AN: Between you and me, what little remained of his sanity fled down the rabbit hole. Written to Pink's 'Ave Mary A', if you want background music while reading. And regarding Batman: just remember that this is how Jonathan imagines him. Hold that thought.
The Puppeteer Patient 120402-To be fair, I took her off the street. Anybody could have done it. At least she died relatively quickly with me-we have our fair share of...less savory...individuals.
Christineoftheopera-Not like this. You weren't there, you have no idea what happened on that rooftop.
He's exhausted and feverish and staying on his feet is harder than he remembers. But that's what the scythe is for, to lean on.
There's a parade today-some silly holiday, he can't remember what-and it wasn't all that difficult to commandeer a float.
They float down here…they ALL float.*
And now the marching band and the gymnasts are shrieking in terror. He'll get to the audience later, but first…they need to talk.
"People of Gotham!" They know him now, mask or not, and there's a collective gasp. "Nobody move."
They try anyway and he shoots one, an old granny in her chair. Go for the elderly and the children, that always makes them listen.
As one, they stop, cowering behind the ropes. A sea of red balloons floats skywards, released by mistake.
"You can blame the Batman for this." he says. "Everything that has happened these past few weeks, everything that will continue to happen…all of it is his fault."
For once, there's no brave soul to stand up to him. They've learned much, it seems.
He represses a cough-for now, anyway-and tightens his grip on the scythe.
"I'm sorry." he continues. "Truly, I am. But one can't make an omelet without breaking eggs, and today…you are my eggs."
"No."
He turns, already grinning. He knew this would bring him out at last.
"Well! About time. You're getting slow, Bats. Is it the grief of what happened to dear old Jim Gordon?"
"Shut up, Crane."
"You know he died screaming, don't you? Well, until he ripped his throat out with a pair of scissors…oh, they didn't tell you that, did they? My apologies, I thought you already knew."
Batman stalks towards him, cape billowing out behind him. Jonathan is not impressed.
"And then there was that poor little girl…I doubt you found her in time." A sneer answers his question. "I thought not."
He can't hide in the shadows-Gotham picked today to not be quite so cloudy. Good girl.
"It's over, Crane."
"You'd like it to be."
"This won't bring her back."
Oh, that's not the point. That's never been the point. Idiot.
"I never said it would." Just to see what he'll do, he fires into the crowd. "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!"
This strikes him as hilarious-he ought to have been a comedian!-and he ends up leaning on the scythe, alternating between breathless laughter and harsh, wracking coughs that threaten to crack a rib.
"I warned you! I warned you'd be sorry! Believe me now, Bats?"
Shadows or not, he's fast and Jonathan barely manages to block his lunge with the scythe. For a minute it feels like it'll crack under the strain, but then its sharp tip slips and digs into human flesh**. So. Batman is nothing but a man, after all.
He staggers back, the scythe now tipped with blood. The bystander effect is in full force-they're not helping. They're not even getting close. They're just standing there, watching in absolute silence.
"Seems your Dark Knight can bleed after all." he says. "There's that question answered, at least."
Batman tries to sweep the scythe out of his hands with a well-placed kick, but he sees it coming and steps back, now nearing the edge of the float. What can he…
FWAM!
The scythe flies off somewhere as he lands on his back, the jolt forcing a bloody cough from his chest.
"You going to kill me? Go on. You know it's the only way, like a rabid dog…"
"I'm not you, Crane."
He's hauled up, still gasping for breath.
"No." he says. "No, you're worse. You let them suffer. I put them out of their misery."
And then the explosive he planted on the float goes off and he knows nothing more.
He stirs, surprised to still be alive. His surroundings are in shambles-pieces of floats everywhere, corpses and unconscious people littering the street. There is no sign of Batman.
Well, until he looks. Then he sees an arm sticking out from under a pile of debris a few feet away.
He pokes it and it does not move. Dead. Batman, Gotham's beloved savior, is dead. He must be.
Gone, gone, gone! Sméagol is free!***
He sways and nearly falls, suddenly dizzy.
Dead. At last.
THE END
*Stephen King's IT. Fucking Pennywise.
**Remember in The Dark Knight, when Batman got new armor? 'Leave you more vulnerable to knives and gunfire' in exchange for movement.
***Guess all that LOTR finally rubbed off on him.