Coalition

Chapter Two: Das Messer

'The best lack all conviction; while the worst

are full of passionate intensity' William Butler Yeats

He enters the room. No. It enters the room. No. He enters the room. De-humanising them is the last thing he should be doing. Batman examined Zsasz as he entered the room. So many times, he had forced himself to believe that the man was a psychopath, not an inhuman monster. There was a story, a background, something had happened in the man's life to alter his mind so drastically. That was what Batman had to tell himself. That's what he had to tell himself to stop him killing the killer. Batman hated them but hated the idea of becoming them even more.

New scars. The still warm ashes burned deep within the crevices of Batman's heart and it took little more than those scars to stir the embers into an inferno of unbelievable proportions. A whole tally of five. Carved deep into the skin, leaving a deep, permanent and horrific symbol of death and insanity. Nearly all of the scars on the psychopath's body were made in that way. Every life the man took, every life he stole, was marked by another line on his seemingly weak and fragile body. The tally was now too high for Batman to want to know, but he forced himself to know. One hundred and twenty two to date. One hundred and twenty one people he had failed to save.

The knife in his hand is simple. It is usually whatever knife is handy at the time, he has never seemed to favour a specific type. This time it's a butcher's knife. A large unwieldy cleaver whose edge is so sharp it cuts through the air leaving a trail of warmth behind it. The handle fits perfectly within the madman's palms, as though it has and always will, belong in those hands. The glistening metal of the blade shimmers in the intense light of the room in which the Bat with clipped wings sat. The light bounced off the knife into the Bat's eyes and thus, the insanity began.

"-" exclaimed the oppressive, terrifying creature clad in black as the blade sliced cleanly through the armour. Batman had expected the blow but he wasn't expecting it to be so fast, so aggressive, so soon. He'd imagined that Zsasz would play with him first but, as memory was quick to remind him, Zsasz had never been that way inclined.

A sick smile contorted the face of Zsasz. It was the ever so slight widening of the Bat's eyes, the sudden and badly concealed intake of breath, that had alerted Zsasz to the success of his blow. Everyone had hurt Batman before, there was barely a villain that hadn't, but for him to be so helpless was certainly uncommon. The smile was one of victory, the Bat was defenceless, finally fully becoming a bat. He pulled the knife away and watched with morbid fascination as the hot, warm droplet of blood slid slowly and delicately from the very edge of the knife.

"That armour can only protect you so much Batty-boy!" exclaimed a voice through a loudspeaker which Batman was ashamed to admit he had not seen, "None of us knew it had weak points. Learning curve for us all, eh?"

The temptation to growl, to sigh, to glower with discontent was almost enough to overwhelm the sudden sting that came from the wound. Almost enough, but not quite enough. Like a paper cut, knife wounds aren't always felt straight away, particularly if they are a slice or scratch rather than a stab; instead, they are invisible to the body for a few seconds until a sharp and penetrating pain fires through the body as though on fire. Cutting yourself shaving achieves a similar result, with a startlingly painful feeling arriving just a short while after the blood has begun to seep from the wound and then, there is always so much blood. There is always more blood than you imagine you could even have. Eight pints. A single cut forces you to mentally half that number.

"The zombies can't help you here…" he did not pause but twiddled the knife around his hands as though it were nothing more than a toy, "They wouldn't help you anyway… you're just like us… you have blood on your hands too… you're not answering back… why are you so quiet? No words of wisdom…. words of denial?"

Batman looked to the glass, determined to ignore Zsasz. Once he got into your mind, the game became a whole lot more dangerous. He'd let it happen once. Never again. His words slithered under people's skins like a hideously clever snake and despite his slim, weak frame, he was as athletic and powerful as any athlete. He controlled his weapon with astounding grace and accuracy but let him under your skin, into your head, and you're one step away from losing.

The knife flew towards his stomach. Secretly, Bruce blessed with all his heart the never-ending genius of Lucius Fox. Without him, that could have been a deadly blow. However, this gratefulness was replaced by three, intertwining shots of pain as beads of blood seeped through the black suit where the blade had battered it open. The words from Zsasz's mouth continued to flow, each trying to infect his open wounds with their vicious venoms. Batman's eyes closed, his eyebrows underneath his mask furrowing as though it would relieve the pain. He may have a high pain threshold but even the Man of Steel could feel the stinging pain of a paper cut.

***

Superman and Batman had never been the best of friends. They had polarised personalities and they found it extremely easy to argue about how to handle things. Superman was widely considered to be the boy scout, the by-the-book bloke and so the police, people and government loved him. Batman was another matter. Batman was a vigilante, he was rough and aggressive, threatening and intimidating, he broke the rules and so, for a long time, he had been a fugitive, hunted down. Now, despite the official verdict still being against him, Gotham had come to a consensus. They needed him so they would put up with him.

Clark Kent had always been able to understand, to the deepest level anyone without some form of telepathy could, Bruce. He'd lost his parents in the most terrible fashion imaginable and the fact he turned out the way he did was still an impressive feat that further added to the nature versus nurture argument, however, he was, in Superman's personal opinion, still an arse. His personality was geared towards teamwork in much the same way a wasp can bear being hit without retaliation. There were many things that he disliked about Batman's personality. Many, many things.

"Found anything yet, Supes?" asked Flash, his voice burning with impatience and, perhaps, concern.

Placing a hand on the radio, Superman replied, "No. You?"

"Not yet," replied Flash, "But the guards here are nice enough. Still can't see why I got dumped on Arkham Island."

"There's probably method in Master Bruce's madness," interrupted the very-English Alfred, who was overseeing radio communication back in the safety of the Cave, a sort of Command Control, "The police still haven't found anything."

"Weird," said Flash, "You'd think a bunch of psychotic super-villains would leave some sort of trail."

"Not necessarily," explained Alfred, "If the Riddler is with them, it may be impossible to trace them."

"That's not very reassuring, Alfie." commented Flash.

"I can't believe he thought he could do this without us," snapped Superman, "What was he thinking?"

"I wonder if he does think at all," replied Flash, "Maybe he's fooling us all into thinking he's thinking when really, he's just doing it all on the ball."

"He has his reasons." explained Alfred.

"Perhaps you'd care to explain them sometime." suggested Flash.

"Certainly." agreed Alfred with a mysterious, unreadable tone in his voice before leaving the conversation to contact the police once again.

"D'you think he'll be alright, Supes?" asked Flash.

"My heart says 'no!'," replied Superman solemnly, "But my mind says 'yes, he'll probably be standing there, arms crossed, asking what took us so long'."

"Still," said Flash exhibiting more insight than he normally did, "You're worried aren't you?"

There was a pause, "Yes."

"So am I."

"I know."

The conversation ended there as Flash was called away by the guards who were bored and had made a bet. A very humorous bet that amused Flash for little more than ten seconds. Around the island in less than a minute? Hardly a challenge. Superman sighed slightly, at least Flash was having a good time. A gut feeling told him things were not going quite so well for Batman.

***

Forgetting himself, he greedily gulped down a gallon of gas. The oxygen tasted like heaven to his deprived, desperate body. He had begun to pant, through no intention of his own, and Zsasz's words were beginning to spread like a cancer in his mind. A little longer, he could last just a while longer. Shame filled his soul: he had had training to ignore pain, to work through pain, for the pain to mean nothing to his body. A feeling of laziness filled him, had he grown lazy, was that the reason? No. He knew. The Batman was human. He tried to ignore that fact but it always came back.

"…Swooping from above… like some almighty angel… you want to kill, don't you… I wonder what's stopping you… resolve? Yeah, something stupid like that…"

The pain from the slice of a knife was something intense. It was sharp and sudden but chose to strike only after the thought of safety had entered your head. He didn't know how many cuts he had but was aware that some had clotted and begun to form scabs, whereas others continued to profusely bleed from where the knife had penetrated and perforated the skin. The armour held up well, protecting his neck and chest from all but a jolt of deeply instinctive fear, not that it showed on his face or in his eyes.

"… I can see it in your eyes… I forget sometimes that you're a zombie too… just like all the others… I can kill you… you can die… you feel pain…"

The time flew by. There was a pattern. As though the knife were an actor that would only obey the very specific cues it had been provided with. It only hit the same place twice after the surrounding area had been slashed six times. The phrase 'method in madness' had some truth to it, even to those more unpredictable than others. The knife flew by and slashed an already open wound on his knee. Pain shot immediately throughout his body when a cut was aggravated during its healing process. There was at least a period of painlessness when new cuts where administered before the shout of the nervous system became defeaning.

"My tally has been off by one ever since… ever since you stopped me saving that… I can't even remember if it was a man or a woman… English… I remember that…"

Batman glowered with deathly intensity. Hatred flowed from him in waves as though he were an exploding volcano whose nuclear-hot flow of lava were scalding the very air it touched. Then, suddenly, the waves vanished. Only briefly, only for a second, but they had been irrevocably interrupted, and they had been interrupted by surprise. Something profound and powerful had grasped the stem and held it.

Zsasz increased the pressure on Batman's neck and lowered himself so that the two saw eye-to-eye, even if for the shortest periods of time. A head but. Short, sudden, sharp. Zsasz crumpled to the floor unconscious before words could escape his mouth. Batman allowed himself a small, invisible smirk of victory before returning to the emotionless state his lips normally held. Batman glared at the unfortunate goon who came into collect the poor soul.

"Note to self: restrain head."

***

"Anything yet?" asked Superman, who soared high in the sky above Gotham city.

"Nothing, Master Kent," replied Alfred, "Have you found any of Sir's clues yet?"

"No."

"Perhaps it was unwise to alter the courses Master Bruce had mapped out for you."

"No, we'll cover more ground this way," replied Superman, "Besides, if J'onn has a shorter one, he can take it slower and try and find Batman telepathically."

"Still," reprimanded Alfred, "There is usually method to his madness."

Superman allowed himself a sigh as he flew above the city. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He swooped down immediately. Finding himself sandwiched between to buildings in an alley. It was a wall lathered in graffiti but something seemed strange about it. He caught it out of the corner of his eye and had almost missed it. He placed a hand on it and tried to find out which one was the most recent, the one Batman had made.

"Something wrong, Master Kent?" asked Alfred.

"I've found something."

"A clue?" buzzed Alfred hopefully.

"I think so," explained Superman, "It's a graffiti wall but something's off."

"What can you see? Perhaps I can help."

"Unless the vandals are particularly cultured, I think it was Bruce's handiwork." explained Superman, "There's a quote written in graffiti style, says, 'it is the destiny of man to move forwards'."

"Anything else?"

"No. That's it."

"I have it recorded, I'll carry on thinking about it," advised Alfred, "You should continue along the path and see if you can find any more."

"Right," said Superman, adding, "Don't worry, we'll find him."

"I know." he lied.

***

"Well that was boring." stated the Scarecrow.

"Twenty minutes left of his hour, Mistah J," explained Harley, "What'cha wanna do?"

"Weeell," stressed the Joker, "We could give it to him so he can rest, buuut we could just send in Big Ol' Green now! Off ya go!" he said, slapping the terrifyingly huge creature on the back.

Killer Croc entered the room. Batman was not impressed.

A/N: Thanks to people who are reading this, and thanks to kzurik for story-alerting.