Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: This chapter is a continuant of the last, broken down into smaller pieces for sanity's sake because (frankly) this story arc has gotten out of hand. And by that I mean it has completely absconded with my life and sanity. The disclaimer from Martyr stands: all views, opinions, commentaries or fanatic acts of terrorism portrayed or contemplated by characters of Ernestina are their own and have no reflection on the author's beliefs whatsoever. All global politics are merely a reflection of current world trends/fears and projections for the not-so-distant future.
You must, must, must check out J-Horror Girl's Can't Get You Out of My Head, whose twisted plotline lets us know for certain that there's nothing too confusing, exciting, or terrifying that it can't be wrestled into writing. I won't give away any spoilers…so if you get bored with this monstrosity, or need something with a little more humor to perk you up, or want to see some of the art that inspired Ernestina, go check it out. I promise you really can't get it out of your head!
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." -Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
The Following is the GCPD file of one Dr. Jonathan Crane, former professor of Gotham University, Psychology department. As this document contains information garnered under the Patriot Act and classified FBI sources, no part of this file is to be copied or distributed without express permission of Dan Murray, FBI Director Gotham City Branch.
Jonathan Crane, FBI Audio Records Investigative Interview #57
Interviewer: And what was your involvement, Dr. Crane?
Crane: My involvement was minimal. I merely recruited a colleague of mine-Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley- for aid in the identification of the toxin compound and the gene responsible for its propitiation. I was responsible for the import of a yet undiscovered and unresearched psychedelic, xenophytic specimen into the continental US, through official security and environmental channels with proper documentation.
Interviewer: And were you aware of the intended use of the toxin at the time of your research?
Crane: The intended use of the toxin was as a pharmacological enhancement to certain anti-psychotic drugs, hence the efforts to isolate or engineer a vaporous form. Blenophobia is a strikingly common phenomenon, especially amongst the mentally ill. In addition, the use of sharp objects on a patient care ward poses dangers not only to the patients but the staff as well.
(Long pause. Rustling of papers)
Interviewer: Be that as a it may, Mr. Crane, the Bhutanese University from which you obtained your so called grant is nonexistent.
Crane: Clearly you allude to the charges against me. I prefer to be enlightened in a manner that makes them inescapably clear.
(Pause)
Interviewer: It is our belief that during your time abroad in Bhutan after leaving Gotham University, you conspired with international terrorists to bring about the incident Fear Night.
(Uproarious Laughter)
Crane:International terrorists? Yes. Now I remember. They called themselves the League of Shadows. Claimed responsibility for the sacking of Rome, Saladin's recapture of Jerusalem, the Black Plague, and instigating both the sinking of the Litsutania and the bombing of Pearl Harbor and other such minor historical incidents-
(Smacking noise)
Interviewer: You cocksucking bastard you think that's funny-!
(Heavy thump. Strangled Cry.)
Interviewer: These are American citizens we're talking about-!
(Scrape of metal on tile. Muffled shouting)
This interview is significant only that it explains the presence of physical signs of assault against the suspect when FBI psychologists were finally brought onto the case. The unnamed agent has since been suspended of duty and placed on psychological sabbatical until necessary anti-aggression remediation has been fulfilled.
The FBI will neither confirm nor deny the use of waterboarding as an investigative technique.
Psychiatric Consult: FBI interdepartmental psychoanalysis and biography of note
It is the belief of this committee that the patient suffers from Schizophrenia of the Paranoid variety (see DSM code 295.3/ICD code F20.0). Without prior psychological profiling, it is impossible to date the onset of these significant note is a state of induced schizophrenic catatonia is a documented side effect of the Metuant toxin, with currently indefinite resolution.
Early childhood academic records from Peach Groove Elementary School, Jefferson, Georgia and discipline charges from the same indicate that the guidance counselor believed Crane suffered from an autism spectrum disorder such as Asperger's. Of important note is Crane's legal guardian at the time, Opal Constance Butler (maternal great-grandmother), refused medical testing or psychiatric referral.
Neighbors and church members claim Butler was decidedly hostile and negative towards her great-grandson. Although no verbal, mental, or physical abuse was ever reported to the local sheriff or Child Protective Services, statistical evaluation of socioeconomic and educational factors of such a geographically isolated area reveal a high prevalence towards child abuse, domestic violence and incest, with minimal reporting to local law enforcement. As of this time we can neither confirm nor deny any such occurrences in his youth.
County records show Jonathan Crane was never a confirmed member of any extra-curricular activity offered through local school systems or community centers. We believe this demonstrates either a forced or voluntary isolation from his social peers.
As a teenager, Jonathan Crane was implicated but his involvement was never confirmed in a shooting incident at Wade Hampton High School, Jefferson, Georgia, that resulted in the death of one Sherry Squires and the paralysis of one Bo Griggs. County records have deemed the incident an unfortunately automobile collision, with further investigations inconclusive. He is described by teachers and former classmates as reclusive, anti-social, genius, academic, focused, shy, hostile, with rather asexual tendencies for an adolescent. Rumors of homosexuality have been made but are unsubstantiated.
No surviving family members could be located for questioning. Of important note is the absence of his birth father's name from his birth certificate and record. Scarlet Nancy Crane, the only listed parent, was 16 at the time and public record indicates there was no attempts at application for a marriage license in either in her county of residence or any other Georgia counties. A missing person's report was filed for Scarlet less than six months after his birth.
His early professional history is accelerated, yet otherwise unremarkable. He finished an undergraduate in psychology at Gotham University in two years time, then proceeded to Gotham General School of Medicine for an MD/Ph D. program, continuing his education through a residency program in Psychiatry while simultaneously obtaining a doctorate in Psychopharmacology. He was then hired on at Gotham University as an assistant professor, teaching courses ranging from psychology, pharmacology, and criminology.
His contract terminated suddenly after an unfortunate death of a graduate student, wherein he made a plea bargain in a civil suit raised by the student's parents to resign his position if charges of negligence were dropped against him. Police reports indicate that Crane had Avram Bramowitz enter a criminology course to enact a shooting for shock value amongst undergraduate students. However, off duty GCPD officers auditing the class responded with the deemed appropriate force after shots were fired. Internal Affairs confirms a thorough investigation into the affair, and subsequently all charges of unnecessary brutality were dropped against Detectives Guinevere Paltron and Aaron Lawless. The victim's family could not be reached for questioning.
After this incident he was hired on as head of Arkham Asylum, by Jeremiah Arkham, third generation head of Arkham, a facility that has previously faced multiple counts of negligence, physician incompetence, and in current possession of the nation's highest institutional rate of faculty and inmate suicide.
Based on these aforementioned findings and classified National Security reports and interviews which cannot be cited, a diagnosis of Paranoid Schizophrenia is tentatively assigned. However, the committee makes note that Dr. Crane is an experienced psychoanalyst quite capable of purposefully skewing the results of standard psychological profiling. His willingness and/or ability to do so may implicate even further pathological degeneration into a state of paranoia and mistrust, as well as continued psychosis. It is therefore our conclusion that Jonathan Crane be declared criminally insane, and placed into a ward specializing in behavioral and personality disorders to maximize his treatment.
Public Hearing/Psychiatric Internment:
I, Judge Oliver Holmes, by the power invested in me by the state, and by the consult of US Board Certified Psychiatrists Harleen Quintzel and Joan Leland, do hereby declare Jonathan Crane, the accused, to be criminally insane and incapable of facing criminal charges of conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism, attempted murder, fraud, possession of controlled substances, possession of biological weapons, malpractice, perjury, vigilantism, and crimes against humanity. He is hereby declared mentally and emotionally incompetent, removed of his licensure as a physician, and placed into the care of Arkham Asylum under the direct supervision of Dr. Harleen Quintzel.
Note: Ongoing investigations into the legality of Jonathan Crane's capture by the GCPD with the aid of the vigilante Batman are underway. Also included in the charges against the GCPD are the following: failure to read Miranda rights, failure to make known charges after 24 hour holding period, and relinquish of custody to another government organization before charge or arrest.
The FBI is charged with negligence, unnecessary show of force, mental cruelty, abuse of a detainee, illegal acts of torture and coercion.
Additional Note: In light of the spreading crisis in Gotham City concerning international mafia trafficking and conspiracy, Crane vs. State has postphoned.
Further Note: In light of the appearance of a terrorist allegedly in mob employ, alias 'The Joker', the appeal for Jonathan Crane has again been postphoned.
Final Note: In light of his heinous acts against humanity and current mental condition, regardless of the illegality of his arrest/capture, it is the express wish of this agency and its governmental affiliates to keep Jonathan Crane incarcerated at Arkham Asylum indefinitely. Judge Holmes is currently appealing for federal intervention.
Tuesday, August 2oth, 2030 (The Year of the Dog).
12:48 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
There hadn't been time to worry about make-up and lighting. The cameraman had enough sense to frame the shot against the backdrop of the fallen ruins, but beyond that, the young reporter was on her own. Let her make of this tragedy what she would….
Yosef stood wearily before the camera as ash and dust rained down. It must look like snow, he thought fleetingly. Like snow to all the people. But these flakes were not cool but burning to the touch. He'd given his jacket to the young reporter, his red, scarred arms used to the heat of a scorching blaze.
"Now Mr. Haddad, we're heard there has been a change in evacuation procedure for Gotham City Plaza." The young woman said. "Can you tell us more about that?"
"Yes," Yosef replied, regretting momentarily that he stood here safety while his men ran with the National Guard towards those in need of rescue and aid. But he was Fire Marshall. And like the seismic scientists who monitored the structure of the plaza, he was now a general, not a foot soldier. He was needed here, in charge. He was needed here, before these cameras, to spread hope to hurting families…
"We have reason to believe that perhaps yes, the North East sector has been spared structure-wise. Before such data, we could not."
"As I understand, this data comes not three hours after the decision to close the Plaza to all rescue workers. Is that correct?
"Yes." Yosef repeated himself. "Yes. To send my men in blind? No. No I could not do that. But there is now hope, I think, that we can access survivors without aggravating the integrity of the plaza."
"I guess what all of Gotham is wondering is: will it succeed?"
Yosef smiled. Thought of that man. That Lawless. And the Commissioner Gordon. One must have faith. Must choose to act on faith. What had been his words? Oh yes. "If Allah wills, then yes. But the citizens of this city deserve that we should try."
Surrounded by the wreckage of the Legacy's destruction Cameron Shaw of TV 18 news blinked in surprise. An effing Muslim-? How the Hell would her audience respond to that-? "And, and Mr. Haddad, what is your advice to families with missing loved ones?"
"Wait. Hope. And pray." Said Yosef Abdullah Salim Haddad, twenty-nine years since 9/11, twenty-nine years since the world had viewed his faith in a violent light, here now he had finally been given the chance to change it. "Yes, pray."
12:55 EST
Beijing, American Embassy
"What a wonderful statement of hope, brought to us by Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad," the voice of Anchorman Mike Engle came through the television.
Hope? The American Ambassador mused, looking owlishly out the windows of the Embassy to the streets below, swarmed with flocks of students and visiting foreigners. Someone-most likely a University student-had thought to haul in stereo equipment by bicycle from a nearby club, and now the hauntingly familiar strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rang solemnly in the polluted air.
Many held signs, predominantly in that crude, garbled 'Engrish' that resulted from cultural and contextual misunderstandings, although many Han sinographs graced those home-made placards as well, offering condolences, sympathy and support…
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there…
And yes. Yes, Old Glory was waving high over the officious building, hung at half-mast.
A spontaneous outpouring of grief? Or simply yet another state organized parade or function? It was hard to fight down the skepticism at the presence of soldiers and police, standing tiny and emotionless, so cold and official around the gathered crowd. The PRC was still master and yet wary of her own people, even now.
And yet…and yet as that last chorus came to a crashing crescendo he couldn't help but blink back tears, no, no he was bawling like a fucking baby. For in this moment of fear, of unknown, of panic and worry this truth, this stronghold, this hope and this anchor swelled inside him like that song, for that Star-spangled banner yet waved, even here, even now, half a world away from the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.
….And would. She always would.
13:01 EST
Gotham City Utilities Switchboard
"I'm with the NSA, you fuckface pussy, and I don't give a damn what your governor thinks. My first priority and my only priority here is taking care of this breach, do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir." Root replied emotionlessly. Yeah, sure he didn't give a damn. Didn't give a damn if the main gas line might have blown and the whole city with it. These paramilitary types gave him the creeps. There was objectivity, and then there was obsession, and a deep seated coolnees that just didn't give a shit if millions of lives might be at stake as long as someone was following orders.
"Now I want to know what you know, soldier. Or haven't you cocksuckers NOTICED something strange about this whole operation? Huh?"
"With all due respect, sir," Root said in that same even tone. "Whoever has been supplying us with this information has been supporting the rescue of American citizens, and my first duty is to protect them." As he had, had since that first surprising radio call so many hours before...
"Hellooo, National Guardsmen, whoever the Hell is in charge-"
"Sir, this is a military broadcast channel and you are in violation of FCC regulations, I repeat, this channel is closed to civilian usage-"
"No shit? This is a military channel? You'd think their systems would be a bit harder to crack. I KNOW, you dickhead, and that's why I'm using it. Now do something useful and put your boss on the line, okay?"
"This is Colonel Root of the National Guard. And this had fucking better be important." Root snapped.
"Yeah, sir," that voice said after a brief pause. " or whatever the hell you military types like to be called. It's fucking important."
"This man…this man thinks he has help." The familiar voice of the Gotham City Fire Marshall, effective AIC of aid and relief at the Plaza Proper stated via radio. "Cell phones.."
"Sending it your way, now."
The Colonel stood agape, eyes roving the screen shot laid in front of him. "This was taken not thirty seconds ago. It shows a distribution of EMF technology and resultant sonograms laid in the plaza proper-"another voice relayed calmly.
Every cellular carrier had a contract with the U.S. government. All telecommunications were in bed with the military but this? This was well beyond his scope of command, his security clearance and pay grade. In essence, Root reflected, he'd just been promoted…
"This is a local police band line!" He swore suddenly, realizing it was NOT the NSA.
"Fuck yeah, man." The first voice said."You know, someone's got to serve and protect while you guys are busy getting organized."
"Officer, how on earth did you come by this information?" He demanded.
There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. That third voice, the deep, measured, mellow one, finally answered. "Let's put it this way, Mr. Root. We could tell you, but we'd probably have to kill you."
He'd known, even then, seven hours ago, how this would all go down. And he was ignorant, oblivious that the technology he was trying so desperately to protect had ceased to broadcast at 9 AM with collapse of the Fountainhead. But it didn't make him less of a patriot to sacrifice for a lost cause, he would reflect in the years to come, perhaps it even made him more.
But that fascist bastard from the NSA wasn't buying. He ripped the sunglasses off his arrogant face, and stepped closer. "Colonel, I am ordering you to disclose whatever information you have and to order your men to assist in the apprehension of these terrorists. "
"With all due respect, sir," Root returned, his men and civilian Natalie Hendricks watching incredulously, "these men are patriots. I decline."
"That's defiance of a direct order, colonel. I'll have your ass court-marshalled for this!"
Yeah, cocksucker? Root thought calmly. Tell me something I don't already know. He nodded gravely. "Understood."
13:09 EST
Chateau D'If, Penthouse Suite
Patriotism, Meroni scoffed, was for the weak. The deluded. A man died for his own causes, never his country's. He went to war to defend his home, not his homeland, and the greatness of state and the grandeur and awe the naïve felt when they contemplated dulce et decorum est was merely a measure of the success of the most universal of political propaganda.
The head of the Family's interests in Gotham City slowly preformed his physical therapy exercises, cursing inwardly at the preposterousness and inconvenience of redeveloping the muscles that had served him unfailingly for decades. Months confined to a wheelchair had weakened him to the point where he could walk short distances without a cane, at best, and suffer the indignity of receiving his guests seated, at worst. He cursed the Batman, cursed the Batman and his misplaced sense of morality.
Yes, yes it had been a mistake to hire the Joker. He had never felt comfortable, but the Chechen had insisted. It had been his thirst for restoring the Family's former power that led him to agree to such rashness. And he had gone to Gordon, had he not? Gone to Gordon and attempted to hand over the Bastard? Get justice for that DA, recompense for his woman?
It was an old rule, to be sure. Outdated. Old-fashioned. You don't fuck with your enemy's family. You do, you pay the price. The Joker set up those killings. The Joker sent that idealist Dawes to her death….
And yet this was how the Batman repaid him, dropping him three stories to the pavement below, shattering both tibias and displacing his knees. And all for nothing. Everything the masked crusader had learned from the interview he'd already known. And Dent? Dent hadn't even used the information he'd wrest from him, letting Ramirez live… But the man had been distraught, twisted, ruined by that laughing clown's hideous mind, mad in the end...
But Dent was gone. Dead. There would be no more problems of politicians forgetting their place. And the Batman had disappeared, hiding somewhere in the dark. Some hypothesized he'd been killed, arrested, captured under another name. But Meroni didn't believe in these rumors, didn't listen to word of mouth or hearsay.
The Batman was gone. Had hung up his cape and called it quits. The Batman had surrendered. Killed Dent for bringing this violence upon his city. It had been Harvey Dent, DA, who brought the scum and rats out of the sewers to plague the populace, not he. The Family didn't get rid of the human garbage in Gotham but they put them in their place. Dent…Dent and Dawes and Surrillo had nearly ruined everything.
The Batman wasn't foolish enough to be a patriot. He'd die for no one's causes but his own, and for whatever misguided reasons he'd chosen protecting Gotham, he had finally learned, had he not, that Gotham was better left to the protectorate that had always seen to her streets: The Family. Yes, there was violence. Yes, there was crime. But how many hungry families had gone fed because of the money he'd laundered through Sisters of Mercy and her community charities? How many men had he employed in small, menial tasks, scraping a living out of restaurants, theaters, hotels, as fronts for the Family that would otherwise be prowling the streets, seeking what petty crimes they may?
No, no men like that worthless scum Joe Chill were the real problem with this city. Gangs like Guerrero's, those pathetic Latin Pigs, and their initiation rites of murder and rape. Meroni hated drugs, thought Falcone had been a fool for ever investing in them but they were…substantially lucrative, and to the weak minded money seemed a form of power. Men had their vices, and would pay exorbitant prices for their fulfillment. No. The drugs were here to stay. But given a monopoly, were the Family to control not one sector but all, he could eliminate the needless violence of gangs and drug related crimes that killed the youth of this city as surely as the childhood diseases modern medicine had saved them from. Violence could never be stopped entirely, but under the right master it could be quelled…
There's only one way, but you already know what it is, don't you? Take off that mask and let him come to you.
The Batman had finally gotten the message: Gotham City belonged to him.
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not! Perhaps now, after this tragedy, they would finally understand. He'd have to have a word with his 'source' about not spilling to the police her part in this awfulness-although unwittingly. It was a deed he himself regretted darkly. Assassinating a governor was one thing, but a terrorist attack with all heed to the innocent collateral? That was beyond the realms of usual evil. Naturally, as a woman and a mother she would be upset, if not distraught by this slaughtering of innocents. But if she wished to stay a mother to living children, if she wished her own mother in the nursing home a long and happy life, save herself the shame of prison…well, she'd do as she'd been told.
As she always had. Always would. Officer Anna Ramirez was not a patriot, not a fool. It was not misguided, grandiose idealism but her family's life she valued at whatever cost, and such bravery and courage, such unquestioning loyalty even the corrupt could respect.
…And most certainly take advantage of. How fortuitous, he recollected darkly, that Dent in his bloody rampage had spared her.
His right foot planted firmly he leaned forward, leaned until he felt that strain in his left foreleg, limbering that limb from its spasms and pain. But truth be told his devious mind wasn't focused on the exercises, as important as they were. Today there were more pressing things, more pressing things than even his own less-than-trivial suffering that must be contemplated.
He'd accepted three million for the placement of Guerrero's men and equipment. Rocket launchers…that meant they'd made the trip to Old Town. Stalton was a free agent, to be sure, and Styx Slaughterhouse had long since been a neutral territory where the worst of Gotham could entertain their violent vices with dogfights and gambling, that is, before the Batman and that arrogant young DA had turned the game on its head. That fool Gambol had spent many long nights there. And while it had made more economic sense to band together with other such leaders in this city to quell violence and negotiate territories, dealings with such scum had always left a bad taste in his mouth. Gambol had been little more than a glorified gangster, one of those rap scene icons these modern generations swooned over. The man was a thief and a murderer, and there had been things about his personal life that sent even philanderers like himself grimacing in disgust. And these Latin Kings. Latin pigs, more like. The Puerto Ricans, like the Blacks, shared a taste for the flamboyant and over stated, enjoyed their leather and chains, outrageous fashions and piercings, their violence and guns. Meroni's men, even he himself, had rudimentary skills with a firearm and he was protected wherever he went…but those fools thought that power came from Hollywood at the end of a improperly held Kalishnikov.
True power was something you couldn't measure in guns or showy threats of violence. True power was the ability to make a well placed phone call and receive whatever you demanded, from whoever you demanded it. True power was executing a man before a Judge and fearing no repercussions. It meant knowing which of the men in your employ were CI's for the FBI, and having nothing to fear…true power made one the master. It was not something that could be bought or sold, something you could trade…true power, as respect, was something that must first be earned.
Yet something had gone wrong with Guerrero's plan. Something larger, more deadly was afoot, to which, as Meroni naively thought, only the Joker knew the answer. It was indeed, an increasing and evermore dangerous game…
He sat, massaging his aching limbs. He would need all his strength, all his resources and all his cunning. A storm was coming, and he must be ready. Yet the family could weather it. Would weather it, as they had done all others. Gambol was dead. The Chechen was dead. It had been he and he alone who had remained, and would remain, firm.
For all his musings and prowess, Mafioso Salvatore Meroni was a fool. As Kingpin and Ivanovitch had tentatively made their stands and replaced Gambol and the Chechen, he himself had once been an underling, chaffing under the realm of a higher lord, Falcone. And now, unbeknownst to him, there were powers descending upon Gotham a man such as him could never dream of, powers that had visited before, had crushed the former Mafia don of the Sleepless City, left him gibbering and rotting in the cold, dark basements of Arkham Asylum.
Meroni looked out at the spreading city, 100 floors above the ground, lit a cigar, tilting his head back to ponder his growing power. Yet elsewhere in that self-same city, Carmide Falcone sat quivering on a simple mattress in a bare room, unresponsive, completely catatonic as he had for nearly two years, whispering ever that self-same word:
"Scarecrow. Scarecrow. Scarecrow…"
13: 17 EST
Beijing
As Salvatore Meroni surveyed his kingdom, another man, indeed, another crippled by the Batman's own hands, sat half a world away, contemplating the elevating chaos of Gotham City via CNN's real-time portal on the worldwide web. Yet unlike Meroni who could only speculate on dreams of wisdom and power, he had them both in abundant possession.
He was Solomon of Isreal. Alexander of Macedonia. Rameses II of Egypt. And like those great men before him he sought to change the face of the globe. There were few people in the world who knew of his existence. Fewer still knew him by name. Even his most loyal servants knew him under disguise or false pretenses. His aliases were numerous, as were his false international papers. Not easily faked in this modern era of advanced technology, his cause too high to be thwarted by the inconvenience or the costs of obtaining authentic documentations he had contacts, his organization had many contacts within governments worldwide who for the right price could supply visas, passports, even US social security numbers…
Greed. How easily were they manipulated. How he had grown sick of their immorality. And yet for the Greater Good, how long had he endured them!
Ah, greed. The vice that crippled all species, even his own, the desire, the hunger, the thirst and lust not for sufficiency but for more. Gluttons. Insatiates. Returning as lab rats to nicotine or ethanol, consumed by their addiction at last. As goats ate themselves to explosion so had generations of mankind, glutted and swollen upon gold and furs, gasoline and oil pipelines, modern medicines and comforts while those in the developing world died still of diseases of infancy long since cured and curable…
America. The evils and horrors of humanity made manifest, laid bare. Hated by the world, ridiculed, mocked, called ingrates and infidels, both bully and master…and yet still paradoxically she took in the poor, the tired, the hungry, the sick…across the globe the fortunate left their own countries seized by violence and war, starvation and sickness for those more affluent. Britain. France. Australia, yes, but it was the United States where all hoped to flock. An unholy pilgrimage to the worship of Hollywood, to a cultureless culture, so shallow and yet so deep with the wisdom and heritage of Greece and Rome…
But Lady Liberty had long since fallen from grace, those ideals that once strengthened her now nothing but hearsay, which some politicians made lip service to, and others simply scorned. Monroe Doctrine. Policeman of the world. Declaration of Independence, where all men where given the right to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness…that it is the right of the people of a sovereign country to rise up against their government when their human rights are oppressed. And by extension, that it is the right-it is the duty-of the citizens of these sovereign nations to pursue that self-same manifest destiny across the globe…and yet.
And yet America grew stuporous in her vigil. The country which swore to uphold the integrity of her hemisphere could interfere in Columbia to her own ends, build a canal for the transport of her endless trade yet lay slumbering like a sleeping giant, deaf to Europe's pleas in that War in End All Wars…until Shadows had tickled Wilson's ears, sending military supplies under the guise of a passenger ferry, while simultaneously informing the Kaiser's naval blockade, sending the Lusitania and her passengers to the depths. And even then how quickly was she forgotten! Less than half a century later America balked at her responsibility until her own citizens were butchered on the sands of Pearl Harbor. Expedient. A necessary sacrifice. Had Shadows not intervened with the Japanese High Command, tickled the Emperor's ears with thoughts of expansion and natural resources, never having to bow and slaver to these barbarians again-!, how the face of the globe might have been otherwise.
As it was they had almost been too late. Even after that ominous climb to Mt. Nitaka, the Americans had nearly lost the war. Had Hitler's scientists outpaced the MANHATTAN project…
MANHATTAN. What began as war time emergency, a horrific lost of human life, a terrible cost to end a war but an end nonetheless had become routine. So commonplace it was nearly forgotten. Now every government in the world clamoured after these arms, wishing the power and influence, the fear which accompanied them and the threat of their use. Every contingency plan brought their use into play, weighing the prerogatives to determine if a crisis indeed merited their use…
America. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave. The Blind, Dumb and Deaf. The hearts of her lethargic masses as cold as the chilled iron of the USS Arizona, sunk those eighty-nine years before. The world was in turmoil, a Colder War, nation against nation, nuclear holocaust lying as a burning sun against the glowing horizon, but the American populace sat slumbering again, content with their fast food, ipods and Nike shoes stitched by the hands of starving children, too engrossed in their own petty problems and celebrity idolatry to care.
No, no America functioned out of greed, using her God-given right to spread democracy when and where it was convenient, as long as GALLOP still showed her politicians it was the popular thing to do. A canal here, and oil pipeline there, she changed the face of the globe, bowed countries to the ever-pressing need of her gluttonous demands…
…Or tragedy. Americans needed tragedy to unplug their ears, open their eyes, to blink in the startling sun of chaos and death to find theirs was an artificial world at best, that there still existed poverty, need, want, and the corruption and evil, the violence and genocide that drove them to be. Yes, yes America needed tragedy. Needed to be reminded of the cost of Bunkerhill, Shiloh, Gettysburg, Verdun, Normandy and Iwo Jima…that freedom, unlike her fast food and instant demand consumerism, did not come at a discount, we honor our competitor's coupons price. It demanded Time. Sacrifice. Tears. Sweat. Blood…
Yes, yes America needed tragedy in order to truly fulfill her purpose.
It was Oswald who shot and killed the American's president. It was the American presidents who had begun this arms race, this silent assault, this stockpiling of weapons against the USSR. The Cuban Missile crisis should have shown those two superpowers the escalating dangers of mixing nuclear weapons with mutual distrust…but alas, it had not. And just as that crisis began to cool it was JFK who sent Cuban men back to their home country without the support they needed to prevail, to spread democracy at last…and that pitiful attempt had fallen, massacred in the Bay of Pigs, angering millions. The American president must be stopped. Johnson was a milder man, would learn from his predecessor's mistakes. It had been Oswald who assassinated the American president…as it had been the Shadows who in turn killed Oswald.
It was a pity, was it not, that the means to abate this crisis had not existed then, that such a great man should meet such an end? It was watch and wait. Sacrifice and pray. Intervene as they always had done, small stroke here, another there, hoping to turn the world from annihilation…and how utterly had they almost failed! Barely had the shadow of the Third Reich fallen when an Iron Curtain fell hard and fast to the North and East, the research of Hitler's nuclear physicists hidden under her veil. Who could have foreseen the sudden spread of communism, that comraderie would spring up across the stretches of the globe, that that upstart Castro in a country of no great importance save its geographic proximity to the United States could have changed the face of the globe?
Oswald. The man had been a sociopath. A criminal. No more than scum. But he had proved useful in the end. As had countless thousands through the millennia, bad men, redeeming themselves through one last, heinous act while they themselves were unawares. Men like that John Wilkes Booth... He had no doubts what karma these men had earned, this one last defiant act, though for the greater good, done simply through their crazed bloodlust and greed. How odd, how divine, what perfect, unobtainable justice was it that though for the Greater Good these last unwitting acts only sealed their place for eternal torment? It was beyond mortal measure to comprehend, and he consoled himself with the wonder than it was a man's motives, his heart, that dictated the barbaric nature of an act or not. What was murder to millions, damnation of the soul, could be simply a tool of a deeper righteousness in the hands of a servant of a Higher Calling.
His greatest pupil had not understood. Too blinded by sentimentality to see that in war there must be sacrifices. That the cost of peace was blood. In order to maintain order and the sanctity of man there must be justice for wrongs done…and it must be exacted harshly. Swiftly. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A life…for a life. No. And as Bruce Wayne had failed to pass that first test he'd failed a second as well, for he had not understood the precious sanctity of life. Not of lives, but of Life. Sacrifice did not come easy, and even in Sodom and Gomorrah had there not been righteous and innocents? But the sins of the fathers are recompensed down generations. There were many who lived in Gotham who deserved to die. Many still who had died and deserved life, but it was impossible to return it to them…
Henri Ducard was not a murderer. Not a religious zealot who took delight in slaughter. No, no the League of Shadows was not swift to deal out death and judgment. But when it was exacted, when innocent blood must be spilt, it was because innocent blood had already been shed by the unjust, and yet the severity of their sufferings had been ignored. The innocent served as collateral, as that Ghandi had seen so well, until the cry of their blood, like Abel's, could no longer be ignored. It was then that men decided truly between good and evil, choose either to act in complicity or defiance to the powers that made the world thus…
For now, even now, as the world teetered toward nuclear destruction, it had been his to send this final warning. As the crisis unfolded in Gotham City, his agents in the Chinese politburo were acting, sending the Dragon of the East into testing her prowess, beginning pre-emptive mobilizations for the war that might follow, securing in public eye her guilt. For he had made sure, had he not, that the drugs, like the missing weapon, could be traced quite legitimately to the shipping ports of Shanghai? Crossing the great Pacific Ocean to that very same Canal that Roosevelt had built, then up, up the coast to Gotham City-?
Such was their punishment for toying with World War III. At the worst, he would escalate the inevitable, pit them against each other in nuclear destruction until they realized the horrific cost. America would win, for the rest of the world would not sit idly by to watch the People's Republic become their master. No, no suspicions would be too great, and the Bear of the North would descend upon her neighbor with ferocity and retribution. Millions would die, he had no doubt, millions of lives extinguished suddenly and irrevocably, and more would suffer the burns, the radiation sickness, the crippling effects of the aftermath of Chernobyl or Hiroshima…but subsequent generations would be saved from destruction. No one again would find strength nor security in nuclear supremacy.
Yet at this his heart grew cold. It was better to hope, was it not? It was better to hope that with this suspicion instead that America would mobilize, as had they in every war past, invading Iraq in that Persian Gulf War for her reneging the treaty with Kuwait-? Yes, yes it was better to hope that her stuporous citizens would again be aroused, calling out in the streets not only for blood but reform, for intervention, for justice! That they would cease to pay for the Dragon's products, that their furious voices would drown the weak and feeble UN, that regardless of world opinion and economic hardship would place sanctions on that nation, sanctions for the war crimes, government sponsored terrorism, human rights violations, the murdered babies, the sexual slavery and kidnappings across her neighboring countries to make up for the baby girls they themselves had slaughtered-?
Could the fear, the potentiality of MAD, drive the United States to do what it should have years ago when Mao Zedong first rose to power, when Tibet was taken forcibly, or students massacred in Tiananmen Square? That MacArthur had understood, had he not? And if only he had been more influential in Korea those weapons of mass destruction would have fallen upon the Dragon as well. Terrible, yes. But great. And the deaths of those hundreds of thousands would have spared the lives of millions of Chinese nationals, butchered instead slowly by their own government through years of starvation and forced social progress. Could the death of Gotham bring about the awakening of the conscience of the American people, the liberation of 1.6 billion Chinese citizens to the human rights and equality long denied them?
Like the Roman Eagle before her, America was kind to her foes. As Rome's legions savagely conquered kingdoms, they granted rite of protection and citizenship in exchange for taxation. Blood of hundreds of thousands in exchange for the price of peace…if the Eagle were aroused again, she would make allies out of enemies, friends from her foes. She would rebuild. Restore. Renew.
A Pax Americana: World Peace.
If only Bruce had understood. But his gaze had been too narrow, his countenance too weak. Rebuilding Gotham? Stop the Violence? Oh, Bruce, if you could but see, could taste and know the horrors of not only a city but the world, that to solve the crisis of one city you must solve the problems of them all-!
Glancing down through the polluted air to the crowded, dirty streets below teeming with bicycles and parasols, a colorful, tempestuous human tide, Henri Ducard reflected silently the thoughts of all great men before him: Si vis pacem, para bellum.
It was with pity, with pity not scorn Ra's al Ghul reflected on his greatest of pupils. You would leave a man to die, would you not, Bruce, for demanding justice against a murderer, thou shalt not kill? But we are not murderers. We are a government, yes, a world government. A democracy, even, appointed by her peoples. Appointed like you, a watchdog, a protectorate, appointed by the masses slaughtered in Darfur and Bosnia, appointed by the corruption of the governments in Beijing and la Ciudad de Mexico. Appointed, as your Batman, by the good men of the world who in fear or laziness have stood by and let evil men take power...
But the Batman, like Bruce, was not a killer. His survival bore witness to this fact. A killer would be better trained. Would know if he truly wished a man's death, he must accomplish it with his own hands or bear witness with his eyes. But Bruce had not, searing his consciousness of not killing by leaving circumstance to do what he himself could not bear, weak, foolish, and illogical. For he, Henri Ducard, Ra's al Ghul, had escaped from that hurtling car…
Seconds before collision he had jumped. Relied on years of training and biomechanics to soften the impact, lessen the blow, absorbing the shock through bones which he knew would shatter and pain which seared through nerves which might regenerate with time-?
That his injuries had been, were still…severe…he would not deny. Perhaps a punishment for his own nearsightedness, perhaps not, for Karma, like tribulation, worked in mysterious ways unfathomable to the minds of men. Mind your surroundings, look to the greater good. In his disappointment and anger had let those emotions consume him, forgetting he possessed a higher calling, a larger task at hand. Now for two years he had recuperated, recuperated at the hands of the world's finest physicians and healers, waiting, praying, learning patience and long-suffering for his rashness. For bones knit. Scars faded. Yet nerves grew back with agonizing slowness, less than a centimeter a month…
For two years he had been patience's pupil. Learned at her knees like a suckling babe. And now he released his masterstroke. For now, at last, the time was right, the harvest ready, the world standing upon the brink…
His heart quickened. The phone was in his hand before it could so much as ring. "Talia?"
"The plan proceeds." Was her cryptic reply, and the line went dead.
Ra's al Ghul/Henri Ducard brought his hands to his face, a long, long sign of release and regret emptying from his weary lungs, left in dread at this awful moment, this infinite crisis over all the earth—
The time was now.
He looked to the window, out to the masses gathered before the American Embassy surrounded by soldiers keeping watchful eye, the best and worst of humankind laid bare. Infinite wealth and impoverished squalor. Outpouring of grief and statuesque stoicism, all mingling in the wide street now littered with automobiles and bicycles, signs and solidarity of the nations…
O Absalom, would I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!
It was enough to make him weep. How many innocents must perish for peace to reign? Could not rather those young men lay down their arms and join in with the mourning? He was not a murderer. Made himself feel the death of every man, woman and child, regretted his duty, regretted but did not shirk, sent them to whatever fate they might, as a general sends his men to war. For this was a war, a war to end all wars…
Henri Ducard gripped the smooth cellular phone, heart going out to his daughter's voice, that tangible link to Gotham City and the dead therein, to the young man he knew so well, a student like a son who he must chastise, as regretfully as he must watch these faceless millions die…
He had forgiven. Waited as a father for his prodigal's return. Yet deep within his heart he feared Bruce could never kill unless he was first destroyed. His pupil lacked the capacity to comprehend, and it would be destruction, not conversion, of his soul that would sway him from his course. As it had been anger that drove him to the underworld of crime, rage against injustice that had landed him in that prison in Bhutan, it was that same bloodlust preventing his fruition. Oh, Bruce, simply because the justice demanded, the retribution deserved would bring you personal satisfaction does it make the action any less just? You must put aside your feelings. Lay aside your anger. Be consumed with a righteous fire instead…You must learn to let go. Must become something more. Until you do you will only ever be a man, a weak man, a costumed man playing the vigilante as atonement for your parent's death…
The mission was perhaps futile, yet he had to try. A man like Bruce Wayne possessed influence in the American politics and military, and her celebrity social spheres as well. His allegiance, his part in this Pax Americana would be astronomical. And so the Shadows sent a messenger, a messenger as they had before, a gospel and an invitation to repent and return. And unwitting and evil man, an unholy, unmourned martyr, to do the bidding of a higher righteousness.
Here, finally, was a fire that could refine. Purge dross from gold, a furnace whose heat would purify the Batman's ideals, until truth and justice and they only remained. For this was not the crude hammer with which they had so long chiseled nations or men, not an Oswald or Booth, Bismark or Tojo. No, no this was a refined stylus of adamantine and diamond, an accidental discovery, a gift from the Gods, formed for one purpose and one only, a tool that would never destroy, merely define, his young apprentice's existence.
And now, even now, that man was sitting alone in Arkham Asylum like a tool placed upon a shelf, waiting, ready to be taken in hand and put to use: John Doe #387, Alias the Joker. Real Name Unknown.
13:31 EST
Arkham Asylum
The Joker didn't know why the lights had flickered so.
Alright, that was a lie. The why was easy. The why was somewhere, someone or something in Gotham had messed with the power grid. The TV had fizzled out into a tiny blip, and the shadowy lights filtering from the hall had all but extinguished. All across Arkham, the backup generators had begun to hum.
The when was easy, too: 12:17 PM,. EST, CT, Greenwich, Zulu, yadayada. AD, anno Domnini, or CE, for Kant's Cunning Enlightenment, who 250 years after his death convinced some twentieth century narrow minded morons that changing the name of an event to something more politically palatable would look great on the voting record. Common Era. How utterly...bo-ring. And what common era would that be, hmmm? Why, the one marked by a supposed historical event important enough to document the issuing in of a ideology and social change so radical and important it had changed the face of the globe and marked this period of history different from all preceding it, and of such significance to name an era after, of course! But despite all that apparently not significant enough to explain to kids in public school what exactly was so damn important about 't want to upset momm-y and dadd-y with all that seperation of church and state, now would we?
And he thought his jokes were baaad...what was the point of school if no one learned how to think-kuh? But this was the same country who venerated Benedict Arnold's leg even though that name still shared a popularity rating with 'Adolf' and 'Judas' centuries after the traitor's death. And if life made sense…well, if people would see sense they wouldn't need little old him, now would they?
Oh no. Not need him at all. But he'd show them. Show them all. He'd shut down the schools. Oh yes. Show these gibbering Gothamites what it meant to think-kuh...what it meant to choose...
But the where was the answers to several questions, each as unsolvable as the last, for it was also the how. Had it been done locally, an attack on the asylum itself? His would-be-saviours at last coming to claim him-? Or was it an external circuit, the grid gone down, their sector ruined by the fires or downed lines…or had they been cut, cut by the police and utility companies to purposefully plunge the city into darkness-?
The what was easier. By far the easiest of them all. It's elementary, my dear Batman. The what means that that power was down, and in the several seconds it took for the generators to come to full speed the doors kept under electromagnetic seal would all remain locked as safeguard, the security cameras still in operation on their closed circuit, and no one, no one could escape. But men were so fickle. So untrusting of even their beloved technology, apt to act on instinct and a deep gut feeling within themselves. Oh yes, fear. And in the hour long panic as security abandoned their posts, as patients shrieked in terror, as the crowd's chanting of JokerJokerkilltheJoker-! swelled like a symphony in his elated ears as he conducted their fury with sweeping, graceful hand gestures from on high…he was free.
The doors still sealed, all necessary measures to ensure security still in place, while everyone rushed to ascertain the maximum security prisoners were indeed where they should be, while security ran to the main doors to maintain the perimeter against the growing throng, as national guardsmen cleared the way for ambulances and shots were fired into Gotham's oh-so-sweet and innocent civilians, the head of security-one of two who knew of the Joker's true whereabouts-ran to Morrison's cell afraid to learn the truth, frightened lest his prisoner had indeed escaped, fumbled with the keys in fear, thrown open the door-
Blow to the back of the head. Two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and sinew came tumbling down, sprawled helpless and heedless upon the floor.
The first Joke he'd told in months…Slapstick. So below him. But the irony still made him laugh, deadly waves of chuckles in the dark…
No need to kill. Merely stun. Disarm. "Hey, uh, thanks a bunch!" He quipped to the unconscious guard. "It would've been a bitch tryin' to get outta here on my own, ya know."
Take keys, radio. Lock the bastard up where he'd be found, crying, sobbing, perhaps even committed suicide because patient #10674, alias the Joker, madman, murderer, most wanted, had finally done what he had dreaded from the first moment the clown had stepped foot in his facility: escaped. It was fear that drove man to desperation, fear what made him mad, fear that showed him despite thousands of years of cities and civilizations that he was indeed no more, no less, than a pathetic, naked animal, capable of taming beasts, charting seas, mapping the moon…and unable to quell even the tiniest, most basest of emotions.
Know thine enemy. The Joker mused merrily, locking the cell door behind him with flourish. Know…thyself. And a little bit of biophysics wouldn't be so hmm...bad either. These guards had been hired for brawn, not brains, and thousands of years of study in martial arts had proven time and time again it wasn't the size nor strength of the man that mattered, it was the body and the blow. 250 pounds of muscle, years of aggression defense training…all easily undone by a swift strike to the motor tract on the back of the neck.
Free to wander the darkened halls of Arkham at will, the Joker didn't even bother to slither from shadow to shadow in the dim stretches of the emergency backup lights. Instead he strolled, humming through the empty hallways as though a lord surveying his fiefdom, ready to pay a very special-scrawny-someone a um, visit.
It was time to make some especially serious accusations.
Wayne Enterprises, Research and Development Archives
At that same moment, the express elevator to a hidden floor under Wayne Enterprises came skittering to a halt, stopping stock still in the darkness. With a roar the Batman forced open the ceiling, clamored on top the car, climbed hand over hand up the oiled lines to the floor above, and with a shooting shower of sparks and the grating screech of metal on metal, the doors of storage and service floor shuddered open.
Ignorant that both he and his foe were but unwitting pawns in the hands of a higher master, the Batman moved on, adrenaline like rage consuming him like a holy fire. The pod had sat, gleaming and polished for nearly a year, idle and restless with disuse. No longer. Fueled by her rider's rage and haste, she roared through the streets of Gotham, heedless of the shouts of National Guardsmen to stop, unwary of the shouts and shots that followed her, glorying in the speed which was life, the rise of fall of pounding pistons, the shriek and burn of tire against asphalt, laughing in the fury and thrill of the chase.
13:35 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"Mr. Pennyworth-?" Amy Lawless asked hesitantly, unable to tell if the old man was sleeping or awake…and if awake, in what frame of mine-?
"Ah, there you are." He said, quite coherently. "I understand that you and other hospital staff are extraordinarily busy-"
Amy dropped her stethescope through fumbling fingers. "You're…you're…you're really awake, then."
"Yes," The elderly gentleman replied. "And I am in the hospital, which, I do not know, but the day is-or should be-Monday, August 19th, 2030…but judging from the outside light it is Tuesday. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I am a British citizen in the employ of the Wayne family, and if that satisfies you of my mental status it is imperative I ask several questions of my own."
"He's been here." She said quietly, guessing his inquiry. "Bruce. He was here less than an hour ago."
"Ah." The man said, looking-to her surprise-not alleviated but alarmed. "And did he leave a message for me?"
She shook her dark head. "No. He, he left in a bit of a rush."
"I see. And would it be possible to send someone to your security department for my personal belongings? I must make an urgent call-and these do not appear to be working-"
"The power's been cut." Amy Lawless said. "The whole city. Everything. We're on back up generators now….I'm sorry."
"Ah." He gestured to the blank flatscreen television mounted on the far wall. "And that would be why the news hasn't worked as well."
"Is there anything else I can get for you? Food? Newspaper?"
"Newspaper?" Alfred asked, thinking of distracting himself with Sudoku. "Yes. Please. I suppose physician orders of release are simply out of the question?"
She smiled at his mannerisms, frankness, and sincerity. This man, however old, and under however much stress, still maintained his wits about him….and yet something was wrong. Something more than dementia or displacement. Alfred Pennyworth was completely sane, completely lucid…and utterly worried.
He reminded her of Aaron. Her Aaron. Dominant yet gentle. Charismatic. In charge. Fiercely loyal and protective. And when men like that were worried…well, it was like hearing a large dog go from barking viciously to whining in the dark.
…and that scared the shit out of her.
"Mr. Pennyworth, is there something wrong?" Amy Lawless asked nervously.
"No," He shook his head. "No, everything is...quite fine. I shall…I shall simply wait here."
But everything was not fine. And Alfred Pennyworth would wait, nine hours, like seven years, fretting and worrying against evermore unlikely odds, while the voice of a young girl he once knew and loved echoed hauntingly inside his head: Then he said…then he said 'all my life I've w-wa-wanted to k-kill him…a-and now I c-can't-!'
His only hope, his only wish, his only prayer, was that Bruce Wayne, this time, would make that decision for himself…Make that choice no one else could make. The right choice. But like the Wayne Legacy Foundation's charity work during those seven endless years of Bruce's absence, no amount of 9 by 9 grids, beginner, intermediate, or advanced, could ever even begin to distract him.
AN: The plot thickens...too many terrorists! Ugh! Quick, someone send me a funny joke (NOT magic pencil tricks!) or a link to a great, light-hearted Batman the Animated Series fic, please! Oh yeah, I guess you could also leave a review, as those cheer me up as well…
The next chapter is Paltron, and it's about ready to go. Expect an update sometime this weekend!