Pre (Patreon)

Vicki woke up when her head slipped under the water. She came up for air gasping and sputtering, to find herself in a fine porcelain bathtub, the water gone lukewarm and quilted with the scum of dissipated bubble bath. She ladled water over her face and hair, scouring herself clear of anything that might be clinging to her, then stepped out of the tub. She was too freaked to care much about someone seeing or recording in the few seconds it took her to grab a towel from the bar.

Her reporter’s instincts came to the forefront. She remembered going to Wayne Manor—and the bathroom was plastered with the sterling W monogram, on the towels, on the pebbled glass of the shower, on the bath mat. It was like a themed hotel, just this side of tasteful, but only just.

She couldn’t quite remember how she’d ended up in this tub, but her old clothes were missing, not in the empty hamper either. But there were fresh clothes laid out for her. Drying herself off quickly, she changed into them. They fit her perfectly.

There was a gentle rap at the door. “Are you decent, Vicki?”

She recognized the voice. “Bruce?” She flew to jerk the door open. There he stood, wearing an elegantly casual outfit—chinos, polo shirt, penny loafers. “What happened? What am I doing here?”

“You came here for an interview,” Bruce prompted her. “Unfortunately, you wandered into the garden, where Ivy was working on some of her experiments. I’m afraid you caught a small dose. You passed out, fell in the mud, I offered to let you wash up—you must’ve fallen asleep. I suppose  until the gas wore off.”

“You just let Ivy grow some hazardous chemical on your grounds?” Vicki demanded.

“I let women do all sorts of things,” Bruce said urbanely. “Would you like to go on with the interview now?”

For a journo, that was no question at all.