Never Let Me Down Again
Chapter 1: Wherever I may roam….
Synopsis: He was the man she hurt and wanted dead. He was also the man who gave her the most precious treasure. He was the father of their only son, a son who was living out there, somewhere. What if Martha had lived? A retelling of the 2011 Flashpoint tie-in 'Knight of Vengeance'.
Rating: M. This story will contain strong and sensitive themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Author's note: I would like to extend my thanks to my amazing beta, Miss Jo for her immense talent. She just knows when to add that pep and pop to my wall of text. I would have posted this sooner but she was trapped over at Marvel after becoming addicted to Stucky. She still is. I have had this idea for months but due to real life I held off on it until I was certain I could write it down. In fact, according to my docs, the earliest draft goes back to February, yikes! I was originally going to post this as a one shot but as of this writing, the story is up to forty pages. Yeah. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this. I am disappointed that Knight of Vengeance was pretty much ignored in the Flashpoint movie. Ironically, it was the most popular tie in of that crossover. Boo, DC!
This story was inspired and borrows elements from the 2011 Flashpoint crossover tie-in 'Knight of Vengeance #1-#3 by Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso. This will be part 1 of many chapters.
And my ties are severed clean, the less I have the more I gain
Off the beaten path I reign
Roamer, wanderer, nomad, vagabond, call me what you will
She was a woman with a plan.
It was all going so smoothly. She had lured Gordon to this place by carefully placing her chess pieces. The pizza boy, the missing car; it was a lead that he could not ignore.
But she wasn't thinking about Gordon. In spite of his training and his ability to handle a powerful weapon, Gordon could have been anyone's helpless grandfather. He was merely the bait. He was only one part, not the main portion. It was all about catching him at the most vulnerable moment, like a professional hunter who waits patiently while his trophy moves it head so that they can deliver the deadly shot to the heart. That silly old man was nothing more than a chicken to lure the catch she really wanted.
She knew he would not be able to resist this. The set-up was perfection itself. She had him caught in her web by luring him here using Dent's twins.
She used tape to keep the crying brat from making too much noise. Her brother was better behaved. She noticed how small he was; the bright blue eyes looking up at her.
My God, he's no older than Br ...
..."You look just like your mother," she purred. The children huddled close together in a sad attempt to protect one another. She was like a snake in their midst.
"You." She pointed at the girl. "Get on the chair."
The girl, Dolores, awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. She was a book worm and thought the lady with the white make-up was like something out of her nightmares; a clown left out in the rain until her makeup ran down her face, white and black and blood-red mixing and dripping from her eyes and chin. Dolores almost felt sorry for her when she pictured her like this, but the clown lady's meanness put any burgeoning pity to bed. She was an amalgam of the White Witch Jadis and a cruel, secretive teacher at a haunted boarding school.
Dolores' father was a judge, and she remembered him talking about the scary people who lived in Gotham. There had been no effort at keeping the information from her, though he'd never spoken about them to her directly; rather, she'd be languishing in the background, painting or playing a video game, as he ranted and raved about them to her mother. She remembered him talking about a group that used masks to commit dangerous crimes. Dolores thought of them as weird, like the groups where the men could marry many women. She'd learned a new word from her father that day; 'cult'. The face paint on this woman reminded her of that group.
Dolores did as she was told and stood on the chair. The clown had a gun. She tensed when she felt the wooosh of a coat brush past her. She started to cry when she felt hands on her; saw them veined and trembling, fingers tensed, tipped by painted feral claws.
"It's such a shame you won't live to see your Sweet Sixteen. I'm sure Harvey's looking forward to walking you down the aisle," she said, in a gentle tone. "But, think about it this way. I'm not angry at you. You see, you are helping me."
Dolores blinked. She couldn't understand what the lady meant. How was she helping her while she was tied up?
"So many questions in that little face. My dear, I am hunting a very large animal. I'm hunting a bat, but in this case let's pretend he's a tiger. In order to trap the tiger, I must use bait. I have Gordon here because, quite frankly, I am fed up with him getting in the way. But you see, you are the fruit, Gordon is the fly and the Bat is the bat….get it? It's all a big chain!"
Dolores blinked. "So I'm helping by being killed? That's crazy!"
The clown lady frowned. "You're too young to understand your role in this, my dear." She then pulled out something from her pocket. Dolores' heart raced. It turned out that it wasn't a gun. It was lipstick. It was red just like her lips.
"You will never do this with YOUR mother, so why don't we make this special?" she smiled.
Dolores wished that this was a bad dream and that Daniel would wake her up by pouring cold water on her face, like he always did on Saturday mornings when she wanted to sleep in and he wanted her to watch his favorite cartoon show with him.
Just then, they heard a loud bang from the grand foyer. It was Gordon.
"Let the show begin!" she announced with a flourish, and chuckled.
As a longtime friend of the Wayne family, Commissioner Jim Gordon had been a guest at their estate many times. Consequently, he had an intricate knowledge of the rooms, secret passageways, every nook and cranny. For sure, it had been years since he'd last set foot in the place, but he was positive that after Thomas had moved out, the details remained the same. Thomas hadn't bothered to renovate the place; he'd pretty much left it to rot. The only things left behind were a few old chairs, dust and rats. Damp crawled up the walls, sending a chill through every room; Jim was certain that if he turned over the remaining sticks of furniture, he'd find marine life growing on their bottoms.
He heard a struggle from the top of the grand staircase. Of course. She had to be here. He remembered how she would serenade guests with her chiffon gowns and speeches about the new children's wing at Gotham General, the Wayne-funded safe houses for at-risk teens, the educational initiatives throughout the city. He remembered the scent of L'Heure Bleue; her meticulous makeup. She'd been the toast of all the fashion magazines; Best-Dressed Woman here, Style Icon of the Year there. Not that he'd ever particularly cared about that stuff, but he'd had a fiancee back in the day who used to read these magazines religiously, and was always on at him to take her to Wayne Manor so she could check whether Harpers Bazaar was telling the truth when it claimed that Martha Wayne owned the largest collection of designer shoes on the East Coast.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Gordon adjusted his collar. The Joker had the advantage of the home front. She was like a black widow spider, waiting waiting waiting. He glanced around the door of one room. Nothing. It was one of the old studies, totally cleaned out.
The next room was Martha's old powder room. Gordon knew that she had no problem with acquiring make-up. Tips at the station included descriptions of a woman, the lower half of her face concealed by a scarf, stealing eyeliner at local drug stores. She was too quick; she slipped out into the night. No Nordstrom or Sephora for her now; she would be recognized too easily, those snooty assistants had long memories.
There was nothing except an old dresser, tossed over. A broken mirror was smeared with lipstick.
"Home Sweet Home….." it said.
Martha, what have you done?
Then he heard the sound come closer. He saw something on the floor.
It was Daniel. He was so small, so helpless.
Jim suddenly remembered how at the precinct there was a bulletin board entitled "The Therapy Wall'. Young clerks fresh out of college would post funny images of children and animals. Officers would occasionally share images of their smiling families. The most popular one was from Sergeant Wells, who posted an image of his son, William, and their German Shepherd, Hans. They were both 'praying'. This was done as a way to cushion the pressure of working three shifts that may or may not have included dealing with drug dealers, murderers, child abusers and other sordid crimes Gordon did not want to think about.
Then he saw her.
The bitch was standing over him.
He shot at her, aiming at her heart. Gordon's relief was short lived. It was until he saw the chair moving that he noticed something was very wrong. There were no feet, only four pegs where two legs should have been. The coat falling to the floor revealed a child that was tied to a chair.
That damn witch!
"Here, I'm going to help-"
He didn't finish his train of thought when he felt something.
It felt like a paper cut across his neck. Then he felt something pour down. He felt his shirt moisten. He thought it was sweat. Then he saw a pinkish and crimson tide flow down his shirt.
It was his own blood.
"She won't listen, you know. They never do."
Little Daniel Dent looked on helplessly. He looked just like…
No.
She cut off the thought before it could grow.
There is a reason why you had him as bait and why the girl was the sacrificial lamb.
Stop it.
He reminds you of….
She took Gordon's phone and reconfigured the settings. She wanted to give the bastard and his crew a bird's eye view of the show. One of her technically gifted henchmen had shown her how to manipulate and scramble the frequency so that she wouldn't be located. Not even that hacker cow Selina Kyle could find her, not now.
Just then, a sudden loud noise came from the front.
He was here.
And here. we. go...
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME, MARTHA?!"
"Oh yes, my dear. Again and again and again, all your mistakes piling up." She was proud of her work. In her mind, she had reinvented herself as an artist. People were her tools, her canvas. Her vision was a Goya painting. The greats used oil on canvas. She used blood as ink; skin as parchment. Tears as appraisal. Of course.
She slithered into the shadows, and waited. This was one advantage she had over him. He was brilliant but he had bulk and age was catching up to him. She still had her cat-like reflexes.
Cats.
Cats in the dark.
Darkness their natural hunting time.
This is because they see well in the dim light.
Dim lights. Computers.
Cats and computers.
Like that CUNT after I spayed her...
A bulletended all of those thought processes. She focused. She didn't want to get distracted...
...Ahh.
There he was! He was getting on in years, his face lined by the stress of his work. Whether it was his 'day' job as a doctor or his moonlighting as the Bat, she neither knew nor cared. She saw the jowls. She saw the creases deepening, the furrowed brow. His nasolabial folds becoming more pronounced.
… He'd been such a handsome man. Still was, even with age. He had that rigorous look; the lion-in-winter type. The type whose presence filled the room. Even in repose, he was there. Always.
She anticipated their encounters. It was another opportunity for him to pay for his crime. Another chance for her to seek her revenge.
He was no longer that man, the man she'd loved. The man she'd once shared a bed with. The man she'd committed to spending the rest of her life with. The father of her only child.
He'd died that night in that alley too.
It was all his fault.
He did it, and he had to pay. Over and over again. She hid in the shadows. She wanted him very distracted.
"I'm going to help you, okay?" he said gently.
That was how he used to speak to her. So gentle. So kind. So … utterly useless.
But this time he wasn't saying those words to her.
Little Daniel Dent's brain was processing images that would forever be sealed into the deep part of his consciousness. Even if he saw a specialist and retrained his memories, he would always remember this. Even as a thirty-year old MIT graduate working on his biochemistry papers, the memories of this night would haunt him. He was little Daniel in the lion's den.
A small sound caused her to spin around rapidly.
But the sound didn't wasn't him.
It was the little girl, Dolores.
Batman's primary focus shifted from finding the Joker to saving the children. Dolores had a bullet wound; the bullet may or may not have lodged itself into a part of her body. The fact that she was just barely breathing meant that there was still time. Now was not the time for revenge - there was a life to save.
Dolores's wound was spreading like red ink dipped in water. He had to act fast. With her tiny frame, that would mean that she could go into shock at any second. He needed to bring her back into full consciousness. It meant that he had to do something that was painful but necessary.
He pulled a small vial of salt from his utility belt, flipped the cap, and poured the contents onto the wound. Her cries confirmed his thoughts. It was painful for her, but it was a necessary step.
She would live.
"I know it hurts," he said, "but the pain means you are alive."
My God, they are no older than Br-
"…m' cold…"
"What?" he asked.
"I'm cold….."
The words tugged at his memories. Those were the exact words Bruce had said that night.
One night.
One night where they could spend time as a family. The first in weeks. He and Martha had busy lives. Thomas was busy with his career, saving lives. Making early breakthroughs in biomedical science. Martha played hostess to Gotham's richest; other times, she would slip out into the night, makeup-less and in jeans, and visit hostels and safe-houses and homeless shelters. She would also visit hospitals in less affluent neighborhoods. She distributed sandwiches and soup to the homeless; clean works to junkies, baby formula to impoverished mothers. She tended to wounds; soothed fevered brows. She held babies who were born with HIV and crack in their little systems.
Bruce had loved sports, martial arts, and he excelled in math and sciences. Anything that involved solving problems, being proactive. He had a promising start, having been taught to use his position of privilege for good. Just a few days before that night, Bruce's tutors had told Thomas about his little acts of charity towards his classmates. He didn't do it for social capital. He did it because he wanted to. It was a trait Thomas had instilled in his son that he was proud of.
He knew upon doing his research that Dent's twins were going to Gotham Magnet. Dolores loved animals and enjoyed selling lemon meringue cookies with her girl scout troop. Daniel had an interest in airplanes and had dreams of being a pilot. Thomas took it upon himself to make sure that these children would live to see those dreams. He did everything he could so that the Joker would never cross paths with Judge Dent; not because he was an important figure of the city, but because he was the type who would ask questions. Dent was prone to bursts of anger before others saw the turn; he could hear him yelling, visualize him flinging a scotch glass across the room or kicking over a chair. Why the FUCK are the likes of Ivy and Croc dead, while the Joker lives?
Thomas knew what he'd have to say; that the privatized police force had nothing to do with that. It was to throw him off his scent. Only he, Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot knew the truth.
The Joker was Martha.
"I'm cold…."
Dolores was regaining consciousness, and Daniel wasn't hurt. They were his priority now. Batman was about to comfort the children when he heard a shriek.
Then a strong blow to his cranium, vibrating through the protective cowl.
"HOW... DARE... YOU?!"
She fell upon him, a whirlwind of claws and scratches and punches. He curled around the children, shielding them, taking the force of the blows. Whether it was familiarity with his work or years of practice, she knew exactly where to hit him. The top part of his spine by his skull was susceptible, as was the side of his face.
He only had seconds to do this. He moved the children to the side while she hit him with a hammer. He knew she was acting out of rage. It was an emotional reaction. Blood trickled down his face. As soon as the children were secured, he focused on her. His tactic was to wait until she was so enraged that she did not notice him pull her towards him and towards the window.
They both fell out of the second story room into what had been their garden, barely missing a statue of a lissome girl with a watering-can, bent over a flowerbed. His body cushioned her fall as they rolled onto the wet and shadowed grass. She clawed her way on top of him. Her features were wild, seeming abnormally stretched and feral under the cracked, caked-on warpaint, all teeth and bleeding gums and glistening, ecstatic eyes.
"You're blind to your own rage, darling," she hissed.
"Emotional gibberish," he huffed, pulling himself up. He was slightly disoriented from the blood loss and the fall. In a split second she was up and away from him, her arms wide, taunting.
"It's true, old man." She laughed and staggered a little, then regained her composure, pushing a bloodied hand through her hair. "Of course, being a hopeless romantic, when we were falling…I thought you might land on top. For old time's sake."
"Old times? You want to go there?" He lunged forward and grabbed her. She didn't resist him. He grasped her, tightly, and lowered his mouth to her ear. His voice was gravel.
"A man and a woman and their only son cut through an alley after the movies…."
He felt her tremble.
"Shut up," she hissed.
"They get mugged..."
Oh God, she could still feel the tug of the pearls. "Shut up!"
"Bang. BANG."
Thomas Wayne was a lot of things to many people: mysterious, intimidating, punitive, but never sadistic. Cruel, yes but he didn't take pleasure in making people uncomfortable. He hated doing this, but it had to be done. She had to remember what really happened that night; not what her mind had tricked her into believing so she could "cope." She couldn't cope. Not that way. The evidence was right in front of him.
Thomas was not responsible for Bruce dying. It was a tragedy caused by the gunman.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, she'd run it over and over in her mind; her grief turning into a profound depression, her depression into rage. Her rage concocted a new angle to the story; it hadn't been a random act. It was all his fault. He was the doctor, yet he couldn't save his own son. It was a comforting narrative to quell her own guilt: that she did not arrive with the police on time.
This embellished tale justified her anger towards him. It was a blame game that had grown from a festering wound to a cancerous tumor.
Thomas continued.
"The man and the woman fall dead. Their son lives…."
…. Wait. What's he talking about?
"I have an opportunity to make that real, to rewrite history. And as twisted as it sounds, I need to know from you, Martha—Should I?"
He was offering her an olive branch under the most extraordinary circumstances.
So much pain, so many tears.
She'd broken his bones and his heart, but she hadn't broken his spirit. When Thomas knew something, he followed up on it, no stone left unturned. He followed protocol, but when the usual steps led to nothing, he would use other means. The administration would do what it could to help but they had to answer to state regulations. He was always successful.
That was how he'd cured little Tommy Elliott's leukemia. If someone needed a bone marrow transplant, he would phone other states or even other countries for a match. This was why he was respected as a doctor.
He was not the type to believe in outlandish tall tales. Thomas was a man of medicine, not superstition. Now it seemed that someone somewhere was offering them an opportunity to make circumstances right, even if it meant a less than ideal result. What mattered to her was that Bruce was the one who lived.
"Promise me, Thomas." There were tears now. "Promise me you will." Her voice was hoarse, sentimental. It was as if something had gone out of her. He felt her sag with … with resignation? Acceptance? Relief?"I will," he said.
When she felt his lips press against hers, her senses were arrested. She was also aroused. She melted into the kiss. And finally, after so much time apart, they reconnected.
The rain continued to fall, as if it was washing away their bloodied, storied history.
She asked about their son. What kind of life was he living? She had hoped that he wouldn't misuse his privileged upbringing and spend his inheritance on lavish vacations and buxom blondes.
Thomas looked away slightly. "He follows in his father's footsteps."
Promising, but it was not good enough.
"Is he a doctor?" She turned, nervous at the answer. It was almost as if she knew. She needed to hear it from him.
"No."
She tried to pull away but his grip was too powerful.
"No, Martha!" He tightened his grip. She had gotten used to his manner of forceful handling. After all, this was someone who for the last fifteen years he was her mortal enemy. To hear that sound tugged at memories that she thought she had long buried.
"Let me go!" she shrieked. "No! Let me end it here!"
She thrashed about, Thomas barely managing to contain her. God knows where she'd acquired this strength, he thought; the indefatigable strength of the insane. She was unwilling to process the words that came out of his mouth, that was clear. He hadn't said them, but the implications were too much.
Martha, meanwhile, was lost. Somewhere on another plane, in another dimension, their son was healthy and living. Somewhere in an alternate reality, it was she and Thomas who had succumbed to the mysterious gunman's wounds. Bruce was alive, but ….. he wasn't a doctor.
He was that….that monster staring back at her.
Somewhere in that reality, Bruce – their child, that sweet and loving child who'd given gifts to his classmates unprompted, who'd asked them to donate his birthday presents to a children's hospital - was living with her pain. And Thomas's pain.
It was too much.
Her son didn't deserve that.
It couldn't be. She didn't want to register it. She did not want the admission to process in her mind. She would give anything to reverse what happened that night, yet here was the source of her pain attempting to stop her from achieving it.
She felt him pulling her away from the ravine. She then felt a wall of muscle press against her. Thomas held her close.
"Martha, I can fix this." He exhaled softly. "I can make it so that Bruce lives. I can undo all of this but just give me some time."
She felt her body tense less. Her body began to relax. That voice. It was not gruff and commanding. It was not intimidating. It was gentle and loving.
So warm. She pressed her forearms against Thomas. He held her firmly. She wanted to get a better look at the man who'd caused all of this.
The man she'd battled with on an almost fortnightly basis.
The man she'd engaged with in a battle of weapons, traps, and wits.
The man whom she'd hurt with poisons, chemicals, and psychological intimidation.
The man whose bones she had broken.
The same man who was not above snapping the necks of others like her, yet had never hurt her.
The same man who'd turn her over to the Asylum; who'd never give into the demands of the public and media pundits who wanted her sent to the electric chair.
The man whose heart she had broken. And who had broken hers in turn.
The man who had given her the most precious treasure; the man who was the father of her son. Their son, who was living somewhere.
Thomas could see the change in her. Her eyes, hitherto full of movement and madness, now seemed calm. There was a hint of regret, along with the placidity.
There was no point in rubbing salt into the wounds. The most important thing was that the twins were safe, and that she didn't fall into the abyss and break her neck. He pulled her close to him again, their lips interlocking.
"There might be paparazzi watching," she said gently, placing her gloved hands on his lips. "Oh God, what about the cops?"
"I already took care of that."
"What about Gordon? Won't the police come looking for him?" she asked, genuinely concerned. "Oh, God, I'm….I'm…" Thomas held her hands.
"Hide in the cave until I say so." he said in a low voice. "I'll hold off the police. I'll talk to Oswald, to members of the department who were friendly with Gordon."
"But, I killed your best PR. I, I….killed your friend. Bullock isn't friendly to you from what I heard."
"Collateral damage," Thomas stated sharply. "Look. I just … I just need you to stay low until I say it's okay."
End of Chapter 1. To be continued…..