Chapter One: I Put a Spell on You
"One change always leaves the way open for the establishment of others." – Niccolo Machiavelli
The world is a complicated place.
People tried to uncomplicate it and paint the world in shades of black and white, good and evil. After his dealings with Clark Kent last year Bruce had thought he'd moved past such inclinations. He had made a terrible error in judgement with Superman and resolved to never repeat those mistakes. But he'd never imagined that one day he would encounter someone like the Enchantress. She was pure evil, a being straight from his childhood nightmares. Her delight in terrorizing people was unparalleled by the Joker, Two Face, or any other criminal he'd come across after twenty years in Gotham.
The Enchantress first made headlines after she'd stormed a military base in Wyoming, throwing bolts of magic like an avenging god. News of her casualty ridden assaults came one after another. Fort Benning, Georgia – seven soldiers dead. Fort Hood – eight soldiers, two civilian contractors, dead. Camp Pendleton, Nellis Airforce Base, and San Diego's Naval Base all in the same month. More people died in every attack as her anger grew. But in the violence a pattern had emerged. Bruce laid a trap and the net closed around her. Amanda Waller didn't care what he did with the Enchantress, all she asked was that it was quick and quiet.
In the bowels of the bat cave, trapped in a cell made of nth metal from the planet Thanagar, the Enchantress sat and fumed. The cage was a gift from A.R.G.U.S. and it had properties that rendered magic impotent. Bruce stood outside her cell and watched as the crazed witch paced the length of her cage.
"Who are you?" Bruce asked. Through the voice changer, he sounded guttural.
Her iridescent eyes stared at him with loathing. The Enchantress tilted her chin up and hissed. His reaction must have disappointed because she spat through the bars and gave a frustrated growl.
He took the opportunity to study her, taking in the stringy black hair, gray skin and eerie eyes. The government files on her had claimed she was a witch, recruited into A.R.G.U.S. for special operations. He wondered what they'd been thinking when they'd invited this psychotic woman onto a strike team. Enchantress drew green fire between her hands and flung it at the bars. The Thanagarian metal deflected the magic. A rage filled scream pierced the room as Enchantress dropped to her knees and howled with fury. Her eyes fastened on Bruce.
Her voice was raspy when she spoke. "Human. How dare you defy me? I am more powerful than anything that has every walked this planet. You will bow to me one day!"
"When will that be?"
"All the humans will bow to me! I will be worshipped."
He crossed his arms and stared at her, unimpressed by the tirade. "How does taking over a military base advance that plan? It doesn't seem like something a deity would have to stoop to."
"When they fear me, they will worship me. Release me and I will spare your life. Keep me here and I will see you suffer the fires of hell!"
"I'll risk it," Bruce said, and turned away.
He walked out of the room as her outraged cries sounded behind him.
Bruce set the locks on the vault door to room that held Enchantress and removed his mask. He'd captured her and for tonight that was enough.
Alfred was in the control room, seated at the computer.
"Did you find anything in the A.R.G.U.S. database?" Bruce asked.
"Less than I'd like. She possessed an archeologist by the name of Dr. June Moone a few years ago. An updated file shows that she and Dr. Moone separated and Enchantress was thought dead. Her powers aren't named in the file."
Bruce dropped into the chair next to Alfred. "I'll interrogate her in the morning. She's not feeling chatty tonight." He took off his gloves and tossed them on the desk. "Why don't you take tomorrow off? You've earned it."
"I'll be in tomorrow afternoon."
Bruce knew better than to argue.
The butler left and Bruce started in on the A.R.G.U.S. files. Before long the words blurred on the screen. He'd been awake for days, but he pushed himself to read for a while longer but exhaustion sank in and his head slumped forward as sleep overtook him.
A scream woke him. Bruce snapped awake in an instant and bolted out of his chair. He sprinted towards the Enchantress' cell and tore open the vault door. Inside he found her on the floor. She writhed, in the throes of what looked like a seizure, as foam dripped from her mouth. Green light flashed around her in waves that lit the room. Bruce stood frozen in the doorway, unable to look away from the strange spectacle. A shiver of fear ran down his spine as he appreciated for the first time that he was dealing with a power that was incomprehensible, something far beyond his control.
That was his last thought before the Enchantress vanished and the green aura where her body had been exploded and slammed into him.
"Bruce, come on!"
A voice sounded above him. He ignored it.
"Don't make me throw cold water on your face," Alfred said.
Bruce opened his eyes and blinked against the bright light. He winced as pain made him squeeze them shut in the next instant. Bruce covered his eyes and turned away from the light.
"What happened?" He felt strange as he was disconnected from reality. His entire body ached.
"I don't know. I found you unconscious by Enchantress' cage and she wasn't there. How do you feel?"
"Horrible." Bruce pushed himself into a sitting position with effort. "There was an explosion."
He struggled to recall the details of the prior night. His eyes still hurt and he rubbed them with his fingertips to assuage the pain.
"The Enchantress?" Alfred asked.
"She's dead. No one could have survived that."
He recapped what he could remember, the scream, the green aura and the explosion.
"She killed herself," the butler said.
"It looks that way."
"How do you feel? Are you alright?"
Bruce struggled to open his eyes. He flinched at the discomfort the light caused. With effort, he managed to open them and stared in disbelief at the sight.
"What's wrong?" Alfred asked.
"My vision…"
"Can you see?"
"Yes. But everything is black, white and gray."
Alfred tested Bruce's vision with color cards, an eyesight chart and examined them with a pen light, only to find they were in perfect condition.
"It's called Achromatopsia. You're completely color blind." Alfred ran through a list of possible explanations of the sudden loss of color perception but Bruce didn't pay attention.
How and why felt irrelevant. It was what it was. Color didn't matter. Alfred thought the reaction was odd but Bruce seemed fine so he set aside his concerns. Over the next few weeks the withdrawn demeanor became more pronounced. Bruce only spoke when asked a question and most of the time he didn't look up from the computer. Alfred was used to his boss' singlemindedness, but this felt different.
Bruce felt Alfred's eyes on him as he worked and he ignored it. A furious passion burned in his stomach. He wanted to tear things apart, set them on fire just for the pleasure of destruction and punch holes in the wall. Bone deep anger boiled inside of him every day, every night, and even in his sleep. The third week after the explosion, voices began to talk to him. First, they came in his dreams as whispers. Then they followed him into the waking hours. Pressure built inside of him as the voices, the rage and the frustration mounted.
Batman went out that night. He'd studied the activity of the Golden Dragons street gang for the past week and had a hunch they would move black market cargo. Bruce sat in the bat mobile hidden in the shadows of the docks as he waited. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel but his breath was slow and steady. At midnight two cars pulled into the parking lot. He recognized the men that stepped out as foot soldiers of the Golden Dragons. Bruce followed them into the maze of shipping containers. They didn't bother to check for a tail which allowed him to stalk close behind them, cloaked by the shadows.
The leader stopped at the container on the end and two men stepped forward to undo the locks.
Bruce edged as close as he dared, eager to see what the container held. The door swung open and a stench escaped, rancid and highly distinct. It was something he'd smelled before, too many times to count. A disgusting mix of excrement, sweat, and fear.
The Golden Dragons were moving into the human trafficking market.
One of the soldiers stepped inside, into the darkness of the container. Cries of alarm sounded at his presence and Bruce ground his teeth. His hands curled into fists but he made himself wait. His heart began to pound as anticipation warmed his blood. Hot rage boiled inside of him. He could imagine what the women in those freighters had gone through all too well. He'd seen it a million times before and it never failed to turn his stomach. A fist connected with flesh and a scream sounded from inside the container.
One of the voices spoke, harsh and clear. Kill them. They do not deserve to live.
He exploded. His control shattered and anger broke free from its bonds. The beast he'd always kept under tight control broke out. Bruce didn't process his actions. His body moved on instinct as he launched himself at the men closest to him. He grasped the back of their jackets and threw them into the side of the containers as if they were rag dolls. They hit the metal wall and didn't get up. One appeared unconscious and the other clutched his knee with a groan. Three more men remained and he was on them before they managed to reach into their jackets for their weapons. A swift jab dropped the nearest man and he grabbed the other by the lapels of his jacket, swung him around and shoved him into the last man, who'd hand had closed around the butt of his gun. They stumbled together, disoriented by the speed and brutality of the sudden attack. Bruce delivered a kick to the knee cap of the first man and he dropped. His friend fell with him and Bruce caught the flash of gun metal a moment before it went off and knocked it away. The quick reaction saved his life, but the wild shot found its target in the second man's abdomen. He cried out in pain and groaned as his last breath passed his lips.
Bruce felt nothing, no remorse, no satisfaction, as the first man – the shooter – gasped in horror at seeing his friend dead in his arms. He slammed his foot into the man's head and he fell to the pavement, unconscious.
He entered the container where he found the remaining gang member had acted. A woman was planted between him and Batman, like a human shield. Bruce's lip curled and the anger deepened. His chest vibrated from the rage as he tried to hold himself back from throwing himself at the man, human shield be damned. Logic had a tenuous grasp over him. He wanted blood and he didn't care what happened for him to get it.
"Let the girl go."
"No. She and I are walking out of here."
He had to give the man credit. His voice didn't shake and neither did his hands as he pressed the barrel of the gun to the girl's temple. Bruce raised his hands in surrender and took a step back. The gang member edged around him and he kept as much distance between them as the narrow confines of the shipping container would allow. Bruce let him to pass by and reach the mouth of the container. When he saw the carnage Batman had left behind, his eyes widened. It was the split-second distraction Bruce had counted on. He shot forward and grasped the gun and twisted. With a sick snap, the man's arm broke. Bruce relished the raw scream it elicited as euphoric pleasure bloomed in his chest. He wanted the man to know pain, like these women had. He wanted to ruin him. He wanted to destroy him.
Bruce grasped the man's hair and swung him around, into the wall of the container. He repeated the action twice more and hauled the smaller man off his feet and pounded his skull against the steel.
The gangster went limp. Bruce snarled, furious. It wasn't enough. He hadn't felt enough pain yet. He would never feel enough pain to recompense the suffering he'd inflicted.
"Bruce! Bruce!"
Alfred. The butler shouted into his ear through the communication system.
"What?"
"Stop. The police are on their way, you need to get out of there."
The calm, measured tone did nothing to pacify him. He looked down at the man in his grasp. Blood ran down his face and he coughed. Blood gurgled out of his mouth and coated his lips, trickled down his broken slack jaw. The beast inside of Bruce wanted to see him crushed, to hear the screams and groans of his pain one more time.
Kill, the voice in his head demanded. The urge to follow its prompting was like a compulsion.
"Bruce get out of there. The police are almost there."
He could hear the sirens in the distance and knew he should go. But it was so tempting to stay. To make these men pay in blood for what they'd done. A sob sounded from behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. The terrorized eyes of the women gleamed back at him, illuminated by the moonlight that streamed through the open container doors.
This was wrong. It didn't feel wrong. It felt fantastic like the heady rush of a free fall on a roller coaster. But for all his faults, Bruce knew right from wrong. What he'd done tonight went against everything he'd built Batman to represent. Bruce dropped the man and disappeared into the shadows.