Batwoman: Dead Man's Shoes

'Batwoman:

Dead Man's Shoes'

By

Kit Downes

This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction created by Kit Downes 31.10.2019. All characters, settings and other features are the property of their respective rights owners. Cover image copyright of the CW Network, LLC.

(Author's note: I write very little fanfiction, but I have recently been delighted by the CW's new series Batwoman. It has brought back all my fondest memories of the Martin H. Greenberg-edited anthologies The Further Adventures of Batman from the early 90s, which were filled with stories that anticipated what would be achieved by Christopher Nolan's The Dark Night, Warner Bros's Gotham and Rocksteady/WB's Batman: Arkham video game series. As a tribute to both, here is a short piece that I hope could fit into any of the anthologies, featuring Kate Kane as played by Ruby Rose).

(Updated author's note: This was written before episode 17 of Batwoman season 1 aired, but a fan can dream).

"Did you really think you could fill his boots?"

Kate flexed and squirmed on the end of the chain. It was bound around her body from her shoulders to her feet, pinning her arms to her sides and her knees and ankles together. Her hands were cuffed and zip-tied behind her back, tight enough that they would be cutting off her circulation without the protection of her batsuit, and wound through the chain itself for good measure. The excess – yards of it – had been used to suspend her from something high overhead, hidden in the shadow-filled arches of the ceiling. She got a full view of the abandoned train station, its platforms crumbling and tracks rusting in the cold, soot-scented air, every time her own movements made her rotate on the end of the chain, turning several slow circles in one direction and then back the other. Each creak and chink of the links, the steel of each one thicker than her thumb, sounded like an echo in the huge hall. It was interrupted, every so often, by the hum and crackle and occasional sparks from the complicated electrical execution device the Joker was constructing.

"They're not just boots, you know," said the Joker, as he finished tightening a bolt with a long wrench and reached for his plasma cutter. "They're specially designed and constructed. Precision engineered over who knows how many man-hours, for one man to wear. One man who's spent his life – since late childhood, at least – training his body for one purpose. The boots are designed for that, to work with what his body can do. To enhance it. And you think you can slip them on like a pair of hand-me-downs and do what he does?"

Kate stayed still, conserving her energy. The last flex of her muscles had confirmed what she was afraid of. She was too well restrained to escape by any normal method. Dislocating her own joints was out with the zip-ties. He had stripped her batsuit of all her equipment. She could feel by the absence of the normal weight around her hips that all the pouches and clips on her utility belt were empty. He had even found every single one of the concealed pockets in the suit, though, she supposed, the Joker had plenty of experience in searching batsuits for hidden surprises. There was no way she was getting free of the chain by herself. She would have to wait for some other kind of opportunity. And hope that one appeared.

"I've never been so insulted in all our years together," said the Joker. "Sure, I made him the butt of my jokes, but I always loved him as a stage partner. Never in my wildest, most fantastical dreams could I have imagined a better antimetabole. My colours, bright lights and cotton candy. His darkness, shadows and whispers. My jokes. His dourness. The very idea that you could just step into his shoes and pick up where he left off is unspeakable! I hope you're getting all this, Miss Fairchild."