A/N

I've read the 'Dark Nights: Metal' series although, to be honest, I never got around to finishing it. There's a lot of ups and downs, story-wise, but there was one thing that stuck with me in a particular issue where the Grim Knight was first introduced.

I firmly believe that there was a lot of potential for this character beyond just another Punisher rip-off ( oh, he's Batman with guns- he kills without remorse therefore he's evil yadda yadda and all that ). Like seriously, DC struck gold and totally ignored it. Sending him off the deep end, allying with a Joker version of himself ( methinks the writers just got lazy with his backstory ).

And so, that leads us to my humble idea of a Grim Knight AU. Whether or not it extends to the entire JL universe, I dunno, we'll see.

As usual, the disclaimer: I don't own DC's Batman, just my OC's. Fair warning, the M rating is there for a reason. Lots of violence and other naughty bits ahead.

Also, it need not be stated but- this is a story about a B-man that kills. Go no further if this is not your cup o' tea.

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Gotham City, USA

It rained a lot in Gotham.

A warm afternoon drizzle cascaded gently from darkening clouds over the towering spires, almost as if the sky knew how dirty the city was. But no amount of water would ever be enough to wash away the sins of that heartland of iniquity.

A bus coming in from the mainland pulled over to a nearby stop. A man stepped out of the vehicle, carrying a heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. 6'4 and broad-shouldered, a big guy by anyone's standards, he had to move sideways to get through the shutters. The driver nodded to him with a stiff salute and pulled on the lever to close the door. The man lowered his cap over his face as the light drizzle turned into a heavy downpour, and made his way across the street. He stopped short of getting run over by a black BMW.

The driver slammed his palm into the horn yelling, "Watch it, ya moron!" Then he flipped him off as he drove away.

Cold piercing blue eyes stared out after the speedster, teeth silently grounding together. A vein bulged obscenely from his temple as his blood pressure rose sharply. After a full minute, the man let the matter go and crossed the street.

His destination- a humble little diner situated between a rundown apartment and a fancy internet café. Everywhere he looked, the big city loomed over him with the imposing stature of a hundred concrete giants. Some were decades old, with most of the underlying infrastructure dating back to the late 1900's. Gotham was a paradox of the modern and ancient America, rooted deep in a dark history. But inside the diner, it was a little slice of heaven.

Ceiling fans twirled noisily, bathing the wide spacious room with cool air. The colorful tiles of alternating skyblue and pink running along the floors and walls, reminiscent of the 80's retro style, were pleasing to eyes. Belle, the waitress, a plump woman with loose graying hair bundled up into a neat little bun, got up from behind the counter to serve the latest customer. The stranger came in after an old man in an old Nam uniform unbuttoned haphazardly over a faded Nirvana T-shirt shuffled across the tiled floor to slip into a lonely spot on the far corner of the room. The old veteran got some steaming hot coffee for himself, smiling a gap-toothed smile at Belle as he handed her the money.

"Thanks, Barney." The waitress patted him on the hand. She threw the stranger a sidewards glance as she stuffed the bills into her apron pocket, then moved to get his order. "Afternoon, sir. What'll it be?"

His voice was a rough grating sandpaper to the ears, scarred by a lifetime of oaths, screams and hard liquor. "Whatever he's having. Smells good."

Barney got one look at him and nodded, "Where'd ya serve, son?"

It took one to know one. The stranger relaxed a bit, relieved to be in good company for once. "Overseas."

"Ah good, almost took ya for a POG. Where exactly?"

"Somewhere warm. Sandy. You?"

Barney grinned humorlessly, "Warm, too many plants. Wet too. Rained too much, had to get out. Doc said it was bad for my health."

"Thank you for your service."

Belle turned up the television volume on her way to get him coffee. The two veterans, though generations apart, reveled in the simplicity of the moment and the silent peace that came with it. Occasionally, they made some small talk, connecting somewhat in an unexplained effort to put some humanity back into each other.

"What brings you to Gotham?" Barney asked.

The man stared into the swirling blackness of his mug. Just like that, the memories started flowing back into the dark labyrinth that was his mind. "Figured it was time to come home."

Without taking his eyes off the screen, the Nam veteran said, "Didn't realize you were a local. Got family in the big city?"

"No."

"You're wrong, son." Their eyes met, and Barney declared the words that would resonate within the younger soldier's soul. "You got family. Anyone with a dog-tag here's your brother and sister. Semper fi."

"Hooah."

"Ah, a joe. Didn't take you for one, s'all good."

The stranger's eyes went hollow. Suddenly, his mind was back to the bad place.

Warm, sandy and full of terrors.

Landai Sin Valley, Eastern Afghanistan
Twelve Years Ago

"Richie, you got eyes on him? Can you confirm?"

Bruce 'Richie-Rich' Wayne gently released the breath he got stored up in his lungs, but kept his finger on the trigger-guard. Sniping was a strange profession, both morbid and sensationalized at the same time. Most snipers spend the better part of their lives learning, using, refining this skill. In the Teams, older snipers and team leaders looked for more 'solitary and quiet' individuals that have focus and a 'quiet' about them. Some individuals have a comfortable knack and a natural feel for navigating any environment unseen. Bruce was one of them.

The sniper peered through the scope and focused on a man alone on a rooftop. He was watching the armored convoy rumbling down the street, and he had a phone pressed to his ear. Pretty suspicious, by anyone's standards. Bruce sighed into the radio, "Positive, I think it's the same guy yesterday been watching the sweep teams."

"I don't believe in fucking coincidences. Smoke him, Rich."

There was nothing glorious or sexy about the job. It was hard on the body, not a fun thing to chat about at a cocktail party. Although in Bruce's experience, people already had a formed opinion of what type of person a sniper could be, what morals they had and that there was something a little 'off' about them, long before they even met them.

Spending days crawling, climbing, slinking, stinking -getting bit by every bug, scratched by every thicket -attempting to relieve oneself while laying sideways looking through night vision or scopes for endless hours. Sleeping in fifteen minute bursts -just to get to a 'target area'. That was in the setting of the great outdoors.

The urban setting was something else. It was one thing to be able to hide in a dense overgrowth with vast areas of cover and concealment -fighting in the city was entirely another. The difficulty factor was way up. The amount of practice, study and hours spent mastering every type of environment- shooting from buildings, helicopters, ships, shooting through glass, walls. And different mathematical calculations for temperature, humidity, altitude, load. In summary, it was all a non-stop learning experience.

But out of their differences, they shared one thing, and it's that danger could come from anywhere.

As Bruce held the man between the crosshairs, he spotted movement around his peripherals. On a balcony, two blocks down the same route the convoy was taking, was a pair of insurgents. One of them lifted an RPG-7 launcher out from a hollowed out pottery and slipped a rocket into its shaft. He let the phone-guy go, focusing on the two setting up a position on the ledge. "RPG team spotted, balcony on the left about two hundred meters."

There was a pause as the soldiers on the ground prepped for contact.

"Heads up, I got a half dozen foot-mobiles entering the buildings near your position." Bruce could hear the dull footfalls of the soldiers running up the street to get to cover. The big Abrams tank slowed its advance to a crawl, its commander immediately ducking down for a 'buttoned-up' position. An ambush was imminent, but they were ready for them.

"You know the ROE, Rich. You're cleared to engage. Drop some bodies."

"Solid copy." The rifle jerked back into his shoulder when he brushed his finger on the trigger. A split second later, the man with the RPG had the back of his head blown away and his body toppled to the floor. Bruce pulled back the bolt slow and smoothly, sending the spent casing flying past his cheek.

His next shot took out the other guy, just in time to stop him from picking up the launcher and finishing his dead friend's job. "RPG team neutralized."

Nobody answered on the other end. The convoy engaged the insurgent ambush teams, lighting up the street with tracer-fire and explosive ordnance. The lightly armored humvees used Mark 19 grenade machineguns, or the ubiquitous Browning .50, to turn the adjacent buildings into ruins. The Abrams tank acted as the spear tip in the advance, its whole arsenal of heavy weaponry suppressed the enemy combatants with ease. But as always, there was the element of the unknown in every battle. In this case, a series of well-placed IED's wired to a remote detonator in the phone-guy's hand.

Bruce knew, even before he saw the bombs go off, that he should've killed that man.

One, two, three explosions rocked the entire eastside of Landai Sin. Screams filled the radio channels, then static. Dust clouds washed over the entire convoy, followed by a bellow of black smoke. The sniper took his eyes off the scope and gazed in horror at the devastation left in the insurgency's wake. Dozens of US Army personnel lay dead in the street, while dozens more were severely wounded from the blasts. He'd been assigned to provide overwatch for the convoy, and he failed. His blood burned with hatred, and he got back on the rifle to hover over the man responsible.

The phone-guy was still there, surveying the carnage with a proud smile on his face.

In what felt like a lifetime ago, something very similar happened to Bruce. An alley, just one street away from the theater. He was holding on to his mother's first two fingers in one hand, and his father's wrist in the other. He never could wrap it the whole way around, his father's hand was just too big. Two shots from a S&W Model 64 sealed his parents' fates. He remembered that moment, dreamed about it. A bumbling robber-turned-murderer, pawing at the icy cobblestones to catch Martha Wayne's rolling pearls. The glint of steel from the dropped gun's barrel.

And suddenly, nothing was too big for his hands.

The rifle barked, and Bruce avenged his brothers. But the guilt over what he could've and should've done- he would carry it with him all his days.

Gotham, USA
Present Day

"Here."

Bruce snapped back to reality. He glanced up at Belle and smelled the warm steam from a hot piece of apple pie served on a white ceramic plate. The kind waitress smiled down at him and slid the plate in front of him.

"I-I... I didn't order that." Bruce stuttered.

"Don't worry, hon. It's on the house." She replied, "Thank you for your service."

The soldier turned his head to where Barney was, and saw an empty table. Bruce picked up a spoon and jammed it into the pie. It was a simple piece of pastry, with a lot of sugar and whipped-cream. But when Bruce tasted it, he found that the humble piece of pie was the best thing he'd ever tasted in a long time. It was a gentle reminder of the good things in life.

But, as all things were in that cursed city, there was the reminder of the bad things too.

The door opened, and a swarthy stocky man in a red hoodie walked into the diner. His eyes were darting back and forth, his head was low as if avoiding contact from potential onlookers. He raised all the red flags for a troublemaker, and Bruce reached for his duffel bag. Suddenly, the thug walked up to the counter with a snub-nosed .44 pointed sideways at a frightened Belle.

"Ya know the drill!" He said in that awful gangster talk while plopping an empty black bag onto the counter, "Money out, and into the bag!" The thug got a little jumpy when he realized Bruce was starting to get out of his seat. "Back on yo chair, white-boy! Back, 'fore I bust a cap in yo face!"

Belle started to whimper as she opened the register. When she tried to move slow to calm her shaky hands, the thug whipped her across the face with his gun. "Slow-ass bitch, gimme that!" The waitress shrank back, hands to her broken nose as blood trickled down her face. The thug stuffed all the money in the bag, and even emptied the tip jar sitting next to the counter.

With his business done, the man bolted and made for the door. Bruce's stare followed him out, he waited until he was out of sight before getting up and heading for the back of the diner. He passed by the counter and said to Belle on his way out. "Call 911."

His every step was a heavy deliberate stomp as he gained momentum. With clear purpose, Bruce rounded the many machines and cooking apparatuses in the kitchen, then exited through the heavy steel door leading into the alley. His heavy duffel bag was on his shoulder, and he followed one path that would take him to the network of alleys running along the block. His keen eyes spotted a black motorcycle parked along a deserted street, and he made a gamble on who its owner was. As he approached the vehicle, Bruce's ears picked up on the frantic tapping of running feet from around the corner. When he heard the steps close in from a little over a meter away, he put in all his weight in the swing and hurled the duffel bag at the thug just as he came into view.

The man yipped as his whole body flew across the curb and slammed into a trashcan. His little black bag dropped, along with the gun he'd been carrying haphazardly in his loose sweatpants. The weapon emitted a loud bang as it misfired, shooting the poor bastard in the stomach.

Bruce blinked twice in disbelief. The thug groaned in agony, lying slack against the mess of trash bags and refuse littering the street. His blood was pooling out into the gutter. With a wound like that, Bruce knew he would bleed out in minutes. He approached the dying thug as if to help him up. Instead, Bruce picked up the black bag and watched the gangster die a slow and painful death. As he watched, he wondered how many lives had the man ruined besides his own. How many crimes had he committed, and what drove him down this path?

In the end, he decided he didn't care. Soon, the thug was dead.

One less scumbag to worry about.

Later, when the Gotham police finally arrived at the crime scene, they got to an injured Belle and closed off the diner to the public. As the waitress answered to their preliminary questionings, the black bag containing the stolen money was found stuffed into an open refrigerator- as if someone wanted it to be found. By then, Bruce was already gone and among the busy pedestrians clogging up the walkways of Gotham City.

His next destination was Wayne Manor- the ancestral home of the Wayne family. A pastiche of Gothic architecture combined with features of castellated architecture, the estate on the hill was just as old as Gotham itself. It was a fortress of solitude for Bruce during his young adolescent years, and it would serve his needs for the years to come. He didn't come all the way back to Gotham for some coffee and pie, after all.

Returning to the manor, the grounds were well-kept but empty. It was just the way Bruce liked it, he didn't want to see anyone home to greet him. But if it well-kept, someone was still there. Just the one, or two. Sure enough, as he got up to the crest of the hill, he spotted Alfred Pennyworth standing on the steps leading into the main doors.

How figure out he was back, Bruce would never know. Alfred just does that. He knows.

"Master Bruce." The old butler greeted him with that unflappable English demeanor he'd always had for as long as Bruce could remember. "Welcome back."

"Hey Alfred." The soldier replied, taking off his cap to give his caretaker a lopsided smile. "It's good to be home."

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