Disclaimer: This disclaimer applies to the entire work. Subsequent linked chapters fall under this umbrella disclaimer.
Batman, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight (c) Bob Kane, Warner Bros., DC Comics, Christopher Nolan, Jonathan Nolan, David S. Goyer, and any other unnamed creators and/or umbrella/parent companies/corporations which hold license to the Batman franchise. This work of fiction is presented here, royalty free, to express a love of the franchise that the aforementioned work falls under. This work of fiction is not endorsed by the aforementioned creators/owners/license holders, and any opinions herein are the opinions of the author of this work. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: I started this fic a long time ago (2008), and only recently decided to finish it.
This is based almost entirely on the first two Nolan movies (as of this note, the third movie is allegedly in production). The DCU elements are for character purposes only; I did not want to invent new criminals when there are already a plethora of established criminals to choose from.
I've altered Jonathan Crane's history slightly. In Batman Begins, I got the feeling that Crane never directly murdered anyone, which is contrary to what has become his established history.
Back to DCU. I really liked the realistic Killer Croc portrayed in the graphic novel "Joker" (Author: Brian Azzarello / Illustrator: Lee Bermejo). Since Nolan took such a realistic look at the Batman universe already, I felt that my Croc had to be realistic too, so I drew upon the version found in "Joker."
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Coffee
by Jack Velvet
Le Café was one of those places that any normal person wouldn't notice on any normal day. Located on Elmwood in Uptown Gotham (just a right and a left at the second light off of the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge), the place was unnoticed by most. Sure, the snobbish upper class enjoyed their fresh, three-star-or-higher meals, but stooping down to the hippy ideals of organics and save-the-Earth mottos wasn't exactly their thing. The Richie-riches were only a block over, and the artsy-fartsy brooding types were on the other side of main street. Simply put, Le Café was lovingly founded in the wrong part of town. Business held up enough to keep it open, since the Elmwood area consisted of a few homes and businesses run by people who weren't so corrupt and had their noses held at nose level. Thank goodness too, or else a very hungry and very tired Bruce Wayne never would have stopped in.
Elmwood was one of the few streets in Gotham that didn't require a person to pay seventy-five cents at a parking meter if they wanted to nab a bite to eat. It wasn't as if Bruce couldn't afford it, he simply didn't carry pocket change on him. Coins were too clanky and really didn't fit into his idea of stealth. So the billionaire parked his new sports car (as his previous one was purposely totaled) and hopped into the shop, unaware of how coincidental-slash-fateful this action would turn out to be.
The place was refreshing, decorated in earthy tones of green, beige, and brown. An older couple, probably children of the '60s, sat by the window, and aside from them, there was only one other man in the place, sitting alone in a corner reading a newspaper.
Bruce stepped up to the counter, somewhat thankful that no one had recognized him yet (because Lucius would just kill him if he were late and asleep for another important board meeting), and quickly skimmed the chalkboard menu hung above the coffee machines.
The aroma was overwhelming. As Bruce directed his attention toward the many muffins (why they baked so many for so few customers in the morning was a mystery to him), two young ladies greeted him. One of them, a cute little red-head named Tara, began blushing, and pushed the other forward.
"What can I get you?" asked the other, a brunette.
"You have a lot of muffins here," Bruce said.
"That's not exactly an answer."
Snarky, Bruce thought. He looked at her name-tag. Lucy, that's not too common anymore. "What's the little leaf by the name mean?"
"It means that it's vegan-friendly. No eggs, no honey, no milk."
"Honey isn't vegan?"
"Bees make it."
"What about regular muffins?"
"Anything without a leaf."
"You're being mean, Luce!" Tara whispered, still bright red.
"A leafless blueberry then," he said with a tired smile. A yawn escaped him. "And whatever you have here that gives you a lot of energy."
"That's the Supra Double-Shot," Tara answered. "I can make you a large, which has six shots of espresso."
"Sure," the man agreed. I really shouldn't be drinking all of this caffeine. It's not healthy.
"Iced, or hot?" Tara asked.
"Probably hot, Tara," Lucy assumed, eyes rolling. "It's not exactly warm out there anymore."
This Lucy character piqued Bruce's interest. A little bit of a fireball, with gorgeous green eyes. Probably a bit too young for him, maybe mid-twenties. The only way to flirt with her type was to give all of that snark back.
"Cold, please," he said, a daring smile directed at Lucy. Those green eyes rolled right back again.
"You staying here and eating?" Lucy asked, her tone suggesting that he leave. Eager to cash this customer out, she poised a finger over the register, ready to press the "I've got their money" button.
Tara waited for the answer just as eagerly, but for opposite reasons.
"Hmm..." Bruce pondered. He looked around the café again, wondering if he really wanted to take his food and run, or make it a daily routine. The service was both great and terrible, but there were healthy options for those mornings when he woke up too late to eat anything Alfred could prepare. He wasn't sure how those vegan things would taste, though. Mostly, he wondered if he wanted this tiny slice of normal in his life. That's when the man in the corner lowered his paper.
It was Jonathan Crane.
"I'll stay here," he answered.
Tara was elated. Lucy's finger dropped, and the cash drawer popped open. She pushed the tip jar forward as he paid. Overpaid, really, because getting change for a fifty wasn't exactly nice to do to people who just opened shop.
"Here you are, Mr. Wayne!" Tara said, handing over a plate and a lovingly prepared Supra Double-Shot.
"You know this guy?" Lucy asked her.
"That's Bruce Wayne, Luce!" she whispered back, though no one in the shop would have cared if they'd heard her.
Lucy arched an eyebrow at the playboy, her disgust for him growing. The victorious, smug smile on his face only amplified the feeling.
"Why thank you..." Bruce said, leaning over to pretend to read Tara's name-tag (even though he had noticed it earlier), "...Tara."
"Oh my gosh!" she replied, eyes wide with excitement.
"Great, be a little louder, would ya?" Lucy elbowed her. "I know business ain't exactly happening, but I don't really want a bunch of little Tara's coming in just to see Bruce Wayne."
"You're assuming I'm coming back?"
"Yeah, Lucy! If you're mean to him he won't come back!"
"She won't tell anyone," Bruce suggested. "Tara seems like a good egg."
"Oh, you're right, Mr. Wayne! I won't tell anyone. We'll make sure you can come here all the time and no one will bother you!"
"You're so naïve, Tara," Lucy said.
"Thanks ladies," Bruce said, walking away as he sipped his drink. "Great drink, Tara." The girl almost fainted.
Flirting and such out of the way, Bruce switched to detective mode. So, Jonathan Crane didn't leave Gotham after that case. What's he doing here out in the open?
"Nice day," Bruce said, choosing the table next to Crane.
"A bit cold," Crane replied, turning the page and folding over the paper. The former doctor seemed displeased.
"First signs of winter. I wonder if it's going to snow?"
"Tomorrow, or so they say."
This muffin is good. Bruce took two more bites in silence before saying, "Gotham winters are nice, don't you think?"
"Why did you sit by me?" Crane asked,finally acknowledging Bruce.
That's right. Blue. Doesn't look like contacts. Maybe the glasses were part of his game. "Seems like a community place. Just making chit-chat."
"There's hardly more than ten people in here at a time. Not exactly a community place."
He's here often. Maybe he lives nearby. "Too bad. The muffins here are great. Cute help too." Another bite of blueberry.
"Ah, that's why you look familiar. Do you expect me to talk to you because you're Bruce Wayne?"
No suit. Plain, nondescript clothes. He's either hiding something or just hiding."Nope, you just seemed like a nice guy."
"You interrupted my reading of the newspaper." Jonathan turned his head back in that cocky manner that he was known for, setting his eyes back on the print of the first section. "Plus, you're wrong."
"Seems I'm late for a meeting," Bruce said, checking his watch. Crane didn't notice, because he didn't care to look.
"Good."
...
The police scanner led him to a 24-hour convenience store across the bridge to the Narrows. From the sound of it, the clerk was alive at the time of the call, but Batman couldn't determine if this was the case without getting closer. And he didn't want to get closer before finding a stealthy way to do so.
Two hoodlums guarded the store, one in the driver's seat of the getaway car, and one just outside the vehicle. Two more crooks were inside, handling the theft. Sirens wailed in the distance. Still no sign of the clerk. Batman had to act soon.
"Yo Squid," said the man in the car. "You get the feelin' like we're bein' watched?"
"Nah, it's in your head, Ax. Ain't no one watchin' us."
"The cops're gonna be here soon. Shouldn't we be pullin' round the back?"
"Not 'til the boss is done. We got time."
Batman tossed a pebble across the street. The sound drew Ax's and Squid's eyes away from the store.
"What was that?"
"Probably just a rat," Squid answered. "Lemme check it out. Stay in the car."
Batman slipped inside. Almost. A bell on the door jingled.
The bulkier of the two men looked up. "The hell was that?"
"Dunno, Boss."
"Well take a fucking look," he barked.
The thug stepped cautiously toward the counter, shotgun aimed low.
"Hey Croc," the man said. "Clerk's still here, cowering like a dog."
"Sid and Ax still outside?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Let's blow this joint."
Batman struck. The thug went down easily. The clerk howled in fright. Batman checked up on him, but now the clerk had the shotgun, and was aiming it at his chest.
"Don't move, you murderer!" he said.
Damn it, Batman thought. The city had been wary of Batman ever since the death of Harvey Dent. A "necessary evil," he and Gordon had agreed. Still, this wasn't the first victim that was reluctant to have Batman's help.
The threat of being shot gave Croc the chance he needed. Batman was thrown into a display of canned goods, spilling the product across the store. He didn't give Batman a moment to stand.
Batman hit a freezer door hard, bruises instantly forming on his back where the handle pushed in. It gave him the opportunity to see his assailant up-close. Dark, scaly skin. Sharpened teeth, probably done by a cosmetic dental surgeon. He now had at least three things to do a background check with. Of course, he had to think of how to get out alive, first.
A shotgun blast reverberated through the store. The clerk cursed at the thug, who had since awakened and taken the weapon back. Luckily for the clerk, he missed the wide berth of the shot.
Croc hit Batman again, knocking the breath from his lungs. As Batman looked up at his target, Croc sprayed him with an aerosol. Batman winced; the mist stung his eyes, nose, and throat. Alarms went off, and armies marched through the aisles.
The high-pitched screeching of car tires overcame the phantom sounds in Batman's ears. Croc had escaped. Batman tried to make chase, but knew he had to check up on the clerk first.
"Are you hurt?" he asked him.
"Get the hell outta my store!" the clerk yelled.
Batman disappeared as the source of the sirens closed in on the location. The clerk was safe, but Croc's car was out-of-sight. Batman failed.
...
Bruce made it back to the cave without incident. It took a while to ditch the cops, but at least this time he didn't leave a wake of destruction behind him.
The elevator descended, carrying a rested and freshly dressed Alfred. The butler met Bruce beside the wardrobe that stored the Batsuit, where Bruce washed the black grease-paint from his eyes.
Alfred had installed a sink a few days prior, and stocked the area with several expensive facial cleansers. Two weeks ago, Bruce was so tired that he had forgotten to wash up. Alfred had a hell of a time getting the paint out of Bruce's pillow-cases. He felt the sink would serve as a reminder to Master Wayne to clean up, and so far it was working.
"Alfred, I need you to look up something for me."
"Would you still like your breakfast?"
"Nothing too huge."
"Perhaps just some toast and orange juice?"
"That'd be great."
"Right away, Master Wayne."
Within minutes, Alfred returned to the cave, a soft robe hanging from one arm, and a tray of Bruce's breakfast in the other.
"Thanks Alfred," said Bruce, snatching the toast.
"What is it that you needed, Master Wayne?"
"I need to look up a criminal, a guy called Croc."
Alfred took his place near the computer. "A description, sir?"
"Six three, muscular." A sip of juice. "African-American. Some sort of skin condition that looks like scales. His teeth were sharpened too. Check medical records." More toast. "At least two-fifty. Bigger than a football player."
After a few moments of typing, Alfred said, "One match. Waylon Jones. Alias: Killer Croc. Thirty-four. Former pro-wrestler. Drugs, assault, armed robbery. One charge of battery that never made it to court."
Bruce, now down to his undergarments, slipped into the robe and asked, "Dropped?"
"His late girlfriend. Apparently her forgiveness wasn't enough to save her."
"Was he arrested for her murder?"
"He seems to have a good attorney."
"Probably a mob lawyer." The man finished off his juice, and said, "Thanks Alfred."
"Might you be taking a rest while you're home?" he asked.
"No, I still have more to do."
"I'll have a suit ready for you, Sir."
"Thanks," Bruce said, exchanging places with him.
He scanned the articles on the monitors for a connection to Crane, but he couldn't find anything solid. Sofia Falcone though. Just ringside seats. She's been in Italy lately. Probably the money behind his release. For what purpose though? Maroni took over for the Roman.
The use of an aerosol mist couldn't be coincidence. Still, no connection to Crane—they didn't even have the same lawyer. The only noteworthy item was the robbery of a downtown pharmaceutical company last week, one that the police managed to get to before Bruce could even don the Batsuit. Croc and company matched the description. It was worth investigating.
"Sir, your suit is ready for you in your room. Will you be greeting the decorator when he arrives?"
"I'm thinking of heading uptown for some coffee."
"Coffee?" Alfred wore a look of concern. "A good night's rest will do much more for you than a cup of coffee. I thought you were cutting back on the caffeine?"
"I am. I think they have decaf. Suit on the door?"
"Yes, sir." Alfred turned back around, ready to head back up the elevator, but paused, and inquired, "What style shall I tell the decorator?"
"Something Wayne-like."
"Right. It's not as if you'll be spending time in the manor anyway."
"I could fire you," Bruce joked.
"And if it weren't for your parents, I'd let you." The elevator ascended once more.
"Jonathan Crane..." Bruce murmured. It had crossed his mind that looking up the the connection from the other end might work better. He had looked him up in the past, but wasn't able to find much, probably due to the interference of the League of Shadows. Now that Crane was out, he was hoping he could find something more in the transcripts of his court appearances.
He stumbled upon a shaky history; not only were Crane's parent's not his legal guardians, he'd been mentally and physically abused both at home and at school.
"Just like you, isn't he Bruce?"
"Alfred?" Bruce turned his head. It didn't sound like Alfred, but that was the only logical explanation.
"He should have called the police when the abuse started, instead of waiting until it was too late."
"How do you know there was abuse?"
"There's always abuse in cases like that. He was too pathetic to act. Too scared. Just like you."
Bruce shook his head. He recalled the intense auditory stimuli he'd experienced in the store. Crane's formula. Slightly altered. A hallucination.
Bruce headed to the elevator. Maybe some coffee could shake these voices.