What was that?
A shiver of fear ran through him like a jolt of electricity, jamming his senses. Had he heard a rustling
around his feet? Was he just imagining the cool, slimy touch of something like a tentacle, wrapping
itself around his boots? He wore infrared lenses in his mask, but even with enhanced vision he could
see nothing except the all-pervading mist.
He kicked out with a foot, and encountered nothing. Just his imagination—though that fact itself
caused him to worry. Batman wasn't in the habit of imagining things.
Something he couldn't see brushed against his cowl. He heard a dry, chattering voice whispering like
an insect in his ear, a long stream of savage blasphemies and murderous threats. Despite himself, a
small knot of terror was growing in the pit of his gut.
How could he fight what he couldn't see? How could he resist an enemy who didn't seem to even
exist? How could anyone deal with disembodied voices?
The whispers in his ear became more insistent, leering obscenely, describing in sickening detail what
was going to happen to him.
We'ttcutoutyourheartandfeedittoyourfriends! We'llripof
yourlimbs!We'llsuckthemarrowfromyourbones!
Suddenly panic-stricken, Batman pulled a handful of tiny concussion grenades from his Utility Belt.
Tossing them underhand, he sent them scattering in front of him like a handful of corn seed. There was
a five-second delayed fuse on each, and he pulled his cape over his head as he turned his back to wait
for the explosions.
The first grenade went off with a wet sound like a razor slicing through flesh. The second emitted
horrible, high-pitched laughter. The others exploded in a series of small pops, followed by a
redoubling of the odious voices hissing in his ears.
The knot of terror pulsed within him, quickly turning into a hideous dread that seemed to penetrate
every pore of his body. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. His heart raced, and his
hands felt clammy. He was going to die here—horribly and painfully. He knew it with a certainty that
was almost physical in its intensity.
A thin sliver of logic slipped between his terrors. Fear is a gift, he reminded himself. Fear is a
message from the subconscious mind. Fear is a warning.
Yet there was nothing here to be wary of, just a strange blue-green mist. Voices in his ears might be
uncomfortable and unsettling, but on their own they couldn't harm him.
Then why do I feel terrified?
Of course! The answer struck him with the force of a hurricane. This wasn't his own fear, his own
terror, his own dread. This was being imposed on him, forced on him by some external source.
Something, or someone, was tampering with his feelings, manipulating them, trying to drive him
crazy!
Thinking the thought was enough to bootstrap him momentarily out of the fugue. Almost immediately,
he felt the knot of terror reseed itself in his stomach. Whatever his enemy was, it wasn't giving up. He
had to take action and extricate himself from this madness.
It was impossible to get any sort of bearings within the all-encompassing mist. Batman had no option
but to entrust himself to his own earlier observations—to assume that his unconscious mind had
noticed, and filed away, everything it could about the pyramid.