Jim Gordon stared at the tv, sinking into a chair one of the two officers wisely rolled his way. All three of them had their eyes fixated on the screen, watching as Bruce Wayne, the untouchable billionaire, rolled on the padded floor, crying silently.
"Mom," Gordon heard him whisper, "Dad. No, NO!" The boy was clutching tightly at his head now, curled up in the fetal position while Joker moved behind the camera again and followed his prisoner's every move.
"You see, Batsy," the man drawled, the sound of him licking his disgustingly red lips audible over the sounds of Bruce's delusional whimpers. "This little, medicine, that I gave Gotham's golden boy, well, it sends the mind on a little trip into your darkest memories. Sounds like something a bat might like, em, Batsy?" The camera was turned back on the man's deformed face. "So why don't you," a lick of the lips, "come out to play?" The mad clown cackled cruelly and appeared to place the camera somewhere off the floor—Gordon had no idea where he could have placed it in the padded room—before leaving the room.
Bruce squirmed, pulling his hair, whimpering as phantoms of everyone he had lost swirled about his head. "Rachel," Gordon heard him whisper, almost like a prayer. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Rachel, I'm so sorry."
"Commissioner," one of the remaining men said awkwardly. "What do we do about this?"
"I don't know," Gordon replied hopelessly, sinking back against the chair's meager support. "I don't know."
"The Batman will show up though," the other said brightly, glancing between his friend and his boss. "Right?"
Gordon shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "He can't."
"He can't?" the second man repeated.
"He can't," the other echoed, his eyes confused but accepting the fact as he looked at Gordon.
"And that has us in our current predicament," the commissioner said in exhaustion. The three of them sat there for a few moments in silence, each thinking their own thoughts.
"What are you names?" Gordon asked suddenly, realizing, to his shame, that he still had no idea.
"Bradley Shane," the first one replied
"Ryan Macks."
Gordon nodded, then went back to thinking.
"Commissioner," Shane said suddenly. "I think I may have a way out of this."
Gordon listened to Shane's plan, his expression moving from doubtful to hopeful. "You do realize that I am going to be held responsible if this gets you killed," he told the man dryly. "And God knows I already have enough shit they can throw on me."
"Like Dent. Yes, I know," Shane said. "But maybe getting Bruce Wayne out of Arkham will give you a little boost."
"Hopefully, but we still have another problem. If we leave the station, we can't watch Joker's video."
"Actually," Mack said, "I can fix that. As long as no one has any objections to a little rewiring. Commissioner, I believe you have a Blackberry?"
"Sadly, yes," Gordon replied, fishing the device out of his pocket and dumping it into Mack's waiting hand. "And I have no idea how to work the thing."
"Hm," Mack mumbled, flipping open the back. Gordon watched as the man proceeded to take apart his phone and flip wires about inside it.
"Commissioner?" Shane said quietly, hesitant to interrupt the silence. "If you don't mind, I'm going to run home and get—"
"Of course. Hurry back."
"Yessir."
"I think I have it. Let's just put the battery back in and check." Mack stared at the screen as he pushed the power button. The screen came to life, filled with the stark sterile white of Arkham's cell and Bruce's twitching form.
Bruce was falling through the darkness, catching glimpses of the past and all its horrors as he tumbled in a downward spiral. He was cold, so cold. His very heart felt weighed down with ice, melting only in the form of tears as they spilled down his face unchecked in his drug-induced journey through an endless loop of memory and an altered reality.
Bruce saw her. Alive, breathing, holding his hand. "Rachel," he whispered reverently. "Rachel." She smiled at him, her eyes catching his own in their aura of warmth.
"Bruce," she responded, her voice light as air with her smile. Then her expression changed to one of fear, of panic. "Bruce!" she screamed. "Save me! Save me!" Fire exploded about them as Bruce grabbed her form and pulled her away from the flaming building. They were outside. Safe. "We're okay, Rachel," he said, looking down with a relieved smile. Then his face froze. "No," he whispered in horror, for he was looking not into the face of Rachel Dawes, but that of Harvey Dent. No, he corrected, not even Harvey. It was Two-Face; the man Dent had claimed to be after his loss. His loss! If only he knew what Rachel had been to him! Anger surged in Bruce's gut, quickly wiped away as the image changed.
He was looking into the terrified face of Jim Gordon's son as the deranged Dent held the boy at gunpoint. "Harvey," he called out, realizing belatedly that he wasn't wearing the Batsuit; he had no defenses. "Let the boy go."
Harvey looked at him with his gruesome smile, half the face showing the charming man Rachel had fallen in love with, the other half the man her death had created. "Ah," Dent said, throwing up his charred coin and catching it. "Not so lucky." The boy was shoved over the edge of the floor into open air.
"No!" It was Gordon's voice that broke the air first as the man flung himself forward, toppling Dent over the edge and following himself. The sound of three bodies impacting the floor disgustingly loud.
"It didn't happen this way," he whispered to himself as he dropped to his knees, hating his weakness but succumbing to it anyway. "Batman saved them. I saved them."
Then the image changed again. His mother and father were walking close together, hand in hand, moving apart as he tugged on their jointed fingers for a place between them. They obliged with a laugh, swinging him between them because he was just light enough that they could still manage it. Them the man came out of the shadows and everything blurred. All Bruce could see were his parents' dead bodies lying on the ground, cold, unyielding, utterly lifeless. Their murderer pointed the gun at him as well, lowering it as he saw Bruce's young eyes, cold and lost, lock upon him, forever engraving the man's image into him mind before he turned tail and fled. Then he fell to his knees in defeat, shocked beyond the point where he could even react; trapped in that single moment.
"Shane's plan had better work," Gordon muttered as Mack drove them up the drive to Arkham Asylum. The place's modern feel didn't override the slightly haunted air the place held. It had put him and the rest of the his men, all assembled near their vehicles along the road inside the gate. He pulled the car radio out and gave his orders. "No one is to fire upon the Batman. Repeat, no one is to fire upon the Batman." He clicked off and looked at the Mack, sitting nervously in the driver's seat as he scanned the darkened grounds for his masked friend.
"Did he really wear that to a Halloween party?" Gordon asked, trying to break the tense silence.
"Yup," the other replied with an anxious smile, though it quickly faded. "His hockey pads were enough to defend him against the swarm of Batman fans, but I doubt their ability to stand up to knives and guns."
"Me too," Gordon replied quietly, knowing full well that he wasn't easing the other's worries. "But all he has to do is distract the Joker for long enough that we can get in. He somehow got a bulletproof vest under all those pads too, so he could probably survive a gunshot to the chest."
"Joker doesn't aim for the head," Mack said aloud, though Gordon knew the young man was only reassuring himself.
"Right," Gordon replied grimly. "That would ruin the fun."
"Comm-ish-ner!" Joker's voice sang happily over the Blackberry's screen. Jim pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen, his eyes locking painfully onto Bruce's now still form. "I see you've joined the party!"
"I'm surprised he hasn't called yet," Mack said wryly. "Seems like he enjoys the whole 'interactive audience' thing." Gordon didn't reply but managed to give Ryan a tight, forced grin.
"But you see, Commissioner," Joker continued, his voice slow and controlled, almost sane if you didn't hear the words. "I have some bored friends in Gotham going a little crazy with their bombs."
"Damn it," Gordon muttered, pulling the car radio loose again.
"I'll give you three clues as to where the bombs are," Joker said happily. "Wouldn't want the to go boom without an audience, hum?" The Joker seemed almost to wait for a reply, as if he had forgotten no one else was on the line. When he spoke again, he was cackling his words, muffling them horribly with the sound. "City Hall."
"Shit," Mack muttered, glancing anxiously at the screen in Gordon's hand as if expecting to see the Joker's gleeful expression.
"Wayne Industries."
"Not good," Gordon groaned, closing his eyes.
"Arkham."
"What?" Mack looked at the asylum in distress.
"Now," lick, "Commissioner. I really need my Batty friend to show up, else my finger might just slip on one of these little detonators. That would be unfortunate." He was silent for a second, then he nearly shouted into the line, "KABOOM!" His maniacal laughter drowned out any other sound for a long moment.
"Where is Shane?" Gordon asked impatiently, glancing about in the darkness.
"Don't worry about Shane now," Mack said in exasperation. "We need to get those bombs diffused."
Gordon picked up the radio and spoke as calmly as he could. "All squads; listen up for redirection. City Hall and Wayne Industries have been listed as targets of bombs by the Joker. Everyone is to move to one of these locations based on precinct proximity to the locations. Move now. Mack and I will be keeping watch over Arkham until the Batman shows." Some feedback crackled over the line, but Gordon ignored it.
"Didn't you leave out one place?" Mack asked wryly.
"Better that they don't know that. Means they will actually leave."
"And it keeps our fraudy Batman safe."
"That too."
Police cars started to pull away, some more slowly than others. Finally, all the occupied vehicles had left the asylum's small drive and parking lot. That left six additional patrol cars.
"Why are those still here?"
Gordon didn't answer the question, instead stepping out of the car, glancing at the asylum's front doors, and crouching down as he jogged to one of the empty vehicles. He peered in the window. No blood, no sign of struggle. He frowned, moving to the next car. Same story, except in this car there was a wad of bills, a very large wad of hundred dollar bills, sitting on the passenger side floor. Mack popped up behind him.
"The Joker didn't kill them," Gordon whispered, "he bought them off." He gestured to all the cars.
"That puts at least—" the younger man looked panicked.
"Twelve," Gordon said with a sigh. "Twelve guns inside."
"Plus a madman."
At that moment the Joker's voice crackled over the Blackberry again. Gordon started before reaching into his pocket and fumbling with the device.
"Batsy!" Joker cooed. "How nice of you to join me!"
"He's distracted," Gordon said, looking at Bruce's body as it lay crumpled on the floor. He resisted the urge to run his fingertip over the screen. "Let's go."
The unlikely pair kept as much behind the vacant patrol cars as they could, shuffle-stepping from one to the other in an effort to keep out of sight. They reached the last of the cars, neither exactly sure where to go. Gordon finally pointed to the front door, shrugging at Mack's mouthed protest.
"It's the only way we'll have a sense of direction in the place," he replied, not even waiting before he sprinted across the open ground. Bullets rained about his feet, crackling glass as the gunsmen ignored the windows. Thankfully none of the men appeared to be particularly accurate marksmen. He could hear Mack's feet thudding along behind his, nearly eating his heels with their greater pace.
"They were all upstairs," Gordon said as they reached the doorframe, his voice airy after his run. "They'll be coming down the steps as we open the doors."
"Go for it," Mack said quietly, the recklessness of the words ruined by his nervous tone.
Gordon flung the doors open, quickly sighting and taking out the first of the turncoat cops as they descended the stairs. The second and third followed, with Mack working to pull down an additional four.
"Seven," Mack said, ducking back behind the shelter of the asylum's metal framed doors. Gordon peered about the edge of the door, hoping the flying metal wouldn't hit him as he took out two more of his own.
"Five," he gasped as he ducked back, looking at Mack. "Not so bad of odds." The other nodded and they both prepared to take aim again. They popped about the doors and fired, rapidly redirecting their aim in a desperate effort to claim life before the turncoats did. When the last of the men fell to the floor, rolling awkwardly down the steps, Gordon strode forward in to the building.
"Last time," he said quickly, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, "I was in the old building next door. I think the high security cells would be in the other direction."
"Why?"
"Batman blew up a couple doors between this building and the next one over."
"Oh."
"Follow me."
The pair took off at a jog down the long hall, both slightly unnerved by the clean medical white and beige of the walls. At last they came to a branch in the hall, one leading down and the other continuing straight. They listened.
"I can hear voices down there," Mack said. A gunshot rang out a second later. Neither hesitated in their sprint down the steps.
The underground hall was chilly, enhanced by the absolute white of the floor and wall and ceiling. A bend in the hall surprised both of them, for just about the turn, the Joker straddled Shane's frozen form, a gun pointed to his forehead.
"You see, Batsy, I know you're not the real Batman, and I don't like that." He licked his lips, blissfully oblivious to their presence as he drank in the officer's fear. "I think you should apologize," lick, "for trying to deceive me." The man gave what may have been an attempt at puppy dog eyes, grotesquely mutated by his scarred smile.
Bang!
Mack's shot rang out, ripping along the Joker's arm and knocking him from atop the fake bat, who quickly recovered and pinned the madman to the ground. No one moved to recover the dropped gun as it skittered away down the hall.
"Wayne is in there," Shane said gruffly, ignoring Mack's questions about his wellbeing. "I'd get him out quick, Gordon. The man's losing it."
"Of course he is," the Joker cackled, licking his lips with glee. "No one is supposed to be given that much of the drug." Shane slammed his fist into the Joker's face, a satisfied gleam coming to his eyes as the man's jaw popped.
"Oh," Joker giggled insanely, eliminating any joy Shane may have felt in pummeling him. He lunged upward with his torso, the maddened expression on his face emphasizing his blurring make-up lines. "Hit me!"
"Joker," Gordon hissed, "what did you give him?" The clown only cackled wildly in response, his eyes rolling in disturbing ecstasy as Shane continued to punch him. Gordon ignored the abuse, his conscious focused on the man behind the metal door. An electronic switch opened the cell, allowing Gordon a firsthand glimpse at Bruce's condition.
"Damn it," Gordon muttered weakly, his brows sinking together in alarm and pity as he saw the normally indestructible man clammy and splayed out on the floor, eyes not seeing anything but the images his mind drew up. Gordon approached slowly, kneeling next to the man and gently touching his face. No reaction. "Bruce," he said quietly. "Bruce."
"They're dead," Bruce responded weakly. "They're dead."
"Who, Bruce?"
"Everyone."
"No," Gordon replied, pulling the man's head into his lap as his men handcuffed the Joker and dragged him down the hall. "No, Bruce. I'm still here. You're still here. Alfred too."
"Rachel," the man muttered deliriously, his eyes rolling wildly.
"Bruce!" Gordon called more firmly, gently slapping the younger man's cheeks. "Bruce! Rachel is dead."
"Mom," he moaned, "Dad."
Gordon closed his eyes and looked up to the ceiling. He slid his coat off, and wrapped it about Bruce's shoulders as the younger man shook slightly, much like he had all those years ago when the little boy had sat in the precinct's hall, waiting for Alfred to pick him up and take him back to a now empty home. "They're dead, son," he whispered, lying his nose near Bruce's ear, the gentle tickling of Bruce's sweaty hair straying across his face. Bruce opened his eyes, staring at Gordon with something that resembled recognition.
"Gordon," he whispered, his voice horribly crackly from screaming and crying. "Take me home." Bruce's eyes rolled again as he slid away from reality.
Gordon pulled his phone from his pocket, realizing belatedly that he didn't know the number to call Alfred. Just as he was about to shove the device back into his pocket, it rang, nearly causing him to drop it in surprise. The display read 'Alfred.' He answered cautiously.
"Hello?"
"Master Gordon!" Alfred's voice sounded over the line, his English accent further emphasized by his relief. "I do hope you have Master Wayne?"
"Yes. How did you get this number?" Gordon replied slowly, then refocused. "But he's not—"
"I'm pulling up out front now," Alfred said, uncharacteristically cutting him off.
"I'll bring him up." Gordon ended the call. Then he gazed down at Bruce's form, and right now, an absolutely dead weight. "No way I'm picking you up," he muttered. "Mack! Shane!" The two hastily made their way back to him from down the hall. "We need to get him upstairs."
Between the three of them they managed to get Bruce up and out of the building, greatly aided by the fact that Bruce recovered part of his senses when they reached the steps and was able to take some of his weight off their shoulders, though he mumbled incoherently the entire way. The two officers managed to refrain from mentioning about how heavy Bruce was for a simple rich boy.
Alfred met them at the front doors, worrying over Bruce like the mother hen Bruce often portrayed him as. Gordon questioned Mack and Shane as they made their way to the car.
"What did you do to the Joker?"
"He's in a cell," Shane replied. "In handcuffs, everything in his pocket dumped on the floor of the next cell. Both are locked, and the entire wing is empty."
"Good," Gordon replied. "Detonator?"
"In my pocket," Mack replied.
"I want you two to take those to City Hall and have someone disarm them so the bombs can be removed."
"What about you Commissioner?"
"I'm going with Wayne." Both looked at him oddly before nodding. The trio somehow maneuvered Bruce into the car's back seat. Gordon slid in next to him. Alfred shut the door with one last worried look before moving to the driver's seat. They pulled out, Gordon not even trying to spot his men as Bruce shifted about.
"Bruce," he whispered. "Bruce." He pulled the man's head onto his lap again, one hand absently stroking through damp chocolate locks as he gazed worriedly out the window and watched the city flash by, wishing now for Bruce's wild speed. Bruce's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as he muttered incomprehensibly to himself.