Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: I can't recommend Apocalypse Now as a movie as I've never seen it, but it has some amazing dialogue and noteworthy quotes worth checking out for anyone needing some TDK inspiration. Alfred's story in this chapter is based off an incident in this film.
I have to thank two amazing authors, Nezzy Crazy Plots, Inc. and Heart of Friendship, for their ideas about Crane and his coercion-or is it conversion?-by the League of Shadows.
Disclaimer: All prejudices or viewpoints expressed by characters of Ernestina are their own, and unrelated to the author's religious, political, or personal beliefs.
Martyrdom has always been a proof of the intensity, never of the correctness of a belief.—Arthur Schnitzier
The following is a GCPD (MCU branch) file concerning the Gotham City Chamber of Commerce Department of Hospitality and Tourism Management's website. This information regarding the founding of Arkham Asylum, and its now ominous and continual attention from fringe societies, the Anarchist movement, and quasi-religious neocultic groups is being investigated by analysts to see if there were any religious or subcultural significances in the choice of the location for staging the event referred to as Fear Night.
Gotham City Chamber of Commerce: Because a City Never Sleeps.
Memoirs of a Madman: Reflections on the life and medical practice of Amadeus Arkham-available on Amazon for $24.99.
Here is an exerp from chapter 22 of Amadeus Arkham's posthumously published memoirs, released to the public on the fiftieth anniversary of his mother's death, in accordance to his last living will and testament. The book is dedicated "For my dearest Mother, Elizabeth." The content of this book raised public outcry for stricter standards of psychiatric practice and care wards, in addition to a government crackdown on facilities not meeting immediate compliance.
Sadly, Arkham Asylum maintains this image of the 'mad scientist' even now, years after its founder's death. Added to the superstition is recent architextural confirmation that Arkham's Asylum was indeed built upon the foundations of a ruined Masonic temple. Rumors of hauntings in the basement chambers were electroshock chambers where Amadeus began his human experimentation-even executions-remain a staple of Gotham City legend and North American Fright tourism (For more on Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins, see Rite or Wrong: Crimes of Passion and Public Opinion in the Twentieth Century, by Aaron Lawless, MD). The Asylum's somewhat sinister reputation again hit national spotlight after the incident Fear Night, in which Arkham Interim Director Jonathan Crane utilized the now infamous basements to hack the city sewer system and subsequently spread a psychoxxx compound into Gotham City, affecting at least 50,000 residents of Gotham City, although incidence in the Narrows, public census data, illegal immigration, and a large number of yet missing persons make these numbers unclear. Government officials of the National Association of Mental Health currently estimate epidemiology to be somewhere closer to 200,000. It is now known Crane perfected this toxin by illegal experimentation on Arkham inmates.
Administrator or Inmate: Scientific study, martyrdom, and patient experimentation for the Greater Good of Humanity
A Martyr is one who dies for his own causes, be they religious or political, he is held in the highest esteem not merely by his followers but his enemies as well. There is, inequivocably, nothing that instills more terror in an organism than to contemplate death. The strength of mind required for such a task is contrary to every mechanism of evolution, for survival not only of a species but self, and is-arguably-the only difference between us and our fellow animals. Even non-human primates can begin to comprehend language. And recent studies have demonstrated that in fact music, while not produced, is appreciated.
It is this ability to self-destruct that is unique-and even then this claim must be put into context. A mother dog will die to defend her pups, as will a she-bear for her cubs. Is it love, or simply maternal instincts? Can we not then ask the same question for human mothers as well? Is maternal love no more than maternal instinct? The seemingly impossible is easily overcome through biochemical reactions such as the release of epinephrine evidenced even in the most wild and undomesticated of beasts. No, to be truly distinct, the human animal and its martyrdom must be qualified.
Mad dogs and other unfortunates stricken with rabies seek out man. This disease reverses the natural instincts of fear of predation. Of death. Is there a similar phenomena in the human animal as well? Not rabies but perhaps some other disease yet unknown, someday to be discovered? Perhaps. Perhaps instead of distinctual this phenomena of martyrdom is merely mirrored in other animals. Perhaps it is a sickness-an irregularity in our condition-therefore not really our condition-that causes this paradoxical insanity.
I would argue, for posterity's sake, that it is indeed not this factor that discerns us from animals, not the wilful destruction of self-but of others. Samuel Clemens, for some years my contemporary, is in agreement: "Heaven is by favor; if it were by merit your dog would go in and you would stay out. Of all the creatures ever made man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood, he is the only one... that possesses malice. He is the onlycreature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain."
Yet this statement needs qualifying. For there is another sort of malice, not an unfeeling disregard but an utmost respect for life and suffering. The ability to kill and inflict pain, in cold blood, for the sake of scientific inquiry. There is no other species which may make this claim. A cat will kill, oh yes, and leave her prey untouched, but this is instinctual behavior, honing the skills that will be necessary for survival. Man is indeed the only which captures another living creature solely for the sake of putting it slowly to death…even another man.
So, too, there indeed must needs exist a different sort of martyr. One who instead sacrifices not self but others. A misunderstood, darker genius, which society is right to deny. But it makes his cause no less grandiose, his sacrifice no less great, his cause no less good. I, Amadeus Arkham, am Nietzsche's Ubermensch, and I listen to a higher morality. I am in service of a far, far Greater Good. I will not be deterred or imposed upon by those too weak to seek power and wield it.
I killed Hawkins. I did not murder him. He died serving a better purpose than his pathetic psychosis ever allowed him live. He died, that others who suffer like him may yet one day be cured. There were others, too, others, abandoned by family and friends whose lives were stolen from them already by the society which cast them out. These too, I released to something more. I have watched the human mind and brain unravel due to electricity and starvation, I have seen the effects of lobotomy and lack of iodine. There is a fascinating wealth of knowledge to be gained from patients such as Phineas Gage…would be anything more or less than scientists to replicate this as experiment? I would argue no.
I doubt not that posterity will tremble at these posthumous remarks. As well they should. The human mind-the human genius-in its most honest state is something both awesome and terrifying to behold.
Afterword:
Listen, listen! My dearest brothers and sisters at bedsides, I confess now that crime to which all physicians both dread and aspire to: I, Amadeus Arkham, against my oath to do no harm, took mercy on a patient and prematurely ended her life in a humane and dignified manner which God, or nature, or the misguided morality of men saw not fit to give her.
This woman, as many have long since ceased to suspect, was my own mother, Elizabeth Arkham, to whose memory I dedicate not only this book, my hospital or career, but the horrifying yet medically necessary inquiries that may, someday, find a cause or cure so none more may suffer as she did.
Long may she be remembered, and may she rest in peace.
Note: Current Director Jeremiah Arkham has suspended all public and private viewings of the Basement and Execution Room, wishing to retain the Institution's dignity. Not made public knowledge is an official GCPD policy PANDEMONIUM that was enacted due to concern for security involving high profile patients Jonathan Crane and the Joker.
Tuesday, August 20th, 2030
20:12 EST
It happened so fast. Three unmarked sedans slammed against the curb, vomiting uniformed men. The door banged open, locks snapping under the force of the blow, flash bangs smoking dark shadows spilling in-
Renee Montoya was grabbed in a headlock, slammed against the wall, disarmed. Ramirez was shoved roughly to the floor. Allen and Milton were thrown to the ground, the sharp metallic click over their ears daring them to move.
Lawless was slammed to the tile, a boot grating roughly on the small of his back, arm twisted up over his head
Jim Gordon didn't even rise when they entered, didn't protest as his face was slammed into the desk.. They were coming for him. Let them come, he had made his choice-
The bathroom door crashed open. Shouts. Shots. Black figures staggering back, a blow to the face, solar plexus, rifle wrest from clenched hands shots into the ceiling Gwen Paltron shrieking like a banshee, mad as a berserk-
Another roaring blast. More smoke. Coughing, choking-
It was over.
Seven Hours Earlier...
Arkham Asylum
That popular genius, that Andrew Lloyd Weber had captured it best. Had the world of criticism not bored him to stupor, condemning and dissecting art subjectively instead of focusing on that which was important-the mind that created it and a studious attention to the rationale behind it-perhaps he would have written a dissertation on Weber's broadway adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera.
…But he highly doubted it.
Courageous, overdone epitome of dignified masculinity that respected a woman's right to choose merely because it was the predominant social theory of the time pleading for his lover's life: I love her, does that mean nothing? I love her, show some compassion!
Hideously disfigured villain showing tendencies which indicated an obsession for the sexual possession of anything society deemed beautiful or good under the equally valid statement that the denial of such things was indeed bad for his psyche as they oppressed the Id demonstrating that all evil men were, at heart, simply misunderstood and sexually frustrated: the world showed no compassion to me!
And then, before the curtain crashed to its climatic close, of course the beautiful girl personifying virginity even though a woman had every right to sexual gratification in whatever form she should chose, goodness, and the importance of accepting everyone just the way they are sacrifices herself for her lover, shows this hideous monster who demands justice for his mistreatment the joys and wonders of true love and instantly he becomes docile and kind, sees the errors of his ways were in method only and henceforth resolves to properly visualize a woman as a person endowed with equal suffrage before proceeding to proposition her in sexual advancement, and releases the lovers on their way, now fit and safe to be re-introduced to society…
Skipping over a year long diatribe of the flimsy, foolish imagery and obvious sexism of the character's appearances and personalities, it would suffice to say that psychological disorders were never so simple. Weren't solved by empathy or affection, true love's kiss or a long, hard pity fuck. The mind, once breached, was not so easily healed. What a man has chosen to become is not undone by the kiss of a femme fatale, regardless of how beautiful, self-sacrificing or how scandalously translucent her now soaking white dress might become.
But no. Such fickle things, though revealing of modern society's acceptance of impossible expectations, were far below his talent and his time. Instead his dissertation was entitled the properties of the seratoninergic neurons of the Amygdalary nuclear complex of the hypothalamus, and their manifestations in Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Gotham City Plaza
13:45 EST
Adrenaline. Epinephrine. Product of the adrenal medulla in response to emotional or physical stress or intense fear. Sympathetic stimulator. Fight or flight. Sweat. Shaking. Increased heart muscle contractility, beta-adrenergics, elevating blood pressure. It was in moments of intense panic that medical school came crashing over him in waves, as his brain worked in overdrive to prove to his panicked, rebelling body it was still in control.
Detective Aaron Lawless, MD, unlike the Batman, was consumed with a sense of purpose, yes, but also of dread. That phone had long since gone silent, that lifeline dead. The Legacy's destruction loomed around him like an empty lunar landscape, the alien shapes of jagged concrete, scintillating glass and strained steel spires like the ruins of an ancient Atlantis in the ashen air.
"You're almost there, man." A mechanical voice spoke like God in this awful Armageddon. Fred Milton. "GPS says thirty yards to your left. You're dead on."
Dead on. Aaron Lawless clambered over more debris, the weight of that oxygen tank, this goddamned gear paltry in comparison to the heavy burden in his heart…
John and Emily Howe. Marissa and baby Brent. So young. So innocent. So full of youth, of life, of hope…
…all gone. All dead. All his fucking fault. Buried cold and still in the Southside cemetery. Please God, please God, the Detective pleaded, let him be alive…
14:00 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"Move!" Hanson's strong voice shook the halls of Methodist yet again, the EMS team sprinting with a stretcher down the hall to the OR. A woman lay on the stretcher, perhaps in her late teens, early twenties, legs stiff and unyielding, arms beginning to curl up Egyptian style towards her chest. Fifteen years with Gotham City EMS had taught Jen about trauma. Decorticate posturing. It was the harbinger of nothing good-
"No, no, c'mon honey, c'mon honey you can make it-"
14:05 EST
Gotham City Plaza
And suddenly the grey stained earth was sopping, sloshing in a snowy sludge about his legs, a sea of lapping plaster and swollen dust. There was water, water everywhere, soaking up towards his knees…
Water. A water tanker. 5000 gallons of compressed H2O for fighting fire. It wouldn't do shit for the sprawling mess stretching blocks upon blocks, for the flare-ups that seared even through this heavy suit…but it was enough to protect this one small circle of slowly ebbing white waves, keep it protected from flame and explosion…
It was enough, he knew as he desperately dug, to drown anyone taking refuge under the debris in the ash strewn street-
Gotham United Methodist
The CT was going. Ten, fifteen minutes they'd know. Know if there was even a point in operating. Amy Lawless, RN, pumped more mannitol and steroids into the hanging IV bag, hoping against hope to stay the swelling. But the woman's respirations had gotten deeper, slower-
14:09 EST
Arkham Asylum
People said he was cold. Unfeeling. Unsocialized. Cynical. Lacking empathy. The less pretentious merely labeled him a freak. Which, he could only hypothesize, was a merit of their own unvoiced fear of that with that which was different, with that which challenged their beliefs. It was far easier to dismiss him as strange than listen and lend credence to his words.
It was also a measure of success. For that was man's true fear, was it not? The unknown? Why phobias of death, darkness, and anything foreign were so prevalent? Why homosexuals reaped such hatred? Why wars were fought, why the pages of history were splattered with the blood of genocides, massacres…People felt the same about anything and everything different. Cultures based on cannibalism had thrived throughout the entire world, the most heinous of acts socially acceptable because that was simply the way things were done. It was the different, not the evil that drove man mad with fear, drove him to violence to keep his seemingly hard-earned sanity, or led him meekly down the path to madness. Many preferred to call it religion, but psychosis was psychosis, in whatever way it became manifest. The belief in the nebulous was merely another of those evolutionary mechanisms, a natural pathway built into the human psyche, to allow man to accept the different which his psyche could not.
…And how easily, too, could this madness be preyed upon! Marx had understood, as had countless generations of European royalty before him, that this self-same phenomena could be used both for pacification or militarization of the populace. Violence in the Middle East had been ongoing for a millennia, each group pitting their cultural psychosis, their delusions of right and acceptable against the other.
Gotham City Plaza
Dead limbs stiff and unyielding Rigor Mortis heat searing the proteins speeding up the decomposition each sopping corpse turning grey in the sudden dust seeming to rot before his eyes Finch Finch Carl Finch District Attorney Carl Finch Jimmy's voice so weak and shrill "Dead people there's dead people they're all dead aren't they, all those people an-an-and the little kids they're all dead oh GOD-"
And those last two words he repeated, over and over again in this holocaust Oh God, oh God-
14: 11 EST
Arkham Asylum
No. He was not cold. Not 'unfeeling.' His sensory perception was still intact, and he didn't lack empathy. Perhaps patience, yes. But he was not unaware of the human condition. He was in fact keenly aware of the human condition, and deeply concerned. Unsocialized? There was credence to that claim, to be sure, but logic had nothing to do early childhood development. Logic was math, unbiased, rational philosophical principles. And yet, perhaps early childhood development did have something to do with it. To the well socialized, the indoctrinated and naïve, math seemed cruel and harsh in its unwavering, uncompromising solemnity. Truth equals truth, falsehood does not equal truth…regardless of how desperately one hopes to believe it.
14:12 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"There's no point." Chavez said simply, barely glancing at the CT's pinned against the light box. "Subarachnoid hemorrhage. There's nothing I can do."
Amy Lawless' blue eyes blinked tiredly. "You're not even going to try?"
"I'm a GI surgeon." The latino shrugged emotionlessly. "I have patients I know I can save. This…even if we had the equipment, the neuro staff…there's no guarantees."
She a tired hand through her dark hair, sighed. He was right. It was just another CT scan, just another digital X-ray print out, just another classical case of how far modern medicine had come and a stark reminder of how far it had to go…
But it wasn't an anonymous film. The patient's name was unknown but she wasn't just a Jane Doe, wasn't just a patient for God's sake when had these people coming to them for help ceased being people and had become patient's instead-? It WASN'T right. Wasn't right to just sit there and watch another person, another woman lay there and die. "We have to try," She whispered. "We at least have to try-"
"No." The surgeon returned, not unkindly. "I can't waste the resources…and that's my final answer, Ames. I'm sorry."
Arkham Asylum
He was merely objective. Unbiased. Rational. His trained eye drawn to the irrationality of the situation, relied as all creatures did on past experience, experience-which in possession of a doctorate of psychiatry was by far more than the average citizen had in dealing with the criminally insane-which had demonstrated imperially that it was more likely the bastard would rape little Christine Daae, beat her, and kill her pathetic lover before her eyes. Lock her in the basement. Continue the abuse for decades. Sadists are sadists are sadists. Illusions of grandeur and such violent genius made the man a narcissist, and a God. Capitulating to his whims wouldn't show him the error of his ways, merely affirm to him their truth. And just as the masses turned to religion, they turned to Hollywood for hope and happy endings, constructs so unbelievably pathetic and yet they consumed them, consumed them blissfully, content with their ignorance, or perhaps-more dangerously-unaware.
14: 21 EST
Gotham United Methodist
"I'm just a resident." Tristin Allen, MD whined. "Just a first year resident…I, I'm not qualified to do this-!"
Subarachnoid hematoma. CT revealed uncal herniation, decorticate posturing already attacking the arms, papilladema…CSF pressure in lumbar puncture was approaching 60 mm Hg….
"I could kill her-!" The young doctor cried. "You'd need sterile equipment, a goddamned sterile room…you're talking millimeters, millimeters of difference, I can't just drill a hole in her skull I've, I've, I'm not qualified to do this sort of thing-!"
But Amy Lawless was already shaving away thick blonde locks, prepping the bald skull with the deep brown stain of iodine, slivering away the scalp like peeling a blood red orange. "Listen," She snapped, grabbing the other woman by her hard-earned white coat. 'Listen!" The RN yanked her hair, brought her head level with the unconscious patient, IV fluids and anesthetic already pumping desperately into those deflating veins…
"She's dying, damnit, okay? Dying. And you have the chance to save her. I don't give a damn if you're scared or tired or fucking whatever you're the only neurologist I've got and I need you to help her-! So shut the fuck up and just drill the damn burr holes!"
"Okay." Allen moaned, taking the bone saw in shaking hands. "Okay."
14: 22 EST
Arkham Asylum
How weak the mind was. Easily compromised, broken. Bent to the whims of the cunning, shattered, picked apart, broken open and into by the stronger-willed. Yet the brain was sheltered in a skull of bone, nestled lovingly in three layers of protective dura, requiring severe trauma to cause the slightest of damage. The same tasks that would require the time of a team of surgeons, a chisel and a hacksaw, burr holes, scalpels and a trained anesthesiologist took mere minutes when observing its inhabitant: the mind.
14: 31 EST
Gotham United Methodist
Dust hanging in the air, thin and filmy, coating the operating drapes. And there, there in that hole of color amidst the deep, dark blue something moved, blowing up like an opaque balloon, billowing slowly out through ruby red grapefruit and rind, juices spilling over the edges, so ripe it could burst-
Tristin Allen heaved a sigh through her mask, rinsing the area clear with isotonic saline as her partner cauterized every bleeding arteriole.. "Okay." She whispered. "Okay. That's, that's dura. That's all we can do. Just let it expand, relieve some of the pressure from the cranium-"
Behind surgical scrubs, breathing mask, and an eye shield of her own Amy Lawless, RN nodded tiredly. "I'll stay with her."
"'Kay." The young doctor said, degloving and heading toward the door.
"Tristin?" The RN called.
She turned, pallid. "Yeah?"
Amy Lawless nodded to the yet unnamed woman on the table. "Thank you."
Gotham City Plaza
Soft. Not stiff. The living limb clutched in his hands he tugged, tugged, on a woman's calf a woman's bare calf-
Grey and misshapen under dust and plaster, limp and yielding, weak and pathetic like a bedraggled doll he pulled the woman from the sodden ashes it had to be Paltron but his mind screamed that no, no this couldn't be Paltron-
But even under a quarter inch of dust and glass, there was no mistaking a GCPD dress uniform. He hauled her up out of concrete and silt, cradling her against his chest and wept as water sloughed from her fleshy lips, breasts rising and falling in retching coughs, unconscious eyes flitting only briefly open in the brightest flash of steely blue.
…There could be no mistaking those eyes.
Solid ground. Concrete slab. He set her down, a shipwrecked sailor above this spreading sea of ash and soot, of scintillating glass and desolation…six years. Six years like a sister cold and aloof took a bullet for him laughed in the face of danger and death…Gwen Paltron, the consummate survivor…even helpless she was like a rock, an anchor, a sense of purposefulness and meaning in this ocean of chaos and doubt. Let it end. Let it end now. Side by side with a sisterfriendcompanionsoulmate he could be content…
He didn't want to wade back to that godforsaken truck. Dig in darkness and damp and doubt, roll each scorched, blackened body, afraid to find the face, afraid to face the truth.
But the memory of a voice rang in the waves of silence, suffocating like the rising pillars of soot and smoke: "I, I, don't leave me-!"
But he never could. Never could. Not even now.
14: 35 EST
Arkham Asylum
Dr. Jonathan Crane knew the mind. And sitting in his personal quarters inside Arkham Asylum, he contemplated the masterstroke that had just been dealt to the unseeing masses, shattering their delusions of a peaceful, coherent world. Not just a city, but a nation. Suddenly frightened of the different, the unknown, the terrorists or government behind the attacks, they had become wary, angry, even violent, their collective, herd-instinct now a dichotomy of us vs. them.
Even though they didn't know who 'they' were. And the 'us'? Not even yesterday they were fighting amongst themselves, race and gender, color of skin, sexual preferences…in reality there was no us. There was no them. One could not rely on the protection of a group of neighbors similar to oneself if one truly knew one's self.
The human mind is a fickle, dangerous thing. More readily predictable when broken than whole. The insane followed patterns, patterns like logic, like clockwork, predictable, complex but solvable rhythms of behavior and brainwaves…yet the sane? The sane were unpredictable. A sociopath created by the urban environment and isolation could very well walk into McDonald's and murder 15 customers with a shotgun, yes…but there were warning signs, oft unmissed, and neighbors and family who should be held responsible for letting a murderous madman walk the streets.
But the sane? There was no predicting them. No telling when a completely sound mind would decide-as many did-to engage in violent activities. No telling when a mind one has known for ages will suddenly be stretched to its limits and snap, broken beyond repair…no, the mind was dangerous, and one would be a fool to so quickly trust it. Whoever was behind these attacks certainly understood this. And he? He had dedicated his life to understanding the mind, learning its intricacies and secrets, exposing it and laying bare those chemical synapses, dendritic processes and hypothalamic nuclei that composed the fragile human condition-
Regardless of how terrible, regardless of the ultimate cost…their work deserved-demanded-the utmost of attention and respect. A fervor associated with the delusions of religious fanaticism, finally applied to the only True Cause: logic. And while he sat in speculative awe, contemplating the significance of the current events, his own mind had a subconscious confession: It would be a lie to say he hadn't expected it.
He knew they'd be back. From the moment he first discovered their plans he knew what sort of people he had been dealing with. Yet the young, arrogant mind is easily deceived, and he had been enamored of power and progress as easily as all men in his academic position. History documented that well, the psychiatrist turned god, able to see clearly the shortcomings of the minds of others but oblivious to the madness lurking within his own. He thought he could deal with them, thought he could trust them, thought he had been far, far too important to their overall cause and their schemes for Gotham. He, Dr. Jonathan Crane, had fallen prey to the illusion of immortality. Invincibility. To the pride and power of 'I alone am not expendable.'
Yes, he'd made that mistake, and to that he would admit readily. Thomas Lee, real name unknown, had needed the expertise of a Biochemist and a Psychiatrist willing to partake in experimental drug development…and had used whatever means necessary to coerce them.
And he? He had simply bought their pretense. Had clung desperately to a story even his least cynical side could see clearly through. Georgia had not been kind to him. His great-grandmother had not been kind to him. His grandmother, his mother who appeared only briefly for his high school graduation and again at his undergraduate research symposium both times with different men, had never been kind to him. Life had not been fair, nor right, and he had been mocked, ridiculed, nearly exorcised for being the bastard son of a whorring teenager in a fanatically religious family. Devil's child. Witch's child. There's a curse on you-! And yes, there had been. He'd watched his classmates from kindergarten, petted and coddled like the velveteen rabbit, worn perhaps by a rollercoaster of emotions, but loved nonetheless. And all the while he'd sat, like some hopelessly out of style plaything in the dust, shelved and still in the wrappings, never to be brought to light. All his short, brutal childhood he'd simply wanted…
Campus security. What a joke. And on his assistant professor's salary, he couldn't afford private security, now could he? What was the point of a restraining order, he swore to the ominous swirls of cumulonimbus in the bleak skies above, if it couldn't be enforced-?
But it was too late to avoid the man. Lee was waiting auspiciously on the corner, afforded an excellent window view of his just recently vacated office. But Jonathan Crane had had enough. Something darker stirred within. Bramowitz's accidental death at the hands of that misguided, bloodthirsty cop, being ceremoniously dismissed from his seat at Gotham University, so close to getting tenure-! No. Jonathan Crane had had enough for the semester, enough for a lifetime, and as physically un-intimidating as he was something within him wanted-as was only natural as both male and mammal-physical confrontation and violence.
"You again. Mr. Lee, as I recall, there exists a restraining order against you and I believe that you were indeed permanently banished from the University grounds?" He wasn't foolish enough to indulge in physical altercation. But a snide, verbal tirade could do much to lift the spirits…
A celebrity stalker, the campus police had labeled the man. Obsessed with genius instead of popularity. What had begun as a few bothersome emails and journal submissions had developed into something of far more sinister proportions when Thomas Lee had broken into his office for a personal interview.
And now he was here again, earnest as ever, unaware and idiotic to think his idol had not dialed campus security the moment he was spotted…
"I just want a few minutes, a few minutes Mr. Crane and I promise I won't waste anymore of your time-" the older man pleaded.
"If you'd like to talk to me I'd be more than happy to oblige. Let's say, the police station?" Jonathan sneered.
"Jonathan..Jonathan-" The man's pale hand reached out with surprising strength, gripping his coat sleeve. " just a minute, just a minute nothing more…"
Frustration. Rage. Disgust. "Unhand me!" He insisted, cursing the man, cursing his own weakness and foolishness for confronting him, cursing the cold rain through his flimsy excuse for a coat bought on a pathetic excuse for salary and cursing the campus police who didn't find it worth their time to protect a man responsible for the death of one of his students-
But he wasn't responsible wasn't responsible how could he have known, known there was a killer in the audience it should've been her not him her they charged with negligence and violence not him he had never meant to hurt anyone not hurt them just scare them just to scare them-
"Jonathan, Jonathan please-"
"Leave me alone!" He had always been alone. And what had once been solitude was now sanctuary. Not accustomed to human company he found he no longer desired it-and this intrusion bothered him more than he ever should have let it, it wasn't temper, lack of patience which meant it went deeper, subconscious, meant something was wrong with him like everyone always said there's a curse on you devil's child witch's child he hadn't meant to kill anyone just scare them just scare Sherry not kill her didn't want anyone to die he had never wanted anyone to die liar, liar, you wanted great-grandmother to die you said it you prayed it when you were young prayed she'd die and your grandmother and mother too, prayed you father would come to claim you prayed they'd all be dead so he'd come and find you-!
"Jonathan, please-"
But there was something there. In the way he said his name. Need? Regret? And it stirred…pity? Yes. Pity. An anthropological explanation for the survival of the sick and weak even though evolution demanded they be eradicated. Yes, it was pity, pity for this man who had spent all day standing in the freezing rain, now sopping wet simply for the chance to speak to his idol.
As he had. Bumbling after father figures. As Bramawitz had. Not just a student not a graduate student just a research assistant no a young man who looked up to him who looked to him found companionship acceptance found…found something he had been looking for. Stirred something in him that made him human, feel whole.
Ugly cement buildings jutted starkly above them, ugly, gum-smeared cement below, ugly, petol-infused asphalt spread in four directions on into eternity. Rain fell down from the sky on the tops of ten thousand black umbrellas and it was like a funeral, like a funeral in the rain like Bramowitz' funeral not even a family to mourn everything was purposeless there was no sense he'd spent his whole life rising above something only to be shoved back below the surface and smothered slowly-
Perhaps they had something in common. Perhaps this pale, shivering stranger too once had been an ambitious young man cast down by family and peers alike, turned out onto the streets disillusioned and depressed until madness took hold and saved him from suicide. Lee was obsessed, yes, but not dangerous. A nuisance. Nothing more.
"If I accompany you inside this coffee shop that will be sufficient" he asked tersely. " I will sit with you for no greater than one minute and you will leave the University premises immediately?"
"Yes, yes…"
But hardly had they sat when Lee began to weep. Beads of water dripping from tendrils of hair, sniffling in misery and regret the man's blue eyes sought his own-
…blue eyes. Earnest and streaming. Jonathan's heart leapt and plummeted simultaneously, plunged sickeningly over a precipice and he knew, knew before he heard the words the sudden, awful truth-
"Jonathan, I'm…I'm your father."
Illusions. Wonderful things. Oh, the inebriated, euphoric stupor, the bliss of neither understanding nor caring, a psychosis where this horrid, dank world was instead filled with naivety and light-!
Jonathan, I'm…I'm your father. How easily had they manipulated him! How foolish had he been to fall, and fall so far! The man had been a convincing actor, earnest and sincere, tall like him, and his eyes matched perfectly…and all it took was a DNA test, simply tampering with the results of a paternity test by paying off the lab staff or-he now suspected was the more likely of the two-by providing genetic material from his birth father himself, who in his thirty-some years of existence had never been known nor had stepped forward…and surely, surely had the League of Shadows tracked down the man, he would have been unceremoniously killed and disposed of lest he come forward to ruin their painstakingly laid plans…
Jonathan, I'm your father.
He found he no longer cared. No longer cared that the man he had longed for as a child never came forward, that his childish surety of this man's kindness and goodness lay only in the fact he at least had never inflicted starvation or pain…he no longer cared that he had been taken advantage of, used, then tossed aside like a tool one might garden with. No, grudges were for the weak. He had been abandoned, he had been desperate, and he had been lied to only because he allowed himself to be.
Jonathan Crane would not make that mistake again.
Thomas Lee-whatever his real name was-was not his father. And yet…yet the words rung true. So true. For out of that noble idealism, those months of training in martial arts and meditation another man had been born, a subjugated personality, who though years and years of fear and anger, through cultured hate, had finally broken free through the thick-walled womb of society's pathetic mandates of right and wrong. A persona, Dr. Crane hypothesized, like the Batman, who he became at will, to demand justice for the wrongs being done in this city, in this nation, in this world, for all the abused or neglected little boys who would be forced to seek safety in the world of academia, be preyed upon by pedophiles and homosexual prowlers alike, men like that Kyle Santy who had befriended twelve young men from the Gateway Center for Youth in the Narrows over a span of 8 years, using his influence to coerce or force them into sexual situations…
God hates fags, the anonymous killer had left spray painted above the corpse. And while every religious and anti-hate crime organization in the country moved to protest that ominous writing on the wall, not a one of them had mourned Kyle Santy was a childfucking bastard who deserved what came to him. That was nearly six years ago. And even then, even before Thomas Lee, Bhutan and Fear Night, even before Bramowitz had confided….
Even then, even then something within him, something other than his stoic rationalism purred at the swiftness and simplicity of the execution of justice.
Crane thought of Bramowitz, thought of the young men with childhoods like himself-he had been lucky to develop an aversion to religion bordering on phobia-who would turn to churches to be molested by priests or simply brainwashed by lies, or the others, falling to drugs and alcohol just like the fathers who had abandoned them and repeat that neglect and abuse ad infinitum…
Something, the Scarecrow had rageddemandedinsisted, had to be done.
He was not a deluded criminal. Not a cheap impersonation of Weber's phantom, bleating pitifully that the world had shown him no compassion, not Shelly's Frankenstein, who lacking love had no reason to return it, not a pathetic, broken mind like those others here in Arkham Asylum, seeking refuge in psychosis and madness. He was logical. Perhaps different, far, far out of the ordinary, but it was they who were confused, they who refused to see truth, they who were content to submit to social institutions and political doctrine that while condemning these crimes did nothing to prevent them…
He was not Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb. Not a cheap imitation, a misunderstood, misguided excuse for the violence raging within, not a justifiable outlet for his own hatred or boredom. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Hardly a way to establish justice, and thus governments and sundry laws had been created to stem the violence, put capital punishment into the hands of an objective third party…But what was it, when continued oppression, when the apathy of the masses kept them blind, dumb and deaf to the pleas of the innocent and needy? The victimized and abused? Was it not only his right, and his duty, but also his responsibility, The Scarecrow reasoned, to aid in throwing off such government, such decrepit ideas, and provide for the common defense?
…So he, Dr. Jonathan Crane, had done something about it. Until the Batman had interrupted his trade, he had done something about it. Used that knowledge, that drug, that sense of self-righteousness, that unfailing gift his ideological Father had given him to put the criminals of Gotham where they belonged: their own hellish nightmares: I told you my drugs would take you places. I never said they'd be places you would want to go…
Prison. Asylum. The Batman thought he was doing justice by locking people away. But bars could be breached. Life sentences whittled down. The so called criminally insane could be psychoanalyzed, therapized, then released back into their natural environment, redeemed and safe 'for society and themselves.' And the Batman thought it was justice. Justice? JUSTICE-!? The Scarecrow cried. If Justice refused to remove her blinds, to look upon the mockery made of her, he would abandon her temple and seek his own…
And he had. Dr. Jonathan Crane abhorred the act of killing not because he had been indoctrinated by the liberal ideology of ethics and academia, or the Hippocratic Oath, but because something darker, something more frightening deep down within him said that no, no he'd had to live with the pain, the fear, the nightmares, the injustice of a family who should have loved him, cherished him, accepted him as their own flesh and blood…he had been left for dead, then Beaten. Starved. Enslaved. No. It was only fair, it was only just, to make these criminals live through it as their victims had done. Let them die when they may, the Scarecrow sneered, he'd send them to Hell alive and screaming….
To be purely rational, to remove emotion and personal bias from the picture, there were moments of transcendent lucidity when he, Dr. Jonathan Crane, could admit to himself that he respected the Batman. To an extent. But the man was weak, the Scarecrow insisted. Or naïve. Perhaps both. Locking away prisoners in the justice system is if that were where they belonged! No, if you were going to lock a man up, you had to lock him up and throw away the key.
And that's what made the mind so beautiful. His toxin so poetic: the mind-like Lewis' Hell- was a prison only locked from one side.
Within.
14: 50 EST
Gotham City Plaza
Pale. Limp. Still. Nothing-
Then-
Hand pressed over the boy's pallid face, dampened tendrils of dirty dark hair slick and chill under bare fingers SCBA respirator mask pressurizing the lungs there was the slightest, tiniest of coughs and he was laughing cryingweepingprayingcursing like that day in the hospital his son took his first breath the sudden intake of air shrill cries Amy's screaming turning to longing holding that red-stained infant close-
The boy stirred beneath his hands, coughed, blinked, and one trembling, grimy hand reached up from the silt and slime of Phoenix ashes and groped gently for his own. Jimmy Connolly. His partner. His son…
…alive.
"Christ, Kid." Lawless whispered, squeezing those slender, boyish fingers between his own, "I thought you were dead…"
Slight smile. Coughing gasp. Detective Jimmy Connolly looked up through gleaming dark eyes and whispered through the respirator mask I knew you'd find me.
And those tears that Aaron Lawless had finally staunched began to flow anew.
14: 55 EST
Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge
"Is he out of his fucking mind-!"
Shots rang out from M-16's as the Batpod raced along the Parkway, hurtling towards the Narrows, her rider bent double in haste and fury, aching to assail his opponent. He was callous. Compassionless. Beyond care and concern. Let Gotham burn. Let it all burn. He would find the Devil and pluck him from this Hell. Let others take care of these petty fires…
Ahead, the dirty grey waters of Gotham's river chugged lazily in the afternoon air, heedless of the tragedy that had struck her city. She cared not, churning on as she ever had done before settlers here began to build so long ago, churned on as she had as diving wells were dropped, foundations poured, and bridging expanses sought to span her. She was deaf, dumb, and blind, her god-like awakeness and attributes either stolen from her by the white men who chased away the natives who had so named and woke her…or perhaps she had always been nothing more than a ribbon of river running to a vast expanse of ocean, meaningless,, purposeless, just the path of water out to sea.
But were she sentient, aware, woken from her ageless apathy once more she would know that the exhaust that polluted her no longer ran, that the bridges that chained her no longer screamed under the weight of speeding vehicles, that the thickly insulated cable wires transferring humming electricity and fiber optics along her murky bottom had ceased to sing. She was, once again, a goddess…
Unbeknowst to her, Operation FAILSAFE had overridden all 8 of the Narrows strategic asset bridges…all designed and built in the day and age when steam boat ferries and barges were the height of naval technology. Boats and ferries that might contain soldiers. Supplies. Things which in an emergency must go through…
And before industrialized steel and alloys, computers and engineering could build them high enough to be out of the way.
And so while emergency evacuation tunnels were open underneath her, 8 of her 12 chains, those ugly suspension bridges seeking like Babel to tower over her, had been indefinitely lifted.
National guardsmen cried out for him to stop. Yet the Batman was heedless of danger, heedless of harm, laughed aloud as the motorbike flew over the first joists of the half-raised bridge, urging her faster, ever faster towards the peak of the black asphalt above. The engines screamed. Throttle shrieking. In a parabolic leap the rear tire tread left the last crumbling pebbles of ground and the Batman was airborne, dark cape like wings outstretched over a naked expanse of ash strewn water-
14: 56 EST
Gotham City Plaza
"You have to take her-" Jimmy protested feebly. "Get her out of here-"
"Hell no." Lawless insisted. "No. Kid, I'm getting you out of here-"
But the boy's-the young man's-next words wounded him. Jimmy Connolly was shivering, near to shock, matted head to toe in plaster, smoke, and toxic dust but he shook his head, shook his head and smiled weakly.
"I'm not a Kid." He whispered. "Dad-"
"Fuck, Kid," The Detective panted suddenly. "Don't give me that-"
"She's a girl. You have to help her."
Aaron Lawless, MD, GCPD Detective was intelligent. He knew how to think, reason, had used logic to diagnose complex medical conditions, solve grisly, violent crimes with sparse data and few leads…But there was a part of him, a deep, paternal, visceral part of him untested by the stress of work, by emotional distance from murder victims and their families-
A woman a woman Paltron's a woman you idiot what the hell are you thinking he's twenty-two not six use your fucking brain, dumbass think, think, think-
"No." Lawless said vehemently. "No-"
"She's a girl." Jimmy insisted. "She's hurt. You have to help her-"
No, no today was the test. This was the test. To look your son in the eye and ask him to do as you say, not as you do. To ask the young man you've mentored and trained and given manhood to turn a blind eye to the needs of others, turn your back on everything you've ever stood for-
John and Emily Howe. Marissa and Baby Brent. Aaron Lawless held his son, looked into his eyes, saw what every parent saw saw your child in need no one would ever think less of you no one could ever blame you no one will call you coward for what you've done what you have to do-
Terrified. Shrill. Small child crying out in the darkness I,I, don't leave me-! a gun in his face you pulled a gun in that man's face would have shot him were going to shoot him You've got to let me through MY SON's in there you've got to let me through get out of my fucking way-!
But no more. That voice was calm. Reassuring. Plaintive. "You have to let me go." Jimmy coughed. "Dad, you have to let me go…" Detective Jimmy Connolly knew he was injured. Perhaps dying. And that look, that peaceful, serene gaze, dark eyes liquid and ethereal like a hind's in dust-covered lashes like falling snow pierced him with the chill of an icy knife. Jimmy was looking to him. Calling him Dad. Wanting to know he'd done something with his life, that it had all been worth it, wanting his father to know he had the strength, the courage, the fortitude of spirit to be a man…
Oh, shit. And here it is. Your confession. Your weakness. You can't leave him. Not now. Not ever. You've done you'll do have to do whatever it takes…
"Kid, I…I can't." The Detective choked. "I, I just can't." Jimmy didn't understand. Couldn't understand. He was just a Kid just a fucking Kid so innocent so goddamned naïve-
But Detective Jimmy Connolly was not a Kid. Not a Child. Not a Boy. "She's a girl and she's hurt." The young man remonstrated fiercely through gasping breath and gritted teeth. "So are you a man or not? Or has everything you've said, everything you've ever told me, everything you've, you've ever been…has that all, all just been a joke to you? Just pretend? Just, just, just a, a lie-?"
Earnest, earnest, eager eyes. Let me go. You have to let me go…And this is what it meant to let a kid go. Let him grow up. Get his license. Graduate. Go off to college. Find a girlfriend. Relinquish that hand, let go of that innocence wince in pain watch in fear let him make his own decisions, choices. Let him make his own mistakes…
…And it hurt. God, did it hurt.
"Okay." Lawless said, nodding his head, bristly beard catching on the inside of the fire-suit. He squeezed his son's hand tighter. "Okay."
"I'm not afraid." Jimmy whispered. "You'll come back. I know you will."
"Don't you fucking lie to me, Kid." Lawless grunted. "You're terrified." So was he.
Low, whining sob. Almost a laugh. Undoutably a plea. "You'll come back. Promise you'll come back."
"Yeah." Lawless lied. "I"ll come back. I promise. I'll come back." He sighed. Ran fingers through his hair. Rummaged through the pockets of the flame-retardant uniform for a long-forgotten bottle of Gatorade…
And heaved a sobbing laugh. It was goddamned cherry. "Drink this, Kid. Okay? And stay here, you understand? You stay here-"
Carl E. Finch Memorial Toll Bridge
Impact.
The titanium frame could withstand the sheer and the shocks could take the force. Like the majority of American automobile accidents, this too could only be faulted to one thing: human error.
Aerodynamic to perfection, hybrid power from nitrogen fuel-injectors and kinetic brakes, with on board computers, cameras and sensors to calculate acceleration and clearance that no human driver could ever replicate, the Batpod, like the Titanic before it, had a fatal flaw: a human driver.
A projectile carries a parabolic arch created by gravity. The point of acceleration is equal to the point of landing, with the height determined by the weight, velocity, and gravitational pull on the object. Perfectly balanced, the pod would have landed in the exact position of take off-
Front wheel first.
But the Batman was aboard, weight thrown backward, and the rear wheel touched down first, burning peel of rubber scraping a fifteen foot long tread against the sloping asphalt at 250 kilometers per hour. There was a sickening screech, the crunch of metal and the world flipped end over end-
Forearms. Ribs. Forearms. Ribs. Tangled legs and flapping cape-
Water. Smoke. Ash. Dust.
Broken glass in the monitors. Chips in the protective paint. Several dents but not scratches in the titanium alloy frame. Upended and spinning, the Batpod continued to gauge a screeching circle in the cement, no worse for the wear, engines whining for the chase.
But her rider lay motionless at the base of the roadway.
15: 02 EST
Gotham City Plaza
It was the Gatorade that did it. Saved his life. He was leaving. Taking Paltron. But Jimmy's shaking hands couldn't open the bottle. Lawless opened it, raised the liquid to the boy's lips, and Jimmy choked on the ash and grime coating his tongue, teeth, gums and throat. Bright, frothy pink pouring between gritted teeth. Instantly the liquid caked, red and scabby against smooth skin-
"You've got to drink it." Lawless coaxed. "It's gonna taste like drinking sand but you've got to get it down-"
The boy swallowed. And at that self-same, shrinking second, Aaron Lawless didn't need to see his son's eyes go wide or roll back in shock, didn't need to feel the boy's tight hold on his arm turn suddenly into a vice-like grip, didn't need 8 years of medical training to tell him something was horribly, desperately wrong.
That same spreading stain splashed down Jimmy's chin had seeped through his shirt as well.
Arkham Asylum
"What's wrong, Scary? Why the uh, long face?" The Joker grinned, yellow teeth bared not an inch from the former psychiatrist's nose. "What's wrong? Afraid to face the uh, the truth? Oh…Oh I know what it is. Is it the scars? It is, isn't it." He clucked with sinister empathy.
"N-no." The smaller man barely managed to gasp.
"Oh, he answers!" The Joker snarled, shaking Jonathan Crane like a limp rag. "Ya think that's what I uh, wanted to hear, hmm? That it wasn't the scars? Did yourself a nice little evaluation, hmmm? And what did your Nice. Little. Evaluation. Tell you? Be nice? Po-li-tuh? Did your nice books tell you that narcissists like to be uh, lied to? Cause I don't like to be lied to. I think you're a liar, Scary, and you know what happens to uh, liars, don't ya?"
Crane's breath was coming in gulping gasps, sweaty mop of hair slicked against pallid skin. "Ya see, Scary, you're a liar. You're a quack. No wonder they uh, they locked you up in your own Asylum!" The Joker cackled as the sharp, biting scent of warm urine began to waft.
"No, I-"
"No? No-oo?" He raised his eyebrows, licked his lips, smacked the scars around a bit, surveying the scrawny man with squinted, remorseless eyes. "No? Cause I think you lied, Scary. I think they asked you to do an evaluation of me. And You. Lied."
"No, I merely-"
"Ya see, you uh, clever scary Scarecrow called me names. Told some lies. Did some objec-tive ex-tra-po-lation. And I don't like being called names. I don't like it when people uh…when they uh, lie about me." Slimy, squelching sound, the Joker wrenched that sweating face to his, crushed in an iron grip.
"And people don't like being called names, do they. Do they, Scary? People don't like labels and yet you purposefully. Hurt. My. Feelings. What'd they call, uh, you? Stringbean? Icky little Ichabod? Hmm… I know: Dickless. That's what you are, Scary. Dickless. You lie about people. You tell lies about people. You lie about everything. See, see ya told the uh, the public here that you liked fear.. Well then you're gonna love me. I'll be your God."
"What's wrong? Daddy beat you? Abandon you? Did he do bad things to you?" The Joker waggled his eyebrows. "Hmm?"
But Crane could only gasp and croak, fingers slapping weakly against that vice-like hold. "What? No answer? Huh? No answer? Well, that's okay, Scary. Cause that's kind of a personal question, and we don't know each other all that well. But to tell the um, truth, I don't really give a shit."
"But here's the real question, Scary, and that's what do I do with you. Oh, obviously I kill Guerrero. And his family. And friends…and his friends' friends And their families, too. But not his dog. That's just unnecessary and cruel and the last thing I need is the ASPCA breathing down my back…those animal rights people really kinda give me the creeps. And besides, do I look like the type of guy who gets off on whacking puppies?"
Silence. Crane was cowed. And choking to death.
"What?" The Joker's grin grew broader, fat bunches of misshapen skin appearing in that impossible sneer of sinister teeth. "No answers now, I see. But here's my point, Scary. You've got…well, I wouldn't call 'em friends, cause friends don't leave friends behind in the asylum and break out a mass murdering clown like me, do they? Here's the deal. They messed up Guerrero. But they also cut the power. Which meant they meant to let me out…later. They meant to frame me. And I don't like being framed. My question is, what did they want with you? Did they think I wouldn't figure it out and let you live? Is that why you're here-?"
A bluish tinge had begun to form over that pale face and over those scrabbling fingers. And there was that delicious of ammonia from the urine. "Or did they know." The Joker hissed. " Did they know I'd know and they left you here just so I could kill you…"
And then, then while his eyes were rolling up no more oxygen he would die alone in a cell in an asylum an unrecognized genius dead like so many worthless others dead like Bramowitz but not like Bramowitz Bramowitz had been innocent-
-the pressure was released. Jonthan Crane was thrown to the floor with a flourish, the Joker's glittering, malicious eyes tearing in mirth. "Surprise!" The Joker cackled, doubling over in glee and hooting. "Oh, man, Scary, ya should've seen your face-!"
Crane was choking. Gasping. One hand around his bruised trachea, the other groping for the floor, trying to raise himself, slick, sweaty and naked inside an orange jumpsuit, no traction on the urine-slicked tile floor, slipping face first back into a puddle of his own piss. Afraid. Terrified. Ashamed. Of course the Joker wouldn't have killed him so quickly. Don't be a fool, the psychiatrist chided that hopeful, post-traumatic feeling of elation and life, it's not over.
Wearily he turned, raised languid blue eyes to the monster standing above him.
"What's wrong, Scary? Nothing to say?" The Joker asked imperiously, batting his lashes and kneeling next to his victim, grinning face laid inches away from the broken man's. "Tsk, tsk. What's wrong, Bat got your tongue?" But Crane could only stare, disbelieving.
"Oh, I get it. You're shy. Did the other kids pick on you on the playground, Scary?" The Joker patted his head with sickening insincerity. "Take your lunch? Steal your towel in gym class? Hmm? I'd say that's too bad but that'd be a lie. It would've been great-!"
Here the Joker nimbly rose, dusted off his jumpsuit without a care in the world and walked whistling out the cell's door.
…only to return. With his dirty, unkempt head still wearing that mocking smile, he tittered, "Oh, and one psychotic sociopath to another? Get some new friends. The ones ya got are reeeally bringing you uh, down."
15: 25 EST
Harvey S. Dent Memorial Parkway
Dim shadows moving through a haze of dust. Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad's deep, commanding tones called orders, arranged rescues, sent squadrons of soldiers and firemen alike through the subways below.. Commissioner James Gordon waited behind the last blockade, waited desperately for some news of his friend. Countless brave men and women had gone in past him, slipped away into the eerie fog. Some returned. Brought wounded, injured, even the dead with them…some did not. And in the mounting pile of disfigured corpses and the gravely wounded he recognized familiar faces.
Policemen. Firefighters. PTA members…faces he knew. Perhaps not names but faces, faces he had seen a hundred times and never bothered to learn their names…
"I need a medic-!" A gruff voice rang. And he was turning, turning, Commissioner James Gordon was turning towards that voice heart leaping in his throat that bulky shadow coming through the smoke-the Batman, the Batman was back-!
"I need a medic, just hold on, Kid, Christ, just, just hold on-!"
Dust cleared. Gordon's heart simultaneously leapt then died. Lawless. It was Lawless. Lawless was back-
With Connolly.
"We need a medic!" Gordon shouted. "Over here this man needs-" but the air was rife with the shouts of hundreds of volunteers, EMS workers, the shrill, shrieking cries of victims-
Even shouting as loud as his mild voice could, Jim Gordon knew no one would ever hear him. He ran instead to his friend, to help carry Connolly away from this mess this disaster find an ambulance further up the Parkway-
But Lawless had dropped that pathetic bundle, dropped to his knees on the secure side of the barricade. "Sir, let me help-" A young medic shouted, shoving through the crowd.
"I'm a fucking doctor!" Lawless barked. "I need sterile gloves, an abdominal pad, fibrin mesh, fluids and a morphine injector-!"
"Yes, sir!" Corporal Kelp returned without a second's hesitation, field kit already opened, fingers expertly seizing the necessary items. "You'll need two fluid, bags, sir, One to clean-"
Jim Gordon stood back, only years of public service training allowing him to override that terrible instinct to do something, to be there, to try and help…even as it was he was hovering.
"I'm out of morphine, sir!" Kelp shouted over the thrumming blades of a passing chopper. Lawless swore again. "Anything else you need, sir!"
"Yeah. A sterile room and a GI surgeon." Lawless muttered. "No, thank you, soldier." Gordon watched helplessly as the young man nodded, then ran to the next bleeding, screaming victim, merely feet away….
"Lawless, I hope you know what you're doing." The Commissioner whispered. But Lawless only grunted.
"It's okay, Kid, it's gonna be okay-" Large hands began tearing at the blood-soaked, dust-coated cloth, Jim Gordon watched helplessly as the boy let out a squeal of terror, slender fingers scrabbling against pawing hands in protest-
"Not gonna hurt you, Kid." The Detective said gently, placing a palm over that heaving heart, hazel eyes meeting those streaming earthen ones, holding that stare tenderly, unblinkingly, until those heavy, coughing breaths ceased and the boy lay still, trembling yet trusting under his shirt came off easily, small hands slipping through sleeves but a blood soaked scab of cotton still remained over the abdomen. Lawless donned the gloves, simultaneously cursing and praying. Slowly, he began to peel.
Connolly let out a cry as though it were his own flesh being torn off. But if the boy could bear it so could he, the Commissioner grimaced. Jim Gordon knelt beside Lawless, knelt and stared. Bare chest. Smooth skin, raised ribs, bruised and broken, startling shock of scarlet on white, glistening and moist. And oozing up through that gash, overflowing only the very edges of that short, slit-like wound was something slimy and snakelike, yellow and pink, writhing and wet-
Jim Gordon turned and retched. "Is that, is that-"
"Intestines." Lawless said without blinking, tearing an IV bag open with his car keys and draining it into that wound. "Most likely duodenum." The boy let out an unending shriek, curled up sobbing in earnest heaving acid and water from the corners of his tiny mouth, gagging, choking, moaning stopstoppleasemakeitstop-!
"Can't stop, Kid. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm fucking sorry but I have to clean this you hear me?" Jim Gordon could only watch, horrified, as the Detective continued to prod mercilessly into that wound. A widened, jagged, bleeding wound whose edges looked like raw hamburger. And those shrieks, that blacking out and coming to still screaming twisting convulsing…that would haunt him til his dying day. June 6th, 1944. Marines storming the beaches of Normandy, holding their goddamned guts in their hands, screaming for their mothers…He'd seen Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan as a teenager, and yet those movies did nothing, nothing to prepare him for this…
"You've got peritonitis." Lawless said lowly, crouching over the boy, now maintaining fierce pressure over a fibrin pad. "It's okay, Kid. It's okay go ahead and scream it's alright Kid-"
A father's fear. "What's it mean," Gordon whispered.
"Infection of the abdominal lining." Was the emotionless reply.
"No," he corrected. "…for him?"
Lawless looked up wearily, and their gazes locked. "Means he's lucky not to be in septic shock. Means I need an ambulance and a surgical team and I need them fucking now."
"It's gonna be okay, Kid. You're gonna be fine," The Detective said, leaning forward to place a scratchy kiss on the top of the boy's hairline. "You'll be fine. I promise."
"Don't leave me…" Came a whimpered, wispy whine.
Aaron Lawless sighed. Sighed and finally looked up to address the Commissioner. "Stay with him." There was smoldering fury in that gaze, Jim Gordon saw, a demanding insistence that commanded his complicity…and here, here at this moment, Gordon believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was looking at the Batman, crouched over an innocent in the dust and soot of the Legacy's demise…
And then it was over. The wound was covered in mesh, the heavy sterile pad stained with blots of blood. Lawless stood slowly, shouldering the oxygen tank, and Gordon felt that burning glare boring holes through him. Silence. Even the roaring thrum of helicopters and the keening wail of sirens died until there were no more sounds than his racing heart and heavy breath, and whispered whines of pain from the boy-the young soldier-laying stricken on the ground as piteous and uncomprehending as those German shepherds last night…
"Where are you going," Jim said. But in his heart he already know the answer. After Paltron, was the terse reply.
…Never leave a man behind.
That gruff voice. "You get him on a fucking ambulance, Jim."
The Commissioner nodded. "I can do that."
And Aaron Lawless-perhaps the Batman perhaps not but a hero in every sense of the goddamned word-bowed his head, and walked back into that Hell without a backwards glance.
AN: Story-arc continued next chapter.