Archive of Our Own ^beta

The alarms for the Batcave go off shortly before midday.

Bruce is already moving for the entrance to the cave as Alfred heads for the security room. As the door slips closed behind him, he takes the earpiece that will connect with the security room so Alfred can give him an idea of what they're facing, and slips on the infra-red glasses that will allow him to see without turning on the lights.

It might be nothing more than a creature who's gotten in through one of the multitude of nooks and crannies that still exist around the perimeter of the cave.

It might be an attack by an enemy.

The woman in hooped black skirts who is pushing herself up off the floor is unexpected.

Elderly, wizened and thin, she doesn't seem particularly daunted by the darkness. One hand reaches out and snatches her hat off the floor, holding it by the wide, flat brim as she shakes it out with movements sharp as slaps.

The crown of the hat pops out as it's shaken, springing to a peaked point, and she shoves it back on her head, then fumbles for something in the dust around her. Her hands lift back up to her head, before she makes a sharp move, almost like a shove. Twice more, she feels around on the ground and her hands lift back up to her head with that sharp motion near the crown of her hat.

It's only the last time when the glasses catch the gleam of something silvery that Bruce realises: it's a hatpin.

Bruce hasn't seen anyone use hatpins since he was a child.

Her hat now firmly attached to her head, the elderly woman climbs to her feet and starts dusting off her skirts.

There's quite a bit to dust. The bats in that section of the cave have been busy.

“I knows you're there,” she says to the empty air. Her tone is clear, with a hint of age to it, and it rings out through the cave. The accent is English, one of the northern ones, although Bruce couldn't say specfically where. And although it's pitch black in the cave, she turns to face the doorway where Bruce stands, watching. “You're standing on those stairs, right next to that giant coin I'm seein' hanging up. I can see you, clear as day, for all we're in the dark.” The edge on her voice would cut like a knife, but after a moment she softens it. “And I'm guessin' we're not in Lancre anymore. 'Cause I ain't never seen the like of some of this stuff.”

“No technology upon her that we can detect. And Zatanna's spell doesn't indicate any magical aura.”

Which doesn't mean that the woman doesn't have magic, just that Zatanna's spell isn't picking up anything obvious.

There are always loopholes.

Especially in Gotham.

Bruce contemplates the woman for a moment longer, then growls with the voice of the Batman: “You're trespassing on my property.”

“'S not like there were signs posted,” she says pragmatically. “And I'm not 'xactly in a place to walk out of here, in case you haven't noticed. Best that you light a lamp and we discuss this.”

As he tells Alfred to start raising the lights in the Batcave, Bruce reflects that he's going to need a new avenue of dealing.

The persona of The Bat works with the criminals of Gotham. It does not appear to work with elderly trespassers.

Then again, thinking of how Alfred dealt with Bruce himself, maybe it simply doesn't work with the elderly. Or the British.

She doesn't move forward as the lights came on, simply looks around her. He sees her look over the computer banks and the screens above them, sees the way she blinks before her eyes narrow and her shoulders settle.

“Blessin's be upon this...house.”

“Good afternoon to you, madam.”

The noise in her throat is a distinct harrumph. “The proper term is a 'Mistress', young man. Mistress Weatherwax.”

Okay, it was going to be one of those interactions. Bruce descends the stairs. “Mistress Weatherwax, I repeat, you are trespassing—”

“Genua, is it? 'Cept it don't sound right, not quite. Not to say that those,” she indicates the computer banks rising up across the floor, “look like any doin' of the Voo that I ever saw.”

Bruce is accustomed to dealing with confusion – both in Gotham and with the League, but this is levelling up. Every sentence produces a new and confusing twist. Genoa is in Italy. But her accent is English...mostly. And didn't she reference another place before? Lancre?

“Not to mention, you ain't introduced yourself, neither. Don't think I ain't noticed. Mind, given you're hidin' out in this cave, I can see hows you wouldn't want to tell out your name to all an' Sunday.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred advises over the earpiece, “I have looked up l'Ancre, and it is in France. And although her accent is largely English Yorkshire, there are some things about it that are...not correct.”

Mistress Weatherwax cocks her head, the hat on her head tilting with her, but remaining firmly in position thanks to the power of hatpins. “Do you want to give me a name? Or should I just call you 'Mister Night'?”

“Mister Night will do,” he tells her, coming down the last of the steps. “I'm not one for giving out my identity.”

“I can see as how that'd be a cleverness here.” She makes her way towards him, studying the cave. “Lot of things you got in here.” Then she nods at Bruce.“Lot of things you got in there, too.”

He's too well-trained to react, and he knows his body language doesn't betray him. So who is this woman? What is she?

“Mistress Weatherwax,” he says firmly, “this place is out of bounds for everyone but myself and my...manservant.” Alfred snorts in his ear. “I would be happy to escort you out of here, blindfolded--”

“And you think that'll make a difference?” Her head tilted, like a small bird – or possibly a raptor, giving consideration to his edibility. “I think you're smarter than that, Mister Night.”

“Are you proposing a fight to the death, then?”

She regards him for a few long moments. “No, you don't much like that. Dealing death isn't your thing. But sometimes they needs it. Sometimes it comes down to the ending.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Yes, you'd think that.” She sticks her little finger in her ear and digs around for a moment, blue eyes considering. A hint of amusement touches her face. “Don't s'pose I could interest you in a game of Cripple Mister Onion?”

Bruce doesn't need Alfred's muttered warning in his ear. “If I knew what that was...I still wouldn't be playing against you, Mistress Weatherwax. The fact remains that this is a place I don't let people just walk into.”

“Guess we're stuck, Mister Night. 'Cos I don't take lightly to people restrictin' me, and you don't seem the type to let anyone just walk out with the knowledge of this place.”

“You'd be correct.”

“Got no secrets of my own worth keepin'. And I don't spill the secrets of others.” She opens her mouth for a moment, seems to zone out, then glances up at the ceiling and frowns. “You know your colony up there's dyin'?”

Bruce stares. He's known the bats aren't doing as well as they used to. There's been fewer of them, and they're not as active. He's kept up with their numbers which have been steadily dropping for the last couple of years, but that seemed all of a piece with everything else that's going on in Gotham – times are hard and the work of dealing with the monsters of this town never seems to end. But to hear it said with such certainty...

“How would you know that?”

“I feels it. Sickness in their bodies.” Her gaze is sharp as a knife. “You ain't the one poisoned them.”

“It's poison?” Not in the cave. Nobody comes in the cave that he doesn't know about. “I've known the numbers were declining. I thought it was seasonal.” He'd hoped it was seasonal. “No, I don't poison them. We've cohabited quietly enough ever since I started using the cave. You can tell they've been poisoned?”

Her head tilts back as she looks up so the wide brim of her hat no longer shades her face.

It's not a young face, but it's well-lived. The face of someone who's seen much and done more.

It takes her a few seconds to answer, long enough that Bruce starts to wonder if she's a metahuman, doing something like Vixen does. But after a moment, her lashes flutter down, and she snaps 'back' from wherever she went,

“Something in the belly. They eat, and it don't feel right. Most likely poison because they're not all eating it at once. But more of them, now, and some of the young ones, too. Frankly, I don't hold with poisoning creatures that are just hanging around.”

“Neither do I.”

“Didn't think you would.” She regards him. “So, what now? We ain't goin' to fight to the death. You ain't inclined to let me leave. And I don't even know where I am, and, frankly, Mister Night, I don't think you could hold me.”

“Master Bruce, I believe we have...another visitor—” Is all the warning he gets before there's another set of grunts and thuds as someone falls down and drags themselves up. “That corner is going to need another looking at.”

“No kidding,” Bruce subvocalises.

Mistress Weatherwax turns, frowning. “Gytha?”

“That you, Esme? Ooh, that's harder than I thought it was.” The chuckle that follows is distinctly ribald.

“Gytha, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. Considering you've been missing three days and they're starting to get worried.”

Her expression goes wooden. “Three days?”

“Well, almost three.” The figure that appears from the shadows is distinctly in the shape of an elderly woman – one of the rounder, chunkier sort. She's also dressed in black, and wearing a witch's hat. “The dwarves got worried when you didn't turn up, and Chimpetty Umphey's been getting anxious. Ooh, look at all the gleam on this!”

“Madam—”

“Ogg,” she says cheerfully, her face a mass of wrinkles. “And you would be...?”

“He's Mister Night,” Mistress Weatherwax says firmly. “Don't start, Gytha!”

“Can't say as I'd mind finishin', pers'nally, Esme,” Madam – or maybe it's 'Mistress' – Ogg says. There's a definite 'lean' on her words that somehow needs no explanation.

In his earpiece, Alfred chokes.

Mistress Weatherwax continues firmly. “You came through the entrance nearest to Little Bungell?”

“On the way back from Chimpetty. Called in Scatty Whattup, just in case, but you know Chimpetty. Thought I'd come by and check where you was supposed to be going. Only to find you're right here. Look at that penny, Esme. Ain't it a big one!”

Bruce finds himself blushing. He has no idea how the woman manages to put a leer into everything she says, but she does, and he finds he's susceptible and he doesn't like it much. He's the goddamn Batman, for crissakes!

“Three days?” Mistress Weatherwax repeats.

“Time does move different under the mountain,” Madam Ogg says. “You knows that, well as I. Why, Verence will likely be sending a whole platoon through in a few minutes!”

Which is something that Bruce fervently wishes to avoid right now.

“Ladies.” He's not sure he'd use the term for Madam Ogg, but exactitude can wait right now. “If M—” He doesn't dare use the term 'mistress' for her. “If Madam Ogg came from...Chimpetty, then it stands to reason that you should be able to go back the way you came.”

“'Cept there's a bit of a climb there,” Madam Ogg says. “'Cos I fell. In case you didn't notice. I imagine a nice young man like you's got some unguents to spread on an old lady's bruises, eh?”

There is absolutely no graceful way out of this.

Bruce opens his mouth, intending to be blunt.

“We have things for that at home, Gytha.” Mistress Weatherwax meets his gaze. There might be an apology in the sharp blue eyes, if the woman was the sort to make an apology – which she's not: no more than Bruce is. “And no, we're not stayin' around. He's not a friendly sort.”

“Hah. Then the two of you should get along like a house on fire,” says Madam Ogg.

“What? Everyone runnin' around and screamin'?”

“Something like that. Anyway, unfriendly's not a problem,” Madam Ogg notes. “I'm friendly enough for all three of us!”

Mistress Weatherwax doesn't quite roll her eyes, but Bruce has the distinct impression that she would if she were younger.

“Also why we're not stayin'.” She turns to him and inclines her head. “Mister Night.”

He manages to keep enough composure. “Mistress Weatherwax. I'll make sure to seal up the...uh...gap after you've gone.” Some kind of trans-dimensional gap that landed in the Batcave? Or something else? He might do some surreptitious exploration himself in the next day. But right now the priority is to get these two out of here. In Madam Ogg's case, the sooner the better!

“Best you do,” is all Mistress Weatherwax says. “We're goin', Gytha!”

Madam Ogg winks at Bruce as she follows her friend – friend? - out of the light. Bruce hears them grumbling on the way up.

“Are we tracking them?” Bruce asks, sotto voce.

“We were...” Alfred notes. “And...they've just vanished from sight. You're going to close up that space now?”

“As best I can. And maybe see if Zatanna can sense anything in that corner.” Bruce moves to one of the varying 'maintenance' rooms where there's materials and equipment that occasionally gets used for blocking off side tunnels into the main cave.

This is definitely something they don't want to happen again!

“I considered offering them a ladder. But they seemed more than capable enough for their...uh...maturity. And I didn't want to hear what Madam Ogg might have to say about climbing things.”

“You and me both,” Bruce murmurs. “You and me both.”