26th June 1999,
10.45PM, Gotham City, Park Row
Two men sat in a weather beaten 1966 Chevrolet El Camino. The passenger was a lean, hatchet-faced man with short brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in his face. He was Joe Chill, one of the most ruthless enforcers in Gotham. At present he was nervously eyeing the exit door of the building they were parked next to.
The driver was much younger. His blonde hair was clipped short and straight like the bristles on a brush. He was much brawnier than his companion, and taller too. On his meaty shoulder was a tattoo of a black crest depicting a silver saber and two crossed arrows. His thick fingers drummed idly on the steering wheel.
His name was Arnold Flass. He was a former Green Beret, dishonorably discharged. Now he made his living as a driver and bodyguard for the Falcone crime family. He was an up-and-comer,making a name for himself in a few months as a reliable man. He was marked for a higher role in service to the Family.
Tonight was the first night the two would be working together.
It smelled of stale cigarettes and vodka in the cabin. The radio blared Aerosmith's 'Don't Want To Miss A Thing',drowning out the sound of the rain that was coming down outside.
The car looked old. The paint had once been a bright cherry red, but now it was a dull maroon and one of the doors was white. Anyone walking down the street that night would have found it markedly strange sitting among the monochromatic rows of European luxury cars. But underneath the hood was a brand new suspension system and a powerful turbocharged V12 engine mated to a large nitrous oxide cylinder. Even the fastest news chopper in Gotham would have a hard time keeping up.
It was parked outside the Harlequin's Cinema on Park Row, the street often nicknamed 'Gotham's Broadway' because of the numerous Theatre's. The song on the radio ended, and it cut to the host rambling about how the millenium was fast approaching and how everyone should repent.
"How old are you kid?"
"24 sir."
"You don't have to call me sir."
"Alright."
"So. You got a name?"
"Flass."
"Billy told me you were in the Army. Special Forces."
"Yes si... I was a Green Beret."
"Seen any action?"
"Not as much as I'd have liked. Mostly training."
"Why'd you get discharged?"
"Officially? I developed a heart defect after I got injured in a live fire training exercise. Really it was because I was selling drugs."
Joe chuckled.
"Not what you think. PED's."
"What the hell are those?"
"Cocktails of steroids,painkillers, beta-blockers. Stuff like that. To help with recovery and enhance performance."
"Huh. Is the job that hard on the body?"
"Yeah, but by the time you finish the Q-course you feel invincible. For a recruit just starting out though, it's hell. Months of dealing with stress fractures, tendonitis, joint and muscle pain,elevated heart rates,fatigue,dehydration. And that's just what the daily physical training does to you. So yeah, a lot of them are customers."
"Damn. So how did they get around drug tests? Those must've been pretty regular."
"Well, I was one of the PT instructors, so I could switch their urine and blood samples,forge medical documents if necessary. Nothing to it."
Joe whistled.
"Bad luck getting caught I guess." He said as he lit a cigarette.
"No. I was careless. I got greedy. I made enough the first few cycles, I should have dropped out while it was still good. Instead I roped in some of the recruits thinking they could help me make more. I should have known better than to trust rookies."
"Hey, that's the price of ambition,sometimes you get burned. Still, we could use a guy like you Flass."
"Thanks, but no. I figure I work this job for a few months to get some financing, then I go to the police academy."
"Why waste youself as a cop?"
"Who says I'm wasting myself? I can't go back to the military. And I like being an inside man."
The man smiled and nodded with understanding. "Infiltrate them. Smart move."
They sat in silence for a few moments as the radio played commercials.
"There's Wayne." Flass said.
The leaner man turned, peeking through the rain streaked windshield to see his target. His stomach felt unusually cold and heavy. Flass punched him on the shoulder.
"Good luck man." he heard him say as if from a great distance. He opened the car door, flicking the cigarette butt into a puddle of water underneath him as he exhaled a final stream of smoke.
He lagged behind the trio at first, trying to stay out of sight. They were about to cross the road. There was a charcoal grey Mercedes SLK coupe parked on the other side of the road,which he and Flass had tailed hours earlier and knew to be Wayne's car.
If he didn't act soon he would miss his chance.
Wait.
The kid,pulling on his father's arm. He wants ice cream. Or a hot dog or pop corn or candy. Something. Joe can't tell, really he doesn't care.
I won't lose any sleep from slapping daddy around in front of the spoiled brat, he thought as he eyed the shiny wristwatch on the boy's hand.
I never even had a pair of underwear when I was the kid's age.
It'll teach these Blue Bloods, with their picture-perfect cookie-cutter Ken & Barbie lives, that money doesn't make them invincible.
He moves closer.
The kid sees him first. A brief glance, but he takes no notice of him.
He moves closer.
The father looks up. He senses danger immediately. He stands before the boy protectively. His arm is outstretched.
"Martha..." he says with a tone of warning. She turns,brushing her short hair aside, the smile on her pretty face fading as she notices Joe.
He raises the sawn off Remington 870 shotgun that he had been concealing behind his back, cocking it.
Perfect ice-breaker.
"Give me the pearls lady." He says in his best menacing growl.
Her hands tremble as she works to unfasten the necklace. He studies her keenly. She is slightly taller than him even though she is wearing flats,with a wasp like waist. She was very beautiful. He had never seen her outside of newspapers or a TV screen. He wondered how a woman like her found herself with a brown-nosing busybody like Wayne. Maybe nice guys didn't always finish last. If they were really rich, smart, and handsome to boot. Her eyes were on the gun as she unfastened the necklace and handed it over.
He was enjoying this. On any other day a stone cold fox like her would never give him so much as a cursory glance, but now he held the power over life and death he was all she cared to look at.
"Earrings too. Hurry up!" He barked, gesturing impatiently with the shotgun.
Instinctively Martha's hand flew out to protect her son.
Rather uncharacteristically, Joe panicked, his finger squeezing the trigger reflexively. The gun went off like a cannon in his hand, and the pellets ripped through Martha's gut. She reached a hand up to her stomach where patches of blood began to appear on her peach colored dress. There was no sound except the echo of the shot and the soft patter of rain.
Like a man possessed,or stuck in a dream,he finds he cannot stop. He pulls back on the slide again, unloading another shot into her torso. Everything happens as if in slow motion. As she falls back, a look of utter surprise and despair on her face, Wayne screams like a wounded animal.
"Nooooooooooooo!" He caught her before she fell. He could feel the hot blood gushing from her body.
"You're going to be all right Martha.. Just keep pressure on the wounds.."
"My sweet Thomas.. ever the optimist.." She gasped with pain.
"Just hold on honey."
"I...I can't.." Tears of frustration streaked down her cheeks. She sobbed.
"Thomas... My love..."she whispered weakly.
"Ssh.. I'm not going anywhere Martha."
"Bruce..Where is he?" she asked hoarsely.
"Here." Thomas said, fighting back tears. He wouldn't cry. Not now.
"I love you both...so so much.." She said weakly.
Her bloodied hands touched the faces of the two people she loved most one final time, then they fell limp.
Thomas Wayne bowed his head in sorrow, then he slowly rose and faced the gunman.
Instinctively Joe knew what was about to happen. Wayne's mustache was literally quivering with rage and his face had gone deadly pale. He fired a shot into Wayne's torso as he charged madly at him,horrified when the man only slowed but didn't stop.
He fired 2 more shots straight into Wayne's torso in quick succession, downing the bigger man just before he reached him. Wayne fell on his knees,his mouth gurgling with blood, his white shirt stained red all across the front. The child scuttled close to his dying father when he motioned for him to come closer. There was a dumbfounded expression on his face.
"Bruce..Be strong..I...I'm sorry..I love you...S.. .."Thomas gasped suddenly, and lay still,his eyes turning glassy.
Joe exhaled at last, vapor clouding before his face. The blood was already starting to seep out of their bodies. So much of it. The rain washes it away slowly, draining it into the sewer. He can hear the engine of the El Camino roaring.
Time to go.
He looked at the child, recoiling at his expression.
All this time, the kid had been stock-still. But he had been staring at Joe with a look of intense contempt. There was a raging inferno of hatred behind those steel grey eyes. He had seen the same look in the father's eyes. He had seen the same look in countless men's eyes. The smouldering fires of revenge. They would burn forever. He knew right then that he should kill the kid.
But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It was bad enough he killed the parents... And it wasn't like the kid could ID him. Assuming he was caught. There was no real need to kill him, was there?.
He looked at the child again, saw the hate etched into every line of his face. He raises the gun slowly. The boy doesn't even blink.
No, I won't kill the kid. Some lines you just don't cross.
That was when he noticed that the hotdog guy was at the payphone across the street, probably calling the police. Joe pulled the cap and hoodie lower down over his head and sprinted to the car. He jumped in.
"What the fuck man?! You weren't supposed to ice them!"
"Shut up and drive!"
Flass floored the accelerator and the car tore off up the street with its tires squealing, leaving smoke and blaring car alarms in its wake.
Bruce Wayne was left alone with the bodies of his parents. He clasped their hands,which were still warm.
"Mom. Dad. Wake up." He shook them. no response. "Mommy. Daddy. Wake up now."
The hotdog man finally felt safe enough to step out of the phone booth, hanging up his call. He walked over to where the bodies lay.
"Uh, son... You should probably get out of the rain now. I've called the Police, they're on their way. Kid?"
"They do this every time." Bruce said.
"Sorry?"
"They pretend they'll never wake up. They do it with me everytime I wake them up on Christmas morning. They'll wake up, you'll see."
The hotdog man sighed sadly. He looked at the corpses, recognizing their faces.
"Holy... Is that... And... Oh my god..." He said as he realized he had borne witness to a high profile assassination.
"Mommy, Daddy, it's not funny anymore. Wake up!" Their hands were cold now.
"Um.. Kid.. Uh.. I think they're.." He found himself unable to say the words as the boy looked up at him with desperation, then pain, then sudden comprehension on his young face.
Bruce felt hot tears of rage and helplessness running down his face. He wept bitterly, with such intensity that even the hotdog vendor felt he was intruding and retreated several steps back.
Eventually, he stopped. He became aware of the rain pounding down on him, the flash of camera's, the whine of Police sirens, the babble of voices.
He went through it all, the interviews with the Police, the talks with the family lawyers, the talk with the Police trauma therapist as if in a trance.
The bodies had hardly been identified before everyone started referring to him as Mr Wayne, though he was still a child.
When he finally got home, Alfred had no words for him, merely resting a hand on his shoulder for a few moments.
That night Bruce made a solemn vow that he would get his revenge. No matter how long it took, no matter what it cost him, no matter the odds, he would accept the challenge. As he drifted off to sleep,not quite tired but craving any form of respite, his last thought was the bright blue pair of eyes that peeked out at him from the folds of the hooded jacket, like spotlights in the dark.
Present Day,
11.15PM, Gotham City
The man sat inside his black BMW X6, watching the rain streak across his windshield. The heaters were on and he felt comfortable in his wool gloves and thick coat.
He studied his reflection in the windshield of his car. He was dressed well, the clothes tasteful and expensive. He learned over the years that the more professional you look and act the more bargaining power you have. His face was lined, wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His salt and pepper hair was becoming more salt than pepper. He adjusted his prescription eyeglasses.
He felt uneasy. This was going to be his first arms deal with metahumans. This new wave of criminals was a mystery to him. Most of them seemed to lack the greed for money and power the average crook had. He missed the old days. Sure, by the 80's and 90's crime had changed, but it was about bribing more people or being smarter. The focus was still making lots of money. This new breed of criminal seemed to want chaos for the sake of it. People were into ideologies now,or rather they were into ideologies again, so the battlefield was changing. Now it was all about hacking. Bio-terrorism. Eco-terrorism in the case of that crazy hot botanist,and all sorts of other stuff that he just didn't understand.
And it wasn't just that. Things were getting strange these past few years. Gotham wasn't a safe place to do business anymore. He had been losing more money and more customers ever since Batman showed up on the scene, forcing him to deal more and more with the type of people that made even his skin crawl.
Over the years he had sold to mercenaries of every race and religion. Some of the roughest looking men-and a few very rare women-he had ever seen, with a cold gleam in their eyes that made them look more like predatory animals than human beings. They came from everywhere. From Libya to Ukraine.
He had met with bearded jihadi's in places so bare and desolate he wondered how they ever got anything done. He wondered too at the irony of men who bought munitions that hailed from and were crafted by the very people they professed to hate and wanted to exterminate. They were foreign based cells of course. If one of the men aboard the ill fated 9/11 Airliner had so much as brandished a pistol he had sold, the guilt would have killed him.
Even an arms dealer had to pick and choose.
He had sold .50cals and AK's to the rebel groups that controlled natural resources in Central Africa,receiving several large uncut diamonds as payment. He had sold to the drug cartels in South America who wanted to arm their men with weapons as sophisticated as that of their elite law enforcement officers.
All that changed when Superman and all the rest showed up. 'Super'heroes and their offshoots were making damn near everything obsolete. How was he supposed to sell guns when some guy was up all night every night beating on his customers with a dedication bordering on mental illness?
He just didn't see himself fitting in this new world. Foremost of the fears in his mind was the thought of Batman running into him and kicking his teeth in. He had never actually experienced anything directly, but he had heard stories about his former associates, some of whom were attacked personally. The stories weren't pretty, and more than a few of them spent months in hospital recovering from their encounters. It was highly unlikely that would happen to him though. Gotham was a big town, the Bat would likely be somewhere else. What were the chances he would be out here on this dock, tonight?
Anyway, soon he wouldn't have to worry about that. If this deal went through he'd have enough to get squared away without worrying about his kids college tuition or his father's medical bills.
He checked the time on his Breitling impatiently. An hour and 47 minutes. Unbelievable. That was another thing with this new breed. No respect.
As if on cue, one large truck led by one motorcycle appeared, the bike in the lead flashed its light 3 times.
He leaned over and flashed his headlights in response.
The car doors opened and two men stepped out of the truck.
From his position on the rafters he could see everything.
He could see no weapons, but he assumed they were armed. They all had beefy builds. He zoomed in with his cowl lenses. One was tall, heavily tattooed. The other was shorter and darker, he was much more muscular.
The man who was clearly the leader stepped off of his bike and walked forward. He took off his helmet, revealing shoulder length brown hair. He walked forward and the older man did the same with an extended hand.
"I believe you're Bird?"
He winced slightly under his very firm handshake.
"Correct. Joe Chill?"
The man nodded slowly.
Bird motioned to the two men just behind him. "This is Trogg, and this is Zombie. My associates tell me you're the go-to guy for anyone that wants weapons. Said you got some top notch military grade toys."
"Your associates were correct. I trust you have the money?"
Bird looked back at the truck with a sarcastic gesture.
"Yes."
"May I see it?"
"Look, this isn't the fucking UPS old timer. I'm not going to bring it to your door and put it under your rug. You got what we need?"
Joseph laughed tonelessly. "Ease up friend. I got what you need and then some. Come, let's speak inside." He motioned to a large warehouse.
Inside, there were several armed men standing guard and a few others unloading crates from a large container.
Bird walked over to one of the crates, running his hands over the iron box.
"Let me get you a crowbar..."Joseph said as he turned his head to his men.
There was a shrieking, tearing sound as Bird gripped the lid of the crate and wrenched it open with his bare hands. Joseph turned back, trying very hard to conceal his shock. Bird dropped the heavy metal lid on the ground.
"Beautiful."He said as he picked up a Javelin Anti-Tank Missile Launcher.
"For $80,000 a piece, I should think so. It wasn't easy to get them either."
There was another loud, ripping sound as Bird opened the second crate. Joseph blinked his shock away, licking his lips nervously.
"M590's. One of the best shotgun rifles on the market. 12 gauge,pump action. Also got M1014's, 12 gauge, semi-automatic. That'll blow through most all body armor. Grenade launchers come free with all rifles. That M2 .50cal is ex-special forces. It's got promethium tipped armor piercing rounds that could cut through the presidents limo. Comes with an M203 40mm grenade launcher. Heavy machine guns that can be mounted on vehicles as requested. We got light machine guns too. M249 SAWs, 5.56mm,should rip through most obstacles. Sniper rifles of all kinds, MK 12's and MK 110's. Pistols of course, M9 Beretta's, and a bonus, Sig Sauer P228's. Those were especially hard to get, but they're the best. We've also got standard assault rifles, AK-47's. AR-15's."
"Excellent. Trogg, show the man his goods."
The most thickly muscled of the men grunted and brought several duffel bags out.
Joe and his henchmen exchanged glances.
"Is this a joke? Unless those are gold bricks, you boys are way short."
"Oh they're gold bricks all right." Bird said humorously.
He bent down. Dozens of cocaine bricks.
Joe had worked himself into a slow rage, dropping all pretence of his calm, dignified bearing.
"What the fuck is this?" He asked icily.
"We can't get you cash right now, but that Bolivian marching powder right there is worth at least 3 times what we owe you. Consider it a favor."
He had enough. He pulled out his Glock 30 and cocked the slide. There was a series of clicks and locks as his men moved to do the same behind him with their weapons.
"Now listen here junior, this just won't do. First of all, you come here late, make me wait almost 2 hours. Then when you do show up, you're rude. As if that's not insult enough, you pay me with drugs? Am I supposed to sell that shit? I mean do I look like a fucking dopeman? You boys think you're hot shit because you got powers. Let me tell you, I've been around the block a few times. Whoever you are, Gotham will chew you up and shit you out."
"We don't need advice from a two-bit hustler." Trogg spoke for the first time. His voice was unnaturally deep.
"Fucking meta's." Joe said.
Without hesitation he shot Trogg in the kneecap. Trogg only staggered back one step, then he smiled coldly.
"What the fuck?" Joe said.
If ever there was a time to strike, he thought as he descended upon them, its now. His cape fluttered like leathery wings around him. He smashed through the glass windows on the ceiling, raining shards of glass down below, causing chaos. As he fell he threw an EMP batarang at the fuse box and it exploded with bright sparks. The dark room was filled with cries of alarm and soon erupted with the muzzle flash of rifles and pistols as the men opened fire.
"Don't shoot you idiots!" Chill shouted.
The shooting halted abruptly.
"It's the Batman." One of the men said with certainty.
"Who?" Bird asked.
"Me." A gravelly voice beside him said. His face exploded with light as Batman punched him hard with a perfectly executed uppercut. He seemed to float in the air for a few seconds, then the back of his head cracked painfully against the ground. He rose slowly,his mind reeling. He had never been hit so hard in his life. He tasted blood in his mouth, and he could feel it running from his nose. His head felt strange. He suspected he had a mild concussion. If it wasn't for his enhanced state he would surely have passed out from the pain alone. His pants were warm. He realized he had momentarily lost bladder control.
"Goddamn.." He gasped as he tottered backwards and onto his feet, stunned. "..Motherfucker made me piss myself-" An elbow to the face quickly put Bird out of commission, and he collapsed in a heap.
"What was that?!"
"Stay calm."
"What the fuck was that?"
"I said stay cal-"
"Mike? Mike?"
Silence.
"Oh God! Oh please oh God No! Please! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!-"
The room exploded with gunfire again. Batman kept to the shadows, sprinting between crates and throwing his batarangs towards the gunmen.
"Jesus christ! It's like he's everywhere! Fuck it,I'm out!"the man shouted. He ran blindly out of the room, falling flat on his face as thick bolas twirled around his arms and legs.
"Fuck!" He roared as he felt the blood gush hotly from his nose. He rolled around on the ground in a futile effort to free himself. A boot came down on his face,
Surrounded by 8 men was a cloaked figure he could only assume was Batman, pounding his henchmen into the pavement with frightening ease. Three men screamed as they were hit with a powerful burst of electric current from his gauntlet. He dropped a smoke pellet as soon as he dispatched the 3, and attacked the remaining five men under the cover of smoke, rendering them all unconscious in seconds.
"Zombie, get the truck. I'll get Bird. We're getting the hell out of here and leaving all the stuff behind. This job is screwed." Zombie nodded and sprinted off towards the truck as Trogg picked up Bird and followed suit.
Batman turned just as the truck roared off. He could call the car, give chase. Or he could secure the weapons, drugs and scene until the Police arrived.
"Help. Help me." It was faint, barely audible. He walked over to the source of the voice.
"Help. I've been shot real bad. Call 911 or something."
Batman crouched down, looking into the man's face, then he studied his wounds. He was breathing heavily. Already he was shivering and turning pale from blood loss. His white cotton shirt was now wine red. He was going into shock, he would almost certainly die, unless he got immediate medical attention.
"What are you waiting for? Help me!"
"Do you know who I am, Joe Chill?"
"You're the Batman."
"Yes. But before I became the Batman, I was someone else. Something else."
Chill was getting nervous. There was something strange about his voice.
He took off his cowl, slowly exposing his face. Chill's blue eyes never leaving his face.
"How about now?" his voice sounded like its usual self.
Chill laughed, to Bruce's evident surprise.
"Well shit. Bruce Wayne. Yeah. Now I remember. So you became Batman, huh? Makes perfect sense now that I think about it. Who else had the reason and resources?"
"Hindsight." Bruce said.
"I guess we both grew into something else over the years." he said with a lucid smile. Then his face turned somber.
"I knew I should have killed you that day. Well don't look so surprised kid. What did you expect, for me to weep and beg for mercy? I've had a long time to come to terms with all the evil shit I've done."
Chill laughed again, then coughed violently and spat out some blood.
"For what it's worth, I never did mean to kill them. I fucked up is all. I was scared shitless of your dad. He was a powerful guy in his day."
"I'm touched by your apology." Bruce said flatly.
"Hey, I did you a favor. A billion dollar inheritance and no one to tell you what to do with it."
Joe Chill suddenly found himself laying on his side. Bright spots danced before his eyes and his jaw throbbed painfully. He moaned and spat out 2 shattered molars with a slimy coat of blood and saliva. He blinked the spots away and realised he was crying.
"Please don't... Don't hurt me..."
"Believe me, it's taking every ounce of my energy to stop myself from doing that. Go on with your story. Why him?"
"Yeah.. It was Falcone that hired me... Something about your dad wouldn't play ball with Loeb..." He was fading. Bruce shoved his fingers into the gunshot wounds on his legs, squeezing with all his might. Chill screamed horrifically.
"I haven't given you my permission to die yet. What about Commissioner Loeb?" Bruce asked coldly.
"...f..fff...ff...Fuck you Batman..." Chill keeled over.
Bruce checked his pulse. Nothing.
He rose, pulling on his cowl. He could hear the sirens in the distance. Gordon had waited a little longer to send them after receiving the tip off. He fired a grapnel gun into the ceiling and climbed out through the skylight. His jet appeared within seconds and he hopped in.
He compiled a report of the events in his mind as he punched in the coordinates on the plane's autopilot.
There was a new player in town, meta-human most likely. Buying military grade weaponry, enough for a small army's arsenal. Something big was going down. This would need further investigation. Too bad his best lead was dead.
Oddly, he felt nothing at having met the murderer of his parents. His focus had blurred over the years from a single figure to all criminals. If anything, it felt anticlimactic. He accepted this with his usual stoicism. Even if he had caught him, had him imprisoned, it would have been no comfort. The bigger picture was all that gave him a semblance of purpose, a reason to live, to do what he does.
As he flew off into the night sky, the sirens from the GCPD flashed like neon signs and several cruisers pulled up on the scene.
A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Can you believe I haven't watched BvS yet? Too scared it would influence how I write this story. Expect a smattering of updates and then a long period of silence, as per usual. And as always, Read and Review.