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Disclaimer: Property of: Warner Bros, DC Comics, Legendary Films, Chris Nolan, Christian Bale and Heath Ledger. I own nada, and if you sued me, all you'd get is pocket lint. And a golf-club. Please don't take my golf-club.
Do I need to say it? Slash ahoy!
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Chapter 3: Gotham's Mourning Glory
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It was dawn.
Purple, pink, blue and oranges--they shined on the bright silver-faces of Gotham's buildings. The sky was still deep with the blue of a very dark, cry-filled night. And here, began a new day. The rising sun would soon dry the wet streets, clearing all evidence of the storms that rocked it's foundation the night before. All will be cool, cool, calm crisp morning. It was cruel of nature to do so, giving Gotham such a bright and hopeful day.
Those just awakening that morning, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the remnants of a particularly nice dream itching in the backs of their skulls. Showered, fresh, looking ahead for a new day, a new job, a new raise, the first day at school. Eating their simple and nutritious breakfast, little teeny-weeny children watching mom flip eggs in the frying pan. Teenagers, passing around the cold pizza, sipping on brewskies on the front lawn of someone's house they don't know. Some stopping in for their morning coffee at the local café. Munching a stucco-and-cardboard tasting power bar on their way to work…
And the television is turned on.
The News begins.
'Batman is Dead.'
So shine on, mother nature, and create them a wondrous day, free of clouds and disaster. Gotham turns a blind eye.
Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a taintless detective was painfully recounting the night before on paper.
Somewhere, in this fine, fine city, right at this moment, a laughing clown was being led from a small padded cell to the activity room in Arkham.
And somewhere…in the bowels of this jungle of steel, in the--abysmal muck that is the wastelands of Gotham…
There was a someone who wasn't a someone crawling, through the grime and salt, bleeding, strangely broken, hanging on by a spider's thread to…something he did not know he was hanging onto.
The will to keep clawing at the earth, to return to solidity, above the waves and currents, what was he crawling for? What did he need to save? Something needed to be protected, and cared for. It wasn't there anymore.
A back pressed against soft, grainy movable ground. He was suffocating, ripping off what was hugging, strangling his body, tossing it back into the dark he came from. Was there something to look for. Was there something to find. Why did he have the drive to keep going, keep moving, remain between the hard place, and….what hard place. And what.
What, what what.
It was right there, right on the periphery, -something- was there, staring at him.
It was gone now.
It was cold.
--
"…What are we going to do about this. The office. Meetings--personal galas."
"I called this morning, and told them he was having me stay here until all this business is cleared up. I gave notice we might leave the country, on account of personal safety. I've cancelled everything, and closed down the building. They've told everyone to go home."
"…That should…work well enough, for the time being…"
"…I think we should turn off the news. Get some sl--"
"Are you interested in anything to eat? I'm sure, this, uh…whole thing was very, very stressful…"
"…No. No, I'm fine. Thank you, Alfred."
"…I'll make some tea."
Lucius Fox turned his eyes out the window. Early afternoon. An entire night spent at a police station, only to show up on the doorstep of Bruce Wayne's penthouse, face to face with...a red-eyed butler. He had been watching the news, since Bruce had left that evening.
He had gone through what he had seen a dozen times at the station, and to Gordon himself. Fox could still see it in his mind's eye, out that water-soaked window. It was only a second.
One precious second.
--
"--What the--"
"HEY--!"
Mounds of black fabric, flipping over a double-crested head. A single strike of lightning, illuminating the all too-dark body--
It didn't move. It only fell.
"…No."
--
Fox pinched his eyes shut. He had recounted everything once more, to Alfred. And now, he couldn't get the image out of his eyes.
Bruce.
He couldn't believe, after -everything-, that the young man was gone. Personally, he thought the whole of Gotham was throwing around the word 'dead' all too soon. When Alfred had opened the door to the flat, he half expected to find Bruce standing there, riddled with bruises, fending off accusations and dishing out snark. As usual.
Then again…he could very well be in the midst of the greatest denial this fair City had ever seen. No one wanted to believe he was gone. The fact remained…that he was.
"…The Commissioner mentioned he might drop by again, this evening. Routine follow-up, and other such."
"You should make yourself scarce, don't you think? Seeing as you're supposed to be staying with young Master Wayne."
"Therein lies the problem, Alfred. If he's coming to talk to -me-, he's coming to talk to Bruce."
"And if -you're- not around, -he's- not around, and Gotham's finest gets their knickers in a twist…"
Alfred returned, carrying a tray loaded with various tea things. Fox eyed the tray, something melancholy pulling at the back of his heart. He would never look at a tea the same way again. Hours upon hours with the Hatter, anyone would develop and aversion to it…
"Exactly…my only thought is Mr. Wayne conveniently stepped out, while the police make their visit…"
"It's as good as any plan, I suppose."
Silence wrapped the two aging men. The only sounds coming from the half-volume news channel, and the light clinking of Alfred's tea-making.
What else was there to say? To do for each other, even? No level of comfort could lift the pain away. Amicable company was the best they could get.
They both felt the same amount of responsibility, guilt and overwhelming loss. The City lost Batman. Lucius and Alfred lost Bruce Wayne.
Fox felt for Alfred far more than himself. The man who raised him, was the father that he lost. On some level, he even felt more responsible than the trusty butler. It was -he- who Batman had come to save.
"…I really do think we should try and sleep, for a few hours at lea--"
One of the teacups flew to the ground, shattering on the shining black tile. Fox turned a frown to Alfred. The man's face was still in silent horror.
"…Alfred? What, what is--"
"Oh, my God…"
He was staring at the television. Fox turned.
It was the policemen at the water front, at the building--the camera work was shaky, as the news crew tried to rush in for the kill. There was something dark, clutched in one of the younger officer's hands.
He snatched the remote off the side of the couch and turned the sound up as far as it could go.
"…oments ago--One of the officers pulled it from the water--we were only able to see a glance at it before--! Officer! Officer, here! Hey!"
There were throngs of them now, cameras, reporters, all fighting to get near what they had found.
It was all these two men needed, however. That one small tiny glance. And they -knew-.
Batman's cowl.
The search was going to end.
--
It was a strange material. Hard, yet pliable--the tips of the 'ear's were rather sharp, and it surprised him. It was eerie. Looking at it this way. Where the--angry creases and intimidating scowl looked so alive and real on the man…on the mask…it seemed empty. And cold.
Commissioner Gordon turned the cowl over in his hands. The right side had almost been completely torn off, the jagged fibers flaking off onto the files on his desk.
He wondered where he'd -gotten- it. How someone could have something like this -made-.
It filled him with an insatiable curiosity…as well as unfathomable sadness. It was as well as finding a body. The poor broken thing looked as if it had been bashed off the head of the owner. Blown off.
He fiercely bit the inside of his mouth. His eyes closed, he felt them stinging, with anger.
-Blown- off.
It was the gust. The force of it--the shrapnel--who knows what the maniac had packed into that…teapot…
Gordon had been sitting there, for hours. He still hadn't gone home. His wife had called. Their son didn't have school. None of the schools were open, all over the City. Businesses were closed. The City was in mourning. In mourning--for someone they -hated- no less. How many times a day, was he defending the name of Batman? Projecting lies, because the Hero needed to be what Gotham needed him to be. Ungrateful--spiteful--until the moment he turns up -dead-.
He wasn't quite as upset about that as he was about the fact…Batman didn't -know-. He would never know just how much this City had secretly loved him. How much they did need him. How much they deserved him.
He could hear them--the force, talking outside, abuzz with the finding of the cowl. They hadn't released anything official to the press yet--and kept them from running the tapes they'd sneaked earlier at the waterfront.
Even the news vultures had respect for him.
It only hurt more.
He sighed. Gordon placed the cowl on his desk, the dark, empty face staring up at him. It wasn't fair to Gotham. They couldn't keep this from them. But--it was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. If they released this to the public--officially--it would be killing the last hope.
But they couldn't keep this up anymore. The men down at the waterfront, he -needed- them--The Joker was out, and he was angry. Angry men do very, very foolish things. He needed his force. He needed their spirit. Without Batman, they had to lead this City.
He knew what had to be done.
Gordon lightly pressed a button on his phone intercom.
"Bullock."
A moment later, the Detective stepped in, a few files in his hands.
"Jim--I got the guys you wanted--The Clown's doctors, and the last guy to talk to him on the security tapes before he went ballistic." He tossed the files down, carefully missing the cowl.
Gordon flipped the top one open.
"…Jonathan Crane? The Scarecrow?"
"Yeah. Joker nearly sliced his eye out've his face."
"Where is he."
"Saint Mary's Hospital. Gotta few broken bones."
"He was lucky."
Over two-hundred dead. 300 injured. Doctor Crane was an extremely lucky man…or a very smart man.
"…Bullock, I've come to a decision." He let the file close, and removed his glasses with a sigh. "I...need you to call the mayor. I'm going to give an official statement to the press, alerting the public we found…"
He lightly gestured the cowl.
"…And that we're calling off the search. Suggest to the mayor we have a...memorial service. I think we should. Gotham would agree with me. All of our resources need to go to finding the Joker, we can't keep this up--"
"So we're givin' up?? Just like that, on the Bat?! Jim, of ALL the people, I would-a thought YOU at least--"
"People are DEAD, Harvey!!" Gordon was on his feet, leaning over his desk, glasses forgotten on the floor. "And there are going to be MORE of them, LOTS more! Batman would want us to STOP it! You know he would! I can't do this -alone-, Harvey--for Godsakes…Look at me…this isn't…easy…"
Silence stood between them. Bullock did understand, he didn't want to, but he did. A part of him would hate Jim for doing it. But he knew a part of Jim hated himself for doing it too.
"…I'll call the mayor."
"…Thank you, Harvey…"
The door closed behind Bullock with a click. Gordon returned to his seat, and stared at the cowl through his hazy vision.
The absence of his glasses wasn't the only cause for the blur.
--
"Fuck that. I say we draw straws."
"Straws? What are you, nine?"
"And THIS is a better alternative, Alfalfa? Jesus."
"All yous -Shut Up-."
Four men, dressed in dirty suspenders, work pants, guns slung over their shoulders, and clown-masks pulled up over their foreheads--were standing around a table. Piled there, on the rickety plastic folding thing, were bags. Very very heavy bags. Full of -stuff-.
Off to the corner were another group of clowns, their masks still dutifully pulled down. They had luckily missed the cut this time for delivery boys. The other four weren't quite so lucky.
Russian roulette was the game, ladies and germs. SOMEone had to tell the boss the shopping trip hadn't gone quite as planned.
SOMEONE hadn't read the final note, scribbled on the back of the long scratchy list, not until they had returned.
And so, the deliberation began. Because we all know, whoever was gonna go in there wasn't going to come out in one piece. Let's meet our contestants.
Bozo, Scuzzo, Drippy and Groucho. Who's going to be our happy-smiley messenger?
"You two play, we two play, losers face off."
"I still say straws'd be better--"
"Shut up before I cut you myself, all right??"
The four of them flattened one palm, and raised their second hand in a fist.
"On three, shoot."
The others watched on in rapt attention. After all, where -else- can you gamble with your life through a game of rock-paper-scissors?
Round one--
Scuzzo shot paper. Drippy's safe with a strategically thrown scissors. Bozo shot rock, and Groucho cockblocked with the paper.
It's all down to this last round, kiddies. Who got to take home the million dollar prize?
Rock. Scissors.
Tch.
Poor Bozo.
As he shuffled the walk of death, the other hench-clowns actually felt rather -sorry- for the guy. The Joker was sadistic once. He was even funny sometimes, when he'd do away with various onlookers and hostages. Set stuff ablaze. Shot things.
But now, no one wanted to go near him. None of them wanted to be in his immediate vicinity. He -scared- them. Really, honestly scared them. He was nothing short of the fiery bowels of Hell, staring them in the eyes, passing judgment where he saw fit, -laughing- all the while, laughing, that grating awful sound, ringing constantly in their rattled heads. He was terrifying before.
Now…bloodcurdling. He was that little tug in your spine that made you want to crack open the back of your skull, and rip out the gray matter inside, just so you wouldn't have to hear that sound one. More. Time.
And every single one of them knew it. They were in too deep now. They were -stuck-. Until he finished whatever he decided he needed to finish.
Bozo had reached the door. All seemed pretty still behind it. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he wouldn't hear him knock. Maybe the hand of God would reach down and save him. It was about as probable as the last few possibilities.
He knocked. The sound echoed across the hideout.
Seconds passed.
Nothing.
He raised his hand again, and tapped only once--
CRATASH.
The door slammed open so hard, the entire building seemed to shake. Illuminated by the red light within, the Joker stared, unmoving, his gloved fingers still clutching the open door, a welding torch in his other hand.
"…What."
The click of the 't' made him jump about three feet. Bozo opened his mouth to speak.
"WHAT."
The growling guttural yell made him quake, uncontrollably. But it did seem to replace his brain cells.
"Uhm--ah--d-d-d--we…got the...the stuff you, uh--you--"
The Joker brushed passed him, carelessly dropping the welding torch on the floor as he went. Bozo stared down at it as the hot tip started to burn a black mark into the cement.
"Oh, DID you…" The clown marched to the table, peeking daintily into the bags, removing a few items here and there, murmuring to himself--for a second there, it almost sounded like approval.
Bozo swallowed.
"Uh--uh--but--!"
The Joker stilled. He turned his attention to his little hench-clown.
"…But." He left his goody bags to step closer. "…But. What."
"…we…we, uh…forgot…the...cans…spray cans…"
An eternity passed. The most agonizing 60 seconds of the hench-clowns hazardous lives--so far.
The Joker was like stone. He stared holes into the face of the pawn, burning his displeasure into his skin.
And then he moved.
He strode straight towards Bozo, snatched him by the collar, and walked towards his tiny room.
The others stared in horror, as Bozo whined and struggled to high heaven, and the Joker merely dragged him, kicking, into the red light.
"You want something done, ah, RIGHT, you just have to DO it yourSELF--don't you?!"
Could no one follow simple directions anymore? Why, oh why, did the Joker have to do every single tiny bitty little thing himself.
He slammed the meaty body into one of his work tables, and started rummaging through the contents of another.
How was he supposed to get ANYTHING done if these THINGS would do what he ASKED them to do. It was all so very simple--no, no no, not that one, the other one--go to the store, and do his shopping.
Obviously, they didn't understand the WEIGHT of this project. --red wire, blue wire, cyanide skidoo--
Oh, how COULD they. None of them could understand the weight of the Batman. They were as worthless as the rest of this City. They would simply have to learn too. He shoved half the debris on the table to the floor, moving a number of plastic and glass bottles to the surface.
Yes, this one, not that one--the pink one, not the green one--
He violently tossed an empty produce can across the room, and snatched a long thin strip of paper from the table above the pawn. He jumped, and the Joker savagely kicked his leg.
He had already broken his concentration ONCE. He smoothed the paper next to the bottles, cans and various devices, muttering a tune under his breath.
Oh, yes, that must be it.
He stepped out of his room, throwing a half-broken bottle at his hench-clowns. They scattered. Like cockroaches.
"Bags. NOW."
As a few of them filed in, shakily delivering his purchases, the Joker returned his attention to the clown. He siiiiighed. He hoped Gotham appreciated all the work he was putting into this. But a few disfigured fingertips and scalding headaches were worth it.
Worth it for him.
There wasn't anything in the entire spinning world that couldn't be worth him. There was nothing, -nothing- he wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't do--his hands lightly gripped his hair again, if he could claw the throbbing away, it would feel better, rip out the picture of him and throw it away--there wasn't anything he wouldn't give, or throw into--there was NOTHING more important than THIS.
The shuffling of feet and whimpering broke his reverie. The Joker dropped his hands, light clumps of green clinging to his gloves.
The squirming hench-clown wouldn't stop blubbering.
The Joker kneeled down by him, leaning far into his face.
"…Let's give -you-…a HAPPY face…Hmm?"
He lightly smacked his cheek, ever pleasant, and returned to his feet. The Joker set upon his bags, ripping them apart, throwing various contents here and there.
He found what he was looking for.
A small, white pot of cold cream.
Working at his tiny self-made lab, his thoughts wandered back to the Bat. Who was he kidding. Where else would his thoughts wander, especially now. Half of him fought the hero's death--he would appear again, to save his fair City from the icy cold grip of the maniacal clown. The other half was ablaze with things he couldn't fully understand, being so split down the middle. What he -did- know was, that burning half of him couldn't -stop-. It was what kept him up and moving. Working away these hours. Turning on the news in spurts to watch these -people-, these great artists of sorrow, cry over his Dark Knight. They wanted him. They claimed him as their's. Their Batman. Their savior. He was his. His, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, his, HIS, HIS, HIS, HISHISHISHISHIS--
The Joker slammed his fists into his table, over and over, growling, keening raging--he kicked, elbowed, slammed his hands and feet into the metal thing--pounding his message into Gotham's streets. Oh, they couldn't hear him yet, but they would--they could -feel- him, rising beneath them, molten, searing. Waiting.
His hands throbbed as he viciously mixed the thick gloop inside the small cold-cream pot. He was rather pleased with himself that it stayed looking so -white-.
In two strides, the Joker was upon Bozo, using one arm to lift the wailing, trembling man to his feet, and forcing his back painfully against the second table.
"ConGRATulations, and thank you for participating in our--PRODUCT experimentation!"
He waved his hand and a hench-clown rolled a chair to him from outside the room.
"Our products are made from the FINEST ingredients--" He -forced- the pawn into the seat, and dug his knee into his gut. "--Imported from Paris, and mixed with the finest toxins this country has to offer!! Sure to put a SMILE on that FACE."
He grabbed the man's face, his bandaged gloved fingers digging brutally into his skin.
"Side effects may include headache, stuffy nose--" The Joker scooped a large glop of the white foul-smelling goo out of the small cream pot, "--indigestion, bleeding from the eyes, bowel obstruction, disfiguring pus-filled welts--or it might just melt your face off. HAHA HA!!"
The hench-clown yelled, muffled, as the Joker smeared the handful of ick into his cheeks. It only took a number of seconds, he started to spasm. Violently. The Joker stood from the chair, idly flicking remnants of goo from his glove.
Bozo thrashed, twisted--gagging, clawing at his throat and face, leaving thin red trails across his skin. His whole body seizured, shaking, striking the air--he spasmed so hard, some of the horrified onlookers swore they heard him break his own back.
The Joker, however, merely watched, intently, fixated on his face.
Smoke started to rise from the taut, scratched skin--the muscles started to contract, the flesh tightening, pulling back, back, back, further and further across his face--his lips cracked and thinned, shrinking away from his teeth--the skin over his eyes shrank, the eyelids yanking them upwards, exposing the white, veiny spheres, bulging out of his skull.
The Joker was ecstatic by the time he stilled. He couldn't contain himself. He leaned against the second table for support, cackling at the stretched mangled face of what was once Bozo the Hench-Clown.
The mouth formed a grotesque, angry, gash-like grin.
It had -worked-.
The Joker hopped joyfully, slamming his feet back down into the pavement. He climbed into the chair with Bozo, his knee across his lap.
"Another SATISFIED customer!" He giggled, poking the spongy steaming forehead. "What do you THINK, boys?'
He turned his attention to his silent brigade.
"Safer than Botox, with better results, at half the price--aw, heck, I'm just GIVING IT AWAY."
As their boss lapsed into another wave of laughter, some of them ventured a few uneasy chuckles.
This was perverse.
This was…chemical warfare.
Their awkward chuckles were immediately cut short as the Joker rose from his victim and crossed the room. He threw them an empty duffle bag.
"Get me my aerosol cans. Shoo."
They practically fell over themselves, hurrying out the door.
The Joker murmured under his breath, rolling his new smiling friend out of his room and into the main room of his hideout. He spun him around in his chair, a waltz on his lips, and swung him wide, sending him crashing into a wall nearby.
The body slumped to the floor, the grinning head turning towards him.
"-I- thought it was fun, too."
With a light skip, the Joker nabbed his wooden TV chair, and dragged it to his small television.
No pawns to bother him. Sounds at all, not right now. The faintest echo here and there. The scuffing of his shoes, the sound of cloth against cloth.
The Clown sat down, the wood of his chair creaking.
…
He didn't turn on the box just yet.
He listened.
He listened to the quiet.
The stilling walls, the darkness.
Maybe--if he listened hard enough--he could still hear him breathing there. Like he had, moments before those lights came on in that glorious room, maybe--just maybe, he could hear the rustling of Kevlar and leather, the flexing of strong fingers through thick black armor.
If he listened hard enough, maybe he could start his heart again. Then, it wouldn't only be his own beat, ringing relentlessly in his ears.
If he tried hard enough, he would come back.
"..come back.."
….
The television came on with a click.
The Clown leaned over his knees, glowering at the bright screen, relentless in his disdain. He couldn't have missed much. He'd only had it off for an hour. And 27 minutes.
It was then, they switched to what looked like a podium. The strip on the bottom of the screen read, 'Shocking news: New Development in Batman Disaster; Police finally disclose information"
The Joker moved ever closer to the screen, hands clasped. What, what, what.
On stepped the Commissioner. He adjusted his glasses.
"…We have suffered a great Tragedy in Gotham."
--
Oh, the death of a hero, the birth of a heartsick clown.
Next time: Chapter 4 - Eulogy for a Bat; What was then once was?
R&R, my loves, you are the wind beneath my wings!!