The Crooked Kind
Act I
The Swan and the Crane
I
Prologue - Part One
Consign to Shadow
Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature. Whilst darkness devours, and light steals. And so no one sees shadow ever retreat to hidden places, only to return in the wake of the war between darkness and light.
–Steve Erikson
Anger is a powerful emotion, no matter what source creates it, whether it be the grief of a ghost or the hatred of an enemy.
Anger is a consuming emotion. It grows and envelops. It burns, though in different ways. Sometimes it's the slow burn, the warm embers that pulse and heat as a constant presence inside. Other times it's the almighty burn, the quick ignition through your veins, the roar in your ears, the rush deep in your bones, the blinding of your mind, and the searing of your soul.
Bruce Wayne felt that sudden, colossal rush of familiar, fiery anger when his mentor, Henri Ducard, accused Bruce's father for the deaths that took both Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne from their young son.
Bruce stared at Ducard. He was the ninja who'd said he would teach Bruce how to become truly invisible. He was the warrior who'd said he would teach him how to engage six hundred men. He was the mentor who'd said he would teach him how to confront the guilt of his parent's death. Apparently, the same man also placed the blame –blame that had weighed heavily on Bruce for years before being swallowed by anger– onto the father Bruce had loved, lost, and missed so dearly.
The accusation stunned Bruce for a moment, his focus on the training slipping and allowing Ducard the opportunity yank the sword from Bruce's grip and send it skittering a few feet across the ice of their training cove.
Anger sparked and quickly augmented, spreading throughout his body and replacing the sting of the claim. The hot emotion filled him with strength and action. He began to burn.
Even without the sword, Bruce pressed forward and continued the fight with his armored body as his weapon.
Ducard, the master truly in his craft, easily defended himself. With a few masterful blows, he fought back Bruce, sending the younger man to slide across the ice on his back.
That anger still burned. It still ran hot. It still kept him fighting. Soon, he was up again, rushing forward into another exchange of punches and blows.
And again, Ducard defended with ease and precision. While Bruce grunted with the exertion, Ducard remained silent as he deflected a punch and grabbed onto Bruce's wrist. With the grip, Ducard flipped the younger man, landing Bruce's back onto the ice again.
He spoke once more, stating that Bruce's anger couldn't have changed the outcome of that terrible night nor the fact that Thomas Wayne had failed to act.
Acting as a loyal son, Bruce pointed out the cause of the tragedy, the person Bruce hated dearly, the criminal he had intended to murder–Joe Chill–had a gun. Thomas had been defenseless against the man behind the trigger and the piercing bullet.
Ducard simply discarded what Bruce said. He replied that Bruce would have acted despite those circumstances.
As he scrambled to a stand, soles scuffing against the ice and eyes glaring at Ducard, Bruce tried to make Ducard understand that, unlike him, his father had no training.
The mentor lunged forward. He rebutted with an exclamation that the training was nothing and with a quick slice of his sword, aimed to cut through Bruce's head.
Will is everything.
As word swung down, Bruce Wayne raised his arms to deflect the blow. The steel sung a sharp note when it collided with the armor of the gauntlets, the last line of protection and defense Bruce had while his own sword laid on the ice a few feet away.
Although Bruce managed to deflect the sword and land an offensive punch on Ducard, the older man returned it with another blow that sent Bruce sprawling on the ice once more.
Quickly, Bruce moved to rise again. He regarded Ducard as the man just paced across the ice, expression calm and eyes hard. Bruce's body remained tensed, waiting for Ducard to come charging at him again. But the man's sword stayed at his side.
He simply spoke.
The will to act.
For a second, Bruce paused, considering his words. Inflaming wrath leapt to life as he surged forward. With an elegant turn, Ducard's sword swung through the air. Bruce ducked under the blade, the sharp edge narrowly missing his head.
Tucking into a roll, Bruce shifted his body onto his knees and slid backwards across the ice. His hand stretched out behind him, not to brace himself, but to retrieve his own blade. His fingers tightened quickly around the grip while his eyes watched his opponent.
Ducard moved forward, following Bruce's movement. The younger man slipped onto his back, arms raising to bring his sword up to receive Ducard's sure to be deadly stroke.
Steel collided against steel in a harsh sound. Bruce's leg swung up, striking Ducard. A grunt of exertion came from the student and a grunt of pain came from the master. Bruce twisted his body, bringing his other leg to hit Ducard's body and push his own upwards.
For once, Ducard fell to the ice. Bruce stood above and sure on his feet, sword held threateningly over the man. The anger was accompanied by another rush. This time the feeling of accomplishment and pride in one's self warmed through his aching body and hurting soul. A slight smile on his lips, the student called for Ducard's yield–for Bruce's victory.
The master spoke, but it was not the words Bruce wished to hear.
You haven't beaten me.
Confusion quickly clouded any euphoria or any rage. Ducard lectured his student that in order to obtain his 'victory,' he had sacrificed his sure footing. Hearing his words, Bruce glanced down at the ice supporting him from beneath. A low rumble sounded around him and Bruce remembered another lesson.
Always mind your surroundings.
With a simple tab of Ducard's sword, the ice shattered.
Bruce fell.
All anger, fire, and heat was lost in the icy grip of the water.
He sunk like a stone, quickly falling into the dark and cold depths.
For the first time, he was consumed by silence, darkness, and cold.
For he first time, he froze.
Slowly, his conscience stirred.
The overwhelming blackness of his mind began to fade away as more and more of his senses began to return to him.
Sound returned, filling his ears with a sharp crackle, a low hum, and a quick beat.
Smell returned, filling his nose with the familiar scent of the thin mountain air spotted with the new scent of oil.
Taste returned, filling his mouth with the bitterness of bile.
Sense returned, filling his body with the feel of warmth and clothing on shivering skin.
Sight evaded him.
As his vision still resided in darkness, his body became more aware. His entire being trembled as ice continued to settled within his bones. A soft warmth seemed to try to soothe away the cold, but its work was slow.
With a flutter, Bruce's eyes blinked open. Bright light first quickly blinded him. With a small grunt, he blinked rapidly to clear the brightness. As it faded, blurry vision greeted him for a moment before focus began settled in to leave Bruce staring at a concrete ceiling instead of open sky he would have expected.
Bruce looked down towards his chest first, seeing that his body was tightly wrapped in a bundle of blankets and a heating pad. Turning his head, he then observed his surroundings, trying to figure out where exactly he was.
The couch he laid across was soft beneath his back and was surrounded by an assortment of small heaters, humming and burning to try to alleviate the frost infecting his veins. Closest to his head, a computer turned heart monitor stood propped up on a slender, moveable stand. The blue screen displayed medical information like his pulse-rate and blood pressure. It beeped quietly in tune to him. A wire attached to his chest beneath the blankets and clothes and a band wrapped tightly around his upper-arm connected him to the computer. His still slow mind seemed to register the fact that the heartbeat was faster than normal.
Beyond the circle of heaters, a make-shift fireplace was carved into a well. The hearth roared with a bright crackling fire, trying to add some heat for his cold body. All he saw brought out a curiosity from his confusion.
Where was he?
Slowly, Bruce began to sit up, working his arms free from the cocoon of blankets. He glanced over the back of the couch and was surprised by what the rest of the room looked like.
Cast in either bright light or in shadow, the room appeared to be an odd cross of a mechanic's workshop and a computer lab. Metal tables cluttered with equipment, tools, scraps of metal, circuit boards, and various other items, stood around the room in odd clumps that seemed random to Bruce. Shelves lined one dark concrete wall, each set of shelves containing something different. One was stuffed with well-worn books; another housed pulled apart computers and brightly colored wires. A different one was filled with medical supplies and bottled medicine. Next to where a half-made engine sat raised in a corner, a rack attached to the wall held the standard tools of a machine shop, although many of the designated places where missing its piece. Four computer screens glowed dimly from a desk placed in another corner. Though he couldn't discern what half of the screens contained, he thankfully recognized the home pages of Google and Youtube.
Rather quickly, Bruce noticed the lack of windows within the room. The little light in the room came in bright spots from the occasional ceiling light, sparsely placed lamps on the tables, or the burning fireplace near Bruce. The freezing man finally spotted two doors, one to the far wall behind, the other next to the rack of tools.
Seeing the doors, Bruce's head turned back toward the fireplace while his legs shifted to placed his feet on the concrete ground. He moved to stand up, but a soft new wheeze to his right distracted him. He glanced to the side and nearly jolted back when a cup was held in front of his face, clasped in three prongs attached to a long metal arm, wrapped with a few wires.
Dark eyes followed the silver arm back, tracing along the path up where it ended and angled down into a trunk connected to a square body. As Bruce started at the strange machine, another wheeze came from it as the arm jerked the cup forward, almost as if it was insisting he take it.
Blinking with surprise at the action, Bruce lifted a hand and easily took the cup from it. Water filled the small glass, and Bruce gratefully drank it, draining the glass empty to ease his parched throat.
The machine wheezed once more while the prongs rotated and clapped together. Turning, the machine rotated before rolling off. The bulky body knocked into a table, sending a box of metal to the floor with a loud crash. Bruce winced at the shrill clanging sound. Metal skittered across the floor, ringing.
"That's Watts." A soft voice came from behind him.
Jolting, Bruce's head nearly whiplashed as he turned to find the origin of the unexpected sound.
In the open door way stood a young woman. Light from the hall behind her lit up her blonde hair, which was pulled back into a messy bun. Black streaks of grease smeared her pretty face, although the streaks seemed faded and blurred as if she had tried to wipe it away. Her clothes though were covered in the grease and littered with stains and small burns. The top of beige worker's jumpsuit was undone and tied around her slender hips to reveal a black tank top covering her torso. Bright grey eyes studied him as dark brown eyes studied her.
After a moment, she walked across the room, the boots on her feet making no sound as she easily weaved through the tables and avoided the clutter. She moved with grace, familiarity, and confidence through the workroom. Her workroom, Bruce realized, noticing how she comfortably entered and blended in with the surroundings.
When she walked around the couch, approaching him, it brought Bruce out of the stupor her unexpected appearance casted him into. Remembering she had spoken, he tried to respond, but too many questions to focus on filled his head and the undecided words caught in his throat. Eventually he managed to grunt out a pathetic huh?
"Watts," she repeated and gestured a hand in the direction the machine had rolled towards, eyes following the path it had taken. "He's a robot, but he's not the brightest bulb. Can't seem to do anything without knocking something over. Bolts is much better at maneuvering around, but that may be because I used newer parts, a different arraignment and new actuators to guarantee easier movement, and more efficient program when I built him." Then, the girl woman started to ramble, describing specifically the class and model of some type of lever in a jargon Bruce didn't quite understand. The accent in her voice was dignified and quite unique for he could not determined the exact origin of it.
Grey eyes shifted away from her robot and settled on him. Suddenly the warm lightness in her eyes hardened into steel and her mouth abruptly shut, silencing her rant. Pink dusted her cheeks while steely eyes casted to the ground towards her nervously shifting feet.
Silently she moved towards the computer that displayed his vitals. Her small fingers tapped along the keyboard, bringing up new charts and information.
She remained quiet.
Not once did she try to speak to him again.
The silence was thick between them, only sounds of machines, hearts, and fire filled the room. It weighed on him, filling his still shivering body with questions of who, what, where, and why.
Who was this girl?
What was she doing?
Where was he?
Why was he here?
She wouldn't speak, so Bruce did instead. "Where am I?" He tested the waters with a simple question.
Beats of his heart sounded during a moment's hesitation. "My...My workshop." She stuttered out quietly. He waited for a moment, waited for more explanation. But she did not speak again.
He tried another question. "Why am I here?"
"You f-fell into the...the w-water," she softly said, her voice trembling with awkwardness. The slender body that had been at ease around the tools and machines was now tense and stiff around another human being. "You were f-freezing. He brought you h-here to warm and re-recover."
"Ducard brought me here?"
He had to confirm that Ducard knew where he was, that he was somewhere in the base the League of Shadows had established within the mountains. In the week or so he had already spent with the League, training and learning, Bruce had never seen a room like this. He had never seen a young woman like her either. For all he knew the League was only made up of ancient men and silent soliders. Not little girls and their machines.
There was another hesitation, the longest yet. "Yes...D-Ducard brought you to m-me," the woman confirmed. There was a question in her voice as she said the name of Bruce's mentor, as if unsure about it.
Bruce paused before his next question. Now the uncertain one, he slowly asked, "And who are you?"
It seemed like she had stopped breathing. Her entire body went still. The little world–her little world–confined in these concrete walls, froze for a moment too, so in tune with her.
There was silence once more from her, it filled his ears and quieted the questions in his mind.
Then to his surprise, she answered.
"I..I'm Elli."
He nodded, seeing her glance at him through the reflection of her computer screen. He gave her a friendly smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Bruce."
He had hoped the sign of friendliness would ease her tension, but her awkwardness still remained. If anything it probably increased. Steel eyes turned back to the computer and its data. Her little fingers danced on the keys. Seconds later, she reported. "Y-your vitals look fine. I'll leave you alone. R-Rest and warm."
With those words, Elli stepped away from the computer and headed towards the door. Her steps were light and quick, moving like a ghost through the chaos of the room.
Before he could speak, she was gone, the door closed silently behind her.
Bruce Wayne was left alone, surrounded once more by artificial signs of life and a burning fire.
Anger is a powerful emotion.
Anger is a consuming emotion.
But curiosity is also a powerful emotion.
Curiosity is a compelling emotion.
And he was very curious about the girl with steel eyes.
A/N: Upon watching the Dark Knight Trilogy for the first time I was struck with a tiny idea. Over time it began to gain a life of its own, expanding and growing until I couldn't resist. This is the first installment of The Moral Spectrum Trilogy. The meaning behind this title is that these stories will explore three different levels of morality–the white 'good' end, the grey middle, and the black, 'evil' end–through different characters (original and canon) and their actions. It will be a bit of a study of human nature and morality, using Gotham as the backdrop since it is the perfect place to explore all characters and conflict.
The story starts with Pre-Batman Begins and will cover through the movie and a little of the aftermath. This also will also be a bit of an AU, because of the addition of my original characters, my original plots, and also because I'm adjusting some of the timeline in the movies to fit certain plot lines better. For example, this prologue is set about a year before Bruce returns to Gotham. Since it was never specified I decided Bruce trained with the League for a year or so. Another change I would like to point out to avoid confusion is that I will be including characters in the story earlier than when they appeared in the movies. The biggest example of this is John Blake. He will have a role later in this story, as well as a bigger role in the sequel that covers The Dark Knight.
Story Details:
Title: The Crooked Kind
Rating: Rated T for violence, language, sexual content, darker themes. Rating has potential to change.
Disclaimer: The Dark Knight Trilogy and all of the characters therein do not belong to me. Any original characters or content does.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for all the movies. Story is OC-centric and includes time alteration and darker themes.
Pairings: Jonathan Crane/OC, minor Bruce/OC, Bruce/Rachel
Special thanks: This story would not be possible without the help of Starcrier and breathe1926 who have helped me edit, brainstorm, and perfect plot points. Without them listening to my rants, this story would not be what it is today. Thank you.
Readers, I hope you enjoy the story. Please read and review; I would love to hear from you.