The Batman: First Dance
Monday, November 4th
Author's Note: This is set before the events of The Batman. There's not an awful lot of information available currently about what happens before the film. For example, we know that Batman has encountered Joker but we don't know the details of it. That is what this fic sets out to do, to provide a backstory behind the first encounter between these two iconic characters. If another film is released in this franchise all of this could end up completely wrong, and if it is then I'll either edit it or leave it depending on just how wrong it is. Anyway, enjoy!
Danny and four others walked into a quiet parking lot. This was to be his initiation into their small-time gang, to prove himself capable. He'd known Nathan since high school, forming a close bond with him; where Danny was more reserved, nervous and somewhat easily lead, Nathan was more charismatic, mischievous and sly. Danny had known that Nathan was getting involved with these car-jackers, Art and Marvin, and he had managed to persuade Danny to join them. Danny, who, like Nathan, came from a financially poor background, felt in awe at the money that Nathan flaunted at him when he arrived at his apartment; a couple of grand in just a few weeks, all from busting into cars, driving them somewhere quiet and selling them off to unsuspecting buyers. It was easy, Nathan said, and if you do it with us, you'll never get caught. Danny was in, and now here he was, in this parking lot at the bottom of an apartment block, looking around with Nathan, Marvin and Art for the best steal. Art spun a crowbar in his hand.
"What's that for?" Danny asked nervously, staring at the object as Art spun around, leaning the crowbar against his shoulder as he held it in one hand.
"Self-defence," Art replied bluntly and sarcastically before his eyes once again wandered around the parking lot.
"There's no one around," Nathan reported, "Should we wait?"
"Sounds like a good idea," Marvin agreed, "Someone'll come along soon enough."
Nathan motioned for Danny to follow them, and they walked around to the pavements on the side of the apartments. Nathan noticed the sound of their feet crunching as they walked across the parking lot.
"Shit, the snow!" Nathan exclaimed in a whisper, "Won't they hear us?"
"Not if we're quick enough," Marvin answered confidently. "Come on, let's keep a look out."
The five watched nonchalantly as cars passed up and down the street before finally, one indicated to turn into the car park. The five watched carefully as the car turned in; a Volkswagen Golf 2008, good enough. Danny looked closely in an effort to make out its driver; a young lady, African-American, short, black hair. No passengers.
The car negotiated with a parking spot as the four got ready. Danny tried hyping himself up, though he wasn't really sure what to do, thinking that he'll just watch Nathan and the others and copy them. Deep down, he was nervous. He wasn't really sure if he wanted to do this; it sounded ideal when Nathan told him tales of his exploits, but looking at that poor girl, an innocent woman – could he really bring himself to hurt her? Despite his conflicting feelings, it was too late to turn back now. The Volkswagen had parked, the engine shut off and the girl checked her phone before she would retrieve her keys; a text from her mother, social media and news notifications.
Alicia grabbed her keys, pulling them out of the ignition and opening her door before feeling a pair of hands grab her from behind. She screamed and clutched the keys in her hand, her movement restricted by her attacker. Soon, three others would emerge from the other side of the car. Two grabbed her, taking one arm each. Nathan tried to hold her arm steady as she writhed and thrashed in an effort to break her attackers grip. The key was held tight in her fist.
"No! Get off me!" Alicia screamed, kicking the shins of the man trying to steal her keys before the man holding her from behind pulled her back in an effort to keep him out of her reach. She lifted her knee and stomped down, digging the heel of her shoes into her captor's right foot. He let out a harsh groan before unintentionally freeing her. Looking up, her eyes widened in fear; something else was here too. Not a mugger – it didn't even look like a man. Alicia screamed once more, raising a trembling finger at this thing, fast approaching the group.
Danny turned around only to feel a fist swing across his jaw, sending him spinning onto the ground, holding his face in pain. Nathan turned and caught sight of it as it grabbed him by the scruff of his collar. He looked into its eyes, which, along with its jaw and mouth, was the only human thing about it, and even then they were somewhat animalistic, pupils dilated with rage. It let out a yell before it tossed Nathan onto the ground. Readying his crowbar, Art ran towards the thing, letting out something akin to a battle cry as he swung at its thigh. It grunted loudly before it collapsed onto one knee and Marvin pushed it to the floor.
Alicia, backed against the car door, took a good look at what seemed to be her saviour. She took in its appearance; a leather mask covered most of its head except the aforementioned features. It featured what reminded her of ears, two pointy spikes coming from the top of the mask. Below the head, it wore black and grey armour, the part which covered the shin being damaged as the thing rolled onto its back, sending its black cape swishing under it
"The hell is this thing?" Nathan asked in fear, taking in its appearance. Before he could get an answer, Art raised his crowbar behind his head, arms stretched out, then swung down, aiming at its chest, however the man caught it with his hand, baring his teeth as he forced the weapon back. With enough force, the man pulled the crowbar out of Art's hands, jabbing him hard in the knee with the butt of it.
It stood to his feet, facing Marvin as he prepared to take a swing at it while Art yelled in pain and fell onto his back. Marvin clumsily swung his hand and the thing grabbed it with ease before grabbing the back of his head with another hand and smashing him into the window of one of the passenger windows of Alicia's car, causing the glass to smash. Nathan, out of his depth, ran, leaving Danny behind who was still curled up on the floor.
Pulling something out of a belt around its waist, the man pointed something at Nathan and fired, unleashing a grapple that wrapped around the fleeing attacker's leg, sending him faceplanting onto the ground. Nathan groaned, the pain in his face becoming increasingly unpleasant thanks to the cold snow it lay on. He heard the sound of footsteps, slowly but surely crunching through the snow behind him. Turning carefully onto his back, his chest was suddenly crushed by a boot. Nathan felt his ribs crack and he screamed in pain as he looked up at this thing, the most horrifying thing he had ever seen. It knelt down and Nathan looked into its eyes before it unleashed a flurry of punches onto him, knocking him out cold.
Alicia watched the man stand up, his cape flowing past his knees onto the ground as he straightened. Looking around at the ground, she saw her attackers reeling in pain. Her attention refocused to her saviour as she heard its footsteps crunching further and further away from her.
"What are you?" she called out, horrified, "What are you?!"
Ignoring her, the thing limped slightly underneath a street lamp before carrying on into the darkness.
James Gordon slammed his car door shut behind him. He ducked under the police tape, lifting it slightly with one hand as to pass under it easier. Officer Martinez stepped up to him.
"Right this way, Lieutenant Gordon," he motioned down the alleyway, guiding Gordon to the scene of the crime where even more cops stood around, photographing the scene for evidence.
"Christ," Gordon exclaimed as he laid his eyes upon the main attraction; a woman, dressed formally, with her throat cut, the killer slicing through one carotid artery. She would have been dead within minutes. Another disturbing detail were two slits on both sides of the mouth, starting at the edge of the victim's lips before curving upwards, as if to make it appear as though she's smiling. His exclamation was partly out of shock, another part due to recognition.
"Some guy was taking out the trash from his apartment and found her," Martinez explained, "Never heard any commotion, never saw the perpetrator."
While it was the first time Gordon had laid his eyes on a killing in this style, he had heard rumours and reports of similar crimes in which the patient was found with their cheeks cut, sounding very much like the cuts on the corpse in front of him.
"What about the victim?" Gordon asked grimly, "Any details on her?"
"She still had her ID on her," Martinez replied, placing his hands on his hips, "Name's Janice Hammond, works at Gotham Central Bank."
Gordon continued to stare at the body before looking up at the brick wall behind it, defaced with green spray-paint, the words "HA HA HA" repeated over and over, trailing down to the spot where Janice lay. Martinez glanced back at it before facing Gordon again. "You think it's the same person?"
"Him or any one of his followers he's accumulated," Gordon replied, "Damn, this city's going crazy... first sightings of a man-bat, now we've got serial killers carving smiles into their victims faces..."
"What should we do, sir?" Martinez asked.
"There's not a lot we can do," Gordon sighed, "The guy's smart, that's for sure. He gets his mooks to do the dirty work. We've just gotta hope that next time we catch one of them they're more willing to co-operate."
Two men came in with a stretcher, a body bag placed neatly on top of it. Gordon scowled and shook his head as he turned away and walked back up the alley, hands tucked in the pockets of his trench-coat. Having lived in Gotham all his life and working in the police force, he quickly grew accustomed to the levels of criminality in the city, becoming numb to the regularity of the brutal and inhumane acts committed by its extensive criminal underworld. However, every so often, something like this would come along and shake him up, something twisted that would linger in the back of his mind, preventing him from falling asleep.
Recently, Gordon had learnt not just to fear the killers, the looters, or the robbers, but the psychopaths, deranged men who, Gordon speculated, out of some sense of "duty", patrolled the streets at night and beat criminals to a bloody pulp. The GCPD's position on vigilantism was that no one, no matter their intentions, should interfere with police matters and therefore should not be supported by the GCPD in any way. Mentally, Gordon's position fluctuated. Sometimes he recognised that this vigilante would only target criminals; recently, for example, Gordon had heard a story from an officer about how the vigilante interfered with a mugging, saving the victim from what could have been her death.
On the other hand, Gordon had also heard of this man's methods; in that same story, the mugger had both his arms broken, leading the victim to fear for her own life. The vigilante, while he had good intentions, could not be trusted; his methods were too violent for Gordon's liking. He stood at the entrance to the alleyway, the snow crunching under his boots and looked up at the sky as snowflakes fell down onto his glasses.
His mind focused on the matter at hand; the murder of Janice Hammond, and the series of murders that had obviously been committed by the same individual and his criminal gang of clown-faced killers. Hopefully, Gordon thought, it would only be a matter of time before this menace, and those who surrounded themselves with him, would be brought to justice.
The motorcycle's front wheel ploughed through a small pile of slush on the road, splashing water onto its rider's trousers. Autumn was coming to a close and winter was soon to kick in, with Gotham receiving its first snowfall since January. White powder lined the pavement, covered the rooftops and dotted the roads where tires had not cleared it. It was beautiful in its own way, despite the harshness and ugliness of the city it fell upon. It was still falling, as it had been all night, and the drifter watched small white dots land on his helmet's visor before quickly melting. Stopping at a set of traffic lights, his eyes followed a group of people crossing the road, hands full with shopping bags; seems like the stores had already stocked up for the holiday season. As the lights transitioned to green, the drifter noticed a man on the pavement to his right, dressed in a thick coat with torn gloves yet still shivering, sat curled up on a sheet of cardboard.
The green light flashed and he sped off. He continued navigating the city, eventually splitting off from the rest of the traffic and following an old, familiar road from which an abandoned railway tunnel was accessible. The motorcycle slowed as it turned into the tunnel, its light bouncing off the wet, dirty walls, covered in graffiti; some of it political and social commentary, whereas some of it were simply obscenities. The drifter continued down the tunnel before veering off and slowing down again as he carefully navigated the bike down a set of stairs, before turning and following the staircase down deeper. Upon reaching the bottom level, he sped up again, beams of light from the end of the tunnel stretching across the walls, ceiling and ground. He slowed down as he approached his destination, the abandoned Wayne Terminus, now his secret workspace. The private train station's bat infestation was the very reason it was discontinued by his parents, as well as serving as the primary inspiration as the motif in the design of his vigilante alter-ego. The wheels rotated less and less before finally coming to a stop and the drifter switched off the engine. He winced as he swung his leg over the bike, grabbing the straps of his backpack and exhaustedly tossing it aside onto a workbench, knocking a set of sharp, bat-shaped cut-outs onto the floor, making like chinking noises as they scattered.
The drifter slumped into a chair before placing both hands on his helmet, undoing the strap and lifting it off his head, revealing a dishevelled Bruce Wayne. His black hair was sweaty and messy, black makeup surrounding his eyes. He breathed heavily, wincing again as he removed his jacket. He had been beaten badly that night, a group of thugs whom he stopped breaking into a car. While better at holding off groups of thugs than he initially was, Bruce struggled to effectively block an armed individual, who swung a crowbar at his shins, knocking him to a ground and leaving him defenceless in a moment of opportunity for the criminals. Vengeance came out on top, but not without a fair share of battle scars. Bruce rolled his trouser leg up as he heard the sound of the lift sliding down to the ground floor. It landed with a hiss and the doors opened, Alfred emerging, dressed immaculately and holding his cane for support as he approached Bruce, a look of concern in his eyes.
"What happened tonight?" Alfred asked bluntly, pulling up a stool and sitting down, watching Bruce's knee closely. A purple mark stretched across his shin.
"Group of car-jackers," Bruce grunted, lightly pressing the bruise, "And a crowbar."
Alfred shook his head, eyes wide as he looked at Bruce. "Jesus, Bruce, it seems that almost every night you go out, you get beat up worse and worse-"
"I didn't get 'beat up'," Bruce interrupted, "They were amateurs. I overpowered them."
"A crowbar!" Alfred exclaimed, "I mean, seriously, one of those in the wrong place could have killed you!"
"I don't fear death, Alfred," Bruce retorted, his voice gravelly as he rolled his trouser leg back down. "I've overcome that."
"Well I do!" Alfred snapped, "What if one night you don't come back? The following morning, the police come here with you, in that ridiculous costume, what am I supposed to do then?"
Bruce glared at him. "All I need is some better armour," he stood up, walking over to his backpack and unzipping it, emptying its contents into a pile on the workbench, "Something sturdier."
Alfred shook his head, his mouth agape at how Bruce seemed to neglect his guardian's feelings. Closing his mouth and sighing, he stood up, balancing on the cane. "If you care to rejoin the world of the Waynes," Alfred announced, "You have been invited to a number of events; a birthday celebration for Mayor Mitchell on the 9th, and a Veterans Day celebration on the 11th."
Bruce scoffed as he arranged his armour, looking for the shin pads he wore; upon finding them, he saw that they had cracked from the impact of the crowbar. "Well, you can tell the Mayor I won't be attending either."
Alfred turned in anger, "For God's sake, Bruce, you've been invited; if I raised you with any manners, you'd go."
The latter half of the sentence riled up Bruce. He had always been reluctant to view Alfred as a father figure; he had a father, and a mother, and they were both dead, he saw it with his own eyes. Despite this, Bruce bit his lip, reluctant to say anything as not to sour the conversation further.
"What better things do you have planned?" Alfred asked, waving his hands in exasperation, "To stay cooped up in here all day? To go out there, beating up criminals?"
Bruce shook his head, sighing before looking up at Alfred. He was too exhausted to continue this conversation. "Fine. I'll be there."
"Good," Alfred replied, "No matter what all... this, is," he motioned at the room, "You're still a Wayne. You need to keep making appearances."
Bruce looked back down as he heard the sound of Alfred's footsteps slowly make their way towards the elevator. The butler gave Bruce, the man he swore to protect, one last desperate look before he left, only to see Master Wayne picking up his notebook, used by Bruce to record his progress on the so-called "Gotham Project". Looking down, he stepped inside the lift and pressed a button, the doors sliding shut with a thud before it whirred back up to the surface. Bruce brushed his fringe out of his eyes with his hand and picked up a pen.
Monday, November 4th
Winter is coming to Gotham city. Snow has been more frequent over the last few days. It makes one almost forget about the ugliness of this city when you see it white, sparkling, picturesque. However, as winter progresses, it will bring on the holiday season, when crime, whether it be looters or robbers, will surely run rampant, taking advantage of Gotham's innocent citizens and businesses in the most profitable season of the year. This vicious cycle has existed for years and is only growing more and more extensive, too big for the city's corrupt police force to handle. I must become a deterrent, to make criminals think twice before they act out.
To do so, essential improvements must be made to my armour. It will need to be more durable if I am to withstand blows from blunt objects. Tonight, I was almost overwhelmed by a group of car-jackers, one equipped with a crowbar. This cannot be allowed to happen again. I cannot become a symbol of fear while simultaneously being so vulnerable. Then again, these are early days, there are bound to be missteps. I am hardly a year into this project, yet I have found that it has become me, like ever since the death of my parents I have been waiting for this opportunity; to get revenge. Despite almost fully abandoning Bruce Wayne, I find that I am continuing my family's legacy in my own way – one that Alfred does not approve of.
A phenomena in the criminal underworld has taken my attention; reports of gangs wearing face-paint, similar to that of a clown's. The reason behind their chosen appearance is unknown – perhaps to start a phenomena or movement. Whatever it is, whoever they work under, they are a danger to the city, committing acts of atrocity the likes of which I have never seen. I know a spot where they frequent, one of the dingy old subway tunnels. As the GCPD are taking too long to take effective action, tomorrow night I will take it into my own hands.
"So how did he get you?" Ben asked as he lit his cigarette. The lighter caused the wet walls of the subway tunnel to flash orange for a moment. Wesley shuffled, the question seeming to cause discomfort.
"C'mon, man, why do I gotta tell ya?" Wesley looked at the floor, slowly kicking his heel against the wall he was leaning against.
"Why not?" Ben asked through the side of his mouth as he took a drag. Wesley sighed before kicking off the wall.
"I got home one day," Wesley explained after taking a deep breath, "The lights were off everywhere in the apartment. I was callin' out for my daughter, you know, I was worried for her..."
Ben nodded while Wesley took another deep breath, shuffling on the spot.
"And then..." Wesley continued, "I heard him, before I saw him. Makin' hushin' sounds at me. He had her, my daughter, with a gun to her head, his hand over her mouth – but I could still hear her cryin'..."
"Damn," Ben sighed, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and holding it between his middle and index fingers, "He's fucked up. He knows how to get to ya..."
"Just..." Wesley asked, looking up as he thought how to ask the question, "How did he get like that? You've seen him, right?"
"I dunno," Ben replied bluntly, "Not the kind of thing I wanna ask him, if I'm honest."
"No, no..." Wesley agreed, nodding his head and looking away, "I mean, not as bad as the stuff he makes us do... let me tell ya, I've had to do some bad things before, but this..."
"Well, you 'n' I both know what he'll do if we don't," Ben warned harshly, raising his voice and pointing a finger at him. Wesley gulped as he nodded, both knowing the answer without needing to say it, and walked back over to the wall, leaning back against it as Ben continued to finish off his cigarette.
Author's Note: Gaps between chapters might be quite long because I want to really put some effort into this fic which means lots of planning and potentially lengthy chapters given that every day in this world will have a chapter dedicated to it. Who knows how long it will take but now I'm probably going to try and get a rough plan for what will happen in the following chapters before developing that plan and then actually writing the chapters. I hope you enjoyed, remember to review!