Seeing Ghosts
In a cave beneath the earth, a man is doing pull-ups. He is a younger man, with a firm jaw and jet black hair. His body is like a Michaelangelo sculpture in physique, yet marked by scars and bruises. His eyes are dark and hard and narrow.
Each one of his moves is like the tick of a finely tuned watch, the motion of a well-oiled machine.
Up, down, up, down.
Flexing arms smoothly raise and lower his ramrod straight body, toes pointed firmly downward. Sweat rolls down his face, past unblinking eyes and gritted teeth.
Up, down, up, down.
There is anger in his movements. With a grunt he drops away his right arm. His movements slow only so slightly, they barely lose any of that clockwork precision. He is wondering if he has really been doing the right thing all these years.
Up, down. Up, down.
Why, he asks himself. Why am I doing it? What have I really accomplished? Have I really avenged them? I push myself night after night, and yet they still come. He still comes.
Up, down. Up, down.
His anger rises, he lets all but two fingers fall away. He rises at a snails pace now, his whole body shakes with effort. His eyes mouth widens in a grimace. Still his body forces on as his mind questions itself.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
Your supposed to be the greatest detective in the world, yet you can't answer yourself. You can't figure your own mind out. Your pathetic.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
His anger is almost a fury now. His eyes were wide with effort and emotion, his teeth were clenched so tight his jaw shook. With a growl he lets all but one finger hold onto the bar.
Up.
Up. Come on, up! UP, DAMN YOU!!
Every muscle in his body trembles. His eyes close with pain and exertion. Tears well up in their corners. Tendons draw tight enough to snap and nails bite into the palm of his hand. Red lightning flashes in front of him. Fight the pain, come on, do it!
UP!
The voice in the back of his head chimes in. Your weak. Your pathetic. How dare you think you had what it takes? Why don't you just stop? Why don't you stop?!
UP!!
He see's there faces. They look so sad. So cold. They want to reach to him but they can't. Their gone and buried. His hand lashes out frantically, trying to hold onto them, to bring them back. Every muscle in his body cries out as he presses beyond any limit he has known.
UP! UP!! UP!!!!
With a scream he falls from the bar. He lays on the cool mats, gasping for breath, muscles spasming from exertion, eyes still shut tight. Slowly his breathing slows, his muscles relax. His eyes open. From somewhere up on the dark and hidden limestone roof a drop of water falls. It strikes his head, cool against the hot sweat of his brow. Soothing.
He sighs.
He rises and walks off the mat, grabbing his towel, wiping the sweat and tears away. He walks past trophies of past adventures. Memories of past mistakes. Banks of supercomputers and racks of equipment. The long staircase to the upper world stands before him. Before he reaches it he passes a table. On it sits a newspaper. He's seen it already, but he didn't need too. Its a headline he's seen a hundred times. Its always the same.
"Joker Escapes from Arkham Asylum. Police on High State of Alert."
Jim Gordon sat in his office. He hadn't been Commisioner long and was still getting used to it. The desk felt too big, the walls seemed to far away. The tall windows behind him were partially opened and the shades drawn, letting the sun and sounds of the city fill his office. It was important to him that he didn't lose touch with the city. The intercom box on his desk buzzed.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me Commissioner, Detective Rensen is here."
"Send him in please."
A few seconds later the door to his office opened and Detective Rensen walked in. Palmer Stanley Rensen, age 32. Had just arrived in Gotham three days ago. Served on the Central City P.D. for 12 years with distinctions.
He was tall and broad shouldered with a smooth jaw and straight nose. His eyes were chesnut brown and his curly yellow hair was combed back from his face. He wore black slacks and tie and short sleeved white shirt still fresh from the wrapping.
He rose and shook the younger mans hand and motioned him to one of the chairs in front of the desk. Rensen sat easily, his legs crossed, hands clasped. His voice was mellow and smooth with a light accent.
"You wanted to see me sir?"
Gordon leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Yes, I did. For starters, I wanted to personally welcome you Rensen. I saw your record and it was quite impressive. I'm sure you'll do just as well here."
The man smiled lightly and nodded. "Thank you sir."
"Secondly, I wanted to discuss something with you." Gordon tossed Rensen a copy of that mornings Gotham Gazette. The Jokers face leered off the front page. Rensen read the headline outloud.
"Can I assume you've heard of the Joker?"
Rensen slowly lowered the newspaper and looked at Gordon. He exhaled deeply before speaking. "Who hasn't? I worked homicide for years, but some of the stories I've heard about the Joker made my skin crawl for days."
The Commissioner let out a sharp laugh. It was not filled with mirth. "Count yourself lucky you only heard the stories. I've seen most of what he's done first hand. And let me tell you this." Gordon leaned forward towards Rensen. His voice was low when he spoke again. "Let me tell you this. The stories are never as bad as the actual thing."
He let his words sink in to the detectives mind.
Gordon took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "This city Rensen, is different from anything you've known. I can guarantee you that. In this city, the Joker isn't the exception, he's the primary example of the rule. Here, everythings different."
He stood up and turned around to the window, staring out at the city. "I know from your records that you've had some run-ins with costumed criminals. That gives you some experience with the concept. And there's a strong possibility that at some point or another you'll run into one of our resident pyschopaths. Maybe even the Joker himself. If that happens, when that happens, believe me. Any idea's, notions or experiences you've had won't matter. They play by wholly different rules here. Your going to have to be able let old idea's go and be able to improvise." He turned back around. "Otherwise, you'll die."
Rensen looked strange. Puzzled to be sure. Interested too. And pale. He understood what Gordon was trying to tell him, but he didn't know if he understood what Gordon was telling him. He didn't know if he could make sense of it. If he hadn't been a beat hardened homicide cop, Gordon would have called it fear.
"I'm telling you this, like I tell any new recruit for one very specific reason. I don't want you to get killed."
"I know sir. Thank you for the advice." The mans hand was shaking. He tried to hide it behind his leg. Gordon didn't blame him. It was alot more controlled than some of his own reactions to the insanity. He had lost track of how many times he had woken up screaming in the night.
"Is that all sir?"
Gordon stared at him from behind his black frame glasses. He looked into Rensens eyes. His words had frightened him. That was only natural, he was just a man. But looking into his eyes, Gordon knew that he was also a cop. He was going to do his job no matter what.
"Yes detective, thats all."
Night was falling on Gotham City. It was about time for the screams to start
A warehouse. Somewhere near the Gotham Harbor docks. Inside, sits a man.
He sits atop a stack of large crates. What they contain is of no care to him. He's not even sure he's in a warehouse if he were to be totally honest with himself. It was just a place to him. Those came and went so quickly he had stopped keeping track of what the names of places meant. Trying to remember got in the way of the voices.
He is sitting on top of his boxes, in his place. In one hand he twirls a cane, in the other he toys with a felt panama hat. He whistles the tune to "Top of the Heap" from New York New York to himself. Beneath his long dark coat, he wears an immaculately tailored purple suit and green tie. His shoes are polished to the point of being mirrors. Looking down he see's his reflection. It winks back and laughs. He can't help but follow along with it.
He had found himself here after he had left another place. It was one of the few he still associated a name with. Arkham. Great padding in the cells, though the Thorazine left much to be desired. He wasn't sure they had wanted him to leave. Not that it mattered, nothing did.
Except for him.
He stared out at him. Looking so mysterious. Just sitting there in the dark, staring back. That dark cowl, the flowing cape, the dark stain across his chest that just happened to resemble a bat.
Batman.
He wasn't there of course. He only came when he called. When he invited him out to play. He smiled at the thought.
His watch alarm went off. It was gold and expensive, set with diamonds. It hadn't been his four hours ago. Some dying relative had been gracious enough to leave it to him. Poor uncle Sam. He cackled at the thought.
It was time. Time to send his invitation. He hopped off his box and donned his hat, still twirling his cane. He felt like dancing. Gene Kelly had just strutted by and had given him the idea. He lightly begins tapping his way towards the door.
"Mommy, mommy, can I ask Batman out to play?"
The laugh roars long into the darkness.