PhineasFlash25's

THE DARK KNIGHT

STRIKES AGAIN!

A Fanfiction by PhineasFlash25

Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight Strikes Again, The Dark Knight Returns, or the DC Universe. This is a fanfiction so PLEASE DON'T SUE ME.

After reading the actual sequel to Frank Miller's more acclaimed The Dark Knight Returns, I concluded that The Dark Knight Strikes Again had a lot of potential, and some genuinely cool ideas going for it. The basic premise of the novel (Lex Luthor having taken over the world, and DKR Batman must reunite his old superhero allies to stage a revolution) is a very cool premise. It's the EXECUTION of the premise, and all these little choices Frank Miller made throughout (plus the crazy art) that threw me and a whole bunch of other people off.

So, I've decided to write my own fanfic version of The Dark Knight Strikes Again. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 3:

Arkham Asylum. Gotham-City's notorious mental-health institution for the criminally insane. Founded in the 1890's by Dr. Amadeus Arkham, who eventually became a patient in his own asylum, it's history has been one of tragedy since the very beginning. With its macabre, gothic exterior appearance, and the bleak and gloomy hallways running within, Arkham looks more like a haunted house than a place of medicine. In the old days, few attempts of rehabilitation were truly successful, and patient breakouts were frequent, as well as riots. People were more likely to get worse than better, and a few of the doctors and staff, like the asylum's founder himself, lost their own minds to the house's menacing maze of madness.

Because of this, several years ago the asylum was shut down and abandoned. A new mental-health facility later opened, called the Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled, which showed significantly more success. But since the rise of the Regime, the old Arkham building has been acquired for a classified government project. Nobody who valued their lives dared to ask what they were doing behind those cryptic walls, and the Regime never bothered to make up a cover story, but they reassured the public that it was "A very important matter of national security."

That "important matter" being the imprisonment of several of the world's greatest heroes.

In cell 211, an elderly man sat down, his forehead pressed to his knees, and tears rolling down his cheeks. His name was Ray Palmer, and he was trapped, sealed in a glass jar, butt-naked and shrunk down to the size of a pea. The cell was pitch black, and he was always cold. Long ago, he was a brilliant scientist at S.T.A.R. Labs who had discovered a way to shrink or enlarge objects, and even people. He became the Atom, one of the Justice League's reserve members. But now he was nothing. Imprisoned by his own technology. Without his suit, he can't grow back to human-size, and he will be forever confined in a glass jar, like a child's pet caterpillar, and discarded in a cold, dark prison-cell.

In the next cell over, another hero of yesteryear was suffering a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. Squeezed into a tight ball, sealed in an airtight box reinforced with countless security measures and neural-dampeners, his brain was prohibited to a constant state of unconsciousness, unable to command the inconceivably-versatile tool that was his body. Patrick "Eel" O'Brien. Plastic-Man.

In yet another cell, a woman was slowly dying. Much like another great hero, she came to Earth from the stars, seeking refuge. She saved lives, and worked hard to fit in. But her deeds were repaid with abuse, imprisonment, starvation, and darkness. It was no way to treat a woman, let alone royalty. And if light does not shine through to her, Starfire will flicker out.

In the cell across from Starfire, an old friend lies strapped to a table, his artificial limbs ripped off and scrapped, his titanium and promethium armor removed, and his built-in weapons disarmed. He was a head and torso stuck in a metal shell, strapped down with no way of getting out. He used to be one of the toughest guys around, but these days, Victor E. Stone, aka the Cyborg, was feeling pretty pathetic.

In the last cell at the end of the hallway, roars, barks, screeches, howls, hisses, and other angry bestial sounds reverberated across the asylum. A wild animal of a man was scratching, scratching, scratching against the cell door, furiously clawing to break free. Once upon a time, back when they were brash adolescents, he, Cyborg, Starfire, and a few others were a team of young heroes. More than a team, they were lifelong friends. The Teen Titans. But those days now seemed like a lifetime ago. The cantankerous creature howled in despair. Arkham Asylum had broken him. His mind had snapped, and with it, his powers. His body was in a state of flux, continuously morphing between all the different species in the animal kingdom. The only constant was his color; Green. The color of life, now the color of sickness. Thanks to Arkham Asylum, the man once known as Beast-Boy was sick in the head.

Dozens more were similarly locked away and tortured. Dozens of good and righteous men and women condemned to a living nightmare. Dozens of heroes lost. Robbed of hope.

But that was about to change.

Six hours ago, Carrie Kelly and her lieutenants gathered together in the Batcave's war-room to prep for their next field-mission. Eighteen hours before that, they had successfully infiltrated Gotham City-Hall, broke into the Mayor's office, attained the intel they were looking for, and exited without leaving so much as a file out of place on the Mayor's desk. The intel revealed the location where these former heroes were being held. Arkham Asylum. Now that they knew where their target was, they were ready to strike.

The Revolution had begun.

Now, lurking right beneath the feet of the asylum guards, a black-ops unit patiently waited for the right moment. The abandoned catacombs beneath Arkham were connected to the endless network of subterranean tunnels that the Bat-Army used to navigate Gotham undetected. The Bat-Army, headed by Carrie Kelly, got into their positions and awaited Carrie's orders.

Carrie stood up and looked around. She and her troops were all suited up in black military uniforms. To avoid being identified by the authorities, they stopped wearing the obvious and distinct batsuits and started using uniforms and disguises that were more ambiguous. They all conducted last-minute equipment checks, making sure that all their smoke-bombs and sedative-tipped-shurikens were ready and functional. Their comm-devices were encrypted and working, their starlite-goggles fully operational. All their watches were synchronized, and they had already tapped into the surveillance cameras. Everybody had their parts down, every exit strategy had been plotted, and every valuable was calculated down to the smallest decimal point. They were ready.

Carrie reached down into her backpack and pulled out the detonator. Dozens of mines had been placed in key points along the catacombs. When they go off, several hallways and the security control room will all cave-in, and the guards will be neutralized.

Without wasting any more time, Carrie raised the detonator up, and pushed the red button.

It all happened in just ten seconds. The Guards at Arkham were going through the motions of their daily routine, a monotonous, robotic system of marching down the gloomy halls and standing vigilant at their posts. And then without warning, the Asylum hallways suddenly trembled with dozens of booming, thunderous sounds beneath them. Before any of them could take in what was happening, they were falling into the cold limestone labyrinth down below. Like a Siamese Tiger-Trap, the floors collapsed to reveal a shadowy abyss, danger waiting for them at the bottom.

The guards were quickly and quietly subdued, and the troops climbed out of the chasms, like demons crawling out of the bowels of Hell. They covered all corners and rooms where other guards may be hiding. Soldiers planted themselves at the front door and alternative entrances and exits, sentinels ready to fend off any Regime pawns and hold the line. Two minutes into the operation, and Arkham Asylum has become an Alamo. Only this Alamo won't fall. Not until the heroes are liberated.

Meanwhile, in the city of Metropolis, a separate resistance movement has met far more disastrous results. The appropriately-named Suicide-Slum was a filthy hive of disgruntled and resentful men and women, a ghetto cut off from the rest of the city by a 60-foot-tall wall of steel and concrete. Those on the outside were told that the wall was there to protect the good, law-abiding citizens from the criminal element that plagued this district for many years, and while the Suicide Slum was indeed a breeding ground for muggers, drug-dealers and pickpockets even back in the old days, that was hardly the reason the Regime built a barrier around it.

The Suicide-Slum was a petri dish of human test-subjects for the Regime's Advanced-Science department. Every month, soldiers would organize all the Slum's prisoners into rows at the central plaza. Dozens were shipped away to a nearby genetics-laboratory, and never seen again. Dozens more would then be processed in. Those who lived in the Slum were all poor, sickly, and alone with no families. Nobody would miss them. That's what the Regime believed.

But despite their grim scenario, a band of prisoners had plotted to revolt against their tyrannical captors and take back the world piece by piece. Every night before the ghetto's weekly processing ritual, they would all meet at the Ace-O-Clubs, a seedy pub owned by their founder and leader, a salty old seaman named Bo Bibbowski. His friends called him Bibbo.

Before he settled in Metropolis and built the Ace-O-Clubs, Bibbo worked in the U.S. navy back in the second World War and worked on a couple trade ships going here and there. Then one day the latest ship he was serving, The Lori Lemuris, was caught in a furious storm, and he was nearly dragged down to Davy Jones' Locker. But like a guardian angel made flesh, Superman swooped in and saved them all.

Bibbo became Superman's number-one fan. More than a fan, actually. He was good friends with ol' Big Blue. But he wasn't here anymore, hence the evil government imprisoning Bibbo for his advanced age, along with anybody else who they deemed "useless". But even at the withering age of 79, Bibbo still packed a helluva wallop, and took it upon himself to lead the charge against the Regime. He wasn't about to let some pack of bullies push around his people. No. Not his people. Not his town. Together, he and his fellow prisoners would show these fascist scumbags not to mess with Metropolis!

But things didn't quite go according to plan.

Now, in the Ace-O-Clubs, mutilated corpses and broken glass littered the wrecked establishment. Bibbo was pinned to a wall by several lethal blades. A wicked machete impaled his gut, and two knifes pierced through each of his palms, his arms stretched out like the victim of a crucifixion. Blood leaking from his wounds, he groggily lifted his head to gaze upon his executioner.

It was a man, lean and limber, wearing a jet-black bodysuit, complete with red gloves, boots, belt, and a scarlet cape and hood flipped over his head. He was facing away from Bibbo, playing around with a sinister-looking shank in his hand, giggling with sadistic, rabid glee.

This one man, this one, horrible man, singlehandedly massacred Bibbo's entire team of freedom-fighters. They were meeting at the Ace-O-Clubs, like they always did, and were all careful not to be spotted by the soldiers who patrolled the streets at night. They were finally starting to form a strategically sound plot to break into the guard's armory, steal their weapons, and release the Suicide Slum from the Regime's iron grip. And then this… thing, came and absolutely destroyed them, along with Bibbo's hopes for retribution.

He dropped in out of nowhere, without the slightest warning. Before Bibbo could even process what was happening, the Ace-O-Clubs had become a hurricane of blood and guts. Throats slashed, spines shattered, eyes gouged, and innards ripped out in a furious frenzy of maniacal mayhem.

But worst of all was the laugh. His laugh. It echoed across the room, penetrated Bibbo's skull and flooded his mind with dread. It was a high-pitched, demonic cackle that could be heard for miles. It was a laugh that made Bibbo's skin crawl, his heart race, and his bladder erupt. It was a laugh of pure, inconceivable evil.

Such a laugh had not been heard in years, not since…

"NO!" Shouted Bibbo, "You're not the Joker! You CAN'T be the Joker! The Joker's DEAD!"

In response, the killer swerved around to face Bibbo. He raised his gloved hands and flipped the hood off his head. His face was chalk-white like a vampire, and his eyes bloodshot red. His combed-back hair and lips were also red, and his lips peeled back in a sadistic grin, showing off his sharp, filthy teeth.

"Maybe, you're right," he said, looking at Bibbo, licking his chops and casually walking ever closer to his prey. "But if I'm not the Joker…"

Swiftly and brutally, the psychotic assassin thrusted his dagger into Bibbo's throat, grasped his hair, and ripped his head clean off his body, blood spewing out of his neck.

"…Whoever could I be?"

The Killer Clown burst out with his horrible laugh again. When he finally calmed down, he looked at the decapitated head in his hands. What a pathetic excuse for a martyr. He'd seen kittens put up more of a fight than this geezer. What he needed was prey that could bite back. A mission that presented more of a challenge. Something a bit more… exerting.

As if on cue, the mysterious assassin's cell phone started ringing. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. Hopefully his next assignment would be worthier of his time.

"Yeah? Yeah, they're all dead. I got you a trophy!" the strange new Joker lifted up the decapitated head by its hair and took a photo of it on his phone to show his boss. One of his favorite parts of the job was collecting all kinds of disgusting little presents to give the Big Man, souvenirs of all his gory exploits. Last time, he returned with the ripped-out larynx and lungs of Black-Canary, who had been causing some trouble up in Boston. Before that, it was the Guardian's bloodstained golden shield. The Big Man accepted these ghoulish offerings, but the Joker knew he was just trying to seem grateful. No matter, he wasn't doing this for recognition. He abandoned THAT motivation a long time ago.

The man on the phone had a new assignment for him. Unlike his recent killing spree, this one was far more up his alley. A familiar place, and a familiar situation.

"Arkham? A Breakout? Hostages? Unknown subversives?"

The Joker's grin stretched out to gruesome, inhuman proportions.

"Sounds like FUN!"