2012-12-09 Tea and Crumpets

It might well be considered eerie, how there was near silence from the moment the clown released you into this masked man's hands. Where there might have been quite a few ribald jests, kicks, threats, laughs, and more, while in the Joker's... care, here it was almost exactly the opposite. Several of the crew were no doubt entertaining thoughts, but with their obvious employer in the vicinty, none of them seemed to dare even trying. In some ways, it could be said he was... protecting you from them. For now.
The drive back did not go without obvious precautions: obscured vision in classic bag-over-the-head style, even earplugs in the ears to mute most sounds. You had also been searched, not exactly gently, but not exactly rough either, just in the event that there was anything of value, in terms of information.
Soon enough, though, vehicles stopped, armed men are getting out, and you are hauled and eventually shoved into a chair where the bag is taken off, plugs removed, and there he is, studying you, masked features unreadable.
The subject requires only three words, spoken in that deep voice: "The Batman, Commissioner."
Given the rather obscene costume Joker and his goons had dressed Gordon up in, there is little of value. No wallet, keys, or anything, for they were all left behind in his hospital room, and the cell phone Selina Kyle had tried to sneak out, shot and destroyed. 
Gordon hasn't said a word, aside from the occasional grunt of pain given his many injuries. In many ways, he was relieved to be out of that maniacal hellhole; he'd almost welcome whatever came next rather than deal with Joker and Harley.
It is with a grunt that Gordon is thrown into the chair. His eyes blink heavily for a few moments as they grow accustomed to seeing light again, and he works to take stock of his surroundings as best he can. He only stops when the voice rings out, and his brow curls somewhat at its altered nature.
"What about him?"
The occasional grunt of pain may soon be joined by more than just that. It isn't a blow that greets your words, it isn't violence in the traditional sense, but instead this man uses a different method altogether to make his point clear that he won't tolerate games: pressure points. Nothing too agonizing, but more than simple discomfort would join the other injuries, and without leaving much more of a mark than perhaps signs of bruising afterward.
"A warning," he says, afterwards. "Your only one. I did not go through this effort to procure you from that clown for you to try and buy yourself time to presumably be traced and rescued by /him/." The figure standing before you keeps his arms at his sides, maintaining a close distance, easily within reach.
"The Batman, Commissioner. Start with your communication methods. Something other than the flamboyant one in the sky."
A brief look of shock comes just before a sound that meets somewhere between a growl and a squeal. The Commissioner's body tenses, but the pain is nearly paralyzing in nature, and so he endures it until it's over, at which point he gasps a few deep breaths to help recover. His eyes, having cleared a bit more, finally catch sight of his captor, but he doesn't recognize you.
Someone new on the scene.
"You think I have communication methods?" A touch of ire enters his voice, but he keeps it mostly at bay. The man standing before him is more than a thug, and he seems to carry himself with something that resembles sanity, at least when compared to the clown.
"He communicates with me," answers Gordon. "Not the other way around." He holds up his left hand, the one that is not in a sling, as if to stop you from reacting too quickly. "I... suspect he has lines of communications tapped. Police bands, cell phones, computers, and the sort. But it's a one way street." Then he squints his eyes a bit, studying your mask. "Who -are- you?"
"I do not doubt that he does, Commissioner, but, to use your analogy, even one way streets can be driven both ways. Should they be? Perhaps not, but there are times it becomes necessary." And then there is a pause, a very long one, and then quite suddenly a hand is lashing out to the throat. A sharp intake of air, and then he... lifts.
"Do you really want to know who I am, Commissioner?" he asks quietly, if around a slight bit of strain. "Do you want to know what I plan to do to you? To him? To Gotham?" There it - and you - will hang for a moment or two, for those questions and more to sink in, before he quite suddenly releases to drop back into the chair.
"You will find out soon enough."
Another pause. "Do you want to know why it is you're still alive? I could have simply let the clown keep you, and I'm quite certain he has the means and ability to remove you from the board."
Perhaps this will end up being a pleasant conversation? Commissioner Gordon can only hope. He shakes his head and begins to form a response. "Okay, sure. And that's what the signal is for. You don't think he-- grrck!"
Perhaps not.
Coming off his seat, Gordon reaches up with his good arm, clamping a hand around your wrist should it be permitted. Not that it would help, aside from giving him something to hold onto for leverage, in the hopes that it would help to keep his neck from snapping. His eyes glower a bit, but there is definitely fear there, a healthy mixture of it with defiance. He's a strong willed man, to be sure, but he's not suicidal, nor is he invincible.
The chair creaks a bit when Gordon is released back into it. There are red marks on his neck now, and it is with a bit of strain that he coughs and chokes air back into his lungs. This goes on for a few moments until he looks back up at you to answer your question. "I'm going to have a guess," he wheezes. "You want me to draw out the Batman."
If you expected a direct answer, prepare to be disappointed. Your words, that he wants you to draw out /him/, is met with... amusement. A faint, yet brief chuckle, confined to the throat.
"No, Commissioner, that is what simpletons want from you. I assume he will come for you, but I make no plans for it. In fact, once we are done here, I fully intend to release you to him. No doubt you will tell him everything." That masked face suddenly leans in, coming closer now, until only inches of air are what separate yours from his.
"I sincerely hope that you do. How I took you from the clown. Our talk. Your thoughts on why I will let you go. Why it is that you are found, perhaps by him, displayed for everyone in the city to see. Unless, of course, someone else finds you first that you would rather not." That last is of no real matter to him, spoken in the same even rumble as the rest. "Perhaps Pamela Isley, who you so recently visited at Arkham Asylum before your difficulties with the clown?"
And just like that, the masked face returns back to that looming consideration, staring down remorselessly for a moment before looking elsewhere, behind you, and a brief nod is given.
"Sedate him, doctor. The rest of you have your instructions on where to put him." Those words are spoken as the large figure turns, to walk away. "Oh, yes. /Do/ try to step up your efforts against crime, Commissioner. It would be a shame if people were to think you were fit for nothing but to be used as a bargaining chip. That might lead to public unrest." The notion seems to amuse him, by the faint hint of it creeping out of his voice.
So, let's stack this up. We've got Joker and Harley, lunatics. We've got Poison Ivy, still insane, but at least she has probable cause, however twisted it may be. We've got thugs like Carmine Falcone, whose influence and power reaches farther than anyone might care to believe, save Gordon. We've got mutants and mutates and all sorts of other strange people out there.
And now we have this one.
Gordon's face backs up just a bit as yours gets closer, but he doesn't cower or back down completely. It's more like he anticipates you bashing his face in with that dastardly looking mask of yours. It's the words that confuse him the most, but he looks beyond the mirrors and shadows in an effort to get some -idea- of what your into.
Some sort of probable cause.
The criminologist mind is fast at work behind bespectacled eyes. You've spent a lot of money just to get him and reveal yourself to him. You were somehow present at Arkham when he'd gone in to visit Isley. You're revealing this to him -on purpose-, because you're not, as you say, a 'simpleton'.
He doesn't speak another word. He merely lets it all roll around in his mind, securing it and letting it sink in before the sedatives can take their effect. He's going to need to remember this moment, in all of its detail, when he is eventually released to the masses.
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