WRAPPED

by batfan60

 

RETURN TO HOMEPAGE: https://www.angelfire.com/super2/batfan60/

 

DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters belong to a giant corporation, not me. This is a work of fan fiction; no infringement intended. I welcome your comments at mailto:batfan60@yahoo.com

 

 

1.

 

         Batman searched the seemingly empty house for clues. If the organization had been using this innocuous-looking residence as a temporary base of operations, they had done a thorough job of covering their tracks.

         Even so, something seemed amiss, and Batman was determined to figure out what it was. He moved from room to room in semi-darkness, scanning the area with his smallest flashlight so as not to attract the attention of neighbors or passersby. After half an hour of careful investigation, the beam of his light hit upon a clump of dirt near a makeup mirror in the bedroom. Not far from the soil was a small bit of paper: an invoice perhaps? A lead, in any case, and the masked detective knelt down to pick it up. The writing was difficult to decipher in the darkness, so he folded it into a small square and tucked it into a compartment of his belt.

         The blow to the back of his head came without warning, so suddenly that he did not have a chance to react. He slumped forward on the carpet, his legs and arms going limp at the same time, and in seconds he was nothing more than an unconscious lump on the floor.

         A black boot prodded at each of his limbs, straightening him out on his belly and then rolling him over onto his back. His eyes were now shut, his mouth hanging open just a bit. There was more than a hint of roughness in the movements of the boot, suggesting that someone was taking pleasure in the action.

         Two men stood over Batman's prone body, each dressed in the standard jet-black uniform of The Organization. Cloaked from head to toe, they were nearly indistinguishable from each other. One of them removed a small vial and a syringe from a leather case and prepared the dosage, while the other man squatted by the body and rolled one of Batman's sleeves up past his gauntlet..

         "This ought to keep him out for the duration," the first man said while inserting the needle in Batman's arm. "Sleep tight, asshole."

         The second man ran a gloved hand over Batman's face, looking for a way to pull his victim's mask off—a quest cut short by his partner, who grabbed his arm and pulled it away.

         "You know The Commander's orders. Besides, there isn't enough time. It's not essential to the completion of the job, and we've gotta be out of here in fifteen  minutes. Give me a hand with him; this bastard weighs a ton."

         It took both men to move the sleeping detective: one took hold of the shoulders, the other wrapped his hands around the calves and tucked the ankles under his own armpits for support.

         As they moved, it occured to one man that here was evidence of the futility of individual effort: this crazed vigilante, this brilliant detective, this once-formidable foe, was now little more than a sack of potatoes. Better yet, a sack of shit: stupid, helpless, and moments away from an ignominious end. So easily defeated through flawless teamwork. Batman's life, his work, had been for naught, erased with a single careless move. The Organization, meanwhile, would continue to thrive and flourish, growing stronger with each new action successfully executed.

         They moved exactly according to plan, the body just a bit heavier than the one they had used in the drill, thanks to the small arsenal of gadgets hanging from Batman's belt.

         "Christ, how does he carry all that shit around all the time?" one man asked. "It's got to slow him down."

         "Can't get any slower than dead," the other man answered curtly. "This is the spot. Down he goes."

         With that they lowered the body onto one edge of an old bedsheet. An array of tools of their own were waiting at the scene: first the hands were cuffed behind the back, several lengths of rope were wrapped around the boots, then a gag placed over the mouth, and a blindfold to cover the eyes. Each was snug and tight: safety measures which were surely unnecessary, for the drug could be expected to keep Batman out for hours, and the gas would begin flowing in just fifteen minutes. One man cut a small triangle of fabric from the cape as the required evidence that the deed had been done.

         One end of the bedsheet was tied to Batman's belt, and then the men rolled him along the floor until he was engulfed in cloth.

         "We could end it right now," one man said, eyeing a baseball bat not far from the body in the bedsheet. "Beat the crap out of him, and throw his worthless carcass out the fuckin' window. Or just blow his goddamned head off..."

         "A plan is a plan," the other man said. " The Commander has his reasons."

         They dragged the now-featureless clump into a closet, draped a few dirty clothes over it, locked the door, and left the building quickly and quietly, activating the gas bombs as they fled: mission accomplished.

 

 

 

2.

 

         In Batman's drugged dreams he is happy. On some level he knows he has been captured, he senses danger, but the danger soothes him, comforts him. He is at home with it, at home in his assumed role as Masked Avenger, well aware of the hazards of the job.

         Just now he has invented a peril of his own, a predicament constructed from fragments of recent memory, in a world far away.

         He's lying on a bed, spread-eagled, arms bound to the metal frame, at someone's mercy. Who is it this time? The Riddler? The Joker? Clock King?

         None of the above: it's the man from the train, the one he'd studied as Bruce Wayne traveled from Gotham to Bludhaven on civilian business. Close-cropped hair, trendy facial hair, lightly muscled forearms, white tee-shirt and jeans.

         Only now the man is shirtless, his hands gloved, his pants tight-fitting striped trousers, with shiny boots extending over his calves.

         The trap? The device this unknown captor has constructed in order to destroy him? Batman has no clue.  Questions run through his mind, things he demands to know: Who are you? Where am I? What have you done to me?

         But none of them will come out: his voice is gone. No sounds emerge from his throat: no screams, no grunts, no questions, no answers.

         "Try all you want," the man says, seeing Batman's attempts at communication. "I've stolen your voice ... along with your little belt of toys."

         It's true, Batman learns, looking down at his bare waist. He’s been drugged; he’s almost certain of it. He’s aware that his actions are no longer his own.

         "Next I shall steal your image." The man produces a knife and cuts away the bat logo from his tunic. "In time I shall steal your thoughts, your senses, your breath, your secrets. Starting here --"

         The man's hand lifts Batman's head, unfastens the clasps at the base of his cowl, and pulls the mask slowly off his head.

         In this moment of unveiling, Batman disappears, vanishes forever, becomes something new, something other, something hybrid: he has the body of Batman and the face of Bruce Wayne. In one gesture, two lives are ended and a new one is born.

         He does not struggle. He does not panic. It is the transformation he has been longing to endure. Beneath his trunks, his cock has become rigid and moist.

         "Thank you," he says, his voice suddenly returning. "Thank you, Sir."

         The man, his Master and mentor, smiles. "My pleasure." The free man kisses the captive one, a long and passionate kiss.

         The Master picks up the discarded cowl and places it on his own head. Batman—the former batman, that is—likes what he sees before him, loves the sensations he is experiencing, the excitement which charges through his body at he gazes at the man in the mask who stands over him, smiling.

         The man slides his hand through the hole in the tunic and runs a gloved finger over one of his victim's nipples and then the other, squeezing gently and then applying more pressure. His other hand wraps around the former Batman's cock, poking through his tights.

         The knife appears again. "Don't move," the masked man insists, and he cuts through the crotch material and frees the eager penis. With one hand on a nipple and the other on the cock, he strokes and caresses the flesh displayed before him.

         "I am at your mercy," the former batman states, devoid of emotion. "My life is in your hands."

         "I've already taken your life," his captor replies. "All that remains is the self you no longer need." With that he  begins to slice upward with the knife, splitting the costume in half.

         The sensation of air across bare sweaty skin feels good. Still bound, the former batman nonetheless feels free, free of his past, free of responsibility, free of the duties he has taken on, free to live as an average man for the first time...

 

 

 

3.

 

         The intensity of the dream's climax ran like an electrical charge through Batman's body, bringing him back to his senses.

         Dazed... drowsy ... been drugged. Only a dream—nothing more. Mask intact. But waking life no better; I'm ... bound, hands and feet. Blindfolded, gagged. Body enveloped by some sort of cloth. Motion difficult, but not impossible.

         Got to reach the cuff key on my belt—have I still got the belt?

         Still there. Have to twist around as much as possible to reach it... Too hard in this state. Must create some more room in here... Kicking forward... and back. Forward, back.

         There, some space to maneuver. To the belt, the key... Unlock cuffs ... Got it. Now the knife... cut through whatever this is...

         Out. Air smells ... poisonous. Gas of some kind, beyond the door. Must reach rebreather.

         Feet tied, cut through ropes...

         Free. Now for this lock ...

         Out into the air, thick clouds of ... yellowish fog … looks like insecticide. Have to act fast: only six minutes of oxygen... Hard to see with all this smoke...

         Door locked. An easy lock to pick—

         Behind it, a sheet of plastic: exterminators! They’ve sealed off the house and are filling it with poison. Good  air nearly gone. But I can slice through the sheet with my knife: largest blade. One quick motion.

         Like the blade through my outfit, slicing, tearing away identi—

         Free. Daylight, and the possibility of witnesses. Have to get out of here, now.

 

In a moment, he is out of danger and on his way home. But there’s a trace of disappointment in his freedom, for it’s the danger which drives him: the possibility, at every step of the way, that he will meet his doom. Didn’t happen last night. He was too alert, too good at his job, to let himself fail. These goons were no match for him. They weren’t the man on the train in his dreams. They made mistakes; they left him a way out.

         But there’s always next time.