Chapter 5

The sun was rapidly setting in the sky, casting a soft orange glow on the rising columns and walls of New Wayne Manor. A hive of activity during the day, the throngs of workers and vehicles moving about had retired for the evening. Now, the area was gripped by a bitter silence.

Alone, Bruce Wayne was pacing back and forth, haphazardly inspecting the work. He bent down and picked up a chunk of building material, looked it over, then dropped it. For the past hour, he had tried to pass the time with similar such-futile gestures, and his patience was beginning to fray. What's keeping him? At some risk to himself, he had managed to slip away from business downtown on his own, allowing Alfred to pick up his visitor with greater discretion.

That choice of words made Bruce pause. Rachel, a 'visitor'. She had been many things to Bruce over his short, unhappy life—childhood play companion, friend… recently, partner in crime, and perhaps more than a friend?—but to call her a visitor now made her seem so… distant. As if she were a stranger. After all they had been through, especially in recent years, it just didn't seem possible.

But that was before the Joker. Now… Bruce didn't want to reflect on what had happened to Rachel since, but he forced himself to do so. I saved her, but allowed her to nearly burn to death. I failed to save Harvey, and now he's gone—not just the best hope to clean up Gotham, but Rachel's fiancée (he twitched unconsciously). I let the Joker kidnap her, then to save her again, I allowed hundreds of innocent lives to be lost, and now she hates me…

"'Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?'" The mordant words brought no relief to Bruce as he said them to an empty audience of trees, shrubs and squirrels. He sighed, resigned to events. It's over. The words brought a fresh stab of pain, but he could no longer deny it. As long as the Joker remains free, Rachel will be in danger… as long as I remain Batman. It would be better just to let her go. But he didn't want to. So… should he give up the Batman? But I can't, not with Dent dead.

The choice was intolerable: continue with the mantle of Batman, and risk Rachel's safety; or give it up, despite the fact that the Joker would still probably go after her. There's no choice at all; what part of 'I hate you Bruce Wayne, Batman, whoever you are' did you not get?

"So why is she coming here?" To berate me more? To convince me to give up Batman? To say she's turning me in? The last thought had come out of nowhere, and it threw him: of course, she knew his secret, she could bring him down with but a word. Bruce found the possibility very discomfiting. I had volunteered to do that earlier, but that was before the Batman had failed so spectacularly. Would people blame him for the deaths on the ferry? They probably should, he thought, knowing he would always blame himself.

A sound interrupted his thoughts. Bruce looked up; the limo was pulling up. Bruce took a breath and steadied himself, willing himself to take responsibility for his actions. Rachel always understood that better than I did, he thought. I should follow her lead.

The limo stopped a dozen feet from where he stood. Alfred got out, nodded his way, then went back and opened the door. Slowly, Rachel emerged. She was wearing a lavender blouse and dark blue jeans, but it was her face that had his undivided attention: the right side of her face was the same familiar, lovely features he remembered, while the left side—

—the left side was covered by a thick translucent plastic mask; absurdly, Bruce was reminded of the Phantom of the Opera. It covered the scarring, but at the edges he could still see traces of scarred flesh poking out. The right corner of her mouth drooped slightly in a frown.

Bruce swallowed; her appearance was ineffably unnerving, as he felt a genuine fear of what she would say and do to him. Alfred nodded again and walked away. Slowly, Rachel approached him.

'Hi Rachel, good to see you!' 'How are you feeling today?' Somehow Bruce doubted those words would do. Trying to keep his lips from quivering, he steadied himself as she came up to him. Rachel stopped, and her half-frown twitched upwards into a small smile. "Hello, Bruce," she said.

"Uh, hi Rachel." The words escaped him, and Bruce swore to himself. But Rachel did not react in any way he could discern. She stared at him, as if evaluating a stranger for the first time, like she was looking someone over at a club.

A while later, she gestured with her hand. "Shall we?" She began walking, following a dusty path that the workers had made. Bruce followed after her.

"Are you feeling any better?" With no idea as to how he wanted to play this, or how Rachel wanted to, Bruce decided to stick to the basics.

"No, but that's okay. It can't get any worse than it has already." Her tone was not flat, but casual, almost conversational.

"I'm sorry. I hope that changes." Again he kept it even-keel.

"I hope so too." She stopped walking, pausing to look at the construction of New Wayne Manor. Bruce came up alongside of her, standing to her right.

"How long will it be before they finish?"

"Several more months, but we'll be able to move back in a few weeks." He pointed. "The living section is almost complete."

"That's good."

Bruce was becoming increasingly wary. She's never really been the one to engage in small talk. Is she working herself up to saying something drastic? He decided to take the initiative at last: "I can take you on a more complete tour, but I'm guessing that wasn't what you had in mind for today."

Rachel continued to look at the house, a smile still on her face. "No, it wasn't." She paused. "The people who did this to you, we never caught them." Her voice was softer, gentler, though the damage to her mouth meant that it came out as a partial slushing slur that was only partially recognizable as her original tone of voice.

"No, they all managed to get away."

"What about their leader?"

Bruce swallowed. Ra's al Gul. "I stopped him."

"Did he die?"

"Yes." I don't kill…

"We never found a body." That fact troubled Bruce to this day. Why is she bringing this back? Before he could react, she spoke again: "Did you kill him?"

I don't kill… "I could have saved him, but… I didn't."

Nodding, she turned to face him. "You know, Bruce, according to law, that was not homicide."

With more than a hint of sarcasm, he replied: "That's good to know." Legal definitions did nothing to assuage his feeling in the matter—

"—and you're not responsible for the deaths of the people in the ferry."

His response was angry and immediate: "No, I am." Bruce turned away; he didn't want to see the accusation in her face, didn't want her to see his own everlasting horror and shame.

Somewhat soothingly, Rachel said: "Failure to act is not a wrongful action—"

"—Damn the law, I killed those people!" he shouted. Bruce whirled about; Rachel's face (half-face) appeared understanding, which made him even more furious. "I did it to save you, but they're dead! All dead! No use pretending otherwise!" He was beseeching; he craved her pardon, knowing she could never give it, and that he could never take it, because no matter what she said or he believed, the answer would always be the same: he failed, and they all died.

"They're dead," she repeated softly, almost inaudibly due to Bruce's heavy breathing and pounding heart. "And the Joker is still loose."

The Joker. No combination of curses could begin to describe Bruce's fury and outrage at the Joker's crime. When I catch him, I'll beat him so badly that he'll wish he was never born—

"Are you going to go after him?"

"Yes."

"What will you do when you catch him?"

Bruce could think of a hundred things, all equal-parts illegal and painful. The safe and responsible thing to say was: "Bring him to justice," and he did.

"Will you punish him?"

Not really paying attention to her words, he responded: "I will do whatever it takes to capture him." If he resists apprehension, too bad for him…

"Will you hurt him?"

Hurt him… The words sounded strange coming from Rachel; the gentle, feminine way in which she said the words made them even stranger. He had to be honest: "Probably," he admitted.

"Would you kill him?" Would I? Before he could respond or even consider her words further, she continued: "If he was about to kill someone, would you kill him first?"

That's what I did when I thought Ra's—or who I thought was Ra's at the time—did when he was about to execute—murder—that farmer. Bruce shuddered at the memory. "I would stop him from murdering," he said distantly, his mind not completely there at the moment.

"By killing him?"

Is she trying to dissuade me from the possibility of killing him? "Batman does not kill," he replied more firmly. "I learned that lesson from you."

"Not even in self-defense? Not even to stop the Joker from killing someone else?"

Bruce sighed and closed his eyes. "I've seen enough murder with my own eyes," he said heavily. "I do what I do, so that no one will have to feel what I felt… ever since…" his voice trailed away.

Rachel did something unexpected; she rushed up and hugged him. Beneath him, Bruce could hear her sobbing. Almost reflexively, he began stroking her hair.

Gently she pushed away, wiping a tear from my eyes. "I'm sorry," she said in a choking voice. She looked up at him, a pleading look in her eyes. "Bruce, it's all my fault—"

"—Don't even say that," Bruce said forcefully.

"—you don't understand," she said in a whisper. "In the hospital, the Joker gave me his gun and dared me to kill him. I couldn't, because… because I was too… too scared… too weak…"

She turned away. Bruce was stunned. The Joker gave her a gun to kill him with? He was about to argue that she was mistaken, that the gun was empty, that it was all a joke. But as he thought about it, it struck him that the Joker was just insane enough to do something like that.

Even more than he thought possible, his heart felt for her. Poor Rachel… All he wanted to do was hold her and comfort her, but Bruce realized that even if what she said was true, it did not absolve him of his action allowing the ferry passengers to die, and that she still had every reason to hate him—

"That's why he has to die, Bruce," Rachel said. "We can't trust the justice system, the mob will scare away all the jurors, threaten the judges, he'll get off on a technicality." Bruce was stunned by her words; he would believe the Mayor would say something like that, even Harvey. But Rachel? Impossible.

He did nothing, said nothing. Rachel continued: "The police feel the same way, they'll shoot him on sight. So it's okay, Bruce. You can find him first, you did it before. Take care of him, before anyone else is hurt."

Bruce was still speechless. Rachel's asking me to kill the Joker? Just repeating it to himself made it sound less believable, not more. "Uh, Rachel," he stammered.

As if anticipating his reluctance, Rachel slowly reached up and began unhooking the half-mask covering her face. Bruce was about to object, but he stopped himself. He realized what Rachel was going to do, but that didn't make it any easier—

—to gaze at the grotesque visage of her ruined flesh. A mass of purplish scar tissue, ragged and crusty, covered the left side of her face. Large chunks of her flesh had either been burned, torn, or rotted away; a glistening eyeball stared unblinkingly at him, while tendons partially-covered the gaping hole in her jaw, revealing her back molars where her cheek used to be. He struggled to keep from vomiting.

"The Joker did this to me," Rachel said gently, the airy quality of her voice all the more prominent without the mask restraining her. "He did worse to Harvey, to those police officers, to all those people on the ferry. Hundreds of men, women, children… all gone… because he thinks it's all good fun. What would be justice for his crimes?"

Bruce tried to say even the Joker deserved a fair trial, that even if the death penalty (which he opposed in principle) was imposed, that would be true justice… but as her disfigurement stared back at him, half-pleading, half-blank… he couldn't… couldn't reply…

Rachel thankfully placed the mask back over her face, but Bruce couldn't get the horrid images out of his mind. "What will you do if you catch him?" she asked.

Bruce wiped some sweat from his forehead. "Bring him to justice."

Rachel stared blankly back at him, not responding either positively or negatively. Finally, she nodded. "Bruce, I told you that Harvey asked me to marry him, and I said yes."

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything in response. She continued: "I loved him, and I love you. But he's gone. Murdered." She took a step towards him. "When the Joker is gone for good, you and I…"

Bruce tried to process the import of her words. It was difficult to do so, because he was staring at her, noticing how she had unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse, how it revealed the natural curves of her—

"—I know you could have any girl you want," she said demurely, "and I know you'd never want to be with someone as horrible-looking as me—"

"—you're beautiful!"

"Thank you, Bruce, that's so sweet." She reached out and with a trembling hand stroked his cheek, which sent a multifaceted surge through him. "I want to be with you, but I know you're not ready." She stepped away. "When it's safe for both of us, when he's dead, you can come to me and… you can have me. If you want. I'll be waiting."

Bruce did not respond. She looked at him quizzically, then smiled. "I think I should go." It was almost dark. She turned and walked back to the limo, and Bruce followed her, more out of sheer reflex, as his brain could barely comprehend what had just happened.

Before getting in, she came up to him and reached up to place a tentative kiss on his lips. Rachel angled her face away as much as possible to keep the plastic mask away, but Bruce could not help but see it out of the corner of his eye, nor could he avoid its strong medicated smell, which overlay a whiff of decay that emanated from beneath.

She broke off the kiss; Bruce both wanted and did not want it to end. "Bye Rachel," he finally said.

"Bye Bruce." She stepped inside the limo, and Bruce closed the door. Alfred came up to him, giving him an encouraging smile, to which he smiled back weakly. Alfred got into the front. Tapping the lid of the limo, Bruce stepped away as Alfred started up the car and drove off.

As soon as the car disappeared from sight, Bruce went to his motorcycle, put on his helmet and drove off. The world passed him by, and he paid no attention to it, instead lost in a mass of jumbled, confused thoughts.

The moment Rachel got back to her apartment, she rushed to bathroom and threw up. Lunch, breakfast, yesterday's dinner, it all came out. Gagging, she hung her head over the toilet until it was all gone from her system, then she thoroughly rinsed her mouth out.

Disgusted with herself, she threw herself onto her sofa, placed a pillow over her head, and screamed as loud as she could, ignoring the pain from the exertions she was putting her scarred mouth to. Now I know what a whore feels like! The worst part was that there was still a tiny part of her that wanted to be with him, and she had played up that part of her to get her through the masquerade. But now that the act was done, she could see it for what it was: a pathetic remnant of her old self, and a total insult to the memory of Harvey and all the others who died at Bruce's hands.

What if he actually does it? Instantly she dismissed the thought from her mind. Bruce is a joke, unwilling to do what a real man would do in his situation. The more she thought about it the more incomprehensible it became: how could any man who claimed to love a woman, not be willing to kill anything that posed a threat to his so-called love? Maybe Batman is his way of compensating for the fact that he no longer has any balls!

It wasn't a total loss: as best as Rachel could read him, he did not say no outright. But it was still a disappointing outcome, because she had no faith the police could get the Joker. The more she thought about it, the more depressed she became. Maybe I should just turn him in. At least that way, I'll have my revenge on Bruce.

She considered the option, then rejected it. Clearly he's capable of doing it, he just needs the right motivation. Upon thinking that word, Rachel shivered: she knew exactly what kind of 'motivation' would suffice. I'll have to throw myself at him the next time: no more playing coy.

Rachel got up and went to the mirror. Taking off the mask and staring back at her increasingly-familiar half-corpse self, it suddenly looked much bleaker. How much longer will he still pretend to want a normal life? I mean, look at yourself! She did, and was revolted. The only way he'll have you is if you put a pillow over your head. Like you said, he could have a million women better looking than you. If Bruce ever got over his fixation on her, he could move on, in all his wealth and splendor, and she would be left with squat.

I could still bring him down. But the more she thought of it, the more she worried: after all, what evidence did she really have that Bruce was Batman? His word against mine. Sure, if she went to the press, they could investigate, but with his resources he could probably buy them off. Or even better, have me taken out. Maybe even get the Joker to do it!

It was a horrible situation. So much for playing Bat-girl. Or even Mata-hari. The bitter truth was, that Rachel Dawes was what she was: a lowly assistant-DA in a corrupt city, who no one would want to be with because she was, literally, half-baked leftovers. Meanwhile, Bruce can go on and play being Batman as long as he likes, and if and when he decides to hang it up, he just goes back to being a billionaire playboy who's the toast of Gotham.

It was so horrible, so disgusting, so hopeless a situation, Rachel went to her refrigerator and took out the bottles of wine Harvey had sent her a month ago. Popping the cork, she drank straight from the top, ignoring its bitter taste. She kept drinking until the world faded into a warm and dizzy blur, a haze which almost but did not quite eliminate her rage and despair.