I'm going to give some brief responses to the reviews I've had thus far. I was really pleased with the reviews: the ones that disagreed with me gave me a lot to think about, and I sincerely thank you all for that. I loved that some people were willing to leave signed reviews disagreeing (you guys rock). Ditto to the people who agreed with me, because it helped to know I wasn't alone. I went to see the movie again today; and although I expected they would, the problems I have with it still haven't died down. If anything they are slightly worse. I was very surprised.
Some people might think that my review implies a negative view of Nolan or of the movie—if so, you need to read my material again. I wrote repeatedly that I think the movie is superb and that Nolan did a beautiful job, so much so that I am truly happy to hand him my hard-earned money, and I continue to stand by that statement. I truly believe that if this movie were about some other hero besides Batman, I would think this movie is unbelievably fantastic in all aspects.
But it is about Batman—and Batman does not exist in a vacuum. Nolan has grown as a director in these past few years, especially with the creation of Inception, which should be considered one of the best movies of all time. Directing Batman created a hindrance on him, burdening him with Batman's past exposure, and that is why I think TDKR didn't do justice to Bruce. It did justice to Nolan—and Nolan should be praised for that. His vision is excellent. But equally it should be talked about that Bruce was misused in this movie, because Bruce does not solely belong to Nolan. He belongs to many, many writers and readers besides Nolan.
I feel the need to point out, though, in case some people don't realize: Just because someone criticizes something, doesn't mean that someone doesn't like that thing. Just because someone disagrees with something doesn't mean that they also don't like it. I like TDKR; but that doesn't mean I shouldn't or can't also criticize it. In fact, I tend to believe that the more you like something, the more you should question it, because by doing that you will learn more about it.
Now, some brief responses.
Some people think that Nolanverse Batman should be seen as different from comics Batman. And I completely agree! Even in comicsverse, there are different versions of Batman—each writer writes him differently—so it would be foolish to expect Nolan to stick exactly to the comics, when even the comics don't do that. However, it is equally right to say that Nolan should not ignore or misuse the comics, because those are the source material for the movie that he is working with. He isn't creating in a vacuum; Batman existed prior to him, and if he is going to use the Batman name, he ought to give homage to the comics by actually making sure that the character is Batman, and not, say, a flamboyantly gay man who has nipples on his batsuit and runs around with a "bat credit card." That's an extreme example, but it works.
Because, within all of the different interpretations, there is still some kind of internal logic—what you might call an "essence"—that runs through all interpretations of Batman. All versions of Batman share this essence, and this is what makes him different from, say, Nite Owl in the series Watchmen, even though they are both rich guys who wear costumes with capes. It's not just the outward appearance that makes Batman into Batman. It's an internal part of his character, too. And, in his case, it is the drive to be Batman that makes Batman into Batman. You can't just switch that off and expect to hold the same character in your hands, even if the new character looks like the original.
Let me give you guys an example. Let's turn once again to Superman. As Clark Kent, he has been raised to be a humane person and thus wants to fight crime in order to save others. He does this selflessly, because he recognizes that there is a need and that he can fulfill this need. He may not like that he has to do this, because it takes a lot of time, effort, pain, and it can cause him to experience some very not-nice things. But he does it anyway, because he can't not do it, because he was raised to be a responsible and caring person. It's that caring side of him that keeps him from, say, becoming a tyrant over humanity.
Now let's say there is a story that removes that caring nature from Superman. Is he still Superman?
Well of course the answer is "no." Because characters are defined by their motivations, as much as by their appearances. If a guy has a big "S" on his chest and is wearing blue-and-red tights, but is flying around wantonly destroying buildings, you know that it isn't Superman, because Superman would never do such a thing. Likewise, needing to be Batman is the defining motivation of Batman. Him deciding to quit is as likely as, say, him deciding that he wants to make a living as a singer, and then serenading all of his rogues gallery, doing duets with the Joker.
The story of TDKR is the story of how Bruce Wayne finds a way to stop being Batman. To, in essence, have him "move on." And while on one hand this is heartwarming, because it implies that Bruce can one day be truly happy, on the other hand this is impossible because it destroys his character. He might as well have pulled out the bat credit card from his pocket to pay for his & Selina's drinks at the end of the movie.
Other people claim that TDKR reinforces the idea that Bruce cannot stop being Batman. This is an interesting take, one that I can see some elements of in the film, having just rewatched it. However, I still think that the film, in the end, implies that Bruce has indeed moved beyond Batman: I mean, he's alive and well, and living with Selina in Italy. There's no implication that he's going back to Gotham, heck, he's been declared legally dead, given his home and the Batcave away, and so even if he wanted to, it would be impossible for him.
Next, some people claim that Blake (Gordon-Levitt) will probably not become Batman, but instead some other hero. This is an interesting take, one that I definitely find more agreeable than the idea of him becoming Batman II. On the one hand, I can definitely see that Nolan couldn't imply that too strongly, because that would definitely create "Robin," and there's no room for Robin in Nolanverse; but on the other hand I also see Nolan suggesting that by inheriting the cave, and with Bruce out of the picture, Blake is the new Batman—I mean, how is he supposed to get a new costume? From who? Lucius isn't going to help him, he doesn't even know him. There is a logistical problem here; where does he have the money to do the hero business?
Ultimately, however, the idea of Blake becoming another hero is not what the biggest problem is: the problem is, first and foremost, that Bruce has retired from being Batman. The cowl is empty and Bruce doesn't want to put it on again. And this is the obliteration of Bruce's driving internal essence. If Bruce & Blake had stayed in Gotham together, as Batman & The New Guy, there would be little to no problem! But Nolan seems to imply that Bruce, being gone forever, has passed Batman on to Blake.
In that vein, some reviewers suggested that Blake would need to be trained by Bruce. This is a great idea and I love it... even though it really is Robin literally imported into Nolanverse under a different name (Batman Beyond style, with Bruce as mentor?). Mostly the idea is important because Blake is just a beat cop, and while they are given training, there is no way that a beat cop is capable of being a vigilante of the order that Batman must be. Likewise, given how Batman would often pause to give Blake advice, he was acting as a sort of surrogate mentor to Blake in the movie, something I was able to notice more this time around. It was a nice touch.
However, even if this were true, problems abound. How is Bruce going to train Blake when he's on the lam with Selina? The implication is that Bruce is 100% retired, since he's not waiting for Blake in the cave. And, finally, Bruce is still whole, intelligent, and healthy enough to take on Bane and win. BUT HE IS STILL RETIRED. In Batman Beyond, Bruce is an old man who is practically crippled, so he has no choice; here, in Nolan's vision, he has specifically chosen to quit. The problem continues to remain, even in this, the best-case scenario...
Of course, you are all still 100% free to disagree. I like that other people had some different takes from me, and since this is a work of fiction it is possible for all of us to be considered 100% correct, even if our views contradict. I think we can all agree that Nolan is still an awesome director no matter what, and the movie was worth watching. Deal?
Other opinions are also welcome. Feel free to tell me & others your ideas; as I said before, I want to start a dialogue about this movie, because I think it is worth talking about.
Next, before I continue, let me pause for a second to do something I normally never do to a reviewer. Someone made the comment that Nolan's version of TDKR is better than mine. To that I respond: No duh! Thanks, I didn't realize! (Totally not being sarcastic there. Totally. Wrap me in a blanket and beat me up, I'm not being sarcastic! /s.) Just in case nobody figured this out from my notes, I'm not aiming at being better than Nolan, and there's no way I could be. He's a professional, and he's had years to work his craft in this movie. I typed a story in 5 hours. Now how crazy would I be to think I could even approach Nolan with that kind of gap between us? I really don't want to discourage people from reviewing or saying their opinions, because I tend to think that multiple opinions are capable of being right, and everyone has a right to their opinion. But come on! I don't need to be told something that I just said in my own notes. Please give me some credit; don't tell me the same thing that I just said, and only for the sake of promoting your own movie review. If you're going to leave a negative review, by all means do so! I'm a big girl and I can take it. But please at least read my stuff before doing so.
So, to reiterate, because some people didn't get it, this story is NOT about being better than Nolan. This is an exploration on what Nolan's story could have been like, if he had tried to keep Bruce's internal motivation, the fact that he needs Batman no matter what. It is rushed, yes, and it is nowhere near perfect. The dialogue sucks and I'm not afraid to say that it is probably more brainstorm than full-on story, because I am just writing as I go. But its purpose is not to outdo Nolan. Its purpose is to serve as a jump-start for other's imaginations. I want people to read this and come up with their own possible revisions and rewrites of TDKR. I want to get people talking and/or thinking. So enjoy. This was written with other people's imaginations in mind.
Finally, last but not least, TO HELL with the people who "reported" this story. Just because you don't agree with whether or not this is "enough" of a story to be on here, doesn't mean that you should try to get it taken down, or try to get me into trouble. Who do you think you are? This is a form of cyber bullying and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. This form of self-righteousness doesn't benefit anyone, it just lets you think you are somehow superior because you want someone to get into trouble. I'm not taking this down, and if I could block you from reading it, I would, because obviously you don't know how to let other people enjoy themselves. That you won't even sign in to review cements the fact that you are cowards. Yes, harsh words I know, but you are not worth worrying over. If you spent the amount of time you spend trying to hurt others on actually producing something that others would enjoy, the world would be a much better place. So, by all means, "report" me. All you're doing is wasting the site's staff's time when it could be better spent on, say, stopping people who are stealing others' stories, or taking down stories that are made up exclusively of porn. This is going to stay up and if you don't like it, don't read it. It isn't harming anybody—and if this isn't a "story," then most of the stuff on this site isn't, either. You people really need to get a life.
On to the story...
.
.
.
TDKR: Rewritten
Part II
.
.
.
It started out very slowly. If Batman had been present, even he probably would have not noticed It, at first—except, perhaps, for an occasional spark at the back of his neck, the raising of hair like the hackles of a frightened dog. But he was not present—and so nobody noticed. It went on unabated, slowly picking up steam, independent of the world around It.
Not noticing It was not the people's fault, however. The first few weeks were filled with unbelievable chaos. With both the prison and the asylum inmates loose, Gotham had quickly become a hellhole. The normal citizens were not organized, and, cowering within their homes, were not at all prepared for this, the perfect storm. With the police trapped in Arkham, tended by guards made up of the very people they had helped lock away, the general population was without any leader or organization. Bane had specifically sought out and killed as many local politicians as he could—and those who survived went deep into hiding.
This meant that only one form of organization was left: organized crime.
The mob bosses had a field day. With their organizations in place, their hired guns protecting them and those they cared about, they moved throughout the city, looting and scavenging everything they could. Most of them, for necessity's sake, swore allegiance to Bane, although everyone knew that this was likely only a temporary truce. Nonetheless, Bane and the crimelords split most of the prison populations amongst themselves, swelling their ranks with hundreds of new recruits.
The first of the ordinary people to suffer were the rich. The uptown neighborhoods, with their clean streets and carefully tended sidewalks and gardens, were flooded with a tsunami of unwashed bodies, replete with tattooed flesh, piercings, ripped clothing, spiked hair, and many other forms of body modification and marks that were rarely seen in the pristine neighborhoods of the businessmen and bankers. Homes were torn into; bank doors smashed and money looted, even though it was now useless—after all, without the United States government to back up the currency, it was little more than paper, but the people of the city's lowest classes had not realized that yet. Months later, those who now hoarded dollar bills would be burning them for fuel in the depths of Gotham's chilled winter. But that had not yet passed; and for now, they looted and celebrated, considering themselves rich men.
Concerning the people in these areas, many were killed. At first, they were targeted indiscriminately; a day into the rampage, however, and the attackers began to distinguish their victims. Men were killed, but many women, especially younger women, were preserved and forced into prostitution. However, by that time, their numbers were already low—and thus there was more blood on the streets than anything else.
A few of the most rich attempted to hide in panic rooms with their families. These were eventually forced to give in, months later, after being starved out.
While this was happening to the upper echelons of society, however, the middle and lower areas were not spared. Many in the middle class neighborhoods escaped the chaos because of the forewarning; they slipped away from their homes in the middle of the night, hiding amongst the lower classes, hoping that they would be overlooked. A few neighborhoods tried to band together; these set up barriers around a few strategically chosen houses, and with weapons held back the marauding bands of looters. This worked for a little over a week, before their gas and food ran out and they were overrun. None in these situations survived.
For the most part, however, those in these two sets of neighborhoods were spared from death. This was not to say that their lives were in any way improved; most lost something, whether a home or a possession or a limb or even peace of mind. Families were separated, and all lines of communication—internet, phone, and the like—were cut. It was as if the outside world ceased to exist; and the new inner world of Gotham was like nothing any of them had experienced before.
After the initial wave of chaos, which lasted for two weeks, things calmed down. Yet the people of Gotham did not come out of hiding; having lived in the city most of their lives, they knew when to recognize the calm before a storm.
The problem was simple: the city belonged to Bane. Nominally. But the mob bosses all knew that owning something nominally really meant nothing. The city had been owned by the police, nominally, for years. But it had almost always been truly theirs. Now it wasn't... and they were chafing under that knowledge.
If Bane had been out of the picture, things would still have eventually erupted. The mob bosses, free of a common enemy, would have turned on each other. If they defeated Bane, they would still also have eventually turned against one another. However, with Bane in place, they all formed an embryonic truce, a gradual melding of their forces, slowly consolidating for what surely would be the street fight to end all street fights. For his part, Bane seemed unperturbed by this possibility, and could be seen striding about the streets with no small amount of careless arrogance.
In the renewed calm, the police who had somehow escaped custody, along with the few citizens who volunteered to assist, began to attempt to regroup. Gordon, who had escaped an assassination attempt at the hospital, was ostensibly the leader, but their organization was a very loose one, and at any time people could decide to leave. This unreliable nature made their situation very tenuous. Most of these potential resistance fighters were also not willing to attack Bane or the mob; they played defense, when Gordon himself knew that this would not be enough. He gave many arguments—"offense is the best form of defense"—but, as of now, few listened. Instead, most focused on methods of appeasement and ways of concealing the people that the resurgent police cared about.
Still, nobody noticed It.
In a way, the people could still be excused their ignorance. They were used to flashy pomp, a circus show, masked clowns and bombs exploding on every corner. It was no surprise that the people had forgotten, had neglected to remember how it had begun the first time. Had forgotten that it had taken months for the monster to gain momentum, to truly begin to master his craft, like a small spark slowly grows into a raging wildfire.
Because It was, simply and certainly, the return of Him.
During the initial chaos of that first night, the non-Joker, because he had not been himself, had wandered around the streets like a drunken man. He had still had a dose of the drugs in him, and this made him sleepy. He was aware, however, that it was vital he remain awake, and so he overpowered his own weariness by sheer force of will. As the night had moved on, this had become easier. The drugs were gone from him by morning.
Bane and the crime lords had split the prison and asylum inmates among themselves, first by grouping them together, then cutting them into portions. Then there was a few hours where they had swapped men amongst themselves, trading men for the men they each knew, men they did not know for men who had previously belonged to their organization. Bane alone had refused to trade, merely opening up his gang membership to anyone who wished to join. A great many unaffiliated persons had signed up. The non-Joker, sans makeup, had joined as well. Nobody said anything to him; it was like he was invisible.
When the chaos had begun, he had not joined in. He had simply walked down the street with a casual air, a slight swagger, observing. He watched as the rich were pulled from their homes, screaming and begging, watched them die, watched the palaces pillaged, watched men running crazily about with handfuls of money, laughing like hyenas.
He did not laugh. If anything, his face was impassive. He passed no judgment, no approval, no... anything. He did not do anything.
He just watched. His eyes were sharp, but he bore the ultimate pokerface.
When, occasionally, a man would get too close to him, it was the non-Joker who would give way, yielding to the other the path. He made his way by dodging around and about, and nobody paid him any mind. As the city burned around him, he was given no more attention than a passing wind, moving harmlessly over the lost city.
There was a moment, on the fourth day, when Bane was walking down the street—in what would become a common sight in Gotham—all swagger, all arrogance, all on broad display. The hulking man had his hands tucked against his shirt collar, his beady eyes taking in the sights around him with ease, like a king surveying his subjects. The Joker, who was also walking, passed right by him. Neither said a word to each other. There was no hint that they even noticed.
Later on the same day, Bane stood upon the top step of City Hall, gave what was by then his usual speech:
"People of Gotham, I stand before you now as a liberator, a bringer of hope. By your own will you have freed yourselves and brought great change to this, your city. All is yours! From this day forth there will be no poverty, no hunger, and no disease. We are the people, and the people's will be done! Do as you please—for this world is and always has been yours!"
Many mobsters, not just those who were numbered among Bane's men, cheered wildly, holding up their rifles, their broken bottles, and their long knives. They chanted, "Bane! Bane! The People! The People! Bane!"
In the shadows, the Joker lurked, silently. His eyes swept over the crowd, almost as if counting them, one by one—and then he looked back up at Bane. The huge man had, while scanning the crowd, managed to find the Joker hidden in the back, standing out simply because he was one of the few not making a ruckus. When their eyes met, the non-clown smiled.
It was a very grim look. More of a grimace than a grin.
That night, for the first time in years, Bane had a nightmare. He found himself back in the pit, the hole of the earth, as far down and deep as Hell itself. This time, though, a man stood looking down at him, faceless, with the exception of a gaping wound where his jaw should have been. The man was holding a rope down to him... but before he could decide whether or not to climb, he woke up.
.
Bruce spent the next month in perpetual agony.
It was never merely of a bodily nature. Pain flared up and down his spine, grinding against the small of his back, leaping up into his skull and drumming with his heartbeat. Every bruise and break throbbed, horribly, and when infection set in he nearly lost himself in delirium. But the worst of it was not physical: his legs were empty, motionless and dead. He felt as if he should have been dead, himself.
"Your punishment must be more severe," Bane had told him, when he had first awoken. "You will watch your city burn. You will watch the men here as they try to make the climb. And you will know that you cannot even attempt it. You will only be able to watch..."
Bruce had cursed him, then, used up all his strength cursing him, and eventually lost himself to unconsciousness. Bane had not been moved by his outrage in the slightest, sitting calmly as Bruce had hurled his abuse. When Bruce woke again, his masked tormentor was gone.
There were two men, both allegedly the prison's doctors, who tended to him. One was very businesslike, setting his bones and ignoring his cries of pain. He was the one who turned on the television, and laughed when Bruce raged and roared over the sights of his lost city.
The other doctor merely observed everything, kept his head down. Occasionally he would offer a shushed word of advice to the first, but he did not stray near Bruce.
Bruce hated the television screen with every fiber of his being, but he could not stop himself from watching. There was no sound; only the scrawled words of GCN's news reports. But the pictures were clear enough. The video was blurry, but it got the message through.
His city was dying.
He was dying.
It took a week for Bruce to attempt to move from the bed. He fell against the floor with a shout, and, in desperation, attempted to stand. To kneel. To something. But even his arms, with all the strength he had placed in them, could not budge his weight. The second doctor watched, quietly, from a corner of the room. He looked about to say something, or to stand and help, but then the first entered the room.
"Oh, so you are trying to make the climb already?" the first joked, his voice cutting. "Face it, boy, make it easy on yourself. You will never walk again."
Bruce would have cursed him, too, but the thought of angering one of his only sources of medicinal care held him at bay. He said nothing while he was picked up off the floor and returned to the bed, only stared silently as the second doctor bowed his head and left the room.
But he learned his lesson. He did not try to push himself again. He rested, when he could, slept when his stress and worry would allow it. Every day, he gained the slightest bit more strength. Every day, another sliver of his soul went up in smoke, as he saw the images on the screen. Many hours he lay there, more dead than alive, letting the flies trail over his sweaty skin as he stared, slack-jawed, in horror. He could only take so much—but still he always watched, unable to look away, unable to stop his eyes from following the story, the nightmare before him.
In all of this, it did not occur to him to wonder what had happened to the Joker.
.
The non-Joker killed his first victim on the fourth day of the third week. This was an accident. He had walked up onto the eighth floor of a hotel, and found a nice mattress in an unlocked room there. Given that so much things of comfort had been destroyed in the preceding chaos, he had been vaguely delighted to discover such a find. When he lay down upon it, however, something had jabbed into his back. Turning the mattress over, he found a nice stash of weaponry, most of it unloaded, jammed, or otherwise non-operational. To test some of the various instruments he had taken to firing out of the window. One shot went wild and killed a passerby.
It took him about an hour to realize what he had done. When he understood, he simply snorted, and, taking the most valuable pieces of his find, went down to search the body. He found a wallet—which he promptly threw in the sewer—and a small loaf of bread, which he sat and ate on the mattress, as he waited for whoever owned the place to arrive home.
When the fellow did, the non-Joker shot him, too.
Both bodies were shoved into the hotel room's closet. The monster spent the night on the mattress; in the morning, he was gone again, but there was a slight spring in his step which had not been there for some time. He moved now with slightly more purpose; and now, whenever he approached or was approached by others, the other men would yield to him, not the other way around. This was all done instinctively, as even the largest of thugs did not seem to realize that they had given way to someone who was by no means a physical match for them.
He walked west. It took him a day to reach his destination, mostly because he was sidetracked due to a fight between two women. He paused for a while, and stood along with a large, cheering crowd, as the women screamed and clawed at each other. The other onlookers gave him a wide berth, over two arms' length, but neither they nor he seemed to notice this, for it too was done instinctively.
The fight between the women lasted over three hours. They apparently considered whatever they were fighting for to be well worth the effort. The non-Joker never did learn what their reason was. He was distracted by the woman on the rooftop.
At first, he wasn't sure if it was a woman. He almost was tempted to say it was the Batman—and the merest thought of that, although he knew it could not be true, made his heart leap with such joy that he had not felt in a long time. But it could not be the Batman—and, when he told this to himself, he realized furthermore that it was too thin, short, and slinky to be his old enemy. It was a woman, in a costume. She watched the catfight below her, too, and he watched both them and her, for all three hours. By sunset, when the fight had ended, she moved off, and though he was tempted to follow, the non-Joker was more concerned with his own eventual destination. He resumed his journey west.
The safehouse he had built was carefully hidden. There wasn't much there. Just a supply of food, water, weapons, household chemicals, spray cans, empty bottles. And his suit. And his knives.
And his face.
.
One month into his captivity, Bruce tried to speak to the second doctor.
"When will I walk again?"
He asked the second man because the first had always seemed dead set on convincing him that he was through. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of asking mere moments before the first re-entered his room, and as a result his query was overheard. He thus had to endure a round of mocking, and watched, feeling helpless, as the second doctor said nothing. The man kept his head bowed; over the weeks, Bruce had learned that the fellow was mostly blind, if not completely so.
He waited another four days before asking again. The television screen, his perpetual tormentor, never faded from his sight. Every breath was beginning to feel like agony to him. But his arms seemed to have regained their strength; he could even sit up, on his own power.
He asked again, once he and the second doctor were alone.
"When will I walk again?"
The doctor was silent for what seemed like a long time. He stared at Bruce with his sightless eyes, then answered,
"When you stop asking yourself that question."
.
With his proper self restored, the Joker's first act was to recruit. He roamed the city, and when he encountered a group of men, he stepped into the shadows, let them pass. This pattern was repeated several times, until around three in the afternoon, when two men walked by him.
He killed one, and offered the other a choice; join or die.
The terrified man agreed.
They returned back to the safehouse, where the Joker fed his new goon, who looked like he had not eaten in a while. Then they stayed up until late at night, talking. The Joker was surprisingly civil. He could hold a very philosophical conversation with little to no effort. The goon, whose life had been spent in the Narrows, had never engaged in such a deep level of conversation—and furthermore, his opinions on anything had never been taken seriously.
By the end of the night, the new worker had already confessed to the Joker all of his many sins: he'd sold drugs at eight, joined up with the gangbangers at age fourteen, gotten caught and sent to prison for six years, and after returning to the streets joined the mob. Eventually he'd ended up in Arkham, mostly because he'd gotten caught cutting the fingers off one of his many girlfriends. According to him, however, this was not due to insanity, but instead because he'd caught her cheating and had been so enraged that he'd lost his head and done something a little crazy, which he now regretted. Hearing this, the Joker nodded sagely, lips pursed, and replied, with a laugh, "Well, haven't we all?"
In the morning, the new goon told the clown: "You know, you're not all that bad."
"Oh?" Asked the Joker. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's just," said the goon, then hesitated, as if uncertain whether he should continue. However, at the Joker's encouraging—"well, spit it out, wontcha?"—the man eventually said:
"It's just that... everyone says you're crazy. No offense." The goon was quick to look apologetic. "I mean, now I don't think you're crazy, but some people say so. I just always thought you were some kind of ultimate villain, you know? Like the guys on Saturday morning cartoons. I thought maybe you'd kill your own men to prove a point, or because you wanted to let off steam, or something."
"Now Jake—" sighed the Joker, dramatically, "—killing your own men is just stupid. If I did that, then I really would be crazy."
Then he sent the man away, after giving him some extra food, telling him how he wanted to start up a gang, and if the goon wanted to join him, he really should give it some important thought, and come back tomorrow. There would be good pay, good benefits, and best of all, he'd be part of something big, rather than just a nobody.
After shutting the door behind the man, the Joker turned, whistling, and took up some stray pieces of newspaper he'd found on the street. He doodled for a while, drawing little bats falling from the sky, as well as one climbing up out of the ground—this one, though, he seemed puzzled by, and spent some minutes staring at it, before scratching it out and moving on to drawing Godzilla terrorizing Gotham. He moved from Godzilla to Bane, and from there, his drawings began to take more formative shapes, things that vaguely looked like parodies of Gotham buildings, small lists of objects. As he doodled more and more, he began to destroy his older work, until he ran out of paper entirely. Then he sat and hummed to himself, seemingly lost in thought, snapping his switchblade in and out, in and out, all night long.
The following day, the man returned. He brought four friends with him.
.
From her vantage point, the former penthouse of Bruce Wayne, Talia al Ghul looked out over the city. Behind her, nestled on the seat of the couch, was the bomb, cradled by pillows as if it were a baby. This set of rooms was the one place in Gotham that was untouched by looting—in fact, if anything, it was more elaborately bedecked and bejeweled that before. Bane, having won against Wayne, was now Ra's, and was determined to see to it that his new wife was happy in her home.
For her part, Talia was oh so tempted.
She fingered the pendant around her neck. Bane, as a sign of trust, had given her the trigger to the bomb itself. She knew he was trying to win her over by cloying gifts, and she was mostly willing to be won. After all, if she tired of him, there was always the bomb. He was not what she had wanted; but for now, she was willing to settle, and for now she did not flick the switch. She was supposed to do that only when the League was done with Gotham and they were well out of range.
But it was oh so tempting. To just finish it all. Get it over with.
She knew that Wayne had not remembered her; how could he? She had been younger than him by almost a decade, and the only time they had met, he had been delirious with fever. A wound he had received while training had become infected. She had helped to care for him.
She wondered who was caring for him now.
When she had first seen him in the League, her father had told her: this is the man you are going to marry. And she had believed him. She had been happy, because Wayne had been handsome, and strong, and looked like a nice person. At her age, these were the things that mattered.
Then her father had died.
For a while, she had tried to rationalize it. Wayne was a traitor, though, and no amount of rationalizing would bring her father back. Slowly, her old crush turned to hatred, rather than blossoming into the love it should have become—and she grew bitterer and bitterer, as she had struggled to find a way to let the League's council appoint her, a woman, as its new commander. The council would not be swayed, however, and here she was.
Being oh so tempted.
What if Wayne had said yes? Would she still have ordered Bane against him, or would she have requested the giant man to stand down? Would Bane have done as she asked? Or was she just a method to that man—a way into power, into ruling the most powerful organization on the face of the Earth. She wondered if her mother—the previous Ra's wife, and the daughter of the Ra's before that—had had the same questions about her father, Henri Ducard.
Maybe, if Wayne had said yes, she would have forgiven him. Eventually. At first, of course, she would have been enraged, and tried to kill him, probably many times, through sabotage and poisoning. But if he survived that, and was nice enough, maybe she would have...
A small noise behind her brought her out of her reverie. Turning, she saw the woman in black.
"Oh," she said. "It's just you."
The woman, lounging on the couch opposite the bomb, only said: "This is it, isn't it?"
Talia frowned at her. "And that's your way of greeting royalty?"
"Honey," purred the woman, "I steal from you people. You aren't anything to me but prey."
"Then you may leave," Talia told her, crossing the room, moving for the set of swords above the fireplace mantle. An old Wayne heirloom, she guessed. Taking one up, she swished it through the air, drawing an invisible "X" over the Cat Woman's face. This woman... she had always bothered her, prancing about and causing a ruckus whenever she was present in the room. She had also outlived her usefulness, as far as Talia was concerned; she had gotten Wayne's fingerprints, and thus access to all his bank accounts, but beyond that she was a mere annoyance.
Bane didn't want to kill her, though. He argued that she had been useful in fetching and stealing things for the League for a long time, and it was petty to waste such a valuable resource.
From her perch, the Catwoman eyed her, lazily. Then, stretching theatrically, as if she was showing off that her own clothes were skintight—not the pompous, restricting clothing that Talia was required by tradition to wear everywhere except here, in her own home—she stood, and stalked over to Talia, grinning.
"You might want to put that away, little princess."
Her teeth were sharp, but the threatening effect of her was ruined by the fact that she was quite a bit shorter even than Talia.
"Big words for a common thief."
The Catwoman's face fell. "Darling, I am anything but common."
"Really? Is that why my father found you living on the street as a whore?" Talia asked, levelly, but to her surprise the Catwoman grinned again.
"Haven't you ever wondered how he knew that I was a whore?"
It took Talia a few seconds to realize the implication; the other woman's lilt and luscious look, with their innuendo, only distracted her. Once she knew, she found herself shrieking, "How dare you!" and lunging forward. She clipped the Catwoman's hair, but the lithe form twisted away, flipping up to the fireplace mantle and seizing the other sword.
For a while, they stabbed at each other, slashing and slicing, blocking and parrying. The Wayne heirlooms were still in good shape and gave and received blows quite well. The Catwoman was quite good with feints, and while Talia knew she was better, she still found that the thief drew first blood—probably due more to Talia's anger making her sloppy, than any real skill on the Catwoman's part, since the woman was trained more with whip and staff than sword and dagger. At the outrage of seeing her own blood, Talia fairly threw her own sword onto the floor, where it clanged outrageously loud against the marble, and brought her sliced hand up to her mouth.
"Tsk, tsk," the Catwoman said, but despite her tone her eyes were somewhat apologetic. She moved closer, and lifted Talia's hand to inspect it. "Oh, it's nothing bad. You'll be fine. Next time you'll know better, princess."
"Next time, I will call Ra's and have him break you in half, like the Batman," Talia threatened. She was surprised to catch the way the other woman's face twisted, slightly, like a grimace, before the Catwoman's eyes darted to her neck, and she announced:
"Oh! How lovely!"
Instinctively, Talia's remaining good hand flew to the trigger around her throat, remembering how it was disguised as a necklace with a mother-of-pearl pendant. Her own eyes flew to the necklace ringing the Catwoman's bare neck, which was a string of pearls, tightly bound.
"Yours are nicer," she said, simply, trying to distract the thief.
"You think so?" Asked the Catwoman, releasing Talia to strut, perhaps a little too sultry for Talia's taste, smirking. "I got them from Bruce Wayne. Heirlooms, you see."
Acid churned in Talia's stomach, which dropped when she realized that she wanted to ask how the Catwoman had gotten them. Had Wayne given them to her? Or were they stolen?
Why did she care? She's didn't care about Wayne—she hated him. She knew this.
"Well, I'm sure you'll take good care of them," she said, turning to pick up both swords and replace them on the mantle. "After all, you go through so much jewelry—"
But she had to stop talking. When she turned around, the other woman was gone. Talia's eyes flamed. Bitch...
Around her throat, her hand gripped the trigger tighter. Surely the dark woman wouldn't dare steal from her—because if she truly wanted this necklace, nothing, absolutely nothing, would stop her; no safe was truly safe, no watchman was watchful enough. Only the fact that she was currently gripping it in her hands reassured Talia that she even was still wearing it.
Should she tell Bane, she wondered? Maybe the new Ra's could get the thief to stay away.
No, Talia told herself. No, she would handle this. She had wanted to lead the League of Shadows; she could protect the trigger herself.
.
.
.
Author's Note
So here's the next installment. I think it will take me a few more days to put another one up after this, because my work starts again tomorrow. Yay for getting up at 5:30 every morning!
alice chess
