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Caped Crusader
Familiar Faces

"Impossible." A word one should never use when describing Gotham. But still, how else could he explain the familiar faces he had seen tonight? First, he met Joe Chill trying to rob another family in front of their six-year-old. Then, Jim Gordon stopped him from killing Joe.

Now, he looked in as Jack in his favorite clown make-up and purple tuxedo threatened to kill a crying baby if the mother did not silence him fast enough. He had lengthened the edge of his lips, a technique known as the Glasgow grin. It looked as though Jack had carved a big smiling scar onto his face. It had a jarring effect to say the least.

Though not strictly open, Jack had caught the night shift preparing to leave. According to the police scanner, he wasted no words. He killed two guards. As if fueled by an uncontrollable urge to desecrate their corpses, he carved into their faces the same grin that adorned his own mutilated face.

"Jack!" Bruce Wayne had neglected an indirect approach to the situation as he crashed through the stained glass dome on the ceiling of the bank. His descent cape broke his fall as he landed next to Jack. "Jack, please stop this. Whatever happened, you don't have to do this."

Jack looked around at the hostages he had lined up on the ground. "Jack? Jack? Does anyone know a Jack?" Jack caressed his chin and smiled a heinous smile. "Sorry, I don't know any Jack. Unless you mean Jack Nicholson." He smirked for a moment. "Do I look like Jack Nicholson to you?" Bruce could tell he had not lied. Jack no longer recognized his own name. "I'm the Joker. Put it there."

Bruce fell to his knees as high voltage electricity from his joy buzzer coursed through his body. Jack used to love his joy buzzers. The Joker seemed to remember that much about Jack. The Joker seemed to act a lot like an evil twin of Jack, right down to his posture and mannerisms.

It occurred to Bruce what had happened. The doctors said he had suffered serious brain damage. Perhaps, instead of turning him into a vegetable, it damaged parts of his brain that affected his personality. Bruce felt like apologizing for what he had done. Jack really had died that day.

Bruce turned to the hostages. "Everyone get up and run. I'll handle this." As the Joker prepared to put a bullet in the six-month-old baby of a bank employee, Bruce grabbed the gun. Bruce and the Joker struggled to gain control of the gun. Jack once fought to protect a baby like the one he now threatened to kill.

The Joker's make-up ran as sweat trickled down his forehead. No one dared move. "Get up or I'll kill you!" That got them running. Bruce didn't care who trusted him and who didn't. He was in the business of saving lives.

The Joker smiled as a right hook collided with his chin. If Bruce didn't know any better, he'd think the Joker enjoyed that last punch. "You know me, but I don't know you." He tugged on his chin. "Lemme guess. An inmate at Arkham? A sideshow freak?" Joker head-butted Bruce. "C'mon. Gimme a hint."

Bruce tripped the Joker and sent him onto the ground. "You want to know my name?" The Joker nodded furiously. Bruce seized the gun. He spilled the bullets out of the chamber. "I'm Batman." As the Joker lied on the marble floor, the unexpected happened. The police arrived. The Joker took the initiative and ran off.

His teeth gritted into a permanent deadlock, Bruce raced after the Joker out the back door. He had ducked into the Axis Chemicals factory across the street. Firing his grapnel gun, he ascended to the catwalk above open vats of chemical waste. The company must have bribed the health inspector with enough money to retire on.

"I have to ask you something." A maniacal laugh shook the air. "Can bats swim?" Out of nowhere, the Joker swung out from the rapports on a rope. Knocked over the railing, he reached for his utility belt. He launched a flash grenade. Activating his descent cape, Bruce glided to safety.

Blinded by the flash of light, the Joker lost his grip and tumbled into the vat below, his laughter forever etched in Bruce's mind. The Joker had once caught a bullet between the eyes. Bruce knew that he would see him again before too long.

Bruce had only caught the tail end of the Joker's crime spree. He threatened Mayor Hamilton Hill with a fish. He carved bloody grins onto hookers in the Red Light District. He distributed money with his face on the $1 bill. He sent a bus load of orphans to the bottom of the Miskatonic River. He decapitated a statue at the Finger Memorial.

A man like the Joker could do anything. Everything Bruce had learned about the criminal mind at college fell apart when it came to the Joker. Sometimes he committed heinous crimes. Sometimes he played harmless pranks. He shifted between these two extremes without rhyme or reason. He couldn't understand the Joker anymore than a normal person could understand him.

Alfred asked how the night went. He got shot twice, electrocuted and narrowly avoided falling to a vat of chemical waste. "It went well," Bruce concluded. He took off the Batsuit. Glancing over its condition, he would need one of his spare suits sooner rather than latter. Bruce plunged head first into his bed.

Eighteen years gone and Wayne Manor still felt like home. He slept like the dead. He needed to wake up bright and early for a board meeting. His return to Gotham carried certain responsibilities. One of them had a name, Wayne Enterprises. His father had an excuse for not seeing to the family business. He had pursued a career as a surgeon.

Bruce Wayne, as far as the world knew, did nothing with his time and money. In terms of a secret identity, this conspicuous omission of a personal life might prove problematic. While he didn't want to perpetuate the myth of the bored billionaire playboy the tabloids had concocted for him, he would have to take special precautions so no one would suspect his dual identity.

Alfred Pennyworth suggested for him to cultivate a social life. Selina Kyle, Gotham's newest addition to the upper crust, had sent out invitations to a Halloween party. When Alfred insinuated the possibility of romance, Bruce reminded him of a little heartache named Talia. The last time Cupid struck, Death followed in his wake. Everyone he loved always died on him.