Percy 'Perks' Dubois had never seen himself as a violent man. He had started his criminal career as a con-man and fraudster at the age of seventeen. Thanks to some encounters with the mob he'd eventually set himself up as a small time money launderer and confidence trickster. It was only when Harvey Dent's clean up Gotham plan came into effect that Perks discovered the truth about himself. As the police went all out to shut down the city's money launders and stave the gangs of cash, Percy's office became the site of a raid by four cops. He'd always thought that he'd come over faint if someone ever pointed a gun at him. Barely five minutes after the raid took place, Perks had found himself running through the back alleys with as much money he could stuff in his pockets, blood all over his shirt and a Cheshire Cat grin on his face which he just couldn't get rid of. He had no clear memory of what had transpired in the office, but the papers reported that three of the cops had been shot at close range, while the fourth had been stunned by a blow to the head to relieve him of his gun, before being beaten to death.
For a long time Perks had feared the unknown capacity for violence he carried, pulsing through veins from his ever beating heart, ticking like a countdown to his next outburst. He'd spent days dreading the power that his secret rage held over him, wondering when it would happen, wondering what would happen when it did. At its mercy he'd searched his thoughts blindly for a way to escape, considering everything from committing himself to Arkham to suicide in the cloying waters of Gotham City bay.
Then the Joker had come and things had changed. The Joker had been good to Percy, encouraging him, telling him he had talent. The Clown Prince of Crime had taken the confused young man under his purple suited wing, providing him with a fake I.D to escape persecution for his crimes and arranging for some of his most experienced henchmen to train Perks in the art of combat and rage control. Now Perks was one of the top men in the Joker's underworld army, and looked upon the maniac as a sort of mentor.
He was dedicated, determined to carry out the Joker's instructions as efficiently as possible, regardless of the consequences. The Joker had promised him this time that if he was very good he'd be allowed to be one of the special guests at the party he was throwing later that night. Perks could think of nothing other than finding a way to please the Joker.
However, even Perks was a little put off as he stepped out of the elevator into the sanatorium and found a member of the Joker's horde hanging upside down at head height from a stone gargoyle.
He heard gasps from the other members of his team. Instantly he remembered that it wasn't his job to be afraid. He had to keep the rabble functioning for the Joker, or else the boss' plan would never come to fruition.
"Cut your whining!" he hissed as he brandished his blowtorch at them. "The Bat is somewhere up here and we're gonna find him. Now spread out!"
He moved past the unconscious dangling convict, taking up position where he could look down into the depressed central area of the treatment room. To his left, Esteban Torres went running to secure the area around the exit. To his right, Jesús 'The Saint' Juárez descended the ladder to the lower floor. Perks decided he'd have to keep an eye on that one, seeing as how he wasn't one of the Joker's regulars but a hired gun who'd worked for the Mafia and simply happened to be among the imported criminal's ranks. If he even looked like he had any plans to desert the Joker's cause or try to see himself right ahead of the others-
"YARK!" exclaimed a voice to the left in conjunction with the sound of a thud and a scuffle. Even as Perks began running to investigate, there was the sound of flesh suffering a heavy impact, followed by silence.
When Perks got there, he found Esteban lying unconscious, the barrel of his gun bent so that it was useless.
"Oh Jeez!" Perks whispered, fear dripping down his back. "He's in here with us!"
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"Don't worry boys. I'm sure the Bat won't hurt you. Well he may, but smile; you're just seconds away from medical care," the Joker giggled from the speakers. If he had surveillance cameras watching, he certainly wasn't using them to help his two remaining lackeys. Still, Batman wasn't about to risk taking that for granted. One of the Joker's regular sparing moves with the Bat was to send a bunch of hopelessly outmatched grunts to kill him, knowing that they'd be pummelled senseless within minutes. But that was the thing- the Joker was anything but regular, or predictable, or fixed in his ways. The Joker defined instability. He was chaos incarnate, and one could never tell if he might unexpectedly back up his gang with intel, not necessarily to help them kill the Dark Knight, but just to catch everybody off guard and see what would happen. Therefore, the Batman remained alert and watchful as he squatted upon the old gargoyle that was fixed into the wall across from the elevator.
Quickly assessing the situation, Batman determined which of the two villains the greatest threat was. It was the dark skinned man on the lower floor, whom he recognised as Mafia hit man Jesús Juárez, aka. The Saint. He had paid attention to the thug hanging by the elevator and was searching the roof and high up ledges with his eyes. The one keeping watch from the upper walkway wasn't as dangerous, but the clown face paint showed him to be one of the Joker's personal cohorts, which made him an unpredictable element. Though he didn't seem to have been rigged up as a suicide bomber, there was still no telling what he might try, what with having a blowtorch at his disposal.
Deciding on a course of action, Batman waited till there were no eyes looking in his direction before tossing a batarang at the killer who'd he'd strung up when he first entered the sanatorium. The sharp wings cut the rope neatly and deposited the scum back on the ground with a thud. The face painted man heard the noise and rushed back to investigate. The Saint hadn't heard the noise from where he stood, searching the lower floor laboratories.
Batman dived from his perch, pulling his cloak into place and activating the electrical charge for it. The material snapped into shape as the energy solidified the fibres, becoming a small glider in the shape of a bat wing. The Bat ghosted down, a silent and unseen ghoul, preying on the mundane souls below.
As Batman came within striking distance, the intended target somehow sensed the nearing presence and spun round. His thoughts were displayed plainly on his face as he took in the sight of the solid barrier of blackness that descended upon him. He dived and fired at the same time.
Batman grunted slightly as a lucky shot beat into his stomach, body armour catching the bullet but not masking the blow. The Bat didn't falter, and one of his feet clipped the gangster's shoulder, sending his body pirouetting like a ballerina and his gun jumping free of his hands. Batman landed as the inmate came to a halt.
The Saint was quickly on his feet again, searching for his gun. Not giving him a chance, Batman sprang forward with a fist raised to strike. The Saint saw it coming as jerked his body aside at the last moment, and Batman was forced to be satisfied with a relatively weak punch to the man's chest as he corrected his aim as fast as possible.
The hit man stumbled back under the blow, too winded to answer the call from his friend on the floor above, investigating the sound of gunfire. The caped crusader poised himself to leap at the goon, who saw what was about to happen and quickly seized a bulky machine off of a workbench and tossed it in the vigilante's direction with all his might. Batman launched himself clear of the object, rolling to his feet as soon as he hit the ground. As he regained his footing, his finely tuned senses picked up on a threat, and he darted back into the cover of the lab area under the overhanging walkway just before a bullet from a magnum rocketed past and decimated a floor tile where the masked warrior had been standing. The escaped prisoner upstairs seemed reluctant to come down and join the fight for now, but that wouldn't last if the battle didn't ended quickly.
Batman rushed forward, closing the distance between himself and the opponent. The Saint pulled a switchblade from his pocket, flicking the cruel steel from the handle and going for a low strike in a swift and well experienced move. It was also a stale move, and the Bat caught the arm with barely any effort, side stepping to the grunt's right, away from his free left hand. The criminal gave a weak and badly timed kick to the Batman's leg which the vigilante barely even felt and didn't acknowledge. Instead, he pulled the killer's arm down and smashed it over his knee, dislodging the knife. The Saint howled in pain and backed away as the Bat let go of his arm. Batman followed up with a trio of strikes; two punches either side of the head, followed by a kick to the chest. The Saint hit the floor like a ton of bricks.
Batman was already moving when the thug started falling. When he was only just out from under the laboratory, the Bat was able to predict from the shadows and sounds above where the second target was. With an attack plan already in mind, the caped crusader leaped at a nearby wall, kicked off it, and reached the edge of the second floor. He pulled himself up sharply, just as the escaped prisoner realised what was happening and turned to face the threat.
The colt anaconda let rip with a second shot, then a third. The second was flying far too wide of the mark. The third was dodged as Batman dived for the inmate. They both went tumbling to the floor, the gun knocked away by a hand encased in a black glove. Batman was almost immediately forced to pull away again as the blowtorch came into play. With a single bound he was several feet beyond the thug's reach as he struggled up with the bulky gas can hanging from back like a rucksack. The brute glared at Batman, paint unable to hide the hate and instability in the man's eyes.
The Blackgate prisoner charged, blue flame roaring with anticipation as the fuel spurted from the blowtorch in desperation to join the fight, only to burn up in the intense heat and add its strength to the fire.
Batman made another bound, putting himself in front of the still open elevator doors. The henchman skidded to a halt and changed direction. Before he could attack again, Batman shot the batclaw into the criminal's leg. The teeth pinched around his ankle and the Bat pulled, sending the inmate sprawling to the floor. As he attempted to recover, Batman stamped down and destroyed the blowtorch.
The grounded thug looked at the ruined tool in his hand, then up at the dark figure looming over him. There was a glint in his eyes, like the one in the Joker's just before he staged this chaos.
Then the guy went mad.
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Perks couldn't contain himself. He just took one look at the Bat, standing over him with his stupid costume and mask, everything he imagine the self-assured defender of Gotham to be, and then black turned to red and nothing could stop him.
The former money launderer was up in an instant, heavy fuel tank seemingly weightless under the influence of his rage. He threw punches like crazy at the thickly built crime fighter, blows faster and stronger than anything he was normally capable of. Batman was nimbly darting around the attacks, but there were near misses. Perks laughed with the thrill of combat, but couldn't hear his own voice over the pounding of excited blood in his ears.
Batman ducked, and the thug kicked out and caught the right shoulder. Batman backed away, no doubt having second thoughts at seeing the strength and skill bestowed upon those loyal to the Joker. Perks dashed at him, arms open to give a crushing bear hug. The Dark Knight moved aside and kicked the man's feet out from under him, adding a punch between his shoulder blades for good measure. The inmate ended up collapsing to the floor and hit his head on the wall that surrounded the entrance to the elevator. He got back up, not feeling the blow. Through the crimson haze he still had the presence of mind to remember the things the Joker's henchmen taught him about using the surroundings and improvising. Percy Dubois spied a nearby fire extinguisher and made a grab for it.
The Bat was on him in an instant, but once again the criminal remembered his training out of shear instinct and wrapped his arms round his head just before a karate chop from Batman could knock him cold. Again, Perks didn't feel the pain as the cut impacted on his arm, too consumed by his madly violent perception of reality to care about something like physical injury. The goon shifted his weight and grasped blindly at the body that clung to him like the parasitic rodent he was. When he at last had a grip he tossed the Batman bodily into the walled and roofed office nearby, not caring that the vigilante simply rolled as he hit the floor and came back to his feet with ease. In his mind, he had given Batman a taste of what he was going to get for crossing the Joker one time too many, and this was only the beginning.
Perks snatched the fire extinguisher and hefted it in his arms. Batman raised his fists in preparation for battle, knowing the thug would make his move first. Perks rushed the Dark Knight, the canister wheezing a cloud of gas into the fray to cover the henchman's movements. He swung the metal tube about with wild abandon, but failed to land any blows. He detected several impacts against his own body and tried to follow the trail to lead him to the dark warrior, but the red haze in his mind prevented him from thinking clearly just as it hid any pain he was in.
Eventually the criminal was forced to stop spewing the extinguishant everywhere because it clearly only affected his ability to fight. He looked about as the fog cleared and saw Batman backing away, out of the office in the direction of the elevator. Perks raised the metal container above his head and charged.
As he approached, Batman pulled out one of his gunmetal black projectiles. The batarang unfolded and the Bat threw it like a discus. It caught the side of the henchman's right arm. His arm collapsed in surprise and the fire extinguisher banged him on top of his skull. The inmate wasn't particularly hurt but was taken aback and came nearly to a complete stand still. Batman used the opportunity to step forward and hit the unstable escapee squarely in the face. Perks immediately snapped out of psychotic rampage as he fell to the floor, suddenly exhausted and stunned. As he lay in his confused state the thug couldn't really take in what was going on around him. He could see the Bat in front of him, moving to apprehend the man. He thought he heard a sudden sharp noise, but couldn't be sure. He didn't feel the bullets hit the fuel tank on his back, but he did feel the flames for a split second.
Then Percy Dubois was no more. His final thought was that he deserved to die for failing the Joker.
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Batman slammed clumsily into the railing on the edge of the walkway. He felt a little dazed, not from the hitting rail thanks to the padded cowl over his head, but from the blast of the exploding blowtorch fuel tank.
With his natural resilience bringing him back to his senses, Batman cleared his head and looked up. The escaped prisoner responsible for the explosion was stepping gingerly over the remains of his handiwork with an automatic weapon in his hands.
The man had been hiding in the lift the whole time, waiting for the right time to attack. Bruce Wayne was trying to work out how he could have fallen for a cheap trick like that. Batman, however, was thinking only of how best to get out of the situation. The moment he moved the guy would fire. The body armour still had a hope of blocking the bullets at that range, but it would be close. Too close in fact.
"Ha! So much for the caped crusader," the villain laughed. "I'm gonna flatten you into the ground, and after that I'm gonna screw this city over big time."
Batman knew he had to move, but was reluctant in case another chance came along since the Blackgate inmate obviously wasn't going to be satisfied with merely shooting the Dark Knight. All he needed was a brief diversion so he could get to his feet.
As if on cue, the fire alarm went off. Batman was back up before the goon had even started to twitch away in response to hammering alarm bell.
The grunt's reaction was fast, turning back and letting rip with the machine gun. As always, the Bat found dodging the stream of bullets no chore, and soon the over confident gunner was out cold.
No sooner had he let the tattooed man fall to the floor than the alarm switched off and there was the sound of someone climbing the ladder up to the walkway. Batman moved to confront them, since presumably they were the one who'd entered the room against his instructions and had activated the alarm to distract the gunman.
He hoped it was Cash, but somehow he knew who it really was.
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"Not bad, eh?" the Doctor jested as he came up the ladder, not surprised to see that the trick with the fire alarm wasn't appreciated.
"I told you to stay back in the hall while I dealt with these punks. You could have gotten yourself killed."
The Doctor didn't even bother to respond, uninterested in the Batman's pride. In his experience pride had little value. It was something you worked your heart out to get and to keep, and it could be taken away in an instant. That's why he liked to keep a low profile and only made light of any accomplishment of his light heartedly- in his mind a star that didn't rise couldn't fall.
The door to the hallway squealed open loudly and the Dark Knight leant over the rail as the survivors of the riot started to come in.
"It's still not safe out there. Go to patient observation and barricade yourselves in."
Even the Doctor could see the tactical sense in that- the small crowd would be easy pickings for the hordes that were roaming around the island. Patient observation was the most out of the way part of the building with plenty of loose furniture to stack into a makeshift wall, plus if they could get the security working properly they could lockdown the area and seal themselves off completely. That the Batman had clearly already calculated this long before was impressive, but the Doctor decided not to let on to him.
In spite of the instructions from the fearsome super hero, one of the doctors also climbed up the ladder to the upper floor. The Doctor noted with slight interest that it was the same grim faced psychologist who'd appeared on the televisions in the hallways, Doctor Young.
"Where are you going?" challenged Batman.
"I left my research notes in the mansion," the woman explained curtly. "I've got to get them back; if Joker gets hold of them, who knows what damage he could do."
"It's not safe out there, doctor. You have to stay here."
"I can't just leave it! It's my life's work!" Doctor Young exclaimed. The Time Lord remembered the doctor's recorded message talking about her titan process to strengthen physically weak patients, supposedly a big thing in the world of psychology.
Doctor Young started to continue with her complaint, when the security guard Aaron Cash came up the ladder and said "I'll get her there Batman. Besides, I'm thinking it's time for some payback," he slapped his powerful metal hook into his real hand enthusiastically.
"I don't like it," The Batman growled, his natural frown becoming just a little harder.
"That research sounds like some pretty important stuff. You should let them go," the Doctor got involved, ignoring any irritation from the parties involved. "We need to hurry up and get downstairs- there's still hostages to save."
"Alright Cash. Get Doctor Young to the mansion, find her notes and then find somewhere to hold up," Batman said to the guard, before turning back to the Doctor. "As for you Smith, you are not going with me. If you want to help, restrain all the knocked out inmates you can find and then keep an eye on the doctors in observation."
Batman swept away before the Doctor had a chance to talk back. He entered the lift and turned round, holding his palm out in front of him to halt the Doctor as he tried to follow right after the vigilante.
"Stay-here," The Batman stated clearly.
"Come on, I can help you," The Doctor insisted. "I've done pretty well so far. It'd be far safer if we were working together."
"I work alone," said the Bat, before pushing the button for the bottom floor. The lift doors slid shut.
The Doctor huffed at the irony.
'Never again I said. So that's why they say be careful what you wish for.'
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"Too easy! Just think about it; I've got you trapped in a little metal box hanging precariously over a deadly drop. What's say I just blow the emergency brakes and drop you like a sack of puppies?"
Batman didn't react; just continued to stare darkly at the ugly face on the monitor as the lips moved in unison with the words from the speakers.
"Say goodnight Bats. BOOM!" The Joker screeched, before laughing manically as nothing happened. Batman displayed no reaction. He knew the Joker was bluffing- he wouldn't have ended it just like that.
"HA HA HA HA HA! Only kidding."
Then the elevator began moving down towards the lowest level of the medical facility.
"Got a few more surprises in store for you," the Joker sneered. He grinned a sinister grin as he gazed at the Bat with hungry eyes, before hissing in delight "Batman, prepare to face your fears. All of them- HA HA HA HA HA!"
The Dark Knight's solid demeanour was shattered as he suddenly coughed and spluttered as a truly foul smell hit him, coming from the ground floor he was about to enter. There was the sting of chemicals, ammonia making him flinch, and the coppery smell of abundant amounts of blood. The air was chill, making the scents sharper and more defined, and the temperature penetrated the vigilante's exterior till Bruce Wayne shivered beneath. He could tell this was no ordinary chance in atmosphere. Like a master craftsman of a particular trade, Batman sensed just by minor details he wasn't consciously aware of that something was seriously wrong. As the elevator touched down he span round, ready to confront whatever the hell was going on down there.
To his frustration, he saw the moment the door opened that there was another unbreakable observation window directly in his line of sight, wires threading through it in a patchwork pattern and holding the window firm against any attack. As if it were a giant television screen, Batman had no choice but to observe the horrors within.
It was an autopsy theatre. There was an old corpse laid out on the table, chest open wide, organs and muscle hanging flaccid and limp. There were other bodies too, some clearly fresh as the cavities in them steamed into the icy air. The dead were torn asunder, ripped limb from limb by some unidentifiable chaos and violated till they were nothing but bloody shadows of their former selves, grim sculptures of perverse art gone mad in an attempt to make something truly outrageous.
In the room were a few Blackgate criminals, a pair of Arkham guards and a doctor. Where there should have been conflict between them, however, instead they were united in panic.
"Please Doctor Crane!" a guard squealed pathetically as he held out his hands in front of him. The others mimicked him, moaning and crying out in fear. Then another voice answered the first in a tone of amused confusion and said "There is no Crane…"
The small whines of fear transformed into howls of terror, and suddenly the room's occupants were in frenzy, thrashing about and screaming, struggling with thin air.
Then the disembodied voice spoke the words that made Batman's stomach turn.
"… Only Scarecrow!"
Scarecrow!
Bruce Wayne's crime fighting character was jolted from his cruel reverie as a previously unseen individual jumped up and slammed himself into the glass. The man was not a Blackgate prisoner; he was a patient at Arkham with pieces of his straight jacket torn and flapping loose. Yet even the lunatic was overcome by seemingly irrational fear, beating on the window a screaming.
"GET ME OUT HERE!" he bellowed, not taking in the sight of the Bat in front of him and just yelling for the heck of it. "PLEASE! OH GOD!"
Similar cries soon joined his, first from the doctor who was on his knees and tearing the sleeves off his lab coat.
"I'M NOT ONE OF THEM! I'M SANE!"
Then the others added there screams and tears to the din, creating a circus of sickening pandemonium.
"THEY'RE ALL OVER ME! GET THEM OFF!"
"ARGH- THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"
"I CAN'T DO THIS!"
"HE'S BACK! MOM, HELP ME!"
They began dropping like flies, drowning in dribble, throats closing up in panic, stomachs contracting, hearts ready to burst from their chests, literally dying of fear.
A cantankerous laugh echoed around the room as the victims of the bodiless voice fell dead, adding to the pile of corpses already there.
Batman broke free of his daze and darted to the entrance to the room. There was no door. Instead there were bars slammed firmly over the way in. Batman seized two of them and fought fiercely, but the barrier wouldn't budge. Not that there was any point- the people in the room were either dead or beyond saving, and the one responsible-
Something flashed by, running out of the operating room and into the hallways to the left.
Batman caught only a glimpse of the figure- brown clothes made of sackcloth, and around the neck; was that a noose?
The identity was clear.
"Oh, it looks like the good doctor has started early." the Joker's voice once again issued into the immediate environment. The Dark Knight did his best to ignore him while searching for a way round the obstruction that defied even his strength.
"Your appointment isn't for hours. I'm sure you'll be buzzed through when he's ready."
Batman sprayed some explosive gel on a weak point of the wall, where a flaw in the masonry led into a boiler room according to his x-ray scanner.
"So tell me Batman; what are you really scared of?"
Not even the explosion seemed to smother the chuckling madman's voice. Chunks of brickwork showered the corridor, and the Bat moved swiftly on, trying not to think.
"Failing to save this cesspool of a city."
Trying and failing to block the voice out, the Batman moved through the tight back rooms long since disused and forgotten.
"Not finding the Commissioner in time?"
Batman made his way down into where the boiler was installed, nerves stretching as the Joker's voice grew in excitement and apprehension.
"ME, in a thong! BWAAA HA HA HA"
Batman paused for a moment, unable to keep his thoughts in check with the Joker's harassment testing his resolve. The voices in his head started their debate in earnest.
Scarecrow. On the face of it, Doctor Crane wasn't exactly a terrifying adversary. He was a thin, gangly man, fairly short and with a face that was stretched so that he looked older than he actually was. Some had described him as weedy, others as nerdy. His most threatening aspect was his creepy voice and preference for a confrontational and manipulative approach to psychology.
But there was another side to Jonathan Crane. A side known as Scarecrow. A side that was obsessed with fear and its consequences. A side that had used his understanding of the sciences to create the dreaded fear toxin that he wielded in his career as a super criminal.
Batman thought back to those who'd just died. He'd seen it before; unfortunate souls poisoned by the Scarecrow's formula. The meaningless fear generated by the stuff reached such high levels that hallucinations appeared to the victims, embodying the things that could invoke so much terror. They'd died living nightmares, their final moment's ones of unimaginable horror.
Batman felt his breath become shallow. He dipped his head and breathed deeply. It was unlike him to react so obviously to a potential confrontation. Usually, remaining unmoved by his emotions and staying as the emotionless, expressionless Batman was easy. Just a little self-control and will power and the image was unbreakable. Of course, he felt scared sometimes, but that fear came from Bruce Wayne; Batman had no fear. So why was he finding it harder to keep the two states of mind separate? Maybe because he'd never faced a disaster like the takeover of Arkham before. Maybe because the Joker was right; because he wouldn't get out of there alive and wouldn't save the city.
Maybe because with Scarecrow on the loose, he really wouldn't be in time to save Commissioner Gordon.
"Help…" croaked a voice that seemed to answer Batman's questions with his recognition of the person calling. At least, he almost recognised it, but he'd never heard the voice so weak and empty. Even at the worst of times that voice always had an underlying strength to it that said it belonged to a man who would keep on fighting even when the whole world was against him. Now the voice was broken and weak, gasping out in a death rattle.
Batman sped forward, coming round a corner to be confronted with an awful sight.
"Please Batman…" the chief of Gotham City police gasped from where he lay behind a grille against the ceiling leading back into the corridors. Gordon's eyes begged for help as his fingers curled into the crisscrossing wires in a futile attempt to save himself before someone dragged him out of sight.
The Dark Knight flew at the opening, urgently trying to help the Commissioner. He was far too late, and only managed to catch another glimpse of the older man's pleading face as he was pulled away by his legs down a side corridor.
Forgetting the calm and clear headed Batman, Bruce Wayne began twisting and pulling at the grille in his path. It took nearly a minute before it occurred to him that even out of his bodysuit, he'd never be able to squeeze through the gap. Cursing his carelessness, Bruce quickly located a ventilation grate and tore it aside with animal savagery. He scuttled through the tunnel, mind awash with primal determination. He travelled upwards until he was on level ground again and burst into the hall, following the thin blood trail from the grille to his right like a hound, travelling fast with hawk like eyes narrowed with concentration and then-
"No."
- and then he found Gordon dead.
It was so abrupt. He was just lying with his back propped up against the wall, slit throat leaking down his chest.
"Gordon's dead."
In a strange way it seemed more insulting than anything else, that someone would have the audacity to kill Jim Gordon. Gordon was a figurehead of the city, a man people trusted and believed in. He represented the law and order in the same way the Statue of Liberty signified freedom. To so much as challenge the Commissioner was a bold and daring act, dramatic and defiant and not something done lightly.
And yet, someone had killed him with a single casual stroke and dumped his body aside as though the act held no more symbolism than crushing an ant.
Batman approached Gordon and knelt beside him, placing his fingers upon the neck as though searching for a pulse might magically reverse logic and see the man alive again.
Bruce felt unchecked emotion swelling in his stomach and overflowing into his chest, then clawing up into his throat till he thought he would retch. There was pain; pain that was familiar but not felt for a long time. Memories from the distant past resurfaced in a surreal day dream that blocked out reality.
Gordon had been more than an ally. Even more than a friend- Gordon had been the same age as Bruce's father. Back when his parents had been murdered, Gordon was the first one to come and comfort the young Bruce Wayne, sitting with him in the police station and laying his coat over his shoulders, ignoring the urgent requirements of the investigation and postponing the questions in place of offering words of comfort to the newly orphaned boy. Jim didn't have children back then. It wasn't the parental instinct brought about by having children of his own that drove him to try and care for the child, only the earnest desire to do good and be there for those who needed him. Gordon had soon been forced to move aside as more senior officers took over the case of two of Gotham City's finest citizens being murdered, but none of them had ever been as sympathetic or had tried as hard to offer kindness than the one who sat with Bruce less than an hour after the attack saying "Don't worry, you're safe now. And no need to call me 'officer'. You can call me Jim."
When the Batman was safely locked away in the cave and Bruce Wayne was living what little of an ordinary life he had, he often allowed himself the luxury of imagining a day when his inner demons would be put to rest and Gotham City would be safe enough that he could lay down the mantle of the Dark Knight, and one of the first things he imagined himself doing was going to Jim Gordon and giving him a well-deserved explanation. He imagined telling the police officer how grateful he was for the effort he'd made after he lost his parents, how the man's kindness had been one of the factors that steered Bruce away from seeking narrow minded revenge and toward upholding a rigid code of justice, and how it had been such a privilege to work alongside what was undoubtedly the best of the good cops in Gotham.
But none of that would ever come to pass. Gordon was dead. The Batman had failed, and Bruce Wayne lost another one of the important people in his life. For the first time in years, Bruce thought he might cry. The temptation to give up the effort and just allow his feelings to take control was strong, and he had to consciously stifle the tears that threatened to fall.
"Barbara," he whispered into his radio. What was he going to say? How could he tell his friend her father was dead, and it was all his fault? Even if she didn't blame him, how would he ever face her again? How would he ever face anyone again, knowing that everyone in the city was now a little worse off without Jim Gordon watching their backs?
"Barbara; I'm sorry. I was too late."
There was no answer from the radio. No surprise. What could you say to something like that?
Bruce carefully closed Gordon's eyes to try and give him some dignity in place of the pain and fear plastered forever on his face. He pulled back the moment he was done, feeling unworthy of having anything to do with the man he'd let down.
A maniac laugh echoed through the halls suddenly. The costumed hero slowly turned his head to the unexplored passage where the laugh came from. A sign on the wall indicated 'Morgue'.
Now he felt hatred well up inside him. The one responsible was right there; he could see the shadow projected onto the wall harshly. The murderer was just standing in plain sight, laughing and jeering at what he'd done; laughing at Bruce Wayne as he mourned on his knees. The killer was standing right there, and he needed to pay.
Bruce ran to towards the looming shape on the wall and came round the corner ready to brutalise the owner of the shadow. But there was no one there.
He looked at the wall again. The shadow was gone. Another dark laugh came from down the corridor, this time coming from a corner leading to the right. Another shadow appeared on the wall at the opposite end of the hall.
So, the killer was playing tricks with the light. Bruce resolved to put an end to the tricks, permanently.
He travelled across the tiled floor, idly noting a large number of insects crawling over the square patterns. Another sick joke; releasing hundreds, possibly thousands of filthy bugs in the vicinity of the morgue to feast on the dead bodies. He remembered the deceased persons left in the autopsy room and torn to shreds, as well as multiple blood smears covering the corridors around Gordon's body. Something else this animal would have to pay for.
As Batman came to the turning at the end of the hall he thought he heard whispering. He ignored the sinister hissing and checked the surroundings. Whatever had caused the shadow was gone again. There were two doors in front of him, but the one on the left wall was metal and covered in a film of condensed water vapour, and the liquid had clearly not been disturbed by hands levering the sealed portal open. That meant his quarry was without a doubt cowering in the morgue dead ahead.
"Time to die you bastard!" thought Bruce.
He came through the door like an eruption, hoping to use the element of surprise to the fullest, but to no avail; there was no one there.
The room was cold, as befit its purpose. There was no misting breath giving away an exhaling person in hiding. The walls were lined with vaults for holding the dead. All were either locked or wide open, proving that there was no chance of someone hiding inside one. Dead bodies had been pulled from the compartments that had been opened, littering the floor and adding a ripe stench to the place. Bruce Wayne had trained himself too well to be tricked by someone masquerading as a corpse. Even the hissing voice had stopped. There was no sign of anyone.
In the middle of the room were three work benches, each equipped with a sink and bottles of fluids. Someone could hide behind those. It was the only likely explanation.
Wayne approached the raised dais in the middle of the room. The evil muttering began again, discernable and more frantic this time.
"You shouldn't be here," it moaned. "Get out of here," the noise echoed around the room.
The vigilante's attention was diverted by the sound of slamming metal doors. The chambers in the walls were becoming restless, the doors slamming shut and opening and beds jerking backwards and forwards on their rails. More tricks to throw his attention off; Bruce scoffed at the attempts, not letting them douse his rage.
As he climbed onto the elevated central section he realised there was no room for anyone to be hiding behind the furniture. He cursed his unknown prey for eluding him. His was now so livid he thought he might be sick. Gordon's murderer had slipped past him and escaped without punishment, leaving behind shadows and voices and objects moving of their own accord as a further jest that belied the magnitude of the situation.
The offended Bruce Wayne swept away from the benches and to the door.
"I'll find him soon enough. Find him and make him pay."
The armoured man breathed deeply to try and calm himself. It did no good. All he wanted to do was find and punish the killer. All he wanted was revenge. The thought of it roared in his mind like a rising tidal wave. Anger burned hot in his veins as he flexed the fingers with the urge to wrap them round someone's neck. He'd find them; make them pay; make them suffer…
Suddenly the fierce ideas were snuffed out.
An odd feeling made Bruce Wayne stop and turn around.
There was a body bag resting on one of the benches. It hadn't been there before- or maybe it had been. Could he have missed it?
He approached the bag warily, eyes fixed to the black plastic.
"Is that thing moving?" he thought.
He came closer while the bag clearly twitched and rustled ever so slightly. The sensible thing would be to stay back, but Bruce felt as though some unnatural force composed of sickening fascination and apprehension was forcing him to draw close.
The bag positively writhed. Still, Bruce got closer until he was standing over it feeling bewildered. With no other obvious course of action to take, the young man followed the power of hypnotic suggestion and opened the bag, for no other reason than because it was there.
It was like taking the lid off the underworld.
Bruce screamed.
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The Doctor hadn't even started on the task assigned to him before he became bored of it. He got the survivors of the medical centre to tie up the escaped villains, playing on their anger and desire to get their own back to convince them to do the job. While they incarcerated every one of the Joker's goons they could find, the Doctor called the lift to the underground floor back up, and finally it arrived. He couldn't be too far behind the Bat, and he needed his sonic screwdriver before he could go any further with his rescue attempt.
He entered the metal container and pushed the button for down rapidly. The doors breezed along their runners and shut. Pulleys and breaks and weights began their work and the lift descended.
"Oh, woe! The make believe hero is joining the party."
The Doctor looked up at the roof when the voice began mocking him. It was just how he'd imagine the clown's voice to be- insulting and critical, yet constantly amused. More like a bully taking the mick than a deranged criminal mastermind. The Doctor had a special dislike for bullies. He'd had enough experience of them as a child.
"Don't worry doc, my boys will get you outta the way soon enough. Just don't spoil my fun."
"It's Doctor, not doc," said the Time Lord, but Joker had already shut off the speaker; a clear dismissal that said the Doctor wasn't worthy of attention and beneath contempt. No doubt the chance to prove him wrong would soon come up.
The lift hit the bottom floor and the Doctor moved out of it briskly. The walls down there were grimy with mould congealing in the corners. The place was dimly lit with a yellowish hue.
"Is it always like this down here, or has the Joker arranged this?"
The Doctor went over to the observation window to see what was there to be observed. It was an ugly sight, with a half dissected corpse lying on a slab, with blood and little bits of internal organ scattered all over the place by some frenzy. Perhaps one of the mentally ill patients of Arkham. A number of empty body bags had been cast around the room. From the cleanliness of them it looked as though they hadn't been used. There were a few other bodies strewn about the place. It appeared that they'd been recently killed. What struck the Doctor was the look on the people's faces. Their eyes were bulging with terror, convulsions of horror frozen on their faces. Foam covered the mouths of most of them. For a moment the Doctor wondered if they'd died of rabies.
He quickly took in his surroundings. To the right was a dead end and a room that lead to nowhere. To the left was a large hole blown in the wall and a gateway that led into the makeshift abattoir. The Doctor went for the gateway, despite the fact the bars were down. The panel to open the gate was on the other side of the vertical metal beams, and without the sonic screwdriver he couldn't override the system from where he was, but they weren't his only options.
The Doctor looked carefully at the bars, making calculations in his head about trajectory and distance and various other things. He stepped back a few paces, sparing a look at the hole in the wall, but deciding it was more important to investigate the room for post mortems first. The Doctor bent his knees, pulled back his shoulders, and charged.
An almighty clang echoed throughout the lower level.
"Ow! Damn, that hurt!"
The Doctor now had his head wedged between the bars. The bars were pretty wide, and the Time Lord was remarkably thin. He'd determined that with some effort and by flexing his body and specific angles at specific times he could wriggle his way through the gate.
It turned out to by a longer and more arduous affair than he'd bargained for. Though his body was thin, the obstructing metal was non-obliging and apparently doing its utmost to obstruct the alien forcing his way through the bars as if protesting against the denial of its task of keeping people out. The Doctor crammed his body, which he once considered to be as thin as a rake but now wasn't so sure, through the gap. His chest was forcibly tightened as he made his way through, threatening to cut off his air supply, something he could really do with right now. He moved his body forward with a series of complex muscle flexes that worked him painfully past the portcullis. Eventually his chest slid free from the gap, and his pelvis popped through without much difficulty.
"Note to self- get back on the Slim Fast diet."
With his mind distracted by thoughts of strawberry flavoured health milkshakes, the Doctor cancelled out the slight pain caused by his impromptu entrance and went to check the dead. The body he came to was that of a guard. The frightened eyes seemed to plead for assistance from the man examining him, even after death had passed.
From what little he could gather the Doctor came to the conclusion that no physical damage had caused the death. Without the sonic screwdriver or a psyker autopsy he couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though the guard's brain had literally shut down- simply cut off all messages to the flesh in order to divert its energies to matters it perceived as more pressing. What on earth could have addled this man's mind so much as to fool it into believing that it had to abandon the body to its fate, a fate that would have been quickly shared by the brain as it became starved of blood and oxygen? The victims had probably suffered a long and terrible death, their conscious minds trapped in their heads with whatever it was that had influenced their brains- whatever it was that had terrified them so, feeling their life trickle away as their thoughts grew dark until the brain finally expired.
The Doctor sniffed the air. Something foul was lingering in the atmosphere. Some sort of residual chemical hanging in the autopsy theatre, perhaps even a biological weapon. Maybe that had something to do with the awful deaths. But whatever the chemical was it had dissipated enough that even an ordinary man wouldn't be affected by it. Naturally the Doctor's immune system was completely invulnerable to a substance of such limited potency.
The Doctor considered the victims around him. They'd suffered cruel deaths, and the Doctor didn't exactly feel in the mood for objecting to retribution right now.
"I'm sorry." he looked around so that all of them were encompassed into his useless apology.
"I won't be so slow next time. This won't happen again."
He got up and left without ceremony. There was no time to do anything for the dead. He'd already been too late to try and help the people who were now sprawled out over the floor of the operating room. If he wasn't careful, someone else could suffer the same fate.
The door was locked, but the lock was old and easily picked with a pair of tweezers and a scalpel. Security was lacking down there since any patient there should be dead. The Doctor strode through the door into another corridor.
Thankfully the hallway he was in didn't smell as bad as the room behind him, but it was as grubby, poorly maintained and dimly lit as the rest of the lower floor. The walls were coloured like old parchment and were nearly in as bad a condition. Pipes on the roof were cracked and splintered, some with insulating fluff hanging out of them. The corridor took an immediate right turn, going down some steps and then left. Following this path, the Doctor came to a T-junction. The left path went on in the direction that a signpost proclaimed as 'Morgue'. The hall also went to the right, up to a heavy set of doors. In front of the doors there were three men, clearly escaped prisoners. They were barricading the door with beams and furniture and anything they could get their hands on. The Doctor glanced towards the other passageway. If he could get down there unnoticed he could head off away from them and hopefully find the Batman, who was better qualified to deal with this sort of situation. The Doctor didn't like violence, but he appreciated the need for it, as many of his defeated enemies could attest to if they were still alive. However, the brutal hands-on fighting that was needed to get by the muscle bound grunts was way beyond the Doctor's ability. He wouldn't stand a chance against them.
The Doctor's attempts to sneak by were fruitless. The moment he took a step one of the thugs happened to turn in his direction, just by chance.
"Who the Sam-hell is that!" he blasted as he spotted the Doctor. "Hey knife boy- lose the loser, will ya?"
As soon as he'd said this, a wiry looking man in red prison overalls broke away and bounded down the hall, two combat knives whirling in his hands.
The Doctor was frozen in shock and slight panic, unable to even think of how to save himself from getting knifed. All his life he'd had a backup plan or a more intelligent method of defeating his foes. The man approaching wouldn't be overpowered by anything but brute force. And the Doctor found himself seriously ignorant in the art of combat.
The thug came within arm's reach and swung with his right, knife held point down in a classic stabbing style. The Doctor fell back and the blade missed by an inch. The thug stabbed with the left. The bowie knife, seeking to gouge a hole in the Time Lord's stomach, missed again as the Doctor danced out of reach.
"Where'd you get all this gear?" asked the Doctor incredulously, trying to recall as much of the Venusian Aikido his previous selves had learnt as he dodged another swipe. The brutish man howled in anger and rushed at the Doctor, who turned and fled back into the room filled with dead bodies.
The knife man followed, slashing and hacking at thin air, enraged at being given the run-around. Back in the room, the Doctor got caught between the blade wielder and the bars he'd just spent so long slipping through. He cursed himself for not taking the path that began with the hole in the wall, seeing now that he could have followed Batman's path and had the vigilante as a bodyguard.
The armed punk snarled and lunged forward with his knives scything the air.
Time slowed in the Doctor's mind, part from fear, part from his natural Time Lord abilities turning the passage of time in his favour, if only mentally. He ran through his various options, taking stock of his situation, considering both the current and immanent future situations, and reminding himself of his objective.
Donna.
Suddenly everything became clear. This was no time to be cowering or running- Donna needed him. The Doctor forgot about hating violence for a moment and quickly came up with a solution for the problem he faced. With clarity flowing thick in his mind, that's all the thug was. A logic problem that needed to be solved. Easy.
The pace of time returned, and the killer descended on the Doctor. The Doctor moved aside neatly and his foot shot out.
The thug tripped. He tumbled head over heels. There was a metallic BONG, and he slumped to the floor.
The Doctor grinned as he surveyed his handiwork. The thug had knocked himself cold on the gate. Now for the other two.
The Doctor prepared the scene, spilling jars of paste and liquid all over the floor before going back down the hall again.
"Well, that was fun!" the Doctor blew his fist and shook his fingers theatrically. "Well, who's next?"
The pair of remaining goons double-taked at the blue suited man. One of them, a beefy looking bloke with a gormless expression, said "Look Lockjaw, He's still standin'."
"Damn, how'd a suit get the jump on ol' blades? You take him!"
Big And Stupid nodded once, then snatched at a piece of lead piping set into the wall. With minimal effort he tore the meter long pole away from its brackets. His face snapped from simple minded into animalistic in a split second and he charged the Doctor with a bloodthirsty roar ejecting from his throat.
The Doctor swiftly darted back to the operating room, every bit the thin and reedy man escaping the wrath of an outraged orangutan disguised as a human being. The huge brute thumped after him into the room. The moment he was in, Big And Stupid slipped on the mess laid out on the floor by the Doctor, and with assistance from the Time Lord's foot he tumbled down.
The Doctor grabbed the pipe from Big And Stupid's hand and ran to the door. He got outside and shut the door, jamming the lead bar through the handles. A moment later the doors heaved and a howl like that from a beast driven wild with anger came from within. The Doctor ignored and went to face his final opponent.
"I don't believe it," the thug identified as Lockjaw stepped away from the barricade which was now guarded by three clockwork teeth. He laughed mockingly. "So you took the big guy too. Well, now you gotta take me."
He stepped forward, taking a set of brass knuckles from his pocket and sliding the metal over his fingers.
"Hope the garbage guys and here soon, cus' I'm about to waste you!"
Lockjaw sprinted forward. The Doctor stayed put. Lockjaw drew back his arm to deliver a horrific blow, but the Doctor ran clear at the last moment and headed in the direction of the morgue. Lockjaw pursued with a laugh as his prey ran for his life.
The Doctor soon came to another set of doors, and quickly he formed another plan to overpower the great lug following him. He burst through the doors, and fortunately there was no one there except a man lying dead against the wall. The Doctor slammed the doors shut again and pressed his ear to it. He listened intently as he heard the footsteps of Lockjaw drawing closer and closer. At the right moment, the Doctor silently apologised to himself for the impending violent display, and opened the door.
Lockjaw stumbled out into the corridor, clearly surprised at the door opening just as he was about to force his it open. He looked to who it was who'd let him in, only to have the Doctor kick the door closed, whereupon it slammed into the inmate and brained him.
The Doctor watched Lockjaw whither to the floor, disgusted by the violence despite his urgent desire to rush to Donna's rescue. Hopefully it wouldn't happen again. After all, the person he was after was Danielle, not Donna. It was more like an act of politeness. The sort of thing one did for a casual acquaintance. The person he was looking for was not his companion.
The Doctor pulled himself together, trying to focus on the immediate situation.
As if to prove he was not obsessing over the alter ego of a friend he'd abandoned to her painfully mundane life with no memory of who she really was, the Doctor checked the dead body slumped in the corner of his vision. The man was undeniably dead. He looked fairly old, and probably wouldn't have lasted long against the group of scumbags the Doctor had only just managed to outwit. Then again, he didn't seem to have been killed by the great oafs- his body had suffered no physical injury. The Arkham guard appeared to have been killed by whatever had got those who'd been trapped in the operating theatre.
A strangled cry issue from down another hallway. The Doctor jumped to his feet and gazed in the direction of the yell. The voice was undeniable.
"Batman!"
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Bruce tried to clear his head, but everything was fuzzy and confusing. As far as he could tell, someone had managed to overpower and stun him, before strapping him down to a hard surface in the morgue. There were voices around him, but he couldn't make any of them out. He pulled his head up, in spite of the fact it felt like it weighed several pounds. He couldn't see the crowd implied by the number of voices he could hear. There was only one figure within his range of sight- a man wearing ugly brown clothes and a hood. His face was somehow wrong. It was rough and crinkled, not at all like skin. And the eyes- eyes glowing fearsome yellow like the embers of a dying fire, and around the neck a hangman's noose.
Suddenly it clicked into place. It was Scarecrow!
"Problem little bat?" the living mannequin prodded the restrained man who struggled frantically in his binds.
"Is your mind playing tricks on you, or and I?" he taunted while he switched hands. His right hand had deadly claws like syringe needles, growing out of fingers filled with poisonous yellow pus. Veins of the same colour stretched back over his hand and up the ragged sleeve of the Scarecrow's clothing. The terrible fear toxin coursed through those veins, and Bruce couldn't stop himself from shuddering as the claws raked over his chest armour.
"Fear drives everything," Wayne positively quaked as the gash in the cloth face moved with the words as a mouth, thick ghostly white stitches playing the part of teeth, huge funnels of a gas mask jutting from the cheeks like rusty cannons on the side of a decayed sunken vessel. He tried again to get away, pulling as hard as he could at the straps on his arms.
"Your life is governed by fear."
Suddenly, the masked vigilante lurched upwards, still trapped on the surface he was tied to. He looked for a way to escape from his crisis, but all his gadgets had been removed and his binds were unbreakable. He had to get away from Crane before he used that poison on him, or else...
"Batman, is that you?" a distant voice called. Bruce had never been so pleased to hear someone else's voice. It was that man, John Smith- the Doctor!
The Doctor was his only hope.
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"Batman, is that you?" the Doctor called down the hallway.
Nothing.
The Doctor was certain it'd been the Batman's voice yelling. He'd waited a minute or two, peeking round the corner that lead down to the morgue, but there'd been no sign of anyone or anything. Did that mean he'd imagined the noise? Or did it mean anyone in the morgue was now dead? Or did it mean something so unspeakable was going on that everyone's attention was far too preoccupied to take notice of him calling back.
Despite hating violence, the Doctor had felt a certain amount of confidence and bravado swell up in his stomach after he'd held his own against the small mob lead by Lockjaw. But at the sound of the imposing Batman screaming in pain and/or fear, he felt the confidence trickle away as though he'd wet himself.
"Something that could well happen depending on what I find down there," the Doctor thought to himself as he prepared to move. He knew he had to investigate; to try and help. That was his purpose. But if there was something going on that Batman couldn't handle, did the unarmed Time Lord stand a chance?
The Doctor rushed down the corridor as quickly and quietly as possible, with the intent of surprising anyone just outside the morgue.
Again, no one was there when he rounded the corner. Just a pair of double doors leading into the room of the dead, left marginally open. There was a second door to the left, made of metal and lined with condensation as though something inside was generating icy coldness. He ignored it for now.
The Doctor approached the doors to the morgue, keeping an eye out for any sort of trap. Again, there was none. He once again decided that surprise would be the best option.
The Doctor braced himself in a start off position and then charged the doors, hoping the outcome was a bit more positive than when he charged the metal gate.
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There was the sound of running feet. He tried to shout a warning, but his throat was somehow constricted. As the footsteps grew louder a shadow appeared through the doors of the morgue that had been left ajar, and someone stood behind the door with a baton. Bruce strove to scream at the P.I before he came bursting in, but the pressure in his neck increased, choking him, making him buck and writhe in an effort to suck in air. Black spots danced in his eyes as the lung strain went on, chest burning with pain. Despite this he saw the awful conclusion to Smith's attempted rescue as he pushed open the doors and was immediately clubbed to the ground by four goons who seemed to spring from nowhere.
At last the grip on Bruce's neck slackened, and he gasped and breathed deep to take in the precious oxygen he'd been starved of. The one responsible for the chokehold moved in front of him, revealed as Victor Zsasz.
"Maybe you'll still be alive after this Batman," the bald, half naked loony murmured unsympathetically, fingering one of the tally marks cut into his face "then I'll be able to add your mark to my collection. I never did show you where I was going to put yours, did I?"
"Save it, Slicey," came a childish voice from the doorway. Harley swaggered in with an entourage of her creeps, Blackgate inmates and maniacs in straitjackets working together in harmony.
Harley Quinn looked at the broken form of John Smith, then laughed and turned to the captured crime fighter. "Bring old ugly over here!" she shouted.
Bruce Wayne began to struggle violently as Zsasz began pulling him towards the deranged group. He turned out to be stuck on the same sort of trolley mounted stretcher that the Joker had been placed on when he arrived at the asylum.
He was bought close, and Smith was pulled to his knees so his stunned and blooded face was on display.
"Man, I would've thought you'd have locked this dummy up somewhere so that he didn't get himself hurt. Bad decision of yours, Bats," Harley taunted.
"Every decision you make is a product of fear," Crane rasped. "You let the Doctor run lose, because you feared to be alone down here. You wouldn't take him with you where he'd be safe, because you hoped he would draw your enemies away from you. Your fear has condemned this man."
"Well, what do you expect from the Bat?" the Joker's voice rang out from somewhere. "More blood on his hands- so what's new? Least he could do is drink the stuff like any normal bat."
"Don't worry; no blood this time." Crane's voice echoed as he approached John, who looked at the villain in bewildered curiosity. "Just a little medicine to break him in."
Scarecrow's hand flew out in a snake strike, nipping Smith's neck with two poison laced fangs. At once the private eye tensed up, expression turned to horror. Then he screamed, much in the same way that Bruce had. He fell from the henchmen's grasp to the floor, clutching his head and whining like a wounded animal, beset by God knows what.
Bruce gritted his teeth as the sound of suffering dug into him like physical pain, voices in his head blaming him for the P.I's situation.
"What's wrong, batty? If you think Mister Smith is lonely we could send you down the same path to join him if you like," the Joker said as he suddenly appeared in the doorway, flanked by two bodyguards. Bruce struggled again, trying to slip his hands free, while his enemies clustered around him.
"See that! He's trying to get away!" said Joker. "What's he doing! The madhouse is the best place for him, and he wants to escape? Is he crazy or something!"
The Joker paused and looked at the gathered people for an answer, before seeming to realise what he said. "Oh right… heh heh heh!"
"Don't be too hard on him Mister J. He can't help himself," Harley whined as she leaned on her boyfriend's arm, caressing a lapel with her finger lovingly.
"Yes, we ought to feel sorry for him." Scarecrow glided by, a glowing eyed spectre in the dim light. "He never got over the deaths of his parents."
Bruce winced, feeling his eyes prickle at the mention of his parents, long since dead. He couldn't find it in himself to care that Scarecrow claimed to know the truth about his past, and therefore, his identity. It could be that he looked under the mask and deduced it, or maybe he'd already administered a small dose of his fear toxin and was causing the vigilante to hear things. It didn't matter. At that point all he could think of was the cold, lonely alley where his parents were murdered.
"I should have helped. I stood back and watched it happen. Why didn't I do something?" the young Bruce Wayne's voice cried from the recesses of his mind.
"You should have stood up to him son, like a man." now his father's voice, the dregs of his memory providing the voice.
"Help us Bruce. Don't let us die." implored his mother. But wait, that voice wasn't in his head. Bruce opened his eyes and lifted his face from where it pointed down at his chest.
They were there. Against all reasoning his parents were standing at the Joker's shoulders, the figures he'd mistaken for bodyguards. They weren't alive, oh no. They were most certainly dead, just like the last time Bruce Wayne had seen them in their open caskets. They were gaunt and dreadful looking. Grey skin was wasted and rubbery, eyes rolled back into their faces leaving only blank white eyeballs, distorted by swollen veins. The tuxedo and sleek black dress his father and mother wore respectively were caked in mud and grime, as if they'd been dug up from somewhere.
They were zombies, simply as that.
"See what I mean?" Zsasz queried as he approached the undead. "See the zombies, living their pointless lives, and for what?"
"I think we now know what you fear, little bat," Doctor Crane lurched to the side, giving the Clown Prince of Crime a clear view of the prisoner. "He's all yours, Joker."
"Oh goody!" Harley practically squealed while Joker reached into his jacket.
"This can't be happening." Bruce thought. "This isn't real, is it? This is Crane's doing!"
"Well then. Let's start the proceedings, with a bang!" Joker pulled a gun from his holster and aimed it at the Bat. It wasn't his usual oversized pistol, but the same gun that had been used to kill Tom and Martha Wayne.
"This isn't real! This is an illusion!"
"And at the end of fear, oblivion!" Scarecrow taunted.
Joker fired, and the world turned to darkness.
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The Doctor kicked open the doors to the morgue.
The sight that confronted him was unexpected to say the least.
On a raised dais in the middle of the room, Batman was curled up in a foetal position, clawing at his masked head and moaning. Above him stood a figure clad in brown burlap that was badly stitched and cobbled together from what appeared to be the filthiest, ugliest, dirtiest rags that could be found (it looked as though there may have been a few used bandages in the unpleasant selection). The assembly was wholly unnatural and repulsive. It made the unknown man looked almost like a scare-
"What was that!" the dirty figure responded to the sound of the doors opening. He turned round, presenting the Doctor with another ghastly sight.
The man's face was concealed by a combined hood and mask. Jagged holes for the eyes and mouth had been cut into the hessian and were reminiscent of a carved pumpkin face. The eyes under the hood were cruel and wild, and though the mouth was covered by a gas mask the face above it was tensed in the expression of a crazed mind. The snarling visage was partially concealed by clumsy stitches that kept the edges of the mouth shaped opening close together. The oddity's right hand was sheathed in a glove which held hypodermic syringes on the tips of the fingers and thumb in some sort of dark parody of claws
"Who are you?" the Doctor challenge, too repulsed by the abominable figure to feign politeness.
"Not who; what!" corrected the loathsome creature as he crept away from Batman, his thin and gangly build only adding to his creepy style.
The Dark Knight groaned on the floor and rolled so that he was facing the Doctor. His expression blazed through the mask, and he was clearly fighting against his pain.
"Doctor… Crane." he hissed. "Scare-"
The twisted being turned back to the Batman and swung his left arm up. He jerked his wrist and an aerosol spray of mist engulfed the fallen crime fighter, who cried out and went back to struggling in pain.
"Hey!" the Time Lord moved forward to intervene, his trademark righteous anger firing up. "That's enough of that, Doctor Cr-"
"There is no doctor!" the man screeched in indignation. He turned away again from the fallen Batman. "There is no Crane!" he brandished his needle claws. "ONLY SCARECROW!"
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The fantasy took on a new theme. Now Scarecrow was personified as a colossus of staggering size, levitating over a domain of endless sky that was incessantly ravaged by fire and lightening. The Scarecrow lifted Batman, who fitted nicely into his needle equipped palm, high above his head, parading him like a trophy, holding the bat where he couldn't escape.
Bruce Wayne cowered in Scarecrow's grip, wanting more than anything to escape, but terrified to confront the horrors of the demon's nightmare world alone. Above and below, a hurricane with a voice made up of a city's population dying in agony screamed tragically, holding both the tormentor and the tormented in the eye of the storm. The sky burned and dark shapes flitted by.
Bats.
Hundreds of thousands of leathery flaps of skin raced through the air, shrieking in panic. Entire flocks attempted to fly through the cocoon of thunder clouds only to be repelled back, their wings aflame. Some of the rodents landed on Bruce and Scarecrow's hand, driven mad by their need to escape to safety. In fright, the little horrors attacked anything within reach, instinctive fight or flight responses driving them to somehow spare themselves from the all consuming chaos of the storm. Bruce howled in disgust and fear, swiping at the vampire bats as they bit his skin and directed their high pitched banshee shrieks of pain into his ears.
A new sound joined the cacophony of madness. A thud- a booming roll of thunder like the crack of doom itself. Bruce clung on as the force of the thunder hit him and stretched the skin of his face back with its unrelenting strength.
"What was that!" the titan that Scarecrow had become swivelled in the air, still holding Bruce Wayne aloft and allowing him to be buffered by the fell storm.
In the distance another figure had appeared; a new and terrible form of life- a vile hulk of humanity's worst traits rolled into a giant bastardised freak. Enormous particles of contaminated, malformed and corrupted flesh, shimmering with a covering of organic fluids, moulded and flowed together in like quicksilver. The very presence of the entity quarrelled with decency as it loomed closer, and Bruce quaked with fear at the sight of its face. John Smith's face, hideously perverted by virulent disease and defined by the demonic fury in his eyes. The thing barked out something in a harsh guttural voice from a throat that sounded as though it had been ravaged by a storm of blades.
"Not who; what!" Scarecrow bellowed at the monster.
"It's not a monster!" a voice that Bruce recognised called in his head. The voice of the Batman, somehow given the power of thought independent of the human being that the character resided in. Bruce had often heard suggestions that Batman was more like an alternative personality of himself than a false identity he'd adopted, but this was beyond anything he'd ever imagine. The Batman as an individual, sharing one mind and body with Bruce Wayne.
"This whole world is not real! It's Crane's poison!" Batman refused to be cowed by the darkness about him. The Dark Knight seemed to lend his strength to Bruce, who breathed the courage in to sustain himself as he listened to Batman's calming voice; a lifeline of reason in the ocean of insanity.
"That monster is the Doctor," Batman reasoned dauntlessly. "He's our only hope. Call to him!"
At Batman's bidding (or was it his own? Was there a difference?) Bruce opened his mouth to speak. Even as he crammed the words out of his throat and to his lips, the demon began to look less terrible and more like the Private Eye he knew.
"Doctor… Crane," he managed with considerable effort. The flaming sky was doused, and the squeaking bats became infrequent and passive. "Scare-"
The ogre who held Bruce in his grip looked back at his captive.
The sky ignited again. The bats flew thick and furiously. Batman's voice drowned as the tides of the ocean of insanity swept Bruce away and left him reeling.
"ONLY SCARECROW!" the roar of the sea decimated Bruce Wayne's soul and purged innocence, courage and all positive concepts from everything it touched.
Then the clawed hand let go, and he fell. Down and down he went, the gales swallowing up his screams. He tried to grab onto the giant arm to save himself from the drop, but to no avail. The Scarecrow ignored his plight, turning a blind eye to the flailing body that fell towards its upturned face. The doomed man was an insignificance; a spot of bacteria beneath interest, the suffering inflicting upon him a boring distraction.
Bruce Wayne fell, uncared for and abandoned, down towards the Scarecrow's glowing eyes that swirled together to become a single, shining vortex leading into hell.
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Sorry if the Scarecrow's illusions/end of chapter was a little OTT. I was reading a Black Library book just before I wrote that bit
Next chapter posted within a month of the last. Is that a record? Anywho, please review