Waking Hour
This is set between issues #13 and #14 of Dark Knight
Adventures.
Fatigue weighed on his muscles and his lungs burned with
the dank Gotham air. He wondered if maybe he was getting
too old, too old for all this physical battering.
No, never too old.
He followed the child through the dark passages that
infested the forsaken area dubbed “Crime Alley.” He
watched the child’s step, watched his body language,
listened to his cries to be followed. Always looking for
clues, playing World’s Greatest Detective yet again.
He had to admit, it was a nice change to be back in
Gotham. Another long excursion into space had taken its
toll. He wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet (although
he’d had to think faster than the man behind the gun).
He wasn’t able to project cosmic green energy. He
certainly didn’t have the constitution or palette for
the fast food that the Flash consumed. He was a simple
human. A human at the peak of mental and physical
efficiency maybe, but a human nevertheless. As such, he
was prone to such human requirements as sleep, food and
relaxation - not that he was prone to admit it, not to
himself or his colleagues. “You’ve inherited the British
‘stiff upper lip,’” Alfred once declared, “as well as
their pig-headed stubbornness." Alfred always had a way
with words. "One would be proud of such an achievement
for an American, if they didn’t combine it with wearing
grey tights and a pointy cape.”
Alfred was right (although not about the cape, it was
shaped, not pointy). He was stubborn, and more
importantly, obsessive. Both came hand in handy and
essentially carved out the essence of the man he was. He
knew his body wanted rest, but he refused to give in to
its demands. The world had called on his services again
and he’d neglected his duties to his home city for far
too long. He had to make up for the lost time –
regardless of his body’s personal opinion.
"This way!" cried out the child as the darkness
enveloped his body. He followed the kid deeper into the
warren of metal and human grime.
Gotham had suffered another bad year. However, it was
low on the sympathy stakes as the world in general had
been through its own shares of horrors and disasters.
The year had brought a host of unworldly attacks that
threatened not just Gotham, but the world as a whole.
These were threats he couldn’t ignore and they showed no
sign of abating. He was a control addict; he needed to
be in control of the odds. How long would Gotham survive
if he didn’t face the unknown threats that endangered it
from beyond? By leaving Gotham, he was saving Gotham
from dangers larger than the city. However, it meant
that those smaller issues, those murders, robberies and
assaults had to be left unchallenged to fight for a
“greater cause.”
It was almost like leaving your own children in the cold
to fend for themselves, in the hope you could stop the
bigger threats from getting to them. He couldn’t help
feeling guilty, and a few days of self-punishment
dealing with those “smaller issues” generally made him
feel better.
This was his third night on patrol with his days spent
absorbing information he’d missed in his absence. He was
glad to see Nightwing’s Titans had started their move
against Rupert Thorne’s growing empire. Despite having
his own city of Bludhaven to look after, Dick seemed to
be taking personal delight in slowly dismantling
Thorne’s greedy hold over Gotham. He was also aware that
Barbara had been using her resources to not only help
those who had suffered crime, but on occasions taking
the detective work out to prevent it. He rationally knew
neither party could make up for his presence in Gotham.
His legend alone was enough to make some of the criminal
element think twice about acting.
However, with the Justice League’s more prominent image,
Gotham knew their Dark Knight was currently part time.
With the spontaneous death of so many of Gotham's
destitute still on the conscience of the city, there was
a feeling of vulnerability he wanted to correct. He had
to make it clear to both citizens and the underworld
that Gotham was still HIS city, beyond the confines his
role in the Justice League.
He remained confident that disposing of the identity of
Bruce Wayne was a good move. It had been a complicated
affair; but one so far that had suffered no hitches.
Lucius was handling Wayne Enterprises very well (for a
substantial pay raise of course) and with Alfred now
back in England, it was visibly clear no one was living
at the Manor. Well, not above the ground anyway.
He had kept the reason for his disappearance vague with
small hints of truth. He'd used his recent brief
disappearance at the hands of Fitzgerald's cloned
monster to build the lie. He had constructed the
necessary evidence to imply he'd been held hostage for
ransom, a scenario which had been resolved internally
without police involvement. With a few self inflicted
wounds, he had told Lucius Fox that the events had
created doubts about his playboy lifestyle, that he
needed to find himself beyond the confines of his high
society. A pilgrimage retracing the steps he'd once made
as a young adult, away from Gotham, away from the world.
In some respects, Wayne's exodus did in some ways
reflect his mindset; the rich boy expelled from
paradise. The question was, would he come back?
It was a question that disturbed him, more than he cared
for. The time had long since past since he had intended
to fake the report of Wayne's death in Tibet. He'd spent
months on the scenario and he'd yet to act on it. He
wasn't sure what it was that was holding him back from
finalising this transition, but it was something he
needed to deal with soon.
Later, maybe.
In the meantime, he'd enjoy the hunt. Batman was free of
the constraints of civilized society. Free to do what he
was meant to do.
He had freed up so much time. As much as he missed
Alfred’s persistence for a normal lifestyle, he felt
more able to do what he needed to do, to be who he was
meant to be and not what society expected him to be.
There was just the Batman.
And now the Batman was chasing this young street urchin
down the alleyways to another scenario of danger. The
kid was genuine; you could never be too careful that the
homeless had not been groomed to act as bait –
especially children. Thankfully, the body language of a
child lacked the complexity of an adult so for a
detective such as himself, it was clear to deduce truth
from fact. This kid was honestly scared. There was no
deception hidden in his hides, his posture, his voice or
his body. What was certain was something had spooked
him.
The Joker.
There had been a recent encounter with the Joker in the
midst of the formation of the Justice Gang; however, by
and large, the Joker’s activities were ominously silent.
With that in mind and despite an ailing body, he moved
with increasing speed behind the boy.
“Over here!” the boy’s trembling voice cried out.
Taking to the shadows more, he moved closer to the
child, his body as ready for battle as it could be. His
weary eagle eyes taking in the big empty derelict space
that the alley opened into. Ready for action, poised for
battle.
He barely registered the shock as the boy spun round,
his body suddenly coiled, and released a concealed
projectile from a ragged cuff. A sharp pain hit his
torso, so sharp he barely noticed it.
The paralysis was immediate on his body, as was the
paralysis of his mind. Shock. Horror. Betrayal? How had
he not seen through the child? His rigid body fell back
against the brick end of the alley.
“I recall a conversation I had with the Joker one
evening in Arkham,” hissed a voice. “How it was he was
considered your archenemy and someone like me is not.”
His head spun as he tried to place the voice. Shouldn’t
have been hard, but the chemicals of the drugged
projectile were seeping deeper into his system.
”You just have to read the papers to realise this, and
as an educated man, I read the papers. I am considered,"
- a pause - "a minor player. Why? What makes the Joker
so much more your nemesis than fear incarnate?”
Scarecrow.
“Then a voice spoke to me. A voice in my dreams came to
me. It came to all of us. It told me my part in the
bigger plan.”
He couldn’t see. The drug systematically seemed to be
shutting down perception.
“It promised me such secrets - Just me, mind you. A
secret so special that even the likes of the Joker
doesn’t know.” He heard a hiss of pleasure. The
Scarecrow was moving closer. “For I have been offered
dominion over you. You are mine, not the Joker's. For I
am the Lord of Fear, and it needs a Lord to protect it's
new throne, not some out-of-date grinning clown!”
He could smell the Scarecrow’s putrid garments. He could
just about feel the hands holding him tightly, gripped
around the shoulders.
"Not that I can’t thank the idiot. It was that
conversation which inspired me as to how I could trap
you."
Fear began to mix with the poison, the cocktail seemed
to enhance both.
No one knew where he was. Not Alfred, not Dick, not
Barbara. He was alone
"The reason the Joker is your nemesis is because he’s
the antithesis of you. You are control. You are the
detective. He is chaos. He is the clown. For all your
understanding of the mind and body, you cannot predict
either with him.”
Breathing was becoming harder. Was he dying? Was this
it?
“So what better trap than an innocent who is a criminal?
A boy who believes he’s in danger till I tell him
otherwise. For I no longer invoke fear in others, I
CONTROL fear in others!”
Had he pushed his limits too far this time? Had his pig
headedness delivered him to his enemies? Would he have
spotted the danger if he had been less fatigued?
“A simple crown of technology, crass and not to my
liking really, I prefer the chemicals as you know, but
perfect for my needs. With a mix of my toxins, it
enables me the control of my victim. I can control its
fears and its actions. I can turn it from an innocent
into the hand of my deliverance with a single thought.”
He felt a small rush of sensation on his face, the pores
breathing in the night. His skin cascaded in its
sensitivity, as if it continued its fight for control.
It’s always about control.
“I have been given you by my master. You are mine by
right of Gotham’s future ruler. It came to us all in
Arkham, yet only the few chose to accept the word. Not
that stupid jester of course, but he to will be given to
me for my part to play in its new order.”
He could feel small (or were they large? it was
difficult to tell) needles piercing his forehead. There
was the sensation of cold, electric metal resting on his
hair as his tactile sensitivity reached zero.
“Did you not see the first sign of our deliverance? Did
you not see her? She is proof that I am Lord of Fear,
and our master will soon arrive through her....”
What was he talking about? He tried to clarify his
thoughts, but failed. His processes were like a racing
track, circular, repetitive, with no resolution. The
speed was getting slower and slower, yet there was no
deviation from the pattern.
"Rejoice..."
His consciousness took one final gasp of life before
vanishing. Two spoken words lingered on his fall from
consciousness. A couple of words wrapped in a fusion of
victory and ecstasy.
“...Bruce Wayne.” |
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