Chapter 5: Winners and Losers
"Gut shot. Nice, painfully slow way to go," the Joker giggles. He shoves his hand deep into his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The mad clown manages to get to his feet and looks Batman in the eyes, "I didn't know you had it in you."
Alfred's smoking gun remains in Batman's firm grip, the barrel pointing at the Joker's heart.
"I could have run, you know, and lived to fight another day, only I had to be sure," Joker smiles politely as he stares down at his bloodied shirt, "Now I'm sure. Besides, why would I want to end our game so prematurely, especially when it's getting so much better?"
"It's over now," Batman frowns.
"I don't think so," Joker continues. He swallows, hard, before slowly moving on, "You didn't let me tell the joke…you were born when your parents died. You've fought in Gotham night in and night out to save lives, only to see even more join the reaper's ranks. You surrounded yourself with a small army of friends, family, and whatever else you could find, only to watch them suffer through excruciatingly painful deaths as well. Yet through this, all of this, you wouldn't add to the number. You wouldn't kill in order to stop the killing, you wouldn't end it then when your buddies were still around. No. You've decided that now, NOW you're going to do the deed! When it doesn't matter anymore, when there's nothing left to fight for, you find the moxy to end it properly! Funny, eh?" the Joker grins his sadistic smile. "Well, Bruce, do you have what it takes to add the punch-line?"
The Batman's face fills with a look of terror as beads of cold sweat pour down. His hand begins to shake ever so slightly as the trigger is eased back. The Joker's face contorts from a sadistic sneer to a disbelieving, wide-eyed glare, "Son of a…"
Several Technicolor explosions rock the warehouse, followed by hundreds of smaller pops and whizzes. Some nearby crates topple over, lodging themselves between the two adversaries and igniting almost instantaneously. Never one to miss a cue the Joker saunters away from the blaze, and Batman. He feels like laughing, the situation demands it, yet he finds himself unable to. 'Something's changed in Bats alright,' the clown thinks, 'something deeper than the bridge.'
Batman screams in rage on the other side of the fiery barricade as he realizes what he's done. The blaze he had begun in the gauntlet, his means of escape, has now ignited Joker's cache of arms and fireworks and in turned saved the grinning madman as well! His finger repeatedly jerks back on the trigger in sheer frustration and several rounds fly into the crates. His gun now empty the Batman places it on his utility belt. He then grabs Joker's misplaced Tommy gun and runs back, towards Gordon.
Shielding the gun from the flames with his fireproof cape the Batman retraces his steps in breakneck speed as shrapnel darts in and out of the world around him. Explosions have created openings allowing him to bypass the gauntlet and he soon spots his friend, still and unmoving in the circle of light. Without a lost stride he bends down and lifts him. Cradling Gordon in his arms he runs to the nearest loading bay as the air explodes around them both.
"We've got no time to find an exit, Jim, so we'll just have to make one!"
The Batman fires at the metallic bay door in short bursts, one after the other, weakening the metal barrier. He then kicks and punches at the door with desperate efficiency until it gives. Widening the opening he proceeds to drag his unconscious friend out of the burning warehouse and manages to gain 50 yards outside before it completely collapses.
Checking his friend's pulse he's amazed to find James Gordon is still alive. Soon he hears sirens approaching and vanishes into the night. Burnt, shoulder throbbing and body aching he looks on as his friend is taken away in an ambulance…
…
A dark clad figure glares down at the skylight before him and through cowl covered eyes peers into a squalid apartment where several Demonz gang members are meeting. One pulls out a large briefcase full of neatly bundled dollars, while the one next to him smiles broadly.
The glass smashes into thousands of pieces as the intruder's gunfire makes its entrance in the middle of the apartment. Bullets fly with reckless abandon from his Tommy gun, riddling each occupant with enough lead to turn human flesh inside-out. Finally the onslaught halts as a black gloved finger eases off the trigger. His face is covered in a cold sweat; his eyes are blazing as he turns back from the carnage below the skylight and steps into the darkness.
…
Insanity is all about him, and waiting to claim him as well. His lithe body is well concealed by the grey suit and tie, his hair is dark and slicked back, and with the moustache firmly in place none of the inmates should recognize him, yet he still paces across the sparsely decorated office. He can hear them, just beyond the door, screaming at invisible phantoms and cursing existence. How close is he to joining their ranks? A scrawny wisp of a man enters, his face obscured slightly by a pair of glasses and untamed hair. He sits behind the desk and gestures for his grey garbed guest to join him.
"Well, officer?" Dr. Arkham begins, seeking a name to go with his guest's face.
"Detective MacMurtney will do fine, doctor," the man answers in a gruff voice as he unfolds a notepad from his pocket.
Dr. Arkham leans back in his leather chair, "I'm well acquainted with Gotham's finest detectives, as you could imagine, but your name escapes my memory."
MacMurtney smiles dryly, "Just promoted."
Dr. Arkham smirks, "Alright, what do you need 'detective'? We haven't had a single escape since the Joker broke out, and your peers have already questioned us about that. What on earth could you possibly want?"
"The Joker's escape," MacMurtney replies as Dr. Arkham rolls his eyes, "What was the name of his attending doctor at the time?"
Dr. Arkham erupts, "We went through this! Dr. Marcus was as much a victim as anyone! You can't still suspect him of collusion!"
"So he still works here?"
"Of course he does! He's been with us for over 2 years, and is one of the most brilliant and respected men in his field. I think I've been more than gracious. I don't know who you are, but you're no detective. To sit here and answer questions from what is most likely a scandal sheet reporter who's going to sell a few papers at the expense of my Asylum is more than I can bear," Arkham sighs, "I will give you the opportunity to leave with your dignity intact. Fail this and my orderlies will toss you out. Good day!"
MacMurtney smirks and rises from his seat. He walks out of Dr. Arkham's office and soon reaches the street below, where his grin becomes much larger.
…
Detective Harvey Bullock has seen it all. Muggings gone wrong; gang hits; murders of passion; guilt; envy; greed…you name it. 'And this,' he thinks as he surveys the damage of only a few hours ago, 'this is vigilante justice.'
Around him are littered the bodies of seven Demonz members, with an open case containing $100,000 lying in the centre, untouched. The door was locked and unscathed until officers were forced to break it down. His thoughts focus on the task at hand as he reviews the facts. 'No one saw anyone enter or leave the place. Then again, this isn't the kind of neighbourhood where people poke their heads outta their doors at the sound of gunfire. Still, if it was a gang hit, they would have heard something at street level.'
Above is a shattered skylight. 'There are hundreds of shell casings littered on the roof, and no clue of how the perp got up there, or down. The guy(s) would have to be pretty good acrobats to get from up here to the street below. Or he'd have to have a very good grapple.' Something crosses Harvey's mind.
Nearby the coroner is busy at work. Curious, he pauses and looks up at Bullock, "So what've you got this time Harv?"
"Gangs," he replies. 'Come back soon Commish,' he thinks.
…
It's been three weeks since James Gordon was hospitalized after his latest run in with the Joker, three long weeks of pain and agony because of wounds inflicted by his best friend, the Batman. Three long weeks of wondering what has become of the dark knight since that night of absolute hell. Now he's sitting behind his desk, listening to the murmur of a very busy police department beyond the office door. It does him proud to know that he's taken one of the most corrupt departments in the nation and built it up to one of the best during his tenure. 'This is my legacy, Barbara,' he thinks.
Outside the roar of a siren can be heard and it takes every bit of will power he has to remain seated. 'Old habits die hard,' he thinks. Reaching into the desk Gordon removes his revolver and holds it in his left hand. 'I've always been a right shot,' he thinks, 'not a left.' Stubbornly he puts the gun in his right hand. His sling supported right arm, the one that was impaled and suffered nerve damage, aches. The doctors told him it would never function again. He tenaciously wraps his fingers around the gun and winces as sharp needles stab at him. Somehow he holds on and manages to put a finger in the trigger before sub coming to the pain and letting go. Catching the gun with his left he smiles. 'Doctors…'
Someone knocks on his office door and the Commissioner makes out a very large shadow and smiles again, 'Bullock.'
"Come in," he yells.
Det. Bullock enters and ends up smashing the door against a nearby chair. He gives an embarrassed smile and shuts the door, almost slamming it while trying not to trip over the chair. He then sits on the chair and smiles warmly at the Commissior.
"It's good ta' have ya' back, Commish," he starts.
"So, what brings you?" Gordon responds.
"You've got a lot of reports on your desk there, Commish. I wuz just wunderin' if ya' got to mine yet?"
"Afraid not, but since you're here you might as well give me what you've got."
"Sure, I've got something," Harvey begins nervously, "You know of the late night killings that have been going down since you've been away. Hell, everyone does, it's been on the news long enough. I've been blabbing to everyone that it's gangs offin' each other…" he pauses.
Gordon interjects, "But…"
"…but it ain't. Some of the others on the force think I've gone nuts or something, holding this back. Some of them, like Crispus, know it ain't no gang war. There's no pattern, no rivalries, no word on the street to suggest a war, or hit, or rogue member popping buddies. None of that. All the evidence I've been holding back, it all points to something else…" Harvey pauses once more.
"What does it point to?"
"Batman."
The Commissioner rolls his eyes and slouches back into his chair. "You really think it's the Batman?" Gordon asks.
"Well, a lot of it is roof top work, done at night and real neat, with no witnesses. Yeah, I think Bats has lost it."
"I don't think so, my friend," Gordon begins, "I know how you feel about Batman and can see how you'd jump to such a conclusion so easily, only you're wrong. How many times have we had someone dress up as a flying rat to try and discredit him over the years? 20? I've got a huge file on this crap and I really doubt it's our Batman going around and killing gang members."
"You said it yourself, Commish, that he's changed since the bridge. And after the hell you've both been through, well, you've got to admit this is by far the worst case of doubt you've ever had."
"No," Gordon answers quickly, yet softly, shaking his head, "It's not him,"
"Fine, I'll keep at it," Bullock answers as he rises from his seat. "I just thought you should know, is all. I know he's your friend, Commish, and I respect that, really, but he's also a nutcase and I think he's cracked. If I'm right…" Bullock shrugs and walks out of the office. In an uncharacteristic gesture he gently closes the door behind him.
Gordon reaches for the gun on his desk. 'Suddenly, being able to hold one of these doesn't seem as pleasant,' he thinks as he shoves the weapon in his pocket…
TO BE CONTINUED…
"Gut shot. Nice, painfully slow way to go," the Joker giggles. He shoves his hand deep into his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. The mad clown manages to get to his feet and looks Batman in the eyes, "I didn't know you had it in you."
Alfred's smoking gun remains in Batman's firm grip, the barrel pointing at the Joker's heart.
"I could have run, you know, and lived to fight another day, only I had to be sure," Joker smiles politely as he stares down at his bloodied shirt, "Now I'm sure. Besides, why would I want to end our game so prematurely, especially when it's getting so much better?"
"It's over now," Batman frowns.
"I don't think so," Joker continues. He swallows, hard, before slowly moving on, "You didn't let me tell the joke…you were born when your parents died. You've fought in Gotham night in and night out to save lives, only to see even more join the reaper's ranks. You surrounded yourself with a small army of friends, family, and whatever else you could find, only to watch them suffer through excruciatingly painful deaths as well. Yet through this, all of this, you wouldn't add to the number. You wouldn't kill in order to stop the killing, you wouldn't end it then when your buddies were still around. No. You've decided that now, NOW you're going to do the deed! When it doesn't matter anymore, when there's nothing left to fight for, you find the moxy to end it properly! Funny, eh?" the Joker grins his sadistic smile. "Well, Bruce, do you have what it takes to add the punch-line?"
The Batman's face fills with a look of terror as beads of cold sweat pour down. His hand begins to shake ever so slightly as the trigger is eased back. The Joker's face contorts from a sadistic sneer to a disbelieving, wide-eyed glare, "Son of a…"
Several Technicolor explosions rock the warehouse, followed by hundreds of smaller pops and whizzes. Some nearby crates topple over, lodging themselves between the two adversaries and igniting almost instantaneously. Never one to miss a cue the Joker saunters away from the blaze, and Batman. He feels like laughing, the situation demands it, yet he finds himself unable to. 'Something's changed in Bats alright,' the clown thinks, 'something deeper than the bridge.'
Batman screams in rage on the other side of the fiery barricade as he realizes what he's done. The blaze he had begun in the gauntlet, his means of escape, has now ignited Joker's cache of arms and fireworks and in turned saved the grinning madman as well! His finger repeatedly jerks back on the trigger in sheer frustration and several rounds fly into the crates. His gun now empty the Batman places it on his utility belt. He then grabs Joker's misplaced Tommy gun and runs back, towards Gordon.
Shielding the gun from the flames with his fireproof cape the Batman retraces his steps in breakneck speed as shrapnel darts in and out of the world around him. Explosions have created openings allowing him to bypass the gauntlet and he soon spots his friend, still and unmoving in the circle of light. Without a lost stride he bends down and lifts him. Cradling Gordon in his arms he runs to the nearest loading bay as the air explodes around them both.
"We've got no time to find an exit, Jim, so we'll just have to make one!"
The Batman fires at the metallic bay door in short bursts, one after the other, weakening the metal barrier. He then kicks and punches at the door with desperate efficiency until it gives. Widening the opening he proceeds to drag his unconscious friend out of the burning warehouse and manages to gain 50 yards outside before it completely collapses.
Checking his friend's pulse he's amazed to find James Gordon is still alive. Soon he hears sirens approaching and vanishes into the night. Burnt, shoulder throbbing and body aching he looks on as his friend is taken away in an ambulance…
…
A dark clad figure glares down at the skylight before him and through cowl covered eyes peers into a squalid apartment where several Demonz gang members are meeting. One pulls out a large briefcase full of neatly bundled dollars, while the one next to him smiles broadly.
The glass smashes into thousands of pieces as the intruder's gunfire makes its entrance in the middle of the apartment. Bullets fly with reckless abandon from his Tommy gun, riddling each occupant with enough lead to turn human flesh inside-out. Finally the onslaught halts as a black gloved finger eases off the trigger. His face is covered in a cold sweat; his eyes are blazing as he turns back from the carnage below the skylight and steps into the darkness.
…
Insanity is all about him, and waiting to claim him as well. His lithe body is well concealed by the grey suit and tie, his hair is dark and slicked back, and with the moustache firmly in place none of the inmates should recognize him, yet he still paces across the sparsely decorated office. He can hear them, just beyond the door, screaming at invisible phantoms and cursing existence. How close is he to joining their ranks? A scrawny wisp of a man enters, his face obscured slightly by a pair of glasses and untamed hair. He sits behind the desk and gestures for his grey garbed guest to join him.
"Well, officer?" Dr. Arkham begins, seeking a name to go with his guest's face.
"Detective MacMurtney will do fine, doctor," the man answers in a gruff voice as he unfolds a notepad from his pocket.
Dr. Arkham leans back in his leather chair, "I'm well acquainted with Gotham's finest detectives, as you could imagine, but your name escapes my memory."
MacMurtney smiles dryly, "Just promoted."
Dr. Arkham smirks, "Alright, what do you need 'detective'? We haven't had a single escape since the Joker broke out, and your peers have already questioned us about that. What on earth could you possibly want?"
"The Joker's escape," MacMurtney replies as Dr. Arkham rolls his eyes, "What was the name of his attending doctor at the time?"
Dr. Arkham erupts, "We went through this! Dr. Marcus was as much a victim as anyone! You can't still suspect him of collusion!"
"So he still works here?"
"Of course he does! He's been with us for over 2 years, and is one of the most brilliant and respected men in his field. I think I've been more than gracious. I don't know who you are, but you're no detective. To sit here and answer questions from what is most likely a scandal sheet reporter who's going to sell a few papers at the expense of my Asylum is more than I can bear," Arkham sighs, "I will give you the opportunity to leave with your dignity intact. Fail this and my orderlies will toss you out. Good day!"
MacMurtney smirks and rises from his seat. He walks out of Dr. Arkham's office and soon reaches the street below, where his grin becomes much larger.
…
Detective Harvey Bullock has seen it all. Muggings gone wrong; gang hits; murders of passion; guilt; envy; greed…you name it. 'And this,' he thinks as he surveys the damage of only a few hours ago, 'this is vigilante justice.'
Around him are littered the bodies of seven Demonz members, with an open case containing $100,000 lying in the centre, untouched. The door was locked and unscathed until officers were forced to break it down. His thoughts focus on the task at hand as he reviews the facts. 'No one saw anyone enter or leave the place. Then again, this isn't the kind of neighbourhood where people poke their heads outta their doors at the sound of gunfire. Still, if it was a gang hit, they would have heard something at street level.'
Above is a shattered skylight. 'There are hundreds of shell casings littered on the roof, and no clue of how the perp got up there, or down. The guy(s) would have to be pretty good acrobats to get from up here to the street below. Or he'd have to have a very good grapple.' Something crosses Harvey's mind.
Nearby the coroner is busy at work. Curious, he pauses and looks up at Bullock, "So what've you got this time Harv?"
"Gangs," he replies. 'Come back soon Commish,' he thinks.
…
It's been three weeks since James Gordon was hospitalized after his latest run in with the Joker, three long weeks of pain and agony because of wounds inflicted by his best friend, the Batman. Three long weeks of wondering what has become of the dark knight since that night of absolute hell. Now he's sitting behind his desk, listening to the murmur of a very busy police department beyond the office door. It does him proud to know that he's taken one of the most corrupt departments in the nation and built it up to one of the best during his tenure. 'This is my legacy, Barbara,' he thinks.
Outside the roar of a siren can be heard and it takes every bit of will power he has to remain seated. 'Old habits die hard,' he thinks. Reaching into the desk Gordon removes his revolver and holds it in his left hand. 'I've always been a right shot,' he thinks, 'not a left.' Stubbornly he puts the gun in his right hand. His sling supported right arm, the one that was impaled and suffered nerve damage, aches. The doctors told him it would never function again. He tenaciously wraps his fingers around the gun and winces as sharp needles stab at him. Somehow he holds on and manages to put a finger in the trigger before sub coming to the pain and letting go. Catching the gun with his left he smiles. 'Doctors…'
Someone knocks on his office door and the Commissioner makes out a very large shadow and smiles again, 'Bullock.'
"Come in," he yells.
Det. Bullock enters and ends up smashing the door against a nearby chair. He gives an embarrassed smile and shuts the door, almost slamming it while trying not to trip over the chair. He then sits on the chair and smiles warmly at the Commissior.
"It's good ta' have ya' back, Commish," he starts.
"So, what brings you?" Gordon responds.
"You've got a lot of reports on your desk there, Commish. I wuz just wunderin' if ya' got to mine yet?"
"Afraid not, but since you're here you might as well give me what you've got."
"Sure, I've got something," Harvey begins nervously, "You know of the late night killings that have been going down since you've been away. Hell, everyone does, it's been on the news long enough. I've been blabbing to everyone that it's gangs offin' each other…" he pauses.
Gordon interjects, "But…"
"…but it ain't. Some of the others on the force think I've gone nuts or something, holding this back. Some of them, like Crispus, know it ain't no gang war. There's no pattern, no rivalries, no word on the street to suggest a war, or hit, or rogue member popping buddies. None of that. All the evidence I've been holding back, it all points to something else…" Harvey pauses once more.
"What does it point to?"
"Batman."
The Commissioner rolls his eyes and slouches back into his chair. "You really think it's the Batman?" Gordon asks.
"Well, a lot of it is roof top work, done at night and real neat, with no witnesses. Yeah, I think Bats has lost it."
"I don't think so, my friend," Gordon begins, "I know how you feel about Batman and can see how you'd jump to such a conclusion so easily, only you're wrong. How many times have we had someone dress up as a flying rat to try and discredit him over the years? 20? I've got a huge file on this crap and I really doubt it's our Batman going around and killing gang members."
"You said it yourself, Commish, that he's changed since the bridge. And after the hell you've both been through, well, you've got to admit this is by far the worst case of doubt you've ever had."
"No," Gordon answers quickly, yet softly, shaking his head, "It's not him,"
"Fine, I'll keep at it," Bullock answers as he rises from his seat. "I just thought you should know, is all. I know he's your friend, Commish, and I respect that, really, but he's also a nutcase and I think he's cracked. If I'm right…" Bullock shrugs and walks out of the office. In an uncharacteristic gesture he gently closes the door behind him.
Gordon reaches for the gun on his desk. 'Suddenly, being able to hold one of these doesn't seem as pleasant,' he thinks as he shoves the weapon in his pocket…
TO BE CONTINUED…