This is a story I've been planning for awhile, and now I finally know the POV/writing style I want to use for it, and I also have all the details figured out. I will be taking oodles of inspiration from Neil Gaiman's Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader? as the title suggests, though that's a very different story from this one. However, it is the best Batman comic of all time, so I suggest you read it. That is all, loads of love! ❤Harles.
Chapter One: In which we meet a murderer, this whole mess gets started, and our hero dies.
There are heroes. There are people who show hope to a hopeless world, light to a dark land, people who are blessed and who use their blessings for good. There are people who are gifted, and who share their gifts. Yes, there are heroes.
And then there is Batman. His gift was nothing special; in fact, it wasn't even really a gift, more of a personality trait. That's what all of his gifts were, really. He wasn't blessed with some miraculous power like super strength, inhuman speed, telepathy, or even spontaneous combustion. Batman did have a gift, but that's not important right now; it'll come up later.
It is a common belief that people like Batman, people without the alien-from-a-blown-up-planet backstory or the remarkable abilities, have a death wish. Why else would they dress up and fight crime? People like him had to be reckless, had to think they were immortal, they had to have some reason for risking their life, for not caring.
(Once again, Batman did care, but that's another matter for another time.)
No; people like Batman were often shockingly aware of their own mortality, but they knew that small little things like their own lives didn't matter unless they were making a difference. Wasn't it better to go down a hero than to die alone and unremembered? You weren't important if you didn't act like it. Interestingly enough, many costumed villains made the exact observation, but decided to do something different about it.
Most people just decided their life was worth something if they were important to just one person, and this is perfectly true, but not everyone feels this way. And if everyone felt this way, who would make a difference? Men don't live forever; legends do.
But back to the matter at hand.
Batman was aware of his own life, and of his future death. He didn't know when or where it would take him, or why, but he knew it would come one day. He secretly hoped that before he would get some sort of happily ever after, that one day Gotham wouldn't need Batman, that he could hang up his cape and live the rest of his days in peace, but part of him hoped this would never happen, for personal reasons that aren't currently valid. We will also discuss those later. Batman had the nagging feeling that death would come sooner or later for him, and (rather annoyingly) had the even more nagging feeling that it would be sooner, to the point of reminding himself every night that this might be the last time he breathed.
Batman knew that one day people would ask, whatever happened to Batman? You know, the world's greatest detective? The dark knight?
Pretty much what you'd think. He died.
Death did come for him one night, one dark, stormy night, when he was already injured from one of his more violent battles with one of his more violent villains, and it wasn't the big, flashy, hero's death Gotham- or everyone, really- would have wanted for him, it wasn't the death anyone would expect for him, but it was a death, and death does tend to kill people. Then again, so does life.
I'm getting off track.
It wasn't the Joker that killed Batman (but it was Batman that killed the Joker, in a way, but not that night. Once again, I am getting ahead of myself.). In fact, Batman was killed by a hired gunman whose aim was only seventy percent accurate, and who had never killed a vigilante before. Batman was killed by a teenage boy who lived on the streets and so, for a few hundred dollars, agreed to try to kill Batman. No one ever saw his face, and no one ever found out what became of him after he did what so many failed to do. I could tell you, of course, but that would spoil things. However, I will let you in on one thing: His name was Jackson Jones. His mother had died when he was nine, and he'd never met his father, and would never know his name was Joseph Chill, or that he was the one who'd created the Batman. Jackson just knew that he was going to eat like a king that night.
It was anticlimactic; Jackson aimed at Batman's chin, visible from the rooftop above, and pulled his trigger. He missed, and the bullet hit his heart. At any other time, this wouldn't have done anything, but having just come back from a fight with the Joker, Batman's armor was shredded and mangled, and probably couldn't stop a fly, let alone a speeding bullet.
He was limping out of the alleyway he'd left the unconscious, tied up goons he'd ending up battling while the Joker escaped. At least the clown would also sustain injuries, though Batman was much worse off, because the Joker didn't hold back. He staggered down the street, thinking that he might be able to pick up his trail, and knowing the car was also in that direction. All of his focus was on the Joker. He didn't catch the flicker of movement as Jackson aimed his gun, and barely heard the faint pop as he pulled the trigger. A second later, he had a distant thought: I should probably move. He turned, and his tired eyes almost failed to pick up the bullet that was rushing towards him. He dodged, and it landed in his side.
Jackson watched as Batman fell over, and then shot him again, because it looked like he was still moving. He pulled his trigger a third time, then looked through his binoculars. Batman wasn't moving.
His boss, a powerful man, had told him not to take any chances. "A few shots aren't enough to kill men like him. He's a survivor. He'll keep going if you don't see him die."
He looked kinda dead.
Jackson shot him again (this one missed his chest and hit him in the leg), and then considered his next orders, which were to dispose of the body, but not to check under the mask.
This was where things got tricky. Jackson, like any sane person, wanted to know who Batman was.
And then Batman stood up, and looked directly at Jackson, who screamed, and ran away, before he was the one who died.
He suddenly realized that Batman had the exact same build as Bruce Wayne, right down to the chin, and when he thought about it, he could maybe see a blue eye through the ruined mask. It wasn't proof, but it was a theory. And it made sense.
That'd be weird, if Bruce Wayne was Batman, Jackson though without realizing why. After all, he had no idea that his father had shot Bruce Wayne's parents because he wanted a pearl necklace.
Jackson did, however, have a stray pearl he'd found once when he went into the sewers on a bet; it'd been inside of an old shoe and caked in mud, but he was supposed to bring something back to prove he'd really gone down and risked his life in Killer Croc's territory, and the shoe had to do. The pearl had fallen out later, when he went to throw it away. It very probably came from Martha Wayne's necklace, though no one can be certain, and Jackson didn't even know about Martha's necklace; he would never assume it was yet another odd tie-in to his father's life. He later sold the pearl to a drunkard on the street for much more than it was worth, what became of it is a mystery.
A single, dirty word flashed through Jackson's head and he fled the area.
Batman, meanwhile, struggled to the sidewalk, so that he could lean against the wall, and whisper one word into the voice-activated mini-computer in his belt. His voice was rough, and grated, but that one word brought him hope, and gave him a chance of survival. He said, "Car."
And his car came.
But his car wasn't fast enough.
He only had time for a few words in the Cave before he passed out, in front of Alfred and Nightwing's frightened eyes: "Gunner. Got me from behind; didn't see his face. Probably not anyone we know."
Alfred helped him up, and over to the operating table, Dick watching, terrified.
The Batman's last words were "Thanks. How about we have some of those little tea cakes later?"
Tearfully, Alfred said "Yes, Master Bruce," but he never did get around to making the crumpets.