Why Men Fight Wars

Crest Residence, Gotham City

11:42 a.m, November 19

Not long ago the wealthy Damien Crest had bought his own property on Gotham City after deciding to stay for just a while longer. He shouldn't have come in the first place, but now it was too late. His roots were planted, and he felt the urge to complete a new self appointed task. All the running was over, only a firm stand would resolve his issue.

The property was an elegant and rich house quite large in size. Much like Wayne Manor itself, it was secluded from the city and had a spot on the much more greener side of Gotham City. However, unlike Wayne Manor, the size of Damien Crest's new residence was nowhere in comparison. Though it was also an old Victorian style Manor much like Wayne Manor, the size of the yards were quite lacking in comparison. The Crest residence was also a few rooms short of comparison. However, each room that was present in the house was decorated in the most ornate fashion.

It had been a while since Bruce Wayne had last met Damien. The terms were much more favorable then. After the death of his personal aid, there never seemed to be a favorable time. Both men were busy, and neither were very feeling in the mood for social meetings. But Bruce decided to try and study his new fellow citizen so he could understand him better. He also remembered what Jim Gordon said last night, and kept that deep into consideration. Damien could one day become his enemy if anything else was to go wrong, and for that he had to be prepared. And as the great Sun Tzu had once said, "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer."

Damien greeted Bruce by the door as he dropped by in a limousine.

"Hey, Bruce. It's been a while," he welcomed casually as if they had been friends for a long time.

"How have things gone so far?"

"Oh, not too bad. Things should shape up."

"Look, I'm sorry I wasn't around to help. Especially with Dina gone and all..." apologized Bruce.

"Don't sweat. It's not your fault."

"So, how is the house going?" Came Bruce veering both their minds away from the tragic topic.

"Oh, things are going good so far. The furniture guys deserve a lot of credit because they're the ones actually hauling all this crap I bought into the house. Oh, you want to look around the house?"

"Sure."

As Bruce was led to the main hall, he was impressed with all the paintings hung on the wall. Though drawn in styles very diverse and exotic from each other, they all shared a same underlying theme; war. The piece that greeted him on the entrance was Tom Lovell's Battle of Hasting, on the kitchen was The Battle of Gettysburg, and the living room had two large paintings of two different campaigns. One was Stalingrad, and it was represented by a supply of German troops all armed with MP40s around their arms and a grimmacing smile across their cheeks, totting bullets blindly across the painting. Flame was seen coming from an oilfield that lay close in background as a probable cause to contact with a bullet represented by a dotted line. The field appeared on the vrge of annihilation yet the German soldiers represented in the painting stood close by unwilling to look at their own fumbles behind them but glaring instead at the bottom of the drawing which was a small piece of land with the word "World" written across in bold.

The second was the siege of Takamatsu. Japanese soldiers could be seen storming into a castle under the defense of archers who had managed to kill many on the ground, which was what the image focused on. There wasn't much detail as to the castlemen who seemed to be standing up in an unreachable tower firing a range of arrows with ease to the offensive. The artist devoted his skills to show the faces of the soldiers soldiers stabbed with arrows, and their last move before dying an expendible death.

Out of all the rooms he had introduced to Bruce, there was one he felt especially proud of because of all the ways he had personally changed it.

"Welcome to the range," he said.

It was a few stairs below the house in the basement stretched six or seven yards straight. The basement had soundproofed doors and windows so the shrill of gunshots would never leave the room. There was a rack next to the entrance stacked with all kinds of guns, most of them sidearms. The basement was lit fairly bright. Flourescent bulbs placed on every corner of the room gave a crystal white display hiding nothing underneath any layer of dark.

Damien took note of Bruce observing all the weapons placed accordingly in their designated spot. "I guess you can say I'm somewhat of a collector. You ever been on a shooting range?"

Bruce shaked his head slowly. "No, I haven't. I don't really believe in guns." The interests of his host disturbed Bruce, mostly because they had such different viewpoints and taste, and yet they could have been the same. Like brothers from another side of the world sharing the pain that connects them. But it wasn't nearly like that. They each took paths so far down the road from each other that there was no way for one to relate with the other. "I think they're a cowards weapon," he said, not realizing until after. It was completely abrupt, he thought aloud by a fluke and now that he heard himself he wished he had kept his thoughts to himself. The host would have obviously been insulted.

Instead, Damien expressed a light smile. "Is that what you think?" He wasn't the least bit offended. It was a free country after all, people should have the right to say what they want. "A weapon is a weapon Bruce, they all work to achieve a common goal."

'You could not be more wrong,' Bruce said silently to himself this time watching his mouth so his mind wouldn't flitter off and cause him a second embarassment. 'The pen is much mightier than the sword. One ends war, the other only provokes it.'

A ringing tone came alive from Bruce's pocket. He slid a hand under and retrieved a black coated cellular phone.

"Hello?" he spoke into it. It spoke back. "Yeah, okay. Sure we can talk now," then the phone went dead. Bruce turned to Damien who already had his back turned observing lusciously at his rack of guns. "I got to go, I'm sorry. Something important just came up."

"Yeah sure," replied Damien in a tone that carried not even the slightest bit of dissapointment.

As Bruce Wayne was about to leave the basement of the Crest residence, he stumbled upon yet another painting hanging a few inches on top of the basement door itself. It was a cloud and there were people in it. A rusty old man with a giant hammer and a vengeful face was standing on top of the clouds in the center of the picture and around him were allies both male and female alike with different arms of their own protecting him from a pair of grotesque red minions climbing their way onto the clouds. The battle was clearly mythological, as indicated by the embellished surrealism exposed in the author's painting. A battle of the gods. Ironically though, it was also the most supreme.

Arlen Hesque's All you can eat, Gotham City

1:04 p.m

The restaurant was relatively close to the police department only a few three or four blocks away. Most of the men in uniform enjoyed stopping by on lunch occasions because it was so close from the workspace, and not to mentions cheap. It didn't hurt to be a cop either. The manager always had a lot of respect for the hard working social servants of America, so he occasionally expressed his gratitude by offering discounts to any customer in a uniform.

Jim Gordon wasn't one to accept charities though. And even if he was, his police uniform was hanging in a closet at home, not that he couldn't get the special treatment by flashing his badge, but again, Jim Gordon wasn't one to accept charities.

He sat by the window because it was the only seat that hadn't been occupied. Lunch hours were extremely active at Arlen's, a lot more so than any other occasion.

In front of the police commisioner was a wooden table holding a plate of spaghetti with slices of garlic on top both fried in tomato sauce. He curled the noodles with a fork and carried it into his mouth.

A man dressed in a black suit invited himself over to a free chair in Gordon's table. He was missing a tie and his collar was unbottoned.

"How have things been lately?" Gordon asked curiously.

Governor Ellis replied, "Things have been alright. In fact they might be getting better."

"Yea, how's that?"

Again, like talking to him a few days ago ever since his drastic move, Ellis did not feel very comfortable. Jim Gordon was a good man and his intentions had always been for the best, but regardless he wanted no more talking about Damien Crest. Jim was probably still mad at the decision, but he would have to understand the new terms and move on if he wanted to keep his post.

"Well, budgets grown up and things in the office are getting a lot better. How is Barbara?"

Jim couldn't take it anymore. Initially when Ellis had called his office for a friendly chat to set things straight, he had high hopes that they could get along again like old times and maybe he could knock some sense into the man without raising a voice. But he felt betrayed from within, from his own people. No pills or medicine would ever cure a wound that deep.

"I am still highly against what you're doing here Ellis."

Ellis wouldn't have expected the meet to go any other way. Somehow he knew that Damien would once more be the central theme of their conversations. This was the only way to get it behind them once and for all. Jim would be a high expense to the Gotham City Police Department, but if things were to end that way, then so be it.

"Jim," said Ellis. "We talked about this. Things have been better for us ever since I made that call. I didn't let you in because I knew what you would say, and we had to make this call. We've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. He'll do good Jim, he just lost a dear friend, don't you trust the man to lead the people up? That's why he wanted this responsibility. He's a good guy Jim."

"Is that so? You remember the night his personal aid was killed? There was a kid there less than fifteen years old, shot on the leg and the head by the same gun registered to the guy."

"It was self defense Jim. These kids, some carry guns and fight like brutal soldiers."

"This was no self defense. How do you figure a kid with a bullet on the leg is going to have the strength to do anything but scream?"

"We are not having this conversation."

Jim's nerves started to rattle about like a fish pulled off from sea. 'That man should be in prison, no matter what he lost. He shouldn't have even been carrying a gun.' Of all the thoughts he had revolving around his mind, the only one he cared to mention to the governor before leaving the restaurant was, "When things go bad, and I mean really bad, it'll be all your fault."

Arkham Asylum, Gotham City

2:12 p.m

Jack Napier was growing restless in his cell. He began counting all the restless nights that he spent dreaming of yet another escape and his next fight with the one bat who always seemed to find a way of putting him back. Things would have to change, and soon. If they didn't, he would be locked up even longer and under much more watch, making escape more and more difficult. He would have to find another way of getting out into the world, and a way of ridding the world of that bat that always brought him back. One day the doors would have to be shut forever.

His cell was a tiny room with no windows or any view stretching to the outside world. The closest thing was a glass window on the door to his room that gave a peek to anyone who passed by, whether they be guests, staff workers, or a batch of his fellow madmen.

Today there was a man who passed. But he did'nt pass by, he just walked casually and brought himself to a halt upon seeing the Joker's face through the bulletproof glass. He looked at him differently than all the other people who ever saw at him. Instead of showing fear or any kind of ill threat like everyone else had, this strange man watched with eyes of anger, disgust, and grievance. An entirely different man this was, nobody ever saw the Joker that way when they looked at his face, not even Batman himself. Batman always showed at least a faint sign of remorse and pity no matter what the circumstances. He would never put him in danger's way. This man on the other hand, this fiend, watched the Joker as if killing him would be the only thing answer to brighten his day.