Can't Trust Anyone
Batman's eyes opened slowly. He'd walked right into a trap. Debris littered the ground around him: burning chunks of wood, shards of glass, singed paper and fabric. The blast had torn the house to pieces. He'd become complacent.
Getting sloppy, Bruce.
How could he have been so foolish? Rushing in like a headstrong amateur, right into the belly of the beast. He'd only just escaped the blast. No injuries sustained, as far as he could tell, except his wounded pride. Just light-headed. And embarrassed.
For too long now, he'd become accustomed to winning out. In previous battles, he had easily overcome his opponents. It had all become routine. Over-confidence had always been his downfall. Now it struck him: what if he was simply… lucky?
Not against the likes of Kiteman or Riddler; they were weak enough. But then, the GCPD didn't need help defeating that calibre of criminal. Gotham didn't need a costumed crime-fighter to solve ridiculous clues.
But when it came to the heavy-hitters: the strong, the dangerous, and the cunning. More often than not, Batman had been on the ropes against foes like Killer Croc and Solomon Grundy. And how high had Joker's death toll grown each time before the Dark Knight had completed his mission? Then there was Selina Kyle, Catwoman, forever slinking away into the shadows. He'd let her go, but maybe he just knew he couldn't bring her in. He didn't have what it takes.
Even if he could, he hadn't. And what kind of hero does that make him?
You're no use to anyone. Gotham doesn't need you. Gotham hates you.
Batman's fist clenched. Rising to his feet, he recited the old oath, made on his parents' graves. One way or another, he would find the person responsible and take them down. And all the rest would follow.
He walked back inside, searching for evidence, clues, anything. It'd been a while since he'd done any proper investigative work. More and more often, his process was a reactive one. The crime was in progress, and all the situation required was a speedy arrival and a hard fight. Even when a case did call for detective skills, he'd been favouring the bad cop routine. Beating the answers out of street-level thugs and dealers was as close as he'd come to police work.
But you're not police, are you? You're just another one of them. Another criminal freak.
His intelligence gathering had let him down this time. Led into a trap like a lamb to slaughter, he'd been all too willing to charge into battle with a sound strategy. He'd been reckless, and it'd almost cost him his life.
Whose life would be on the line next time?
He wasn't even sure he remembered how to do the legwork. It'd been too long. Dusting for fingerprints, searching for blood traces, following money trails and shell corporations. Things that couldn't be resolved with a well-aimed batarang. Could he even do it anymore?
Surveying the damage inside, he took a deep breath. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils and stung the back of his throat. Fires crackled here and there throughout the ruins, as phantom shadows crawled over the walls. There was something ominous in the flames, as if they were reaching out for him, clawing at his throat.
The wind whistled through the gaping windows like a howling banshee. A cupboard door swung on a single hinge, squeaking as it rocked gently, threatening to fall. Loose papers fluttered back and forth, eddying around his feet. Dust rained down from the charred ceiling. Nothing of use would be left in here.
Or maybe you're just giving up.
Then there were footsteps behind him.
Batman wheeled around, a batarang springing into his hand. Jaw set, he glared at the shadows, barely making out a silhouette in the darkness. It wasn't the scrawny figure he'd expected. This man was well-built, wearing a trench coat and horn-rimmed spectacles that glinted. The shadows hid his features, but Batman knew who he was.
He'd known the man for years, trusted him with his life. Besides Alfred, whose constant proprietary created a barrier between them, Gordon was the closest to being a father figure in Bruce Wayne's life. When times were dark, it was this man he looked to for answers. He was a role model. And yet…
Something niggled at the back of Bruce's mind. Doubts. Suspicion. Reflecting on the way the voice had sounded over the phone, the way the tip had felt too easy. There was a tautness in the voice. Unless his imagination had got the better of him, Batman could have sworn he had been distant. Quiet.
Odd that Jim would get a lead before Batman. Stranger still that he would turn up after the fact. After the danger had passed. It was fortunate timing wasn't it? A coincidence? Or were his greatest fears coming true?
You got the information about this place from him. He sent you here. Sent you to die!
"You're working with him!" Batman accused. "You lured me here."
"You're weak, Batman," Gordon jeered. "All you have accomplished is amassing a gallery of rogues who terrorize the city to gain your attention. You are the cause of all our woes. Gotham doesn't need you anymore."
"I trusted you. I thought you were a good man, a good cop. What happened to you Jim?"
"Jim Gordon no longer exists," he said, stepping out of the shadows.
Blue liquid dripped from his ears, eyes and nose, with more frothing at his mouth with each and every word he uttered. Veins bulged beneath the skin, his arms rippling with muscle. His hair had grown shaggy like the fur of a feral dog, and Batman was sure he saw a blue tinge.
Suited in full riot gear, Gordon was a fearful sight. In his left hand, he held his service weapon with uncharacteristic disregard. Tear gas hung from his belt alongside his baton and mace, and a shotgun was strapped across his back. The blue moisture stained everything.
Strangest of all was the weapon in his right hand: a huge gavel-like hammer.
"Now, there is only Blueblood."
His voice was strange, at once the gruff fatherly voice of old and a new darker tone, rich and low and booming. A high rasping voice echoed each sentence, as if a spirit possessed him. Batman's eyes grew wide in disbelief. This couldn't be happening. Not Jim.
All your friends turn against you. And who can blame them? The people closest to you have a habit of getting hurt.
As 'Blueblood' approached, Batman saw his soulless eyes, full of ice and ire. A faint smile played on his blue-slicked lips. The man Batman knew was gone. All that was left was a monster. But Jim was the strongest man he'd ever known. He would never have lost his way. Someone did this to him. Someone made him this way.
Batman watched as Gordon's mouth twitched at the corners; Joker.
"You set out to scare criminals, to rid this city of the crime that took your parents. And yet, Gotham is gripped by fear."
Batman and Blueblood circled, primed and ready. Their eyes locked, watching for the first move, the first gap in their opponent's defences. Blood bubbled around Gordon's tongue as he licked his lips, continuing to taunt the Bat.
"The GCPD are too scared to continue without you to hold their hands," he sneered. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it? In all your arrogance and selfish need to control. You just wanted to be wanted. Wanted the praise. Now, my officers are paralysed with fear, scared of the dark, unable to do their jobs without their dark guardian angel."
The words didn't fit the movements of his lips. Again, the thought crossed his mind that Gordon had been possessed. This didn't seem like a Joker plot at all.
As if reading his mind, Gordon began to laugh, a hollow sound that ricocheted around the room. The whole time, Blueblood's mouth remained closed. The disembodied voice rattled on, echoing in the burned out shell, rising above the shrieking wind. The crackle of flames seem to laugh along with him.
"You're working with the Ventriloquist, too," Batman shouted. He studied Gordon's biceps. "And Bane. All of them. You've betrayed everything you ever believed in!"
The disembodied voice cut off sharply.
Batman remembered saying something very similar to Harvey Dent. A voice at the back of his mind asked if Two-Face was involved in this too. Why not? Everyone else seemed to be. What about Alfred? Had the loyal manservant, Batman's surrogate father, also joined the betrayal?
Et tu, Brute?
Batman begun scanning the shadows wildly, sure there were others in hiding, waiting to leap out and plant daggers in his back. Whispers in the dark set his hair on end, shivers snaking down his spine.
Blueblood advanced, the hammer held aloft. The mirthless grin stretched from ear to ear, a lifeless blue tinge apparent in his flesh.
"I'm afraid your time has come, Batman."
Batman sprang into action, loosing a batarang that struck the gun from his hand. Blueblood surged forward and swung the hammer, missing by an inch as the Caped Crusader rolled aside. Unrelenting, Gordon bellowed and continued his assault. The Hammer crashed into the wall as Batman leapt away, dropping smoke pellets in his wake.
The building shook from the hammer's impact, the foundations already weakened by the bomb blast. Bricks and mortar tumbled to the floor, and the wind screamed yet louder. Behind the lenses, Gordon's eyes burned with blue light and the blood continued to flow from his corneas. The flames in the room blazed louder and brighter than ever.
You're not good enough. Not strong enough, not fast enough, not smart enough.
Blueblood lunged again. Batman delivered a chop to the right shoulder and drove his knee up into his old friend's ribs, but the ex-police's grip on the weapon remained steadfast. The hammer struck the floor, pinning the end of the Crusader's cape, preventing his escape. The tiles cracked and buckled under the force of the blow.
You're going to die here.
With both feet, Batman kicked out, pushing the menace back into the far wall. He launched two more batarangs, each one impaling the tear gas canisters on Gordon's belt. They exploded in a light grey fog that mixed with the dark smoke of Batman's pellets, suffocating the room.
A moment later, Blueblood appeared again, seemingly unaffected by smoke or gas. With a snarl, he pumped the shotgun and squeezed the trigger.
Leaping to the ground behind the ruined sofa, Batman felt the shrapnel tear through the cape. He landed heavily on his back just in time to see the second shot pepper the plaster with holes. Fishing out his grapnel gun, he flipped into a crouching position and fired a line over the tattered furniture. It hooked the shotgun and wrapped around the weapon twice, allowing a short tug to pull the weapon free. It clattered to the floor by the window.
It all comes down to this. Fighting against your oldest friend, your greatest ally, Gotham's best hope. The only one this city needed more than Batman. One of you dies tonight.
Make sure it's him.
Batman moved warily to the corner of the house, as Blueblood took up the hammer again. With a furious war cry, Blueblood raced forward, striking hard and fast with all his might. Batman dodged and vaulted away over the dilapidated sofa and the hammer sailed passed and struck the cornerstone.
Glancing back, Batman watched as the ceiling caved in, collapsing on top of his old ally. Dust flew up as the wood and stone tumbled, burying Blueblood beneath a mound of rubble. An entire quarter of the house succumbed to the blow, falling like a landslide with a thunderous sound.
Batman closed his eyes and sighed. His victory was a pyrrhic one. Breathing heavily, he wondered how much farther the conspiracy went. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wreckage subsiding, moved from underneath. A moan reminiscent of Grundy reached the Batman's ears.
It'll never be over. Not until you end it. Not until you cross that line. Break your oath!
Blueblood erupted from the mountain of rubble, throwing his arms wide. Shielded by his cape, Batman crouched low, thinking fervently of a way to deal with this threat. Hurting Gordon was the last thing he wanted to do, but this fight had to end. Now.
He re-emerged and hurled his bolos at the blue creature, who seemed to have double in size since the battle had begun. The bonds restrained his arms, tying them flat against his body, but it worked for all of a few seconds. Blueblood's incredible strength snapped free of the constraints without effort. It seemed as though he were getting stronger.
"You're nothing but a frightened little child, playing make-believe," Blueblood jeered. "Pretend you're a hero all you want. You'll always be scared of the dark."
In a last ditch effort, Batman flung himself at his foe, pinning him to the floor. Making a fist, he pulled back, ready to throw a punch strong enough to lift Bane off his feet.
But then it hit him. Something Blueblood had said. A lot of things, in fact: frightened little child, scared of the dark. And before that, "Gotham is gripped by fear". He glanced around, looking for the signs of their struggles. No shrapnel in the wall, not shotgun by the window, no hole in the wall. The house was structurally intact.
This is why you'll always lose. You're always hesitating. Thinking instead of doing. Finish him!
Ignoring the disparate thoughts, he struggle to remember. It was all a haze but he knew he could recall if he just concentrated. The mission, the reason for him being here, the source of the explosion.
Blueblood shifted beneath him, a meaty fist preparing to strike. Still the voice inside his head urged him to end it, but Batman was sure now, those thought were not his own. Something was wrong with what he was seeing. Who had he been battling? The blue fist came up and struck him square in the face.
Scarecrow.
Batman woke with a start. His hands were bound behind him and secured around the pipes of a radiator. Blood dripped from his nose, clogging his sinuses and making his eyes sting. He hadn't been out long.
Looking up, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
"It's okay, Jim," Batman promised, mournfully. "The toxin has worn off."
"Thank the stars," Jim said lowering the pistol.
The old cop let out a long sigh of relief, and sank back in the tattered sofa. That much of the delusion, at least, was real. So was the bomb. The house was a mess of charred wood and crumbling plaster. The fires had all gone out now, if they'd ever been there at all.
Jim Gordon, meanwhile, looked himself again – more or less. The right side of his face was swollen and mottled black and blue. His lower lip was cut to shreds, and a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose. A greenish yellow bruise peeked out from beneath his shirt and Batman surmised it claimed most of his shoulder.
Of the blue blood, or anything else of his ghastly appearance, there was nothing. No hammer, no shotgun, not even the riot gear. Jim wore a light grey shirt, undone down to the third button, and a red tie that hung loose in the collar. Two separate patched of blood stained the bottom from where the batarangs had struck. A trail of drops from his nose stained the top.
"I'm sorry, Jim. The Scarecrow's toxin…"
"You don't have to explain to me," Jim said, waving away the apology. "We've all been caught by that stuff one time or another. It gets stronger every time. I'm just glad you got over it before you put me in the ground."
"Seems you gave as good as you got."
"Hardly. You did most of the damage all on your own, throwing yourself around the place. I spent most of my time ducking and diving. Barely landed a blow, except for that busted nose of yours," Jim said with a grimace. "One minute you were pummelling me, the next you were running away like I had the upper hand. Tell you the truth you looked ridiculous."
Batman smiled wryly as Gordon forced a laugh. Neither one was really in the mood for jokes. They both knew how things could have gone, how easily it might have got out of hand. Batman could have killed him. He almost did.
Worse, it could have been someone else. A civilian, with no hope of evading the onslaught, no hope of fighting back. Scarecrow had almost won, and there was nothing Batman could have done about it. At length, Jim continued.
"I've never been so scared in all my life."
Batman nodded solemnly.
The thought he'd had, the inner monologue telling he wasn't good enough, they were induced by the fear toxin… but they were his thought. His deepest darkest fears, concern and anxieties brought to the surface. Somewhere deep down, even after all these years, he still wondered if he had made a difference in Gotham. If he'd had a positive influence.
Or if he'd made thing worse.
"You can slip those cuffs anytime you want," Jim offered wearily. "We both know they won't hold you."
With a clink, the bracelets fell to the ground and Batman leaned back, rubbing his wrists. Somewhere out there, Scarecrow was laughing. He'd escaped and he was free to conduct his experiments and instil fear wherever he pleased.
The mission wasn't complete, yet somehow, Bruce didn't care. He knew he should be getting back out there, tracking Scarecrow down, throwing him back in Arkham before he hurt someone else.
Instead, he sat.
"You know, you said a lot of crazy stuff back there. It didn't seem like you were really hearing what I was saying."
"I wasn't," Batman affirmed, closing his eyes.
"But there was something you said, something about trusting me," Gordon went on.
"Forget it. I was…compromised."
"No, it's important. You said you trusted me," Gordon insisted. "And you can. You should. Trust me. I don't know about being a good man, but I am a good cop. And I want what's best for this city. Right now, it needs hope. That's what you give people, it's what you stand for. A symbol that good things exist even in the darkest of nights.
"The public trusts you, more than they trust the GCPD. But you need to trust me or it'll all be for nothing. Together, we can clean up the department, we can restore that trust, that faith. Restore hope. Then, we can help you. All it takes is trust."
Gordon turned to look at him, and for a moment he seemed surprised the vigilante was still there. He normally left before he finished any conversation. Instead, he sat with eyes closed, his head resting against the fire-damaged wall. The wallpaper was peeling away behind his head.
"I trust you, Jim."