Just another quick update. (P.S. Shazam was pretty fun~)
Wild beam, wild boy, you burn so bright
'Till you illuminate
One day you're out, you give up the fight
You slow down heart-rate
-Jónsi, "Boy Lilikoi"
Now.
As they approached the expansive (and exorbitantly expensive) Wayne estate Stephanie had only seen in T.V. broadcasts and celebrity magazines before, she became alarmed as the Batmobile abruptly swerved, swaying away from the winding driveway up to the manor – and towards the mountainside instead.
"Uh… Batman?"
He didn't answer her. Her panic mounted as they continued to speed straight towards the cliff rocks, and she quickly covered her eyes in anticipatory dread, awaiting inevitable impact.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod."
Goodbye, cruel world. Diary, tell my mom I love her. And that I want "Purple Rain" played at my funeral.
She braced herself, praying passionately to God to get her out of this sorry mess; nay, better yet – Superman. …Several seconds passed though, and she didn't feel anything other than the vehicle slowing to a stop. She heard the canopy hiss open as the driver spoke gruffly next to her.
"You may open your eyes now, Ms. Brown."
Peeking through the parts in her glove gaps, she exhaled in relief to find herself still (blessedly) in one piece, and gasped as she gaped at her surroundings – which certainly resembled hell more than heaven. They were sitting inside an enormous cavern – dank and dark and daunting – creatures of the night flitting to and fro amongst stalactites overhead. Fitting.
So that's where he gets the name from. …At least, I hope that it was inspired. Don't tell me he imported bats just to fit the bill. 'Cuz that'd be weird. And crazy. Crazy weird.
Her mind rustled nervously, thoughts racing a mile a minute as she followed Batman out of the car, marveling at the monstrosity of it all.
"Wow. This is actually it. The Batcave." She breathed in admiration. She'd heard rumors about the place, but no one had ever proven its existence. As they passed by bizarre timeless monuments, such as a giant penny and life-size model of a Tyrannosaurus Rex – an almost startlingly realistic replica – she felt small and humbled, mumbling. "Is it really all right for me to be here?"
Batman halted, revolving towards her.
"Tim trusts you. Therefore I trust you. …But the fact remains neither of you are cut out for this job."
Frustration frosted her face again, biting and bristling. She shot an icy scowl of both snow and smoldering daggers, a look her mother taught her that was somehow simultaneously glacial and molten; irritably giving third degree glare in return for the burn – on both behalves.
"So what, you're saying you fired him? What on earth did he do that was so awful?"
He looked away again – towards a row of glass cases containing three sets of costumes – zeroing in on the red at the end.
"This isn't the first time he's revealed our secrets to an outsider."
She nipped her hasty lip in the bud, taken aback by this unexpected disclosure. Racking her brain for ways to justify.
"Well… I'm sure he must have a good reason for it."
His slim slits narrowed further, tone stiffening significantly.
"That reason is why he is no longer Robin. Why there will never be another Robin."
She observed as he crossed over to a large monitor display, boots clicking hard and harsh against the stone. Tentatively, she trailed after, brushing her fingers over the memorials along the way, lingering on the last. Her throat swallowed, sensing she wouldn't like what she was about to hear. …But there was no going back now.
"Please. Just tell me what happened." She steeled herself. "No matter how bad it is, I can take it."
His tenor grew heavier as he booted up the computer.
"Robin was out on patrol alone one night when he came upon a woman in danger. He went to her rescue, but it turned out to be a trap. Do you recall there used to be a criminal mastermind who called himself the Joker?"
"The one who dressed up like a clown? That all those lame street punks fashion themselves after? Yeah, who could forget?"
"He had an accomplice. A woman who went by the name of Harley Quinn. She pretended to be a victim to lure Robin, then knocked him out when his back was turned. The two captured him and took him to old Arkham asylum. …This is what proceeded."
He pressed a button on the control panel, and a movie started to play.
The screen flickered white, static weaving in and out like an old timey film. Blurred text zoomed dizzily into view:
"Our Family Memories"
The introductory card fell away, revealing a pair of feet next to a mysterious liquid puddle. A gloved hand beckoned to ascend, and the camera panned upwards in stuttered slow motion to a devilish grinning visage: The Joker, clad in what appeared to be a set of hospital scrubs. He was standing beside a table, beakers and flasks and test tubes bubbling with some kind of noxious chemical concoction in the background. The view lazed idly across to show an assortment of instruments; some sharp, some shocking – some so completely strange she could only imagine what they were possibly used for.
The scene jumped – briefly – and her heart fluttered. There was Tim – Robin – looking extremely young and vulnerable. He was strapped to some kind of steel stretcher, struggling frantically to escape. Trying his best (to be brave, bless), writhing and wriggling wrists in every direction. The image only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to send a shudder of sympathy through her spine.
Cut to Joker again, now sporting an innocuous chef's hat on his head, matched with a ridiculous apron that read, of all things: Kiss the Cook. He was waving cheerfully beside a barbecue grill, poised in front of a bunch of makeshift stage props mimicking someone's suburban lawn, complete with picturesque picket fence. There was a close-up as he lifted the lid, licking his lips and wiggling extended creepers like eager worms. He retrieved from within a pair of metal clamps, gleefully snapping them open and shut as sparks excited from their alligator teeth.
She held her breath in wavering suspense as he hooked the fastener onto the gurney, its tethered captive still valiantly straining against the belted bonds with all his might. Joker positioned himself over the machine lever, and for an excruciating moment, there was utter stillness – save for his prey's petrified shaking.
He flipped the switch.
Her hands flew to her mouth. There was no sound, so she couldn't hear the screams, but agonizing pain clearly carved onto the boy's contorted countenance as his convulsive back arched – ached – whole body howling in what must be unfathomable, unbearable anguish. She could hardly even watch, but she had to. Forced herself to keep eyes wide open. Wincing. As lights and laughter and lost innocence flashed before them in rapid succession. Tears forming at the corners of his, despite desperate fighting – biting – to hold back. She felt like she was about to cry too – because there was absolutely nothing she could do – to help him, save him – long after the fact. His tormenter was cackling madly the entire time, seeming to delight in flicking the power on and off. Again and again and again.
Batman paused the feed. He seemed to be skipping ahead, and she wasn't sure whether it was out of consideration for her sensitivities or to spare his own. Just how much more was there?
Following fast-forward, Stephanie's stomach sickened even more at the next sight. Turning and churning, urging to chuck – a brick right at Joker's repulsive chin.
"My God," she whispered. "What are they doing to him?"
The two jesters were huddled around a hunched shape, which she barely recognized as Robin at this point. No- He wasn't Robin anymore, not without the suit or seeming sense of clarity. Sanity.
"Tim" looked… deteriorated. Disoriented. Defeated. Dead and bloodshot eyes swimming dim in a glass daze, staring directly – dully – at the lens – quite obviously drugged. Smiling but not seeing. Teeth and lips stretched obscenely broad, the latter darkened in shade. Though the picture was purely in black and white, she could tell they were applying lighter musk – masquerade – on top of already pale, pinched cheeks. Drained of rainbow vibrance and vitality where there wasn't even color to begin with.
She looked on in rising revulsion as they primped, preened, and prepped, beaming as they patted his sunken shoulders like proud parents. Caressing, combing greased hair back in loving(?) strokes. Dressed and tucked and cut down to proper size, fitting perfectly snug and tight (no more putting up a fight) into neatly pressed uniform folds until he fancied his "father" – right down to the miniature disgusting bowtie and identical flower boutonnière. Bright neon clown's corsage contrasting with monochrome makeup. Like playing dress-up with a rag doll; a make-believe game of house, living out domestic dream.
They had turned him into a nightmare.
She curled her fists, clenching.
"How long?"
"Three weeks."
She couldn't believe it. A whole month… He had to endure that kind of horrible, humiliating treatment. Torture, plain and simple. To a mere child no less. It was no wonder he looked entirely empty by the end of it (a look she sadly realized hadn't really fully went away afterwards – and likely never would – no matter how many years it's been since). …There was practically nothing left of her love in front of her but a lifeless, hollow shell. Like some kind of broken toy figure – steadfast tin soldier warped beyond recognition by the unforgiving flames, and malevolently molded into a marionette instead. Passive puppet. Meek and submissive puppy, trained – ingrained – to be terrified of punishment, probably for even placing a single paw an inch out of line.
She carried on with calm, but frigid cold fury.
"The Joker… is dead now, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Good."
There was a lengthy lull in conversation.
"…You're not going to ask how he died."
Her knuckles balled on top of knotted breast. Knitting brows as she gazed at the confused expression of conflict – disordered conduct – in the poor kid's roving, raving pupils as he began to giggle maniacally. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Like some kind of discordant cord – code – had snapped within, unleashing all the wild, unbridled demons buried deep in one's subconscious. Reveling in release, letting unfettered chaos reign.
"Tim's strong. Stronger than he knows." A sinking surmise weighted her gut. "…He wouldn't be this afraid and ashamed to tell me unless he did something so terrible he couldn't take back."
Batman regarded her with what might be considered mild wonder, if not raised respect.
"…You have a lot of faith in him."
She shifted shining irises, damp but undeterred.
"Don't you?"
For a minute, there was silence. Then, a loud slam suddenly resounded, resonating from somewhere high above as a familiar echo yelled down, slicing shrill and seismic through the chill air:
"Bruce! You're down there, aren't you? Answer me!"
Stephanie spun around in surprise.
"Tim?"
He descended the steps in a breathless hurry, stopping short at the base of the staircase when he witnessed the two together – and behind them, his haunted history so nakedly exposed through vile video, unraveling reel. Rerunning. Reflecting. Revolting. …Like looking in a twisted funhouse mirror.
"Is that…?"
Frozen horror immediately transformed into blazing rage as he bolted by Steph and hurled his heated fist at Batman, hurtling hurt and betrayed emotions. The target made no effort to dodge as the fierce, fiery punch landed square on his locked jaw, accepting (admittedly somewhat deserved) damage yet standing firm ground. Tim thus roughly grabbed his opponent's collar with both hands, violently thrashing against the keyboard terminal with all his strength, shutting it down.
"You fucking bastard! How dare you! You said you destroyed them! You swore!"
Batman remained unruffled as he simply replied in self-defense:
"If you wanted her to stop, this is the fastest way."
"That doesn't just give you the right to reveal everything! It's my life, it wasn't your decision to make! How the hell could you do this to me?! Go behind my goddamn back like this?!" Tim choked with anger, hold trembling as he slowly sank in despondent response, dwindling into despair. "…I wasn't ready for this."
"By the time you were ready she could've already gotten herself killed."
…Um, hello? I'm standing right here. Can you quit talking about me as if I'm not even present?
Stephanie worriedly tried to interject herself between them, attempting unsuccessfully to push or pull apart.
"Will both of you just stop?!"
Tim didn't even dare to look at her, keeping lowered vision focused on the floor.
"Tim, I'm sorry. I was the one who asked to know. It's my fault, I insisted on him telling me. I didn't mean to cause trouble for you, I just… wanted to help…"
He gulped, letting go with a weary sigh.
"Steph… Can you wait for me upstairs?"
She hesitated, glancing back and forth between the two with concern.
"You're not going to keep fighting, are you?"
"No," Tim composed, shoving palms inside his pockets. His speech sounded incredibly tired, vacant eyes exhausted and evasive. "…I'm done fighting. I just want to talk."
Batman said nothing as he straightened. Though still yearning to say more herself – tell Tim all the multitude of things she should've a long time ago, comfort and embrace and apologize profusely for too much, too late – Steph suppressed her tongue for now and nodded.
"…Okay."
She cast one more anxious glimpse back before obligingly starting up the stairwell. She didn't know where it led exactly, but if her boyfriend wanted privacy – peace – right now, she would gladly give it. …Even if merciful pardon – let alone supportive understanding of one's partner – was already far, far too delayed, in so many ways.
Electricity wires are down
Rainbow colours fading to brown
Adventurous smile shifting to frown
Courageous boy, now you're a clown