Here is my fic: Dark Alliances, I hope you enjoy it; reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.
Bruce Wayne was lying in bed in the rebuilt half of Wayne Manor, the rest was still under construction seeing as Ra's Al Ghul had taken it upon himself to torch the place. It had been not quite two months ago, but Bruce's pain had yet to heal.
Physical pain being the most obvious, even after the time that passed Bruce still winced whenever he moved, his body was a mass of recovering black and blue marks and his ribs had been cracked so breathing wasn't all that fun either. But under that, he had darker pain that hurt worse than any of his injuries.
He had destroyed his family home…His father's home. True he hadn't lit the match, but he was still responsible. He consoled himself with the fact that none of his party guests were harmed. But that too led to more pain. He still hadn't thrown out the newspaper: Drunken Billionaire Burns Down Home. He had saved the lives of those people by acting the fool, and what did he get in return, rough insults from people he'd never even met to disappointed looks from his father's old friends. Still, no one would think that the arrogant and well, not too bright Bruce Wayne persona he put on could ever be the dark figure that haunted the dreams of those who would do wrong.
Batman. Being hailed as a hero by the citizens of Gotham and warned as a psychopath by the police. Bruce rolled over in bed and sighed, which also brought on some lovely waves of ache. If Batman did not exist, Gotham would have been lost. It was a twisted irony that the man who had inadvertently led to the creation of Batman was the one who sought Gotham's destruction.
Ra's Al Ghul.
During his time at the lair of the League of Shadows, back when Bruce had known him as Ducard, he had considered Ra's as a second father, never replacing his real father but giving him guidance that Thomas Wayne was now unable to. It made Bruce's stomach turn now that he had held the maniac in such high esteem. But he knew that without him he would never be able to fight the criminals of Gotham, to swoop from the buildings of the decrepit city and deal out justice.
Thankfully, Bruce had plenty to keep him busy from thinking too much. Now that Rachel knew who he truly was, certainly not the windbag everyone saw, they tried to meet up almost every day. He loved her and was ninety percent certain that she loved him back. Also, there was Alfred, who was never without a grin or a particularly bad joke to make Bruce groan. And there was always of course, the grim satisfaction of knowing that Ra's Al Ghul and his deranged plans for Gotham were absolutely and certainly dead.
And then there was this new guy, the one Gordon had told him about. The Joker, what kind of name was that? He had committed a triple homicide and armed robbery some time ago and had not been captured and was now slipping from the minds of Gothamites. But Bruce smarter than that. Villains with that sort of style didn't just fade into the woodwork and disappear, he'd be back. Bruce knew he'd be back. He gasped through his teeth as he pulled himself from his bed. Justice was supposed to never sleep, but the man being hailed as the Dark Knight couldn't help but wonder when the hell he'd get a chance to rest.
Rest was the last thing on Jack Napier's mind. He had hoped to gain some sort of notoriety after offing that family and making off with their cash, unfortunately, what with all the other loonies who had escaped from Arkham Asylum committing similar acts, Jack had been pushed from the limelight. But not for long, he had a few things those other nut jobs lacked, like brains, planning and a partner-
"Jack? What are we doing here?"
-Who refused to shut up.
Jack ran his fingers through his neon green hair in brusque irritation. True, the psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel had her uses. She listened to his schemes while he was in Arkham, really listened and told him that she in fact agreed with him and would do everything she could to help him. Their chance came during the attack on Gotham during which the cells in asylum had opened and Harley had spirited him away to her apartment. But honestly, sometimes she asked far too many questions-
"And seriously, what's up with this costume you want me to wear?"
Like she was doing now.
Jack took a breath and adjusted the cufflinks of his ridiculously purple suit and slowly counted to ten. It would not be prudent to blow his pretty cohort's brains out at this point in time.
"Firstly," he said at last, "and most importantly: I've said once, I've said it a thousand times, from now on I only answer to Joker!"
"Why?"
Jack motioned to his paper-white face and broad, crimson lips. "Fits, don't it?"
It was hard for Harleen to argue with that. The chemicals that had scarred Jack Napier left him looking…rather clownish. But that still didn't answer her questions.
Jack could see her starting to open her mouth and waved his hand. "Furthermore, this will be our current base of operations from now on."
"It's a warehouse!" Harleen cried. "It's right next to the Narrows, it's dangerous!"
"It's the last place any cop's gonna go and it's a lot safer than your apartment, which they'll think to check. Finally, your outfit is to fit in with our ongoing theme, Joker and Jester. From this point on, that jester's outfit is your uniform and you are…Harley Quinn!"
"That," replied the newly dubbed Harley, "is sooo cheesy. Anyway, you sure we couldn't find a place nicer? You took a lot of money from that family."
"It wasn't about the money!" Jack snapped. "It's about attention, which I'm not getting. I need manpower and to get that I need to be noticed, I need to do something, draw out a certain freaky bat that's got all the crooks running for their lives…"
Harley gazed into the man's eyes, beginning to truly see him as the mad Joker he now claimed to be.
"What is all this? Wha exactly are we going to do?" she asked softly.
"Don't worry about it, babe, I got plans. Boy, do I ever have plans…"
While a Knight pondered and a Joker planned, somewhere far away from Gotham, an old man was sitting in a compartment on a train, his thoughts flying even faster than the speeding locomotive.
He wore a dark suit and darker gloves, an expensive looking cane propped against his seat. At a glance the man could be seen as fairly handsome, with the air of someone important who, though pleasant, could be dangerous.
Under the gloves, the sleeves of his shirt, criss-crossing his entire body were livid scars and raised lacerations. Though he barely felt any pain now, the man could recall to not very long ago when his body had seemed as if it were on fire and he had contemplated death. Even now, he walked with a permanent limp and his cane was no longer just for show.
But still, he was dangerous.
He was jerked from his thoughts as the door to his compartment was violently slid open, revealing three bulky, scowling men who looked like doling out pain was their main profession-and indeed it was.
These men were former thugs for Carmine Falcone, they had fled Gotham when their boss had been fingered and only now judged it safe to return. They were tired, a little scared of the stories of the giant bat man, and pissed as all hell to see some old man making himself at home in their compartment.
The leader of the three, who went by Stokes, stepped forward and glared at the man.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The man raised an eyebrow. "Sitting," he replied calmly.
"Yeah? Well your sitting in our space! Get out before we make you."
"Must I?" the man asked innocently. "I believe there's another empty compartment just a bit further down."
"Then you take it," growled Stokes. "This one's ours, now move or we'll make it so you can't ever move again!"
Then, the man did something very unexpected, he actually laughed! Stokes was confused, this was not normally what happened when he got mad, people gibbered, pleaded but never laughed.
He shrugged. "All right, you asked for it!"
Stokes and his buddies piled into the compartment, slamming the door shut behind them. Outside in the hallway, a series of grunts and loud thumps could be heard, followed by a long silence when the door slid open again, the old man letting himself out. Behind him lay the bodies of three thugs who may have been unconscious, or may have been dead, the man wasn't sure, it wasn't like he was doctor.
He closed the door and made his way to the empty compartment down near the other end. As he was opening the door an attendant walked past.
"Sir, was there a problem with your other compartment?" she asked.
The man shook his head. "No, not at all. Some others approached and told me they had a prior claim to it. It really didn't seem worth fighting over."
"Oh, well, enjoy the rest of your trip Mr.," she paused, trying to recall the man's name, remembering that it had been something interesting.
"Ghal?" she tried.
"Ghul," he corrected patiently.
"Right, like ghoul, like a ghost?"
The man grinned. "Exactly."
"Enjoy the trip, Mr. Ghul."
The old man nodded and closed the door, easing into the cushioned seat and setting his cane down. The train had a ways to go until it reached Gotham City, but eventually, Ra's Al Ghul would get there, and when he did, he would kill Bruce Wayne.
Well, that's it for now. I know this chapter was kind of boring, but it will get more exciting, I promise! You will get explanations for everything, though I plan on taking a few liberties with Harley and the Joker, but hey, that's why they call it fan fiction, right?
