and forward. "Oh we know who you are, spooooky Magic Man." he wiggles hte fingers of his free hand. "But you can't do shit without reading a book, can ya? And if you take one step towards those shelves you'll get ventilated. Checkmate, motherfucker."
"You sound awfully sure of that for someone with no training in the mystic arts." I slowly raised my right hand, in it's pure white glove, half-curled into a loose fist, towards him. "Treguna, Mekoides, Trecorum, Satis De." On the last word I spread my fingers wide.
There was a long pause as the three punks looked around, looked at me, looked at each other. Just as they started to relax, I twisted my wrist and my open hand formed the shape of an invisible chokehold, triggering the sonic weapon inside the glove. Didn't have the spread to get them all, but Mo immediately dropped to his knees, hands over his ears and screaming.
"Joey!"
The moment of distraction was plenty enough for me to take a quick long step to the side, whip my phaser out of my pocket and stun Larry. John Binder was always right handed, James was a lefty, and the combination is ambidextrous. Pretty neat, no? Curly had a fraction of a second to look up from his friend and gape at me before I filled his face with nadions. Amateurs.
I kicked the guns away, then returned my hand to a more neutral position, letting up on Mo. I leaned back a little, almost sitting on my desk.
"Now then, whatever shall we talk about?" I snapped my fingers. "I know! How about y-"
There was a rumble, another aftershock. This one felt different, though, I heard the groaning of the walls again, plaster falling from the ceiling and a shift that went just a little too deep and to far- Cripes! The whole building's coming down!
"Oh, come on!" I couldn't help but grouse as I stashed the phaser, seized Mo (or, Joey, I guess?) by the collar and started running us towards the nearest window. Luckily he was largely cooperating after the first step or two, I'm not that strong. I did manage to throw him through the window right before I went though.
Okay, try to spread my coat to catch the most air, slow my acceleration towards the ground. Legs out, slightly stiff but only as much as they need to be to point down, roll to the side at the moment of impact and- owowow! Pretty sure I screamed, despite landing, so far as I know, almost perfectly. I definitely felt my legs snap, but in a matter of moments the bones wrenched back into place and the pain faded even as the ruckus of the fallen building quiets into the settling of debris. Still hear a screaming though.
Ah, Mo is nearby and he definitely broke his legs, and his arms.
"Oh, give it a rest." I pulled out the phaser again, with a couple taps of my thumb dialed it to heaviest stun, and shot him. Blessed silence. Another point for the medicinal phaser, he's not hurting anymore, and he's in less danger of my hurting him. Everybody wins.
Looking back at the office, yes, I am never getting any of my overpriced magic-looking doo-dads back. Most of the records were stored in the basement, so maybe? After a lot of digging. The other two Stooges are definitely pancakes.
Well, one more day to the Guard arrives. I start dragging my new friend off, looking for someplace to safely stash him until we can arrange a little heart-to-heart. Very slowly, because I'm still not that strong.