By Marcus L. Rowland
Voices, an engine, straps binding him, something over his eyes. He lies, groggy, feigns unconsciousness.
"He's human." A woman, Californian.
"You sure?" Another woman, same accent.
"All tests negative."
"Twenty bucks, B." Woman again, Boston.
"What about the mask?"
"We agreed, no peeking if he's human."
"Aren't you curious?"
"Nope. So not our problem."
"Where we gonna leave him?"
"Somewhere safe... that car park."
"Works for me."
The van stops. He's lifted out, it roars away. When he's free of the stretcher they're gone. He gathers evidence, then heads back to the Batmobile.
This isn't over.