The Ventriloquist:  They shook hands with Boxy Bennett. Deal. If Mr. Scarface could have smirked in triumph - it would have.

Wesker grounded out the last bit of the puppet's burning cigar on the sidewalk outside the cardshark's pool hall. This left a black smear on the concert and no doubt - the bottom of his good shoes as well. Nose wrinkled before he lifted his head to look down the road. Glasses played like reflectors as a single car passed; but it was not the one the Ventriloquist needed to see. The night would conceal the small man dressed to the nines in his tuxedo and bowler hat. But the darkness would do little to hide the notorious speech-disabled voice that was thrown against the blackness.

"Dah hell e go?"  Scarface snorted pissed. Wood clinked as it shifted it's head from right to left. Mugsy. With the damn car. A good thing? This was the bad side of town; three blocks over from the Stacked Deck and only recently been cleared of a large drug ring. Finding a 'big name' mosing around could stir up trouble. "Did e go fer a hoagie? I'mma murder dat gum...Told em to stay PUT!"

The Ventriloquist sighed lightly. "I'm sure he'll be right b-back. Perhaps he saw a cop." Whispered; Wesker would never be as loud as his pinstriped personality - and he hoped to keep him remotely quiet. They weren't supposed to be here.

The Batman:  He could have told the man and his puppet that it was foolish for him to wait up for their ride, because he wasn't coming. The car was being searched by Gotham police, but Gordon had agreed to allow him some leeway in questioning Wesker before they arrived.

He dropped down behind the Ventriloquist and his puppet silently, cloak arranged for maximum effect. A shadow in the dark. He smiled grimly and stepped forward, trying to get an arm around Wesker's neck, knowing from past experience that the real danger was the little puppet on the man's arm. But if he could disable Wesker, that would do as well.

As he did, he reflected that he hated Gotham villains sometimes. He was out at one in the morning, taking down a man and his dummy.

The Ventriloquist:  Ah, but this dummy was forgiven to the expression 'no dummy' Mugsy could probably be booked on his rep alone - but the Royce? Crystal-clear. Probably not even a fingerprint. The puppet was good at keepin' things low till they were needed. Whatever he'd seen Boxy about - wasn't here. But it seemed the big bad bat had come snoopin' anyway.

"Youse given us dah reach 'round, Shamus?" Wesker pretty much scampered forward like a mouse to avoid being grab. How the hell did they? There were more curious things in Gotham. The Ventriloquist spun in the street and held Scarface forward. The dummy looked as bored as a dummy could - yet it's pintsized little tommygun didn't look like it was too lazy to play a game. "W-we're not doing anything.." Arnie gulped and took a few more steps back.  The duo played different fields. Scarface feared nothing. But the shadow of the bat was enough to make Wesker twitch where he stood.

The Batman:  He didn't move. He wouldn't play chase. The gun-the gun was a problem, but it wasn't that big of a problem. Not a single gun, not after all these years. Some part of him wondered if he had played his hand too early, but another part of him…

Another part of him just really wanted to hit something.

"What's the game, Arnold?" He said, his voice low and deep, a hint of that cruelty that made him different from Clark or Diana showing through. He didn't talk to the puppet. The puppet would tell him nothing, but that shaking rat of a man who stood before him…

Batman smiled unpleasantly. Bat's had wonderful senses of smell. And on that little man, he smelled fear.

The Ventriloquist:  Fear probably smelled a lot like sweat. Because when Arnold Wesker was afraid -- he sweated. Buckets. It took from the 'What' to the last syllable in his own name slipping from the Bat's lips for the whitening tuffs of hair that stuck out from the older man's bowler to go from dry to drenched.

A chase? If spooked too much, the bat may have to. For like any rodent - this rat would run. But not yet - and Batman tho try - should have known Wesker wouldn't talk. Not that easy. It was the puppet who had the mouth in this relationship.

"We's was playin' Pool wit ol Gomez-mustache fer yer information.." Scarface kept it's gun aimed - it could fire at any second; not that it was the best shot; but that this range - it would be hard to miss. "Wasn't we, Dummy?"

Wesker didn't even answer his puppet right away. Too busy lost gnawing his own bottom lip and staring at Batman's grin. A grin shouldn't make someone want to piss themselves. Why should you be scared of a grin? "Wha?" He finally squeaked. "Oh.. y-yes. Pool.. Mr. Scarface. Mr. B-batman."

The Batman:  He has the batarang ready. And the Armour’s Wayne Corps new blend of Kevlar, steel and some other barely legal things. He was tense, still. The cowl was reinforced, of course. It made him seem stronger, when bullets bounced off him like he were a man of steel.

He almost laughed. "You're not helping me out, Arnold." His voice was a purr, a sawing, cutting purr that threatened.

And already he was impatient. This was a waste of time. Scarface wouldn't talk, most likely.

Well, there were ways and ways to make people talk.

The Ventriloquist:  "I d-don't have anything to help you with." Arnold didn't lie well. His voice gave away treason.. but telling the truth wouldn't have faired him any good either. He was after all.. as much a victim of the puppets hold as everyone else that was subjected to it's wooden wrath. A few more steps were taken backward till the Ventriloquist was in the middle of the street.

"Youse dat gored, Shamus? Youse needs some kinda night-hoggy Like uh.. pickin' up hooker er sumthin. Stead of pesterin' a coupla of mooks on dah town." Oh they were stallin. Just waiting. Scarface would have usually opened fire by now. "Mayge we plays youse a 'round.. youse got fifty tah throw on dah tagle?" So what were they waiting for?

A car turned the corner - speeding - but hey it was driven by teens out way to late and these roads were pretty deserted. As their headlights suddenly found a little guy and a puppet in their beams they honesty didn't know what to do other then slam on their breaks.

THAT'S when Scarface opened fire.

Not on the Bat. But on the Car.

The Batman:  Action. From thought to action and it was that quick. That painless, really, to roll across the hood of the car. The bullets ripped through the cloak and one caught him lightly across the arm. The coppery smell of blood in the night.

Just like coming home.

He tore open the door and got the teenager out and away, the spray of bullets tearing up the vehicle. He made a mental note to endorse whatever senator had lobbied for thicker window requirements. They had cracked, but not shattered and that and the Bat were the only reason the boy was alive.

He turned back toward the puppet and moved for him, batarang arching toward the arm that held Scarface upright. Tendons, once cut, should have a harder time holding his adversary steady.

That was the theory, anyway.

The Ventriloquist:  Scarface was the king of distractions. And that had been one hell of a distraction. The moment the teens were Batman's biggest concern - Wesker bolted.

And for a mid aged little coot. He could run. The Batarang still barely missed. It tore out a chunk of that fine tuxedo and nicked Wesker's arm. It hurt, but that didn't stop the man in his flee of terror.

"Run Dummy, Run!" Across the street and into the alley. It was very dark, but Wesker could seen just enough light bouncing off the trashcan lids to keep from running into them. It wasn't a dead end. It connected to quite a few more. If he was lucky; maybe he could loose the bat. Then hijack a car once the coast was clear. That was the plan after all.  Down one alley and up another, till he flattened himself and Scarface against a wall and swallowed down the desperate pants for air that his chest really wanted to have.

The Batman:  He took to the rooftops. The boy was calling..someone…on his cellphone. He should stay, make sure no one bothered him, but that meant losing Wesker and his best lead for the night. He wouldn't be gone long, he assured his conscience.

He almost lost him twice, but this was his city and these were his streets. He saw him against the wall, panting, hiding in the shadows. That was foolish. Those were his shadows after all.


He dropped down in front of him, cloak billowing out, and reached out a glove-encased hand for his prey.

"Boo." The Bat said

The Ventriloquist:  The Ventriloquist did well behind a puppet. With goons to back up his thrown words. He wasn't a fighter.. he could hide behind Scarface and his mental disorder.. but against a wall. Not from the bat.  But he tried. And he'd almost.. got a way.

"NAyaha!" He spazed and jumped like a cornered rodent to the 'Boo!' Legs kicking and fighting the wall more then the shadow of the bat.  Now what was he going to do? Open up and start pleading? Scarface would never.. ever let him live that down. The puppet would punish him if he turned squealer... but if he zipped his mouth.

Then the bat would beat him up!  Lose. Lose. Arnie.

"Jus' can't loose yah!" Scarface didn't jump and squeal to the bat. It jerked it's little gun and opened fire upon the impending bat. "EAT GULLETS!"

The Batman:  He tried to tear the tommygun away from the puppet, the bullets tearing into his armor but not through it. He would have to use his replacement suit tomorrow, but then, he spent millions trying to protect himself from…everything.

They were not wasted millions.

The Ventriloquist:  RATATATATATATATATATAT!

It echoed loud and the bullets that didn't ring off the bats well-spent armor, chipped off the wall and ricashaed back. There were so many bullets flying around it was a wonder the little man didn't shoot himself. 

"DIE! DIE DAMMIT!" RATATATATATATATATACLANK! CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

When the magazine ran dry, the puppet still squeezed the trigger; even as Arnie finally just slid down the wall and buckled into himself. He put his head between his legs and whined.  Arnie wasn't any criminal.. himself. It was all the puppet. And the only part of the little man that wasn't shrinking away from the bat was now attempting to bash him in the face with that empty Tommy Gun!

"YOUSE ANIT SO TUFF! Why's don't youse take off dah superman-suit 'n' fight me like ah man yah fuck! Yah freak!" Arnold arm strained as the puppet tried to fight off the dark knight. The movement had wound from the Batarang going from a light weep to a steady flow. Jacketed arm was getting soaked with blood.

The Batman:  Superman suit. Ironic, that. He spent so much time maligning Clark and his inhuman heritage and so much money and effort trying to be exactly like him. He jerked the empty tommy gun away from the puppet like a child's toy, aware vaguely that he was bruised black and blue under the suit.

Then he hauled Arnold up and hit him. There should have been something sad about hitting a man that curled up and pitiful. Something ridiculous about his hand slamming into the other man's gut.

Instead, he could feel his heart beat and his blood pump faster. "What was the deal, Arnold?" He snarled, feral as a wolf cut off from his pack. "Tell me what the puppet did."

He had to remind himself that it wasn't a good idea to play into their delusions.

The Ventriloquist:  It was kind of like kicking a puppy. Only this pup was mad with rabies. Something was seriously wrong with Arnold Wesker - and it wasn't the fact that he'd been cut or just had the wind socked right out of his body. Wesker curled against the wall with a 'gnnah.'

He didn't scream at least. But he did cry. Oh yes he cried. Big thick crocodile tears that ran down his cheeks silently. Body jerked and spazed. But oh Bats.. is that anyway to get someone to talk? Even if Arnie had decided he WANTED to sing like lark right then - he couldn't.

But somehow that didn't keep SCARFACE quiet. Disarmed of a weapon didn't disarm the puppet of it's mouth. Or it's heavy wooden head! The puppet butted it's noggen against the bat's jaw and snarled right back. "GET OFF! I'M DAH ONLY ONE DAT GEATS UP ON DUMMY! TALK TAH ME! I'M DAH BOSS!"

You'd think pain would cease Scarface.. but it's personality was so separated. So keen. It didn't care if it's host was in pain. On the verge of vomiting. Those nasty yellow eyes sheened in the dim light echoing defiance right back to the bat.

The Batman:  Batman ignored Scarface. Past experience dictated that dummy wouldn't talk. But its host was another matter. Arnold was afraid and that was good. "Talk to me, Arnold." He crooned. He even ignored the 'attack' on his person, because it would make Scarface mad.

And that was what he wanted. Arnie afraid and Scarface mad made for the perfect combination for him to talk. "Tell me what's going on." He purred. "Tell me." Hypnotic, that voice, as long as it comes out of the darkness, as long as you believe the threat behind it.

It helped, of course, that the threat was real.

The Ventriloquist:  Ignoring the puppet made it angry? Oh you better fucking believe it.  "Talk to ME!" Scarface hissed and hit again. "ME YAY GIG GULLY!! ME!!"

The bat played his cards is a wicked but workable order. The Ventriloquist was split. Scarface was nasty, strong and oh so evil. It would never crack. But it was only a puppet. Wesker was a man. He was made of flesh and blood and felt real pain and fear. And he was very afraid. 

The bat purred and crooned? For supposedly pleasing sounds it only made the older man shrink back into the wall and cower. "P-please." Wesker finally choked out between a sob. "P-please d-don't hit me anymore.. I'll talk."

And that's when Scarface turned from the bat .. to the Ventriloquist himself. "Oh no youse Don't youse lil shit! Don't youse fink on me!" So instead of slamming into the Bat.. this time, Scarface collided it's hard head with Wesker's - who of course.. did not ignore it. He yelped and wiggled out of half the jacket the bat had used to haul him up in order to ball on the ground again.

The Batman:  His strength here was that Arnold was afraid. His weakness was that Arnold feared his own delusions more than he feared the Batman. Not acceptable, that. So he would divide and conquer.

He tried to tear the puppet away from its host.

The Ventriloquist:  "YOUSE DIOTY NO GOOD RAT! I'LL TEAR YER FREAKIN' HEAD OFFF!" In that moment, the bat had been completely forgotten. One personality so hell bend on disciplining the weaker side that the bat's sudden attempt to 'separate' the baddies could have been a whole lot harder. Wesker's grip on the inside of that disgusting doll was lapsed enough that Scarface came free with a clank.

That hand. Was pitiful. Scarred up slick with sweat, a bullet wound through the palm made it questionable to how he still even was able to work the puppet. It clawed for a moment, as if it was unsure as if wither to shrink away or dive for it's owner. But fear of himself one out and Wesker popped out of the rest of his coat and curled up on the alley ground into a tiny ball; and clutched his stomach. "don'thitnomore."

" 'Ey! Put me down! Youse overgrown rodent! PUT ME DAH FUCK DOWN!" Slack jawed and limp limbs didn't silence the puppet.

The Batman:  He smiled. That smile again, electrifyingly cruel. It removed his humanity, cut away any vulnerabilities and he hauled Arnold up to his feet and shoved him against the wall. "I'm going to hurt you." He clarified, he pontificated, dropping Scarface and letting it clatter to the ground. "So talk to me, Arnold. Tell me things I care about. Tell me things I don't care about. Tell me whatever pops into your head, just talk to me." He balled his hand into a gloved fist and it rested on Arnie's cheek, almost caressing. And he kept smiling.

The Ventriloquist:  At that moment. Arnie wanted to just be dead. Angst! But seriously - one had to understand his repercussions. No matter WHAT he did. He was going to hurt bad. Now. Later. Forever.

Wesker wasn't a violent man. With his puppet squalling nothing but obscenities from where it laid on the ground, he was much more inclined to cower away from the looming bat that had him pinned. Wesker twitched. He whimpered. He sobbed. He even squeaked as that fist so 'gently' touched his cheek. He tried to macramé his little ass into the brick wall. To no avail, sadly. So finally he snapped both those sweaty hands up and clutched those mismatched fingers into the bat's glove and pushed without the strength to budge it. "P-please. I'll.. t-"

"Dummy." Scarface's hissing warning honestly seemed to come from the bat's feet.

He'd rather hurt later.

"-alk to you.. Please. It's was for Rhino! P-p-please don't hit me."

The Batman:  "...What was for Rhino, Arnold?" Batman whispered. That fist didn't leave his cheek either, but it didn't seem to want to break his nose or ribs or smash into his gut again, either. So in that sense, there were some advantages to having that fist there.

That whisper was a powerful thing. He wouldn't admit it, but it had taken practice to choose these tones of voice and to know when to croon, to purr, to whisper, to growl. To know what would scare them more.

But fear was his weapon. Aside from the batarang and the training and all of it, fear was his most potent weapon. So he had learned to use it well.