A/N: So, I've never done this before. Generally, I write other stuff- original stuff- but only a very select few have been allowed to read bits and pieces of it. I guess a person's writings can be rather personal, and I suppose that I'm afraid of someone I know telling me to my face that my writing is terrible. It would hurt, and rather a lot- there's a lot of "me" in my writings. And, as I'm sure most of you are well aware, friends, lovers, etc. are generally not honest about what they think of your writing anyway.
However, I realize that to grow as an author, one must subject themselves to criticism. I was at an impasse. How would I improve as an author and manage not getting my precious feelings hurt? After watching The Dark Knight for the umpteenth time the other evening though, and being stricken with an inexplicable urge to start writing where it left off, I came up with the most wondrous solution to my problem. I would give in to the muse. I would write a fan-fic as a sort of writing exercise and submit it on here, in the hopes that someone would read it and give honest reviews. Best part is, none of you know me. A constructive review from a stranger, even a very negative one, is better able to be processed by me as something other than a personal attack. (I know, I know- I'm working on that thicker skin.)
Another thing- I wouldn't be surprised if this thing never gets finished. It's one of my greatest vices- starting stories, then running out of steam. I'm a chemist and a university student, so I might have some semblance of an excuse. It is unfortunate, however, that no one seems to appreciate a good permanent cliffhanger.
One last warning- I have no idea where this is going. Literally. When I write, I'm one of those folks who jumps in at point "A" and just starts making random turns. I usually end up at a dead end. Once in awhile, a stroke of genius makes it seem like I planned something all along. This is never the case. For what it's worth, the original things I write generally DO have more of a direction than this, but once in awhile it's entertaining write completely blindfolded. Especially when all of the real work, like character development and such, has already been done for you.
So, here we go. I hope it's fun- and if it's not, I hope you tell me. I want to learn.
Disclaimer: I see these all the time. I guess I need one? I didn't think up Batman, Alfred, or anyone else who's going to show up in this fanfic. If someone I did create does show up, I'll be certain to point this out.
1.
"…because sometimes, the truth isn't good enough."
Batman stole another glance at the body of Harvey Dent, the smooth, unmarred skin of the right half of his face, and the serene expression apparent there- a reminder of just what he meant to the people of Gotham. Their White Knight. And so he would remain.
He focused once again upon the baffled countenance of Commissioner Gordon, a new resolve building within him. Yes- the decision was made, and it was final.
"Sometimes, people deserve more."
With those words, Batman turned and, without another thought, he took off down the alley, cape billowing behind him like a spectral shadow. He knew that the moment he was out of sight Gordon would call him in, and he knew that it would nearly kill Gordon to do it- but he also knew that Gordon and he shared the same vision of what Gotham could be, what Gotham needed to rise. Batman had been Gotham's hero when she needed a hero- now he would solemnly take up the mantle of scapegoat.
He could hear the dogs as he ran. Their barking and the calls of their handlers rang through the night air like a liberty bell. Gotham knew her enemy once again, and she had united with a purpose. Someone must answer for the atrocities committed, and by God someone would. And Batman ran, the hunter become the hunted.
He pushed on into the night, beginning to lose track of everything but the rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement and the wail of sirens and police radio that followed in his wake. He needed to get to the bat-pod before the adrenaline that coursed through him burned off. He could already feel it's effects lessening as squeals of pain from his damaged body broke through here and there, catching his breath and causing him to stumble, breaking the rhythm of the pavement.
The weakness followed. It came with a sudden breathlessness and vertigo that Batman was no stranger to. His time was running out more quickly than the adrenaline- and the dogs drew nigh. The dark streets began to pitch and roll before his eyes, his vision blurry with sweat and pain, his mind cloudy from sheer exhaustion. Dodging between rows of shipping crates he felt his knees give out once- twice- both times, he staggered to a crate quickly enough to catch himself before he fell. Lucky thing too, for he knew well that if he fell, he would not be able to right himself in time to evade capture.
Then, as if in a dream, the bat-pod emerged in his pitching, reeling field of view. Throwing his battered body into autopilot, he forgot about wounds and dogs and exhaustion, leapt onto the vehicle, thrust it into drive and tore away at break-neck speed, dogs and police left in his dust.
The bunker. He needed to get to the bunker. From there he would radio Alfred- if he wasn't already there, waiting- for he knew he was in need of every kind of ministration that the old butler could offer. A sick stickiness had soaked through his entire torso. The pain was bearable but it was building. The Batman was once again testing his limits, and he had a sobering feeling that perhaps he was rather closer to those limits than he'd ever wanted to come.
It wasn't long before the entrance to the bunker was in sight. A quick sequence of buttons was engaged from the handles of the vehicle, allowing the bat-pod a quick, almost silent entrance to the underground sanctuary.
Once inside, the bat-pod came to a jerking halt. Batman lurched off of the seat as it tipped towards the floor and staggered towards the computer, not immediately noticing the familiar form that rose placidly from the comfortable seat in front of the screens to move towards him.
Batman pulled the cowl from his face and dropped the gravelly tone from his voice as he spoke.
"Alfred- you're here…"
"That I am Master Wayne, that I am." With the steady calm that Bruce had come to expect in even the direst of circumstances, Alfred slid a steadying arm under the younger man's shoulders and began to gently but urgently guide him towards the recently vacated chair. "And what kind of trouble have you found for yourself tonight, Master Wayne?"
Bruce only shook his head, his mind suddenly too fuzzy to formulate a coherent sentence. They reached the chair and he was eased into it, panting. A grimace crossed his features, and one thing began to break through the fog of his consciousness at an alarming rate: pain. He felt Alfred's practiced hands begin to undo the straps and fastenings that held him in his suit, and together they peeled the damaged plates and shields from Bruce's body.
A mess. Bruce Wayne was, quite literally, a bloody mess, but Alfred's inventory of his injuries went no farther than the stab wound and the gunshot wound. A clean pad of bandages was produced from God only knew where, and Bruce had them stuffed into his clammy grasp and was told in no uncertain terms to hold them firmly against the bullet hole. Another pad was pressed against the knife wound, eliciting a pained groan. More bandages were wrapped carefully but tightly about his torso to hold the pads in place. A shirt was proffered, and Bruce took it dumbly, allowing himself to be helped into it. Then came a long coat- Bruce protested at first, but Alfred insisted on it. It would serve as a buffer layer should the wounds begin to bleed through their dressings. Bruce thought he heard Alfred say something about the prevention of inappropriate, public bleeding all over the apartment complex's lobby and elevator, but then again, Bruce was having trouble hearing. The roaring in his head, his sides, every inch of him was reaching a fever pitch.
He was helped to his feet then, and the sudden movement resulted in an almost feral growl of pain. Alfred held him steady though, and began to guide him towards the Rolls Royce. No more could be done here- all but the most basal medical supplies were kept at the penthouse, along with a proper bed and nourishment.
"Alfred- if you get stopped, just tell 'em I'm drunk." As slurred and muffled as his words sounded even to his own ears, Bruce didn't think he'd have trouble fooling anyone.
"Don't you worry about me now, sir. Concern yourself with putting one foot in front of the other. We need to get you to the penthouse."
Bruce thought he heard a twinge of concerned urgency that betrayed the calm front that Alfred was so careful to maintain. He fought the urge to grin, no matter how inappropriate the expression for the current circumstance. Ordinarily, a panicked Alfred meant a panicked Bruce- but tonight, a single thought crossed Bruce's mind.
Do I really look that bad?
Bruce very nearly voiced this, but as he opened his mouth to do so, his right foot caught on a crack in the concrete floor of the bunker, a misstep that would have sent him to his knees had Alfred not moved quickly enough. The only thing that escaped his lips was a grunt.
"It's a good- good thing you've got reflexes…" Bruce's voice hitched as the bullet in his side caught on something particularly painful.
They reached the car.
"Master Wayne, in you go now." Alfred's voice was even again, calm and steady.
Alfred got the fading Bruce Wayne properly strapped into the back seat of the Rolls and efficiently got himself situated into the driver's seat. Bruce closed his eyes and put his head back. He tightened his hand around the handle on the inside of the door, knuckles white in anticipation of what he was sure was going to be some of the most reckless chauffeuring he'd ever experienced at the hands of Alfred.