The DCFutures FanFiction Group recognizes that Batman, Nightwing 
and all related characters are property of DC Comics.  These 
stories are written for no profit, but rather a strong desire to 
peer into the future of the DCU.  The stories and concepts 
presented herein, however, are property of the author.  So there.

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BATMAN/NIGHTWING DCF: WAKING NIGHTMARE #3 (of 3)

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Written by Erik Burnham darvey@rocketmail.com
From a plot by Tony Wilson and Erik Burnham
Edited by Jason Tippitt scarcrest@hotmail.com

****

BATMAN: DCF created by Erik Burnham
NIGHTWING: DCF created by Tony Wilson

****

"Things To Do In Gotham When You're Dead"

****

	"Trick or treat?" the grinning pumpkin whispered to Marc 
Chandler as he held the latter's squirming body up against the cold 
tile of Gotham Mercy Hospital.
	'Mercy,' Marc thought.  'I'd love some.'
	"You're no fun," Hallow's Jack continued.  "No screaming, 
no pleading... nothing.  Such a bore."
	"Maybe that's because he knows he's not gonna die," The 
Batman said.  Marc was surprised -- he didn't figure this dark 
knight would be so resilient.  And he even managed to sound 
somewhat intimidating.
	"Oh, he'll die, all right..." Jack laughed.  "Just not 
right now."  Jack's eyes glared with an unearthly fire as he stared 
into Marc's.  "See you soon."
	RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  Marc could feel his body 
ripping, but there was no blood.  The walls were tearing, but there 
was no debris.  The formless air was ripping... how?  Batman just 
stared, as surprised as Mark was.  Jack was walking through him.
	...And it was all over, just like that.  The hole in 
reality was closed.  Marc slipped to the floor.  Batman could see 
tears in his eyes.
	"It'll be all right," Tim said, softening his Bat-voice.  
It was an attempt at comfort... and it failed.
	"No, it won't.  How can it be?  How do you explain what 
just happened, Batman?  How?"
	"Listen to me," Tim said, his voice firm but soothing.  
"There are some things in this world that do not allow themselves 
to be categorized or explained.  It's part of the mystery of life.  
Now, you're a detective -- I got that right away.  Your purpose in 
life is to eradicate mysteries... and that's what's screwing you up 
here.  Some things you have to just accept on faith."
	"I... I don't know if I can do that."
	Tim didn't know how to answer.  He could hear hope slipping 
out of this man's voice -- and that bothered him.  Hope is not 
something that anyone should have to do without... especially not 
in a city like Gotham.
	"Come with me," Tim said after a few moments of silence.  
"We're going for a ride."

****

	Marc Chandler had never thought he would be where he was 
today -- in a hovercar.  THE hover car.  A sleek black Lamborghini 
X-2 with more than the standard options -- the fastest vehicle 
outside of an ESST. 
	The Batmobile.
	The skyline was so dark -- different than Kingston, 
different than New York, different than Dallas...  It had a 
personality all its own, and it belonged to the man seated next to 
him, the man in the driver's seat...
	The Batman.
	His demeanor, his candor, his very... the best term Marc 
could come up with was 'aura' deemed the Batman to be young.  Maybe 
as young as Marc was, give or take a year -- but there was a 
presence beside that, an authority that could not be denied.  Like 
you'd follow the man no matter what, because he knew something you 
didn't, and it was all going to be okay.
	The Batman was an enigma, unfathomable.  He seemed so 
different at their first meeting, disciplined, in control, focused.  
Later at the hospital, he was laid-back, comical -- even to the 
point of ridiculous.  It was a fascinating study in neurosis -- but 
Marc wasn't a shrink.  He was a man... just a man.
	No more, no less.
	And in the past few months he had found himself doing 
things that men just don't do: fighting gorillas, for instance.  
Jumping around rooftops in a mask.  A rational man does not do 
this.
	Marc had undertaken a crusade.  It seemed like a good idea 
at the time, as many mistakes do.  The crusade had nearly gotten 
him killed.  
	Was it still worth it?
	"You've been awfully quiet," Marc could hear the Batman 
say.  "Is something wrong?"
	"Just thinking," Marc answered.  'Just thinking of how I 
can go on like this,' he elaborated silently.

****

	It was dark in the penthouse offices of Angel Tuscotti, and 
the occupant of those quarters preferred them that way.  He'd been 
more sensitive to the light since the accident.
	'Angel, my friend, you sure knew how to live.  And die, for 
that matter.  It was good of you to entrust your estate to me 
before you keeled over.'
	The man laughed himself into a coughing fit, wiping saliva 
from the corner of his mouth with a $200 silk cravat, an original 
Keravin Studios design.  Money and power -- these things suited 
him.
	"SIR," the Automated Secretary Program piped in through 
hidden speakers.  "YOUR DINNER APPOINTMENT HAS ARRIVED."
	"Thank you," the man replied.  Time to look presentable.  
Glancing into a mirror, he saw Angel Tuscotti's healthy features 
staring back at him.
	The man smiled, re-slicking back his hair and straightening 
his cravat.  Life was good.

****

	Xanadu sat on the plush seat of her ornate divan, brushing 
her long ebon hair with an exquisitely detailed brush, carved from 
pure ivory in the mid-nineteenth century.  It was one of the few 
impulse items Xanadu owned, and it had a decidedly enchanting 
effect on her.  She looked all the more beautiful while using it.
	Tim Drake remembered the first time he had ever seen her 
brush her hair with it, oh so many years ago... he had fallen in 
love instantly, even though he knew he could never truly have her. 
	And he still felt the same way, after all this time... not 
much older in years, but ancient through experience gleaned.  She 
was beautiful.
	Tim saw Nightwing gawking out of the corner of his eye and 
smiled to himself.  Xanadu was working a spell, after all.
	"Jack was not what you expected," Xanadu said, breaking the 
silence.
	Nightwing mugged in surprise.  They had entered silently, 
and she had not turned.  How did she know...?
	"He can be stopped, Marc.  He can be beaten.  By you."
	"I sincerely doubt that is the case," Marc started.
	And then Xanadu turned, flipping her dark tresses to reveal 
those piercing eyes that had cut Marc to the quick before.  "Then 
you are wrong."
	Xanadu stood and walked over to a shelf adorned with tiny 
vials.  She sorted through them, and found, at last, what she was 
looking for.
	The bottle was half again as big as a thimble, dark green 
in color.  And Marc couldn't take his eyes off of it.
	"This is what you need," Xanadu said.
	"What is it, some kind of magic potion?"  Marc smiled.
	"Exactly."
	"Outstanding," Batman chimed in at last.  "What's it taste 
like?  It better not be like that stuff you had me drink that time 
to enhance my..."
	"This is not for you."  Xanadu smiled at Tim, and then 
turned to Marc.  "It is for you."
	"Uh, I'd rather not.  I'm trying to quit, you see."
	"What are you afraid of, Nighty?  She told you it was a 
necessity."
	"You're kidding me, right?  How can that stuff -- whatever 
it is -- do anything to that monster we faced?"
	"You must believe," Xanadu said, her tone unwavering.  "You 
must believe in yourself and you must believe in the power of your 
totem..."
	"Lady, I thought you were kooky before; now I know it.  I 
don't know how you did that thing with my name, but I'm willing to 
bet it was simple hypnosis.  Now, then, I want--"
	"Silence," Xanadu commanded, and so it was.  Marc found 
himself unable to continue.  "You are unique, Marc Chandler.  You 
have been foreseen, and your part is important.  You alone are in 
the condition needed to end Jack's hunting.  But you must believe."
	"Told you so," The Batman quipped.
	"Timothy," Xanadu scolded, "now is not the time."  Xanadu 
snapped her fingers, and Marc Chandler's desperate attempts at 
speaking finally bore fruit.
	"What did you do to me?" Marc screamed, before realizing at 
last his voice could again be heard.
	"I needed you to be silent, Marc.  And I need you to do 
this thing.  You're the only one who can."
	"What about Batman?" Marc asked, rubbing his hoarse 
throat.  "He seems to have a better handle on this stuff than I 
ever will.  Why can't he--"
	"You can't just swap like that, pal.  This isn't the 
Bombers... it's one guy or no one at all.  No backup, no second-
string."
	Nightwing sat down on a convenient chair and removed his 
mask.  What difference did it make?  The magic-lady knew who he 
was.  Batman apparently did as well... and Marc was starting to 
feel strangled by it.
	"What is it that I have to do again?" Marc asked peevishly.
	"You need to find Hallow's Jack, Marc.  Take this potion, 
and use the power of your belief to end him."
	"And what is this totem?"
	"This totem," Xanadu replied, grabbing hold of Tim's arm, 
"is The Batman."
	"Uh, excuse me?" Batman asked.  "Totem?  Since when?"
	Xanadu ignored the questions of the Batman, focusing on 
Marc, kneeling in front of him to hold him more completely in her 
gaze.
	"You are the key, Marc.  You can save so many lives if you 
just believe."
	Marc sat in silence for a long moment, before replacing his 
mask and standing.  "Okay."  Marc smiled nervously.  "Let's do 
this.  Where can I get my hands on a good computer?"
	"Got one in the car," Tim said, melting into the shadows.  
"Let's go."
	"Luck be with you," Xanadu said, handing Marc the potion.

****

	It was a rough business, pretending.  For a child, it comes 
naturally... you are constantly thinking and playing and seeing 
things in other, more special, more spectacular lighting.
	Anything becomes anything else; the empty crate that lies 
on the street can become a fortress in which you withstand enemy 
invasion.
	As you grow, eyes tend to blind themselves toward the light 
that casts such brilliant illusion.  It becomes more difficult to 
see the box as anything more than a box.
	People are people; you distrust them, and you try to see 
through each ruse they present, to beat down any attempts at 
pretending even as you vainly attempt to pretend yourself into some 
other world that makes you more important.
	But without that light, the pretending becomes something 
else: lies.
	The man who sat in the office of Angel Tuscotti had become 
an expert at lying, and found himself able to pretend once more as 
well.  He was able to create that special light, able to make 
things into things they were not, and convince others that this was 
all just and well and good.
	And he loved doing it, too.
	"Take a notation," he said, prompting the AutoSecretary.  
"File under 'philanthropic acts.'  Funding for the Gotham Friar's 
Club is to be reduced to one-third over the coming quarter; approve 
the grant to that museum expansion in New Coast City in the amount 
of 4.2 million, and cut all ties to the Jerry Lewis Foundation."
	"Jerry Lewis?" a ghostly whine penetrated the office from 
behind.  "I loved that guy!"
	"Who the hell?"  His last words were transformed 
instantaneously into a gasp of sheer horror.
	In the window, framed by the light of the half-full moon, 
was a thin grotesquerie that the legendary artist H.R. Giger could 
only have found in a nightmare.  Its limbs were knotty and scarred, 
tatters of clothing stringing from them to the creature's torso 
like a maypole from the devil's stock.
	At the end of its fingers were long, curved, shiny blades 
that sparkled with every turn, catching, holding, and releasing the 
moonlight after sullying the gentle beams with a hellish caress.
	...But the creature's head was what was most horrifying.
	It looked almost like a Jack O' Lantern, right down to the 
wistful grin on the creature's face.  The skin of the pumpkin -- 
which should have been orange -- was brown and, to the horror of 
its witness, moving about as though it had life unto itself.  The 
pumpkin was rotting, regenerating, being eaten by maggots with 
unreal, razor-like teeth and regenerating again.  
	To top this all off, the entire head was encased in a flame 
as blue as the sky on a perfect morning.
	Taking Angel Tuscotti's life was beginning to seem like 
less and less of a good idea at this point.
	"Angel Tuscotti," the pumpkin-thing said, "I have come for 
you."
	"No, see, you don't understand..." the man who was 
designated Angel Tuscotti tried to say.
	"Angel, baby... you should know better than to beg for 
mercy," the creature laughed, ejecting a flaming maggot from its 
mouth and onto the floor, where it quickly ashed its way out of 
existence.
	"But I'm not..."
	"Not now, my friend.  This will be over in a... a minute."  
Jack's countenance took on an even more gruesome expression as he 
peeked into the eyes of the prey before him.  
	"You're the wrong one!" Jack screamed, the fire encircling 
his head taking on a warmer, angrier, hue.  "THE WRONG ONE!"  Jack 
lifted the Tuscotti-imposter into the air.  "What have you done 
with my prize?"
	The doppleganger coughed phlegm at his captor, unable to 
speak for pure fear, although he was trying for dear life to 
answer.
	Before the unholy eyes of Hallow's Jack, the face of the 
man in his grasp began to melt into a misshapen mess, hideous even 
by the standards of the netherworld.
	"I know that trick," Jack said, noting a glowing mark on 
the palm of the doppleganger, despite his flailing arms.  "And I 
know that mark."
	Jack glanced at a similar brand on his own hand and was 
seized by a wave of fury.
	A bad time for our heroes to enter stage left, but they 
scoff at danger.
	Batman was first through the window, sending a shower of 
glass upon Hallow's Jack and his captive.  The Bat glanced over as 
his companion joined him, and then back at Jack.
	"Pumpkin pie for everybody!" Batman laughed, tossing three 
batarangs at the arm of Hallow's Jack, severing it and freeing the 
dapper form of Angel Tuscotti.  Nightwing raced over to the 
recomposed doppleganger and helped him away from the slashing 
Jack.
	"You boys don't know what  you're doing," Jack snarled as 
he reattached his arm at the elbow, cartoon-like.
	"Oh, sure we do," Batman quipped.  "We're saving scum from 
scum."
	Nightwing glanced over his shoulder; the man he'd just 
saved had already disappeared.  That's gratitude for you.
	"Nighty, drink the juice!" Batman called out, launching 
himself at the unholy apparition that was Hallow's Jack.  Marc 
Chandler watched the Batman being caught out of the air by Jack and 
strangled, as he himself had been at the hospital.
	"It's you I want, Marc my lad."  Jack smiled.  "You're all 
that's left.  Now, come on over here and let's end this cordially, 
shall we?"
	"Drink the potion!" Batman struggled to say through the 
monster's grasp.
	Without thinking about it any further, Marc Chandler 
reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and slammed the 
contents of the tiny green vial into his mouth as he leapt towards 
the Batman and Hallow's Jack.

****

	"Well, that's something I was completely unprepared for," 
Hallow's Jack said to no one in particular as he picked himself up 
and dusted himself off.  
	The prey had slammed into the guy in the cape, and there 
had been a silent, brilliant explosion that had caught even Jack 
off-guard, sending him into the wall. 
	The monster was not accustomed to being surprised thusly.  
In fact, he found the experience to be quite distasteful.  First, 
another with Loki's brand had taken his prey.  Then more annoyance 
from the masked ones.  And now, the explosion.
	Jack's head cleared enough after a moment to another 
realization.  There could be nothing from this world that effected 
him in such a way.  Nothing... from this world.
	Cursing any god that was listening, Jack scanned the room 
for his prey.  Nothing to the left.  Nothing to the right.
	Playing a hunch, Jack looked up... and wished, for the 
first time in his extended lifetime, that he had just killed the 
Prize at first opportunity.
	There was mysticism involved.  An understatement, Jack 
knew, but it was all that was running through his mind at the 
moment he knew he was going to die.
	Hovering above Hallow's Jack was something the world had 
never before seen, and in all likelihood would never see again.
	The silent explosion had merged the bodies of the two 
masked men into one.
	He was seven feet tall, dressed solely in black with a 
small white bat emblem squarely in the center of his chest.  Ribbed 
wings fanned from his wrists along his inner arm and ribcage, 
ending slightly above his waist.  The lower half of his face was 
visible and, although it looked human, the voice it emitted was 
decidedly not.
	"Your time is done."  That was all the Batwinged Totem said 
as he swooped down upon Hallow's Jack.
	Jack backed himself into the wall, trying desperately to 
tear through the fabric of space and time as he had done for so 
many centuries, finding all his efforts completely futile.
	Jack at last knew fear, and his scream echoed throughout 
Gotham City, matching note-for-note the pain of each of his 
victims.

****

	Batman and Nightwing sat atop the 258-story Mason Building 
in downtown Gotham, watching the sun's rays appear slowly on the 
horizon, cleansing the city and her citizens.
	The men now knew each other in a way too intimate to 
express with words; they had shared their minds with one another, 
their very souls -- as the Totem had transformed them into its tool 
of vengeance. 
	Tim and Marc knew everything about one another now, from 
Tim's deeply buried fear of resentment to Marc's desire to make a 
difference and fear that he would fail to do so.
	Tim Drake removed his mask and looked over at Marc 
Chandler, extending his hand in friendship.
	"Tim Drake."  The Batman smiled.  "Pleased to meet you."
	Nightwing smiled as he shook hands.  "Likewise."

****

	Frank walked into his sister's spare room expecting to find 
his friend.
	"Marc?" Frank ventured, to no avail.  The room was empty, 
save for a note lying neatly in the center of the bed.
	"Frank," the note read, scrawled in Marc's rushed hand.
	"You're the first one to know, buddy.  Congratulate me on 
my retirement.  I suppose this whole Nightwing thing was a pipe 
dream to begin with, a way to try and make a difference.
	"But there was too much for me to process, Frank.  I've 
seen things in the last few days alone that I still don't have a 
handle on, and if I stay in this business, I'm only likely to see 
more of them.
	"So I'll say it.  I'm burnt out.  I can't handle the hero 
biz anymore; it got to me.  It got to me in ways that I'll never be 
able to forget... and I want to do so.
	"So take care, big guy... and know I'll do just fine for 
myself.  I'm hitting the road -- going to try and make a difference 
in some other way, something more manageable for a regular guy like 
me.  Maybe I'll drop back into Kingston one day for a visit, but 
for now, color me gone...
	"Marc."

****

THE END

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THIS ISSUE IS DEDICATED TO TONY "PIMP DADDY" WILSON (AND HIS HAT) 
GOOD LUCK IN FUTURE ENDEAVORS, MAN -- YOU'RE ALWAYS WELCOME 
HERE... 

VISIT GOTHAM:
http://www.geocities.com/area51/chamber/9727/gotham.html
VISIT THE DCF DISCUSSION BOARD:
http://disc.server.com/discussion.cgi?id=6074