Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.
Circadian Rhythm
This is just the first of several oneshots. They are all going to be Batman vs. Joker related, and I'll type them up when I'm having writer's block with my sequential stories. They may or may not contain plot elements from Foundations or Jeremiah's Well (this one doesn't). Some of them may be parts of the same story, depends upon my whim. I wrote this particular piece in taking a break from the latest chapter of Foundations, which I've recently begun working on again. The next chapter of Foundations will be up by August 11; see my profile for more information on this and the upcoming oneshots.
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No moon tonight.
Clouds sweep over the surface of the sky, framing everything. Skyscrapers reach up to them, trying with iron fingers to touch their misty borders, yet inevitably falling short. From on high the clouds care little for this struggle. They press on, curling in the currents, whirling and dodging in stratosphere winds. They threaten rain that never comes.
He would not find the clouds so disconcerting if they did not highlight one important truth: the 'Bat-signal' was no longer shining. It would never shine again. He does not need to stop by the top of MCU to know what he would find. Broken glass, twisted metal. He has purposefully avoided that rooftop. Ignoring the evidence does not change the truth—he knows this. The clouds are there to prove it to him. To remind him that he will never see his sign in the sky again.
That hurts more than it should.
He should be focusing on other things. He should train his eyes on the men below him, watching as they load and unload unmarked crates. Most of time he does. But every so often his thoughts drift back to the skyline. He finds himself scanning the horizon, searching for a signal he will never see.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
The sun is bright today.
Sunglasses are never any help. He discovered this at the beginning of his crusade. Three hours of sleep and still coffee is forbidden. Tea is also forbidden. Caffeine is a poison—so is alcohol.
Strange, what the body can become addicted to. If he ever dared to use coffee, just once, he would be hooked—his body would become used to the artificial pick-me-up, and cease to function on its own. So he never tempts fate. He simply becomes addicted to other things, ones that are just as unnecessary.
Like sunglasses.
He sprints through the Wayne Enterprises lobby, wincing at the windows and the light pouring forth. Like a vampire he hugs the shadows, squinting in the brightly lit elevator, thankful that the dark lenses hide his eyes. Some secretary on her lunch break is with him, chatting away on her phone. He has the urge to answer her when she asks the device, "But you like purple, don't you?"
In his office he pulls the curtains shut. They are big, heavy, thick fabric, the kind that reminds him of a fireman's uniform. Except that they are green. A disgusting green.
Every color except for black bothers him these days. He pretends that he doesn't know why.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Moonrise. A tiny sliver. He shivers, thankful that it is a curved slice. For a moment it almost reminded him of a knife.
A part of him asks: if it almost reminded you of something, isn't that the same as saying that it did remind you of something?
The faces on the thugs below are becoming familiar. He has been here night after night, watching them go about their business, and so has begun to identify them. Even the ones who wear masks can be known by their body language. He has come to recognize them, not just as little cancerous cells to his city, but also as individual people living within it.
Strange, that thought. When it comes to him, he feels a sense of protectiveness swirl in his chest: almost like they are innocent civilians, instead of part of the city's problem. He almost regrets that someday he will have to hurt them. Smash his fists against their faces, splintering teeth, shattering noses; slam a knee into their ribcages, cracking bones and bruising flesh.
Another part of him asks: if you almost regret that you must do something, isn't that the same as regretting it?
It is a shame, really. Under other circumstances, he might have been willing to befriend these men. They certainly all care for one another, stop to help if one of them trips on the uneven concrete. They show kindness to each other even as they shoulder the boxes on their backs, carrying load after load of poison into a city already on life support. In an odd way, they are the exact thing that Gotham needs: people who give a damn about their neighbors.
He is drawn out of these paradoxical musings when he catches himself scanning the skyline again. Returning to his vigil, he notes the arrival of a newcomer. Another man in a mask, but this one possesses little pointed ears—taking a risk, he leans slightly over the rim of the building, and is rewarded by a good look at the thug's fashion statement. The man is wearing a plastic "bat-mask."
He wants to laugh. But he doesn't. If he has his way, he will never laugh again. Laughter is no longer a sign of joy to him.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Morning splashes over the eastern sky. It creeps up on him like a tiger, and he observes it lingering in the corners of his bedroom. People like him do not get up before noon, not when they have no business meetings to go to.
Sleep.
Odd how he can lay awake begging for one thing and one thing only. It isn't Rachel. It isn't justice. It isn't even his parents.
Sleep.
Such a little thing.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Half-moon. The clouds swirl around it, as if hesitant to block out the lunar rays, which only grow night by night.
Body language tells him that the thug who previously wore the bat-mask has given in to the jeering of his friends, and has switched over to a clown mask. Now everybody is giving the man a little space, as if afraid the tendencies of another, more famous clown will begin to show through him. The thug appears oblivious to the newfound caution of his buddies.
From his rooftop perch, he tries not to take the switch of the masks too metaphorically. They are just masks. Flimsy and plastic, nothing like the one he wears, except that even the cheap novelty ones will cover one's true face.
Or is that the other way around?
Still no signal. From above, the clouds mock him.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Dawn finds him battered.
Alfred spent most of the night clucking like a mother hen, dabbing his cuts and bruises with various antiseptics, the names of which he can't bother to remember right now.
Sure, he made some mistakes. But he could not simply sit by and watch, not when the situation had deteriorated so rapidly.
He had spent over a month keeping track of who showed up at the docks, when, and for how long. Every mobster in that half of the city had appeared at one time or another, except one. Last night that man had finally arrived. With reinforcements.
The first few gunshots had been his notice that this particular mobster was not there to inspect his own share of the crates. He didn't know whether the man intended to take some of the materials or simply destroy them; his concern had been with the idiots unloading the boxes. True, they had been armed, but many of them had been out in the open. There had been precious few seconds to react before the skirmish escalated into an all-out firing match, and he'd taken the chance to tackle the first newcomers who had opened fire. Naturally his appearance had broken up the fight, as thugs fled in all directions from the shadow descending from the sky.
What troubles him this morning is the choice he made. Two of the men unloading crates have died. One of them wore the clown mask.
In that split second, the lull between the first shots and what could have been an all-out firefight, he had faced a decision. He could have dived down at the two men who were now dead, knocking them out of the line of fire. This probably would have saved them. But it also would have trapped him behind the crates, exposing him to unfriendly fire—from both sides.
He probably would not have survived, had he taken this option. He knows this. But, even though he broke up the fight before anyone else was hurt, he cannot help but feel as though he has sacrificed those men.
Why? Why the hell do people need to do these things to each other? He asks this question over and over, for what seems like hours.
Finally falling asleep, he dreams of the green curtains in his office. They billow and curl in the wind, just like the clouds in the nighttime sky. Then they take on an alarmingly human form, reaching for him...
He wakes. Checks the clock—two hours past. Groans and rolls over, momentarily forgetting the dream. Stops, suddenly, when the memory of it returns to him. He sits up and blinks exhaustion from his eyes. Spots dot his vision. He silently orders them to leave. Then he stands, wavering, and heads for the bedroom door, thinking of catching up on his mission logs. He prefers to drown himself, rather than let dreams do it for him.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
The moon is full.
A stray thought envelops him. Perhaps Dent has hurled his coin up into the sky, where it is stuck, illuminating everything; but, for the life of him, he can't tell whether the unscarred side is visible means that it has landed on heads or tails.
In any case, it is as distracting as the clouds had been. A white circle, so bright, he could mistake it for the sun on an overcast day. He curses the moon. Hates it with a passion he reserves for little else. It is like a spotlight: here he is, ladies and gentlemen—the Batman, stripped bare for your eyes only! The mask cannot hide him. It only goes skin deep.
He almost misses the signal. He is so preoccupied with twisted metal and sunglasses and green curtains and choices, he almost dismisses the beam in the sky as a figment of his imagination. When he looks again, he nearly falls from his perch, righting himself at the last moment. For a few minutes he observes it, willing it to disappear. It doesn't.
It is shaped oddly, though. Perhaps it is distorted because there are no clouds to catch it, to outline its silhouette properly. Or perhaps he's simply sitting in the wrong spot to see it accurately; it does not help that the beam appears to originate from the Narrows, nowhere near where the true signal used to shine from.
Then, from another angle on another rooftop, he picks out what shape is actually being shone into the sky. His skin comes alive, like it wants to writhe its way off his flesh and hide. If he had eaten sometime in the past few days, he is certain he would have coughed it up. He almost regrets that he is running on empty, because—if he could vomit—at least the burning sensation in his throat would assure him that he is awake.
But no—this is not another dream. Even his own mind is not so cruel to him.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
He is there.
"Do you like it?" the clown asks, as the shadow alights on the rooftop before him. There's no real giddiness in the monster's voice, no sense of anticipation, just an odd sort of factualness, punctual and precise. It almost reminds the Batman of Alfred for a second—almost.
He does not even bother trying to sneak up on the Joker. Doing so would serve no real purpose. He has donned the cape and cowl to frighten and intimidate, yet the clown is not cowed by the trappings of his armor. Sneaking up to the Joker would only make him seem cowardly. In a strange way, it is almost as if the clown's own brazen attitude, his devil-may-care view on his own life and safety, has rubbed off on the Dark Knight. This is only one of many things that this beast has taught him—and it disturbs him to realize this.
"I made it myself," continues the jester, gesturing to the signal. He's facing his lone audience now, eerie in the glow of the searchlight. "Didn't take much, just a big lightbulb and some paint. Shame the red doesn't show in the sky, though, or the grin would be even better."
The monster pauses in his explanation, tilting his head back to gaze at the smile stretched over the Gotham skyline. In the clouds' absence, the etched grin smiles back, its ear-to-ear shape embracing the outer limits of the Narrows, from one side to the other. It marks the territory: mine. And inside his throat, the Batman feels a growl linger, saying the same thing: mine.
This city is his. It belongs to him like the shadows on the wall; it should be his signal joining the stars, not this wretched parody, this mockery of human happiness and joy. The newspapers spend page after page on this madman, the colors green and purple have become his, the thugs on the street mock bat-masks but fear clown ones. Hell, even the curtains of Wayne Enterprises whisper to him of the jester's presence. He finds no sleep. No rest. No peace. Because this monster is everywhere, and as long as a red smile is before his eyes then he cannot see himself in any aspect of the city. If he can't relate to Gotham, what makes him want to save her in the first place?
The Joker is watching him now, the brown in his cunning eyes swallowed up in the blackness of the shadows. And an absurd thought comes to him: his dark armor and his shadows are being reflected in the clown's eyes. Like the jester isn't really there; like he's just a mirror, trying to pretend that it is projecting something into the real world.
And then, the first wisps of a new thought begin to come to him, a new way of looking at things. This swallows his anger, lets him gaze levelly back without revealing the rage underneath. Absent-mindedly, he wonders where the clown got his hands on some makeup, because there's no sign of struggle on the grounds—it's not a prison riot, then, with the inmates running the madhouse. Just the Joker, and him, standing on the rooftop of Arkham Asylum, with a searchlight and their invisible egos clashing. This is the storm that, in the past month, the clouds had threatened but never followed through with.
"You said once, that I completed you. That you didn't know what to do without me. That I changed things."
His voice is oddly normal, but neither of them seem to realize that he's not using the raspy growl that he normally does.
"You created me," responds the clown, and his voice is normal, too. A last echo of a broken man, whoever he used to be before he was... this.
It's a confession. It should horrify him. The Batman knows that he should be denying the jester's accusation; that this admittance, far from reconciling the Joker to him, is merely a manner in which the clown can assert a form of ownership. It is a game through which the monster tries to place blame on him: it's not his fault when he kills, it's Batman's, because Batman created him.
But there is a flaw in the clown's logic. He sees that now. This is a game that only works if both players follow the rules. And he has seen the way out. If a potter creates a pot, does he not own that pot? Is it not his to do with as he pleases? The Batman can understand, now, that the jester cannot have it both ways. He cannot be a creation of the Batman and still own the city. The signal is not a stamp of ownership; it merely shows that he is nothing a man trying to claim ownership over God.
"If I am your creator," is all the Batman says, "then this is my signal, as much as yours. No—more than yours. It's all mine."
There is surprise written over the clown's features—is as if the idea that the Batman would break their pattern has never even occurred to him. A vicious look appears on the monster's face; his torn lips draw back, revealing teeth, like an injured animal warning away a larger predator. In that moment he looks like a parody not just of a smile, but of himself.
"So you think. Enjoy your peace while you can—" those yellow teeth are grinding so hard, his next words are almost inaudible. "I will get out. Walls can't hold me. I am replacing you! Remember, when you told me that I was alone? That there was nobody like me? Now, day by day people are turning to me for inspiration! When I am finally free, this city will be mine. And you—"
"No."
The single word is enough to bring silence. Awkwardness encompasses the clown's stillness, now—and, for once, the Batman can remember that, in all his past dealings with the jester, this clumsiness has been there: an inept gawkiness, covered self-consciously by his word tricks and quirky habits. His laughter is not so menacing, now. It is merely the nervous titter of a teenager, uncertain of his position in the world.
He leaves him. He turns, without fear of being attacked, and pushes himself off into empty space. The light from the signal does not bother him. And—though he knows in some deep corner of his mind that this victory is only temporary, that the Joker will indeed some day return, and that when the clown does he will be all the worse, now that he has something to prove—right now he can only feel relief over his victory, feel the eyes of the clown as they watch his descent, knowing all the while that the monster is wearing a face of awe in the sight of his victorious idol.
000 . d . da . dar . dark . dark k . dark kn . dark kni . dark knig . dark knigh . dark knight . 000
Morning.
Any other day he would have discovered that he was awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. But not today.
Today the bruises are fresher than ever, the blood from the latest stab wound still marking the sheets, though now the cut is crusted over. It has opened repeatedly over the past week, mostly because it needs stitches and he has not satisfied this need. It still stings a little, and he is a bit careful with it as he rolls over in his sleep, twisting the sheets tighter over his marred skin. There is a soft sigh from the haze of his dream, but this is not enough to wake him.
Tonight he will be back out on the streets. He will lurk in the shadows, tail the scum and the wretches as they dodge and weave through his city, cutting little rivulets of blood from Gotham's beautiful face. He will win and he will lose and he will feel confident and secure and then troubled and full of self-doubt.
But today he gets to sleep.
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000 . Author's Note . 000
I wanted to do a Batman vs. Joker, but one that was different from most of the others I've been reading. Usually, in a "versus" fic like this, the Joker wins. I don't know whether this is because people tend to like/be fascinated with him more, or if because people think for some reason that the Joker won at the end of the Dark Knight (he didn't; Batman did, because he took Dent's crimes on himself, though I suppose I can see why some people think he lost).
But I like Batman more. So he won this round. He deserves a win every now and then, eh?