Knight of Wonder
Act I
Scene 4: Back to Black
"So basically what you are saying is that you are abandoning us." The baritone voice of J'ohnn Jones echoed inside the walls of Bruce's mind as though the cave around him were the Martian's own voice box. At first, the ability had come off as supremely unsettling. After the many months that they had worked together, however, it was starting t become routine. Nevertheless, J'ohnn still insisted that Bruce dial him up on the Batcomputer's video screen so they could commune face to face. This was mainly because J'ohnn was able to sense just how much the telepathic speech still bothered his colleague. Of course, the very fact that J'ohnn knew this about him without having ever said a word to him about it was something Bruce always found a little disturbing.
"I didn't say I was abandoning you," Bruce said aloud at the grainy screen bearing the image of the Martian in front of him. "I like to work alone. You have always known that."
"Yes but not like this," the Martian thought to Bruce without moving the lips on the green, but otherwise generic looking human face the shape shifter adopted for conversation. Yet another compensation for his unsettlingly alien nature Bruce thought to himself glibly. There was a time when Bruce had attempted to censor such thoughts in the interest of being more diplomatic, but after a while he decided that he didn't really care if J'ohnn liked him or not. At this particular moment, the opinions of the Martian were particularly worthless to him.
"What you are proposing is tantamount to your resignation from the League," J'ohnn framed as a pressing insistence.
Bruce waved a hand dismissively at the screen and said, "Call it a resignation if you want, but I intend to return. I just need to settle a few matters back here and all I'm saying is that it could take a long time."
"I'm sure the League would be willing to grant you all the time you require to sort out whatever these personal matters of yours are," the Martian conceded, "but given your prior history of disappearing for months on end without even so much as a check in has given some of the members of the League pause to consider your motivations."
Bruce cocked an eyebrow underneath the mesh of his bat eared hood. "Motivations," he said flatly. "You think that my dedication to the League is somehow less than your own? I built the Watchtower that you are currently standing in, remember."
"Your material contributions to the League have been crucial and everyone knows that, but those contributions cannot make up for the cost in the depth of our combined abilities created by your absence," J'ohnn thought out rather forcefully. "We formed the League to operate as a unified force for justice. I cannot stress the former part of that definition enough. The day will have to come when you must decide if your preference for acting alone will supersede your desire to see a broader form of justice carried out against those you cannot apprehend on your own."
The fleeting image of a recent newscast flashed across Bruce's mind. Gang war threatens peace of Gotham's streets. The nefarious gang of street thugs lead by the vigilante masquerading as Red Hood seeks to end the long reign of Black Mask on the criminal underworld. The inability of the Dark Knight to bring the leaders of these groups to justice was something that ate away at Bruce, and he suspected the Martian knew that. If J'ohnn thought that was how he was going to talk him out of this, however, he had another thing coming.
"In desperate cases, there is no justice but the one created by our own initiative. That is why I exist, and that is why, for the moment, I must take my leave of the league. Make of that what you will, but I will return when my task is done. You have my word. Goodbye J'ohnn."
With that, Bruce set his index finger down forcefully on the end transmission button and the screen on the computer quickly went dark, blending in with the shadowed surroundings of the cave. He let out a long sigh of relief as he curled his hand into a fist. J'ohnn could sit up there in the Watchtower and expect to dish out orders all he wanted, but that didn't mean that Bruce always had to follow them.
Removing his hand from the console, he let it fall lazily to his side while he spun around and walked slowly over the onyx black tile floors of the cave. This was his element. It was quite and dark, in this place, with nothing to disturb him except the distant sound of running water, the rare stirring of a bat, or whirr of the computer as it punched up a fresh crime report. Branching the cave out from beneath the old Gotham subway system had been a great choice. In fact, Bruce found it rather ironic that Clark found such equal solace in that crystalline monstrosity far in the north, with its bright atmosphere and cacophony of noise generated by his Kryptonian pets bread in Wayne-Tech de-extinction labs. How did wonder boy ever find any sleep with all the light in that place anyway?
At length, Bruce reached the armor capsule and stepped inside. Within moments, a host of robotic arms descended and peeled him out of his suit. Bruce stepped out of the capsule in nothing but his tight fitting mesh suit that was designed to protect him from the chaffing he had experienced when he first donned the suit a few years ago. The suit itself was stored neatly into the capsule via automation alongside the capsules containing the black and blue suit that Dick now preferred, the black and gold suit that Barbra had been making good use of until recently, and the heavily punctured red and black suit that Jason had worn.
The swirl of emotions that buffeted Bruce's mind at the very sight of that last suit was almost enough to make him stagger. He reached a hand out against the glass of the display to steady himself. Before long he was breathing hard and a light film of perspiration had formed on his forehead. Bruce wiped at it with his hand as the sleek black floor beneath him seemed to spin. Images of Jason's youthful, smiling face came unbidden into the center of his vision. In the distance Bruce could have sworn he heard a low, droning, "Hahahaha," as the images in his mind raced by; the defiant look in Jason's eyes when Bruce caught him trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile, his cries of triumph when he would pass an obstacle course during his training, his cocky words when he would rev his motorcycle, stamp out his cigarette and ride off into the night instead of studying for exams, and the way Barbra would look at him whenever they passed each other in the halls of Wayne Manor.
Then the dark dream turned into a true nightmare. The image came as unbidden into Bruce's mind as the others had, but this one was enough to make him mouth the word, "No," in a hoarse whisper over and over again as the wild eyed, desperate face of Jason Todd stared pleadingly at him from a grainy television screen as the wrinkly face of the clown behind him playfully gave out false ultimatums that were inaudible with a soundtrack of hysterical laughing.
By this point, Bruce's breathing had gone ragged and he was forced to slump to the floor in a heap of self-loathing and angry grief. "Of all the people I saved… why couldn't you have been one of them," he asked the shadows.
"Sir?" asked an accented voice from out of the shadows.
Bruce quickly looked up to see a large beam of light shining into the cave. Silhouetted against that light was the thin, aging, neatly dressed form of Alfred Pennyworth, with a puzzled look on his face and a glass of water in his hand. "Sir, are you alright?" he asked earnestly.
Bruce looked at his butler and most loyal friend with all the affection of a son to a father in that moment. At length, he threw up his hands and asked, "What am I supposed to say Alfred?"
Alfred shook his head as he crossed down the staircase and approached. Handing the glass of cool water to Bruce, Alfred replied, "You don't have to say anything sir. You, Dick, Barbra… we all miss Jason, but no one feels that loss more keenly than you."
After gazing at the cold water in his hand for a few moments, Bruce drained it in a single swig and handed the glass back to Alfred. As the fresh liquid percolated through his body, the sense of refreshment he felt went deeper than the physical one he was feeling. Bruce looked back up at the red and black suit with a new sense of purpose. Alfred always had an uncanny ability to say the exact words that Bruce needed to hear at any given time, and this occasion was no exception. Jason's death was indeed his cross to bear, and it was time to do something to make it right.
Groaning as he stood up, Bruce waved away a helping hand from Alfred as he brought himself to his feet. "Get the car ready, Alfred," he commanded. "I'm going out tonight."
"Again sir? I mean I shall do as you ask, of course, but I'm afraid I must advise against it," Alfred warned.
"No not that car," Bruce corrected. "Get the Rolls ready, I meant. I think I need a drink and someone to socialize with."
"Besides me you mean," Alfred commented in a mock accusatory tone.
The look on Bruce's face was intensely apologetic. "Now Alfred, I didn't mean that…"
"Think nothing of it. I was only joking," Alfred said with a warm smile and a dismissive wave of a hand.
Bruce let himself relax a little. He didn't smile back, though, for on the inside he felt the keen sense that he had had enough of joking around for a long time.
A little less than half an hour later and Bruce was dressed to kill in his blue pinstripe suite. His black hair was neatly slicked back and one of his nicer watches gleamed from behind his shirt cuff. Alfred brought the Rolls Royce Silver Phantom to life and glided it around the drive to the front steps of Wayne Manor just as Bruce came out.
Less than twenty minutes later, the lights and streets of the city floated in and out of view as the misting nighttime rain clouded the windows before getting brushed away by the windshield wipers. Before long, the intended destination gently hovered into view. The green and orange glow of the neon sign indicated the exterior of the club "Eden." Bruce waited until just before the car came to a stop to pop open the car door. Meanwhile, Alfred leaned his head back and advised, "Be careful sir. I can't imagine that they'll take too kindly to a man of your stripe in a place like that."
"That's the point Alfred," Bruce replied with a grin. "Head back to Wayne Manor. I'll find my own way home. Thanks," Bruce told Alfred by way of a farewell.
Alfred looked uncertain as Bruce shut the car door. A moment later and the car was speeding off down the street and out of view while Bruce watched from the sidewalk, his suit becoming spotted with rain all the while. When the car was out of sight, Bruce turned and headed for the entrance to the club. A large, bald, surly looking bouncer looked him over skeptically before permitting him entrance. Inside Bruce could felt as though this could almost have been the type of place he could enjoy. It was dark and damp, and the only sound audible over the throbbing beat of Eurhythmics' "Sweet Dreams" was the hazy babble of the escort girls at the nearby table as they fawned over someone Bruce thought looked suspiciously like a member of the board of directors at Wayne Enterprises. Of course the atmosphere was all a lie. The damp was a combination of the perspiration of the undulating bodies of the dancers on the dated looking glow tile floor. The darkness was punctured by the frequently offending strobe light, and the combined chatter of aging rock stars, randy party girls, frat boys and jaded businessmen all swirled together like the bodies of the dancers to make a sound as equally offending to the ears as the place was offending to the eye. This was a perverted version of the cave; a place where societies hungry and desperate mixed with the powerful and predatory to recreate the Darwinian ecosystem that civilization had displaced.
As he slowly drifted further into the bowls of this machine of culture, Bruce couldn't help but notice the analyzing, if fleeting, stares of the people he passed by. They looked him up and down, quickly picking him out as fresh meat either for their carnal desire or for their greed, before quickly glancing away as Bruce's gaze settled on each of them, remembering each of their faces distinctly just in case. At length, Bruce neared a door at the back of the club where he found his path blocked by a couple of kids in ill-fitting jackets and large, neon rimmed glasses.
"Hey, hey, hey there big money!" one of them said as he held out a hand. This one had a green Mohawk that stood out from a bleached white dome; a hairstyle that reminded Bruce disturbingly of the clown. "You can't go in there. That's private."
Bruce glowered at the youth as he countered, "And why is that? I thought there were no secrets in the Garden of Eden."
The youth laughed a squeaky little laugh before continue in that Mickey Mouse voice of his, "You should brush up on your Bible, pal. The Garden is full of secrets, and these ones here ain't meant for you, now scram!"
As he lowered his shoulders and rolled his head back and forth, Bruce wondered if this kid had ever even seen a Bible in his life. "Maybe so, kid, but you better get out of my way unless you want a very different lesson in the Old Testament," he said as he cracked his knuckles.
The kid gave a throaty chuckle as the glint of a switchblade flashed out from his pocket. "Go ahead man, educate me. I dare ya," the kid sneered as his buddies closed in around Bruce.
A moment later and the kid was flying bodily through the door he had formerly been trying to keep shut. Over the squirming bodies of the other youths and through the improvised threshold stepped a disgruntled looking Bruce Wayne. He looked about and flipped on a light switch to illuminate a short, dark hallway with another door at the end. The kid scrambled to his feet and raced down the hall to the door, flinging it wide into the wall in his panic. Bruce followed at an even pace, stepping into the large, rectangular office at the end. At the other side of the office was an enormous desk where there sat a man in a red hood and leather jacket. He had his feet, shoed in a high black combat boots, propped up on the desk.
His lackey ran up to him and pleaded, "I'm sorry for lettin' the guy in here boss but he just took down three of my guys like they were bowlin' pins!"
Red Hood waved a dismissive hand and said in a muffled, if surprisingly youthful voice, "Don't worry about it, Chum. I've been expecting Mr. Wayne."
The look on the kid's face was incredulous as he shot a look back at the resolute figure of Mr. Wayne before looking desperately back at his boss the hooded figure pointed a finger at a side exit by way of commanding the kid to get lost. He promptly did.
"I assume you were expecting someone else, Mr. Wayne?" Red Hood asked in a playful tone.
Bruce scowled at Red Hood. "I was looking for Falcone but you'll do just as well," he growled.
Red Hood slowly shook his concealed head as he swung his booted feet from the desk and sprang from his chair into a quick stride that brought him around to the front of the desk, about ten feet away from the still glowering Mr. Wayne. Red Hood wagged a finger at the cranky looking businessman and apologized, "I'm afraid Carmine is away in Bogota on a business trip and won't be back for another two weeks. He's left me in charge until he returns."
"How magnanimous of him," Bruce said sarcastically as he figured both he and Red Hood knew why a drug lord like Carmine Falcone would be running around in Colombia. "You realize he could just as easily have given that job to your rival Black Mask."
"Yes I know," Red Hood acknowledged as he swiped an eight ball from off the desk he had started to lean on. He tossed it in the air and caught it lazily over and over as he continued, "He's playing us off against each other so he can crush the victor and be the undisputed kingpin of Gotham. Honestly I don't care. All I know is, I'm the good guy in all this. You don't want the real terrorists like Black Mask running around the streets unchecked. Trust me Mr. Wayne, you want me to succeed, and I will. And when I do, I'll quietly fade away and you won't hear from me mused." With that, Red Hood caught the eight ball with a final, fearsome swipe just before he demanded, "Some men come to Falcone seeking the means to perpetrate war while he only seeks to perpetuate one, so tell me Bruce, which are you here to do?"
"Your war with Black Mask is a plague on Gotham," Bruce said flatly. "It takes two to fight a war. Remove one of the actors and the conflict is over. I had hoped that Falcone would help me in that endeavor, but now I see I'll have to do that myself."
"Oh Mr. Wayne," Red Hood let out condescendingly. "If that's how you thought this would go then you have a lot to learn about the underworld. I'd advise you to go home and forget about all this but you and I both know that isn't going to happen."
With that, Bruce tensed his body, and when Red Hood hurled the eight ball at his face he was ready for it. Dodging deftly out of the ball's flight path, he was now facing a large, grinning youth whose face was heavily studded with piercings. Bruce reached a hand up and caught the end of the baseball bat that the youth promptly swung at him. Ripping the bat out of the kid's hands sent the boy tumbling forward and Bruce quickly pivoted and delivered a strike with the bat to the kid's back.
A red hooded stranger came at Bruce next. This was not the leader, who was still leaning casually against the desk, but Bruce took no time to deliberate as he threw the bat at the stranger who caught it awkwardly just before Bruce delivered a knockout punch to the stranger's concealed face. Then Bruce felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso. He elbowed his attacker furiously, but without the ability to deploy shock sticks like he could in the suit, his elbows thudded into the flesh of his clearly much larger assailant uselessly.
Just then, Red Hood sprang forward and closed the distance to the still struggling Bruce who could only watch in horror as Red Hood drew a small black canister from his coat and said, "Really Mr. Wayne, even if you did have your mask on tonight, there's no way you can save Gotham on your own. You would have thought the Joker taught you that lesson." Then Red Hood gave Bruce a small spray from the canister.
As he did so, however, a white blur came out of nowhere and crashed into Red Hood, sending him toppling out of the way. It was a little late for Bruce, however, who coughed and spluttered from the mysterious gas. As his vision fogged and his eyes filled with tears, Bruce felt the arms restraining him release for some unknown reason. He fell to the ground and gasped for air that felt like it wouldn't come. He rolled over and heaved his chest as hard as he could, trying to catch a breath and not surrender to the intense urge to vomit, which was a battle he quickly lost.
As he lay there on the ground, clinging to consciousness with all the willpower he could muster, Bruce's mind raced around to figure out what he had been gassed with, how on earth Red Hood could have known his nocturnal identity, and what the hell that white blur was that was racing about the room and crashing into Red Hood and his men. It had been foolish to come here. Bruce had known full well the possibility of what he was going to run into, but the truth of Red Hood's words were finally starting to ring true through the choking haze he was wallowing in. What was he trying to prove in coming down here in the middle of the night on his own without his abilities as the Dark Knight? If he couldn't protect those he loved behind the mask, there certainly wasn't any indication that he could do a better without it and this encounter was proof enough of that.
Just as Bruce felt his conclusions reaching their lowest point, he was seized by the distinct feeling of being lifted into the air. There was a sharp cracking noise and Bruce found himself coughing and struggling to wave away smoke and dust, but his upper body was being held tight by some mysterious white shape. Wind buffeted his suit as he felt his ears start to pop and that was when Bruce began to realize. He strained his neck so he could lift his head up and he was met with the welcome sight of flowing brown hair crowned with a silver winged helm. Bruce smiled and croaked "Diana" before everything faded to back to black.