When Harry's eyes opened again, he was staring into darkness. He was bound to a table made of unfamiliar metal by chains of mystical origin, and lay there for half an hour before it occurred to him to escape.
Killing Clark Kent would have been a mistake. Harry had known that even at the time; known that everything would be much harder if Superman was to die at his hand.
But he hadn't cared.
Didn't care.
He still wanted the man dead, and that was a problem. Caring was a mistake, whether it was to become attached or to declare a vendetta. Harry did not know what his mission would be on this planet; they still had not deigned to visit him, but Superman was obviously involved. If he had not been absolutely vital, Harry would have been allowed to continue; they had only prevented a mistake twice before, in all the years Harry had been alive, and that showed him how grievous the error would have been.
But Harry still wanted Superman dead. An undeniable need-
No. Not undeniable. He had felt undeniable needs before, and had ignored them more times than indulging. Harry's psyche was just… off since arriving here. A side effect of being without direction, other than to track some alien girl for reasons he did not begin to understand.
That this process had lead to Harry facing an enemy who had beaten him, at least in the sense that Harry had sustained far more damage during the fight than Superman, was frustrating. That was the reason that Harry was directing his anger at Superman, surely.
Or… part of the reason.
'Motherfucker.' Harry spat into the darkness, as the chains unravelled around him.
He had felt this before. When he was just starting, he had felt this way. This frustration, like an itch in the back of his mind.
He grunted as he stood, and ran a finger under each forearm, tracing the intricate brands that sat there. They were representative of her, as much as of the nature of his role in the grand plan, and his anger was building towards she and her siblings.
Surely a family of all-powerful immortals could find a better way to tell him something than to place an annoying itch behind his eyes? Surely, when that failed, they could do something other than shoving him off the edge and letting that tell him something was seriously wrong. Surely they could tell him, instead of punishing Harry for not miraculously knowing what was imminently going to go ass up on this shit hole of a planet without being told.
Because seeing the future was something he fucking excelled in. Even in his first life, Harry had known that fortune telling was either false or completely irrelevant to him.
Harry kicked the table he had been chained to, and it sailed away. It narrowly missed a glass case. Harry frowned.
A glass case?
He walked towards it after checking nobody was in the… very large room with him, and squinted. It was giving off a strange, bright light, and his eyes were accustomed to the darkness now.
Inside the case, there was a model-human. A mannequin? Was that the word? It wore the costume of one Robin, and Harry frowned.
Most likely, then, he was inside the Batman's hideout. The 'Batcave' according to those on the internet, though they knew nothing more about it that could be considered even partially true; Harry had heard that it was located in the bay, because Batman had been seen jumping into the water by some anonymous Gotham-citizen, never mind that this was reportedly after a drowning woman, or that it was actually in the sky and that Batman would fly up to it each night to sleep through the day. Harry had moved away from that corner of the internet when he found a community of people insisting that Batman's cave was an underground city in which all the government's officials had a second home for the day that the bombs began to fall.
But what had happened to the Robin costume?
It was burned, tattered, and dusty. The dust likely came from disuse, but the burns were serious. Harry didn't see how someone could have survived the blast, had they been wearing it…
Ah.
Robin Number 2's costume, then. Harry remembered reading about that, but it had been overshadowed by some of the more heinous acts of its perpetrator.
The Joker was a truly evil bastard.
Harry inhaled suddenly, as a sharp sensation ran down his spine.
What was that?
He braced himself against the glass case, and pressed a hand against the back of his neck. That sign was… new. He'd never felt one be so strong. Maybe she'd sensed his annoyance at their ridiculous subtlety.
The meaning occurred to him quickly enough, and Harry whispered into the darkness around him.
'The Joker?' His spine tingled, 'I'm to kill the Clown?' He asked of the invisible force answering his questions. Nothing came, so he frowned. 'Does he have a plot that I need to thwart?' He asked again and, again, received no answer.
It must have been a one-time courtesy, then. Harry shook his head, and glanced down at his arm out of reflex, looking for a symbol to confirm that the Joker was his target.
Something was definitely there, and Harry turned so that the glum light from Batman's case landed inside his elbow. He made a noise of agreement, nodding at the same time. That was more or less what he expected.
He chose to believe the shield meant Supergirl. He wasn't going to kill Superman but he didn't feel the need to look out for the man, either. The confirmation that Supergirl was vital just meant he needed to seek continue on his current course; finding her and attempting to understand why, specifically, she was so important.
And the pale, red lipped, grinning face looking up at Harry confirmed his other suspicion. A newer certainty, but a concern he'd had since researching the world of there being such a deranged person on this planet. The Joker had been a worry since Harry first read of him, the number of deaths the Clown had caused were in the thousands and would inevitably reach the millions, or more, if he was allowed to continue. Harry had met men like him before, madmen with a single-minded thirst, and their tastes invariably escalated. The clown had taken an entire city hostage before. When his escalated, Harry dread to think what the plots would evolve to.
The solution was simple; Harry would deal with him before one of his plots could successfully kill millions in one fell swoop. As it was currently, the only thing that thwarted these plots was a man who dressed as a bat and fought crime. Fought crime well, clearly, but was hardly suited to the job. Harry supposed that, with the Justice league on the case, the Joker would be stopped nine-hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand.
The one they would not stop was the worry, and a man as insane as the Joker would not stop at one-thousand attempts. He would continue until he satisfied whatever sadistic thirst was inside his deranged mind. The Justice League dealt with the threats of aliens and monsters that could obliterate the Earth if left unchallenged. If the clown chose to act out while one of those scenarios were in full swing, it would be up to Gotham PD to stop him.
That was concerning. The officer who had swallowed his gun had, by a large margin, come closer to managing that than any of the others.
Harry suspected the incompetence of the Police Department stemmed from the corruption of many of their number; those who were honest could not rely on their partners and their job was next to impossible as a result. More often than not, the honest died in the line of duty, likely because of that fact, and only those who were cowardly and corrupt were allowed to live long enough to climb the ladder and snatch promotions. That they ran the Police force in the vast majority of situations, as a result, made matters worse.
Harry believed that Gotham PD was too rotten to be saved. Perhaps those uncorrupt could begin anew; perhaps not. At some point the institution would collapse, Harry was sure.
Harry looked at the encased costume again, and shook his head silently. He did not understand the Bat, and wasn't sure if he wanted to.
Harry wondered how the man would react to what happened next, whether he would be infuriated by the murder of one of his villains. Then, Harry twisted on the spot. A crack echoed in the cave, and the bats sleeping above panicked.
The swarming cloud went unnoticed; the cave would be empty for quite some time, with the home's owner on the hunt and his oldest friend sitting by Barbara's bedside in lieu of her father.
Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth was a calm man. In his youth, the aging Englishman had been raucous and undisciplined, but that had been beaten out of him upon joining the army. His DSgt, or Drill instructor, had seen something in the angry youth and had nurtured it in his own way. His way was not pleasant, but Alfred's resent for the man named Smith had been short-lived
Quickly, Alfred's talent shone through and he had been promoted thrice in ten months. That was a feat almost unheard of, and retrospectively Alfred understood that the copious amounts of praise he received had been yet another test of his character. The SAS had no need of arrogance; arrogance was the bane of focus, and most often gave birth to rashness and an inability to follow orders. He had not shown the trait, instead demonstrating determination to better himself and prove the praise justified, and had eventually been taken into the Special Air Service.
Alfred's training, even without the daunting physical aspect, had been invaluable. He had learned to master himself, and his self-control became just-about unparalleled.
Unparalleled, that is, until his young master Bruce had returned from the incredible journey of learning and training that had kept him away from Gotham. Bruce Wayne had mastered the physical and mental aspects of life to a greater degree than anybody Alfred had met; he had devoted every fibre of his being to becoming Batman, and to honouring the memory of his parents by fighting the crimes that had turned their legacy sour.
Yet, as Alfred looked at the bruised, peaceful face of Barbara Gordon, Bruce Wayne's mentor, guardian and friend was worried.
He did not worry whether or not Bruce would survive. Alfred knew that Batman would be the death of Thomas Wayne's son, Bruce would not stop until his crusade killed him, but that was not what was playing on the aging Butler's mind. Batman would not die tonight, he was somehow certain. Only Bruce Wayne.
He worried that this might be the final straw.
That the clown had pushed Bruce to the point that even his self-restraint would not survive.
That Bruce would take the Joker's life tonight.
Alfred sighed, as he brushed a strand of hair away from Barbara's closed eye.
The retired soldier knew that he would kill the Clown, were he in Bruce's position. Alfred would have killed him years ago, in fact. The Joker had gone too far time and again, and too many had suffered because he was committed and allowed to escape and wreak havoc time and again. Even with Bruce's conviction that a life was not his to take, and that the Joker could be helped, Alfred would have killed the man…
The aging soldier grimaced. The Joker was no man, he would have killed the monster in a clown's skin years ago. When Jason had been the one on the receiving end of his sadism, Alfred would have killed him. Bruce had not; he had wanted to, Alfred had seen it in his every action, in every fibre of his being, but he had not let his anger get the better of him.
Maybe the same would be true tonight. Perhaps Batman would be stronger than Bruce Wayne… or Bruce Wayne's emotions. Perhaps, instead of the Joker losing his life tonight, another part of Bruce Wayne would die instead. And Alfred would continue to mourn the death of the happy child who had once been in his care.
Alfred sighed, looking at the lifeless face of the young woman with a sorrowful crease in his brow. He softly shook his head, looked to the window, and listened to the beating of the rain.
The retired soldier wondered what would happen, either way. He did not know whether it would be best for the Joker to die at Bruce's hands or not; if he lived past this night, Alfred doubted he would much longer. At the very least, when the Red Hood received the news…
Barbara Gordon was checked into hospital only a few hours earlier with a bullet in her spine and other injuries. The Joker had broken into the house of James Gordon and attacked his daughter before the man's eyes. He had taken the Commissioner and called in the crime himself. To alert Batman, most likely.
Harry did not know whether the Joker had motivations for this action, or if he was being as insane as always. Whether or not it was a part of some grand scheme, Harry had nothing invested in stopping this plot and, as a result, would not be distracted by personal matters or emotions.
That made it easy enough to discover the Clown's actions. Or, more accurately, not as difficult as most of Harry's work. None of the several steps it had taken had been overly complex or required any real effort.
The first criminal Harry had… interrogated had not known much. Even under duress that would have him in Arkham for a period, the man had known nothing more than having some associate who had once told him how unpleasant it had been to work with the Joker. Harry had gotten the man's name and his favourite haunt's location, and left the man shivering on the rooftop whispering to himself about sea serpents.
The first's friend, the second, had been drinking with buddies. When Harry had asked where he might find a member of the Joker's crew the man had eyed the sharp glinting hunting knife on Harry's hip and found that he was more afraid of the Joker than of the stranger with odd tattoos. He and his friends had attacked Harry, and his friends had all suffered for it. None were dead, but several were no doubt in hospital by now and would have many months of rehab to be able to walk, talk and fight again.
Then, the man had told Harry that he knew where one of the Joker's Lieutenants had lived, that the man had talked him back there once for a drink before he'd left the crew.
Harry had gone to the address given, and had found the man on a dirty mattress in the corner on top of a gagged, underage asian girl. Harry had stunned the girl as the man shot into the air and slammed into the ceiling. He let the man fall to the floor, drove his heel into cracked ribs to break them and got to work extracting information. The usual methods had not worked all that well; apparently the man's greatest fear was the Joker, so it did nothing to make him give up the Clown to pull the fears to the front of his mind and nurture them as one fed wood to a stove.
Breaking into the man's mind was an unsavory idea, especially with the activity that had been occupying his attention moments before- he detested mind reading at the best of times, this would be especially horrible. Harry had done many things unimaginable to the average person, but legilimency would force him to feel what the man was doing to her- to an innocent. Harry knew himself well enough to say his magic would be uncontrollable after that, and that the victim of the bastard's desires would surely die too. And that was after Harry's mental dagger eviscerated the inside of the sicko fuck's skull.
And Harry's pain curse had a tendency to leave unremarkable people in a state not dissimilar to vegetation, so that had not been an option. Harry, instead, had had to use more traditional methods. He was in a rush, after all.
The henchman had given Harry the information he needed upon losing his nose on top of one foot, both ears, and a handful of teeth. Harry had broken the girl's restraints and left a timed ennervate on her before apparating away. He did not imagine she would call for help for her captor/raper when she found him bound by ropes. Harry left a knife next to her bedding, as well as a bag of gold coins, and that would likely present a more appealing option. And hopefully taking the man's life would do something to help overcome the trauma.
The rain had washed the blood from the wizard's hands as Harry approached the gated entrance to the abandoned carnival where Gordon had apparently been taken. Harry shrugged off the zip-up sweatshirt he had been wearing, and the item vanished as he grasped the metal of the fence and began to climb. In a world where heroes could fly, he didn't know what methods of detecting them in the air the villains may have developed.
Harry pulled himself hand-over-hand and stopped at the top. He could easily be rid of the spikes on top if he so chose, but doing so would be unnecessary and would potentially draw attention from the small person making rounds and heading towards Harry's position. Most likely the entire process would be over before the dwarf reached this point, but Harry would rather not take the risk. He didn't know the situation, and it would be better to avoid casualties other than the Joker if at all possible. Bodies drew attention or took time to hide.
Harry twisted one hand to reverse his grip, and renewed the drying charms on each palm to ensure he would not slip and impale himself.
Harry's forearms tensed as he raised both legs to run parallel to the ground. He stayed in that position for a moment, resembling a very odd flag in strong winds, and then continued the movement until his feet were directly above his head and well above the spikes as a result. He brought his lower hand, the left, towards his chest and so higher than the right. Then, he pulled the right to be higher again and lowered his torso slightly. His eyes, now, were in line with the spikes and Harry appreciated the sharpness of their points as his arms and upper back tensed.
The wizard threw himself up and over the top of the fence and into the air. Hanging in his uncontrolled flight, Harry took another scan of the area. Nothing had changed in the seconds he had taken, but for one thing.
The crowd watching what seemed to be a show with one man crouching in a cage with another energetic man dancing around had shrunk. Harry assumed that those on stage were Gordon and the Joker; that Gordon was in the too-small cage being tormented for whatever reason as the clown played it up for the audience. That was why he had not thought twice about the Joker pointing to the crowd that Harry had assumed were Henchmen.
But Harry had failed to take into account their emotions and the object that the Joker had in his hand. They were more afraid than the Commissioner, by far, and Harry had to rethink who they were.
The Joker had captives, and was shooting them dead one by one to torment the commissioner.
Harry didn't hear the gunshot, and wondered why the Joker would be using a silencer. That seemed unlike the Clown, but Harry did not know the man's mind. The Clown Prince of Crime seemed utterly unpredictable, and that was one of the things that made him dangerous.
Harry hit the ground in a jog.
He winced, as another of the crowd died, and turned the jog into a sprint.
Between the wizard and the crowd, there was a tent and a ring-toss stall. Harry cut a tall slit in the tent with a thought and was not slowed any by the stall as he vanished it with a thought. His earlier cautiousness was stupid in retrospect; he would have been better to tear through the fence and kill whoever might catch on. Or, better yet, to throw himself above the epicentre of the carnival and drop into the middle of the scene.
Harry heard laughter, and vaulted a bumper car as his hand flashed and a cutting curse tore open a slit in the purple tent ahead of him. His palm glowed with scarlet light as he reached the entrance, and burst through.
The Joker continued to cackle as the small-calibre gun was torn from his grip. Harry snarled, a second spell following the first as the Joker pulled another handgun from his waist and brought it to bear on the crowd. The gun flew into the air, and Harry held out a hand. It flew to him, and he raised it as the Clown reached for yet another gun on the floor.
Harry's hand squeezed the trigger.
And the shot tore a small hole in the tent's highest spot as he was thrown aside by a white blur. The bench he landed on, upper-left arm first, shattered and Harry swore.
'YOU BASTARD!' A girl screamed.
Harry cringed as his shoulder popped back into place, and quickly rose to his feet with the gun still in hand. But he didn't make any attempt to fire it, as he watched the situation with interest.
Even in the grip of an infuriated Kryptonian, with the red-glow of her burning eyes lighting up his face, the Joker was roaring with laughter.
'Even better!' Joker continued some thought with a raspy voice, 'The Bat and Big Blue brought down by little old me!'
Harry didn't understand that and, based on the fact that the red light died, Supergirl did not seem to have any more idea.
'What about Superman?!' she demanded in a voice that was still full of contempt but also some worry.
'Huhuhu,' Joker gave a choked laugh, 'if I can't break him with fun, there's always poison!' The clown raised his hand, and revealed a tiny device with a red button on top.
Supergirl did not react as quickly as Harry, and Joker's hand fell to the floor.
'Aaah! Aah! Ahahaha! AHAHAHAHA!' Supergirl dropped the man, taken aback by his hand being severed, and Joker grabbed at his detached hand.
Harry didn't even have time to appreciate the fact that the pale man showed no pain beyond the half-excited scream, as he sent another spell into the man's face. Joker was hit full force by the bludgeoning-charm and fell, dazed, onto his back with the bones in his face shattered.
Supergirl spun in a blur, and had her hands raised and in fists when Harry's stunner caught her in the chest. She, from what he could tell, was as firm on the no-killing law as Batman or her cousin. Maybe in anger her morals had lessened, but his lopping off of Joker's hand seemed to have snapped her out of that.
'HunhHunhHunh,' Joker muttered, as Harry approached with the clown's gun aimed at it's owner's chest. 'Hhhhhehehe… haaaHaaahhhh,' he wheezed through an obliterated jaw. Most likely, some of the bones had been pushed into the Joker's throat.
And still the Clown laughed.
Harry's left palm shone bright with a Killing Curse, and the green light cast a broken grin into light as he stared down at the laughing clown.
Harry turned the palm to the Joker, and let the curse fly. The green light struck the Joker in the chest, and the laughing stopped. The air was quiet in its absence, if only for a moment.
The handgun held fifteen rounds, and Harry put each of them into the already dead clown. If this was part of his mission, he would take no half-measures. He left the clown almost unrecognisable, with his face and chest both bloody messes, dropped the gun on the ground beside the Joker's feet, and turned around to examine the scene.
With twenty-two faces staring at him, Harry had a feeling he would lose what little anonymity he had on this world.