Coauthors: Kagmichiru and DracoCron
Minerva's Cat: Thanks for your faithful reviewing! No Gordon quite yet, but he's going to become very prominent in the next few chapters! We're just setting the scene for him. ;)
Bruce Wayne blinked and stared dismally into his morning coffee, willing his eyes to stay open and his joints to stop aching. Three hours of sleep just was not enough to cut it after staying out until 4am diffusing bombs and hunting drug lords.
The previous night's encounter haunted him. It had been like a nightmare, to see the Joker back on the street, makeup and all, as though nothing had ever happened to interrupt him. And it was far from reassuring that the rest of Gotham didn't even know he was alive. How and when, Bruce wondered, would the Joker reveal himself? A man like that would not stay under the radar forever, and the last thing Gotham needed now was for the Joker to start murdering civilians in spades, while there was a mayoral election going on and Batman was still on the run for murder…
Bruce groaned to himself and let his head fall into his hands. There were days when it really did seem like the entire city was going to hell.
Behind him, Alfred was bustling about his normal morning duties, cleaning, maintaining and restocking, routine tasks without which Batman/Bruce Wayne's dual existence would have been impossible. "You really must cut back on the drinking, Master Bruce," he commented wryly at the sound of the groan.
But for once, Bruce was in no mood for ironic conversation. "The Joker's back, Alfred."
There was absolute silence at this. Even the sounds of cleaning and organization ceased, as Alfred straightened and stared. "He…survived, then?"
Leaving his coffee untouched, Bruce stood up and began to pace. "Not a scratch on him, at least not that I could see. He called me last night—called me, used the bat symbol on top of a mob tower and just stood there, waiting for me to show up."
Sensing a matter of serious discussion ahead, Alfred lowered himself into one of the armchairs around the coffee table. "Called you, sir? Was it a setup?"
"That's the thing Alfred, it wasn't. It was just him and that psychiatrist—Harleen Quinnzel is the one he escaped with, I think? They didn't try to injure me. They…he made me an offer."
Alfred could do nothing more than raise his eyebrows in consternation. "The Joker made you an offer?"
"He wants me to catch the assassin that's been killing mob leaders. He gave me the address and time of the next hit—tonight, actually. The mob's in on it. Seems like everyone's in on it. They're all just waiting for me to swoop in and remove the killer so they can get on with their…business." Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"Are you certain it's genuine, sir? Knowing the Joker, it may just as easily be a trap."
Bruce shook his head. "I don't think so, Alfred. If he wanted me dead, why didn't he just net me last night? Besides, I…he's right. I've got to take this assassin out, and he knows it, and the mob knows it, and they all know that this time I'm their best hope for survival."
"And you're frustrated because you've got no choice but to cooperate with them," Alfred finished.
That summed it up perfectly. Bruce nodded miserably and stopped pacing to sink back into his chair.
"I don't see what there is to be upset about, Master Bruce," Alfred said softly.
Bruce looked up at him incredulously.
"The Joker on the loose, that's something to worry about—but his involvement doesn't change your mission. You'd be going after the assassin anyway, with or without his help. And then you'd continue on, going after him, and the mob, and anyone else who threatens the innocent people of Gotham."
"But Alfred, this man—I can't shake the feeling that he's got something up his sleeve."
"Well of course he does. He's the Joker."
"What if…what if, Alfred, by taking out this assassin I unleash something much worse on the city? What if the Joker has another reason for wanting him gone? What if—hell, Alfred, what if the Joker's afraid of this guy and he doesn't want to operate in the open until the threat's gone? Then what? I take him down and the Joker finds a way to hold the entire city hostage?"
"Master Bruce, you're not thinking of letting this assassin continue his activities unhindered?"
"I—I just don't know. What's right, Alfred? Do I have a right to take that risk?"
Alfred crossed his arms and sighed, studying his young charge for a long moment. "Master Bruce," he said, finally, "you have done an excellent job of protecting this city. You've consistently made the right decision, acted in Gotham's best interest, even when it was very difficult for you."
He leaned forward, still studying Bruce's face. "You know what the Joker wants. He wants to destroy your moral code, to prove that you're no better than he is. It's easy, isn't it, not to kill your enemies when they're at your mercy? But if you allow a rogue assassin to kill and make no move to stop it—you might as well be doing it yourself. That's what the Joker wants. You can't give it to him."
Bruce massaged his temples and was silent for a long moment. "You're right, Alfred," he said faintly, at last. "I guess this is a chance we'll have to take."
Shark Avenue was quiet that night, which was in itself unusual. The street was aptly named, running through the part of Gotham that went beyond shady into shadowy. Shark Avenue was normally a very active place at night, at least for those who knew where to look. But tonight, even the ambient noise was missing. It seemed as though crime lords and ring leaders of every description had decided to close down shop and take a night off.
And indeed they had. In the basement of the bar at 1239 Shark Avenue, two dozen of Gotham's ranking mob heads and drug lords were gathered around a table, a rare, universal cessation of hostilities. These were the survivors of the wave of assassinations that had been sweeping Gotham's underworld over the last three months. They had begun to get the idea that slinging blame for the murders wasn't working; the force behind the assassinations was greater than any of them, and needed to be dealt with as such.
At the moment, the barman was wondering how long his status as keeper of one of the most popular neutral grounds in Gotham would protect him. Would the assassin come after mob accomplices to, even those who did not partake of criminal activities themselves?
There came a knock at the locked door. The bartender frowned. No one should have been coming by at this hour, not on this night…
He firmly gripped the handle of the axe under the bar, hefting the weapon out from its hiding place. A man in his position was justified in taking precautions…
"We're closed—" he barked, opening the door a crack. The figure on the other side was a woman, dressed in dark clothing, her hair draping innocently over her face. There was a hissing sound and he felt something impact his side. A sharp prick...then he slumped forward and the world went black.
Whisper lowered the air pistol and caught the unconscious barman as he toppled forward. She dragged him back through the door and closed it carefully behind her—no one would see anything from the street. Her gaze traveled over the darkened bar and empty seats surrounding it; the place was completely empty, and, aside from the low hum of a ceiling fan, silent. Fine by her. Inwardly thankful that the fact that the floors were tiled and thus unlikely to creak, she went in search of the door to the establishment's basement. The barman would escape from this with his life. The men meeting in that basement would not be so lucky…
Some people, she was sure, would feel too guilty to take a human life for any purpose. This city's famous Batman was the perfect example; she shared her master's opinion that he was either being framed or protecting the true culprit in the recent murders he was blamed for. Who he was protecting she couldn't guess, but Mr. Nigma was confident, and that was proof enough for her.
But fictional though it may have been, the Batman's apparent guilt was in a way the best thing that could have happened to Gotham. The accusations, the implication that Batman had turned to killing, seemed to reinforce Mr. Nigma's view that lethal force was the only way to truly stamp out violence and injustice.
She was more than happy to be the Riddler's hands to do this job. Thanks to him, Gotham's underworld was now quaking under her fist. As evidenced by the meeting currently happening beneath her feet. Whisper smiled slightly at the thought as she located the basement door and withdrew a case of lockpicks from her bag.
Picking the lock was easier than she expected; the door was new, an addition that came later than anything else in the building—but she still had it opened within a few minutes. Slowly stepping onto the first stair, she paused and heard the telltale low murmur of voices from lower down. Smiling to herself again at the men's utter obliviousness to her presence, she withdrew the Puzzle Box from her satchel. Poising herself to flee when the job was done, she pressed the activation button (making a beep that was louder than she would have liked) and tossed it down the stairs with a loud clatter.
As she sprung away from the shouting of surprised voices, her smile widened. It didn't matter that the assault wasn't very stealthy at all; sure, there would be a certain amount of consternation, but it didn't matter. The thing was programmed to explode the instant anyone got too close to it, so it wouldn't really matter if any of the mob bosses below attempted to escape; such was the flaw of meeting in a place with only one exit; while no one could get in unnoticed, it was equally impossible to escape. If any of them tried for the stairs, the box's motion sensor would be set off.
She sprinted towards the bar's front door, grabbing the unconscious barman by his collar on the way out. She kicked the door open and pulled him through it, dragging him to a safe 10 yards before dropping him. She glanced back at the building, surprised that the panicked criminals hadn't already blown it—and was about to begin her trek back to her car when a massive dark shape dropped in front of her.
She realized in a terrifying instant who it had to be. But she was prepared for this; she sprang instantly back from the shape and slapped her right wrist with her left hand, deploying the long knife concealed in her wrist guard. She aimed at a stabbing, slashing punch at the vulnerable opening in the Batman's mask; but he was quicker than he looked, and evaded the blow easily. As he caught her right hand and restrained it, she dropped her left to grab the air pistol on her belt. But he was there first, even faster this time, and in an instant both her wrists were restrained and the Batman threw himself forward, pinning her under him. She struggled and thrashed, to try to land some sort of damage on him, but it was in vain. For all her instincts, reflexes and skills, she simply couldn't overpower his armor or his size advantage.
But then, a deafening impact split the air. A shock wave of scorching air washed over them, as both Whisper and the Batman turned, mesmerized, to stare at the explosion.
"I think...you're too late," Whisper murmured, grinning to herself even as Batman glowered down at her.
His armored fist came at her face and the world went black.
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