2014.04.02 - A Complex Relationship

Joker is just slightly annoyed. He's tried to be loud and disruptive. Almost dropping Spoiler into a deathtrap. Nearly killing the Riddler. And traumatizing even the likes of Captain America, for trying to bring him in 'by the books' when one should know better than to throw that into the fireplace before even thinking about approaching the man. And still, almost nothing. Batman's not LOOKING for him. He's free! He's supposed to be restlessly prowling the rooftops, trying to find out where he is! That's how the game WORKS. But he's being ignored... and that, too, can be dangerous.
It's relatively no-nonsense. Gordon is given a message in a pretty envelope, and sealed within is a ticket.
An ancient ticket, to a familiar theatre on what used to be called Park Row. And is now called Crime Alley. ADMIT ONE. It looks very similar to the one he clutched as a child. Within it is a Joker playing card.
Coincidence can be a strange thing. Batman has been invited to countless random locales throughout the decades they have duelled. This is not the first time he's used this old theatre... but with the events currently going on, it might cut dangerously close to home...
A scant few days ago, in the dark and rain-filled hours before midnight, Batman laid a rose on the pavement in Crime Alley. Nobody saw him do it. If they did, the reason would be unclear. He simply laid it down reverently, stood in silent reflection and then left. Something he's done at the same place and time for the last fifteen years.
These walls saw his last moments of happiness. They saw the last moments of the Wayne family before they died. Physically Bruce survived, but the carefree boy that he was never left that alleyway. All that existed afterward was the Batman.
The time and place unnerves him but it does not show. He descends into the grimy light before the Theatre with the ticket in his hand, crushing it before he steps towards the old, half-boarded up door and pushes it open. He'd almost expect the Joker to have trapped the ventilation ducts and upper-level windows that he would usually employ for a secretive entrance. But could even a madman expect Batman to use the front door?
Enough, he thinks to himself, mouth a grim line, Finish it. Break him. Throw him back in his pit.
The darkness inside has a number of large, wooden faces of the Joker smiling, painted crudely, with a big red finger pointing. It would direct him to one of the random theatres. Not, to perhaps Batman's mild relief, the one which the Mask of Zorro once played. Although he would pass by that threshold, where he entered a boy long ago.
At last, the door to the film room at the end is reached. When opened, a number of spotlights are upon a makeshift stage. The great white screen once projected on is rolled up, and instead there's some bizarre mockup of a balcony, rickety, upon which Joker stands. He's got a a faux metal hook on one hand, wearing a crimson coat and overlarge red hat with a shocking white feather. Ignore the heavy bandages on his broken nose, and other such bruises. They aren't part of the act, folks. Captain America is a rough customer.
"Welcome to the show, Bats! I thought I'd re-enact a classic for you. Peter Pan. Who doesn't wish to fly off to a dreamworld, where you never grow old and life stands still? But so little sympathy for Captain Hook... what motivates him? Was he a Lost Boy, kicked from heaven? Slowly haunted by time as it ticks away, shorting the mortality he was given back? I think he had every RIGHT to wish vengeance on that fool!!"
About a dozen thugs, dressed as random bit characters from the play, stand in the middle. They wield bats, chains, and other items. Dangling above, wearing the outfit of Peter Pan, is a hapless civilian. An innocent. There is a noose around his neck, but some hidden wire keeps him just enough above that he doesn't fall; which would result in a snapped neck. And that wire is seen attached to the balcony, adjacent to Joker.
"Today, we'll see Peter Pan, the TRUE villain, get his justice. You AGREE with justice, don't you?!"
Only then would a spotlight flash on, and whirl to center on the Batman.
Batman steps inside, having passed the door to the theater that played that movie thirty-five years ago without so much as a glance.
‘’No time for emotion,’’ he thinks, ‘’Don’t get introspective, old man. Focus.’’
He glares as the light catches him, lowering a shoulder and planting himself in a defensive stance. Immediately his eyes move to the civilian, taking in every little aspect of his predicament. The makeup of the wire and the noose.
‘’Could cut the noose. Thick rope. Mightn’t break all the way. Can’t afford the risk.’’
“You’re done,” he growls aloud at the Harlequin, “No more death.”
"And here we see what many WRONGFULLY believe to be 'Justice', the Batm-"
Joker's green eyes finally shift over to the caped crusader. Slowly his smile falters, and his arms lower. He looks almost comically awkward, and nearly insulted. "...What is this?" he then asks, tone plain and lacking in his normal nearly manic tenor. Batman would be stricken to realize it's conversation. Genuine, person to person conversation. How many times has that happened? In all these years, he's never stopped the bouncing ball of his insanity beyond what could comfortably counted on one hand. The gaggle of henchmen are glancing around, looking to be no less confused.
In the past, a memory stirs.
Bruce, calls a woman's voice across the gulf of years, Don't run too far.
He's enjoying himself, Martha, replies a man, his pleasing baritone lined with a chuckle, Let him go.
Take that, Captain Ramon! a boy laughs, feet scuffing on the pavement as he ducks and dives with an imaginary sword, I'll save you, Senorita Pulido!
In the present, the Batman scowls as the thugs approach him. It's almost as though the Joker's words - strange words in a tone he's scarcely heard - do not reach him. It's almost as though now he is the one within the cocoon of madness, oblivious to the reality of the world around him.
In the faces of the thugs he sees not the face of bit characters from Peter Pan. He sees a formless shadow. Only the details he remembers. The calloused, stained hand with the gun. The rolled-up sleeves. The shirt that smelled overmuch of sweat. The gruff, demanding and desperate voice.
The pearls, demands the voice, An' yer wallet. Now!
Alright, replies the man evenly, Let's not get - 
BLAM.
The gunshot rings out in his mind. The scream of his mother. The second shot. The sound of their bodies slumping to the cold sidewalk.
"NO!"
The Bat practically roars, launching himself at the nearest thug like a man possessed. His hands extended before him, his eyes wide and terrifying and his teeth bared. Not the practiced, even motions of a master of the martial arts but instead the sheer force of brutality falls upon his unwitting victim.
The Joker simply watches. The thugs never advanced on Batman; they all remained on the stage, not sure what to do. They never are when it comes to the Joker, but generally it's easy to access the situation and come to the conclusion it involved violence. Whatever violent flashback stirred the Batman, he comes down on one of the hapless henchman, who crashes on his back and struggles desperately. The others begin to advance on him, until suddenly the Joker says...
"/Stop./"
This kind of deathly danger in his voice is heard very, very rarely. Not a single soul around Batman moves now, not even the man he's in the midst of assaulting. The remaining eleven actually take a step back from the dark knight, as the tenuously hanging man dangling above tries not to move. A few shadows of little people are amongst the rafters and such overhead, blinking down.
"I said what *IS THIS!!*" He's slamming his hook upon the crappy banister of his crappy balcony, causing it to crack and chips of paint to fall down. "You're DISTRACTED. You're not paying any ATTENTION!!"
Not henchmen, no. Not on a stage. What Batman sees is something different. A darkened alleyway in the late Seventies. The lifeless bodies of his parents beneath a streetlight. But this time their killer is not fleeing into the night. This time he lies helpless before the Batman. This time Bruce is not a boy but a grown man, able to do what he wished he could have done all those years ago.
The Bat lets out an angry shout as he drives his fist across the jaw of the man beneath him, paying no heed to the fact that he has stopped. He swings again, striking him backhanded with another cry. The man's face becomes a pulp beneath his unrelenting assault. His nose squashes and juts to the side. His eyes swell and blacken. Teeth spill from his lips on a tide of blood. Only now does the henchman move, his hand reaching to grab ineffectually at Batman's arm.
Then, reality snaps back into place like a rubber band. He sees the man before him and recoils in horror, glancing momentarily at his blood-soaked fists before turning his attention back towards the Joker on his balcony.
His shoulders lift and heave with labored breath, unharmed save for the very real fear. For a man who values control so much, to lose it completely for even a handful of seconds is a terror unparalleled.
Alive? he thinks to himself, looking at the downed henchman, Barely. Fool. Pushed yourself too hard. Too much. Should've called for back-up.
He says nothing to the Joker. Simply staring at him. No, he's not paying attention and something is definitely wrong.
What is seen in Joker's face is rage. A rage not ever truly seen before. The Batman just broke before him. He just snapped for a moment. Lost himself, to some dormant insanity he always knew was there.
AND HE WASN'T THE ONE TO DO IT.
"...The show's over." Joker states. "Leave." The thugs step further away from Batman, kind of slack-jawed and out of it. "I SAID *LEAVE*." In a flash, there's a stampede of henchmen heading for the exits, outside the one that is wheezing sickeningly beneath Batman, twitching now and then.
Only the man in the faux Peter Pan is still struggling now in the room with the duo. Forever young.
"..." No further words come from the Clown Prince. He gestures up towards the rafters. After a few moments, the robe is cut, falling down in a stream. The noose is tangled about the hostage's head, but Joker swipes the line, cutting it.
The man falls, about fifteen feet. Cracking with a cry on the floor; leg might be broken, but he's alive, struggling against bound wrists and ankles. That is not common with the Harlequin.
"Are you playing with someone else?!" Joker suddenly asks, accusational like a child. "Am I not enough for you now? Have you grown USED to my games so much it's merely AUTOPILOT?!"
He leans forward on the balcony, looking down with cold green eyes at the Batman. Somehow, he seems much more... sane.
Batman is swift to attend to the wounded thug once he regains his faculties. He crouches, reaching to produce a small syringe from his belt and injecting it into the man’s neck. A mild painkiller and anti-nausea solution. There’s little else he can do with his kit save stabilize the man until an ambulance arrives. The sound of the civilian falling draws his attention for a moment. The sound and the angle of his fall leave him to think that, though injured, the man will be alright for now.
“You’re done,” he repeats, rising to his feet and meeting the Joker’s eyes.
He holds his fists at his side. He doesn’t press the attack straight away – he’s almost afraid to do it given what happened just moments ago.
"No." Joker states, his voice cold. Cool. And worst of all, almost bored. "You seem to forget something essential to our relationship. You cannot kill me. But I can kill /you./" He still leans on the bannister, ignoring the whimpers of the fallen civilian and the groans of his badly hurt henchman. "Both of us choose not to. Opposing forces, forever doing our little dance of duality, in perfect balance." The hook clatters to the ground so the Joker's fingers can interlock. "...But if this is how you are going to be... then maybe we should just have our grand climax. I should just kill every caped do-gooder in Gotham. Genocide the majority of the entire city. Then we can both die in another of our struggles at the apex, and be done with it. No games. No toys. Just the final punchline."
Batman may have never truly considered it before. But of all the villains within Gotham, and perhaps stretching into the majority of the city, he has the capability to reap death and destruction like no other, if he wished it to be done. Keeping him in these little games... limiting causalities... keeping his insanity focused on the cowled man... is essential.
Essential to preventing him from doing much, much worse.
Slowly, Batman’s eyes narrow. This is dangerous. Any break is dangerous but one that causes the Joker to question the roles they play? That’s the most dangerous of all.
‘’He’s breaking, too,’’ he thinks to himself, ‘’Can’t let it happen. Put it all aside. Focus.’’
It’s as though a weight suddenly lifts off the Batman. A technique that he has mastered through years of practice. Putting aside his troubles temporarily so he can place all his attention upon the task at hand. It may be there in the wings but for now the distracted, half-mad Bat has slinked back into the shadows that spawned him.
He doesn’t speak. There isn’t really any word he could say. ‘Sorry, Joker. I’ll try harder.’ No. He just needs to act the part. Don the mask. From his belt he draws a small spheroid and twists it between his fingers, causing it to beep mutely and spring to life as he tosses it at the structural supports of the balcony. A mild explosion that seeks to blow out the supports and bring the thing tumbling down.
Joker simply watches, expectantly, as the Batman's focus returns to him once more in full. But it doesn't seem to please him, in particular. When the explosive is thrown at the supports for his faux balcony, it goes down like a deck of cards. There really wasn't much holding it up. But there had been a large cushion in the base, which Joker steps back towards as the entire thing comes down. He thumps on it, debris crashing over him, some smoldering and flaming.
A few moments later he rises up, remnants cascading off his shoulders. Something is still dangerous in his eyes. "I don't feel like playing any more right now. You ruined it. So let's just finish this up quickly... and try again next time. Maybe you are just having..." He pauses, and something meaningful flickers on his face. "...a bad day..." is all he says, voice almost small. He begins to walk towards Batman, without haste, without any indication of his motive. Only unlike so many times before, there's something dangerous to him. All the shackles, all the restraints, that manipulate him in his shattered mind are currently lax. And within that likes the brutal, calculating mind of a genius who has proven himself mentally on par with Batman more than once.
He doesn’t move to attack the Joker. As brutal a punishment as his latest attention-seeking behavior would warrant, he’s loathed to do it. If a henchman he’s never met before brought out that monster in him, what horrors could the Joker possibly unleash? What if he were to lose control and kill him? He couldn’t forgive himself. No. He’d have lost. He’d ‘’be’’ lost. Forever.
The Bat steps to take the Joker’s wrist, not gently but by no means roughly, either. He draws a pair of blackened-steel cuffs from his belt, moving to clap them in place.
“A bad day,” Batman repeats, eyes fixated on the Joker. Truer words.
"We all have them, don't we?"
But then the Joker's free hand moves, as his cuffed one moves to grip that of the Caped Crusader's tightly. Nothing within his body language, that seemed as defeated as Batman's own, indicated he was going to do anything but surrender. A moment later, there's an eruption of purple gas. Whirling out to two meters in a heartbeat. Smilex; and this is not the playful sort. Simple skin contact would shut down even a peak human's nervous system in a heartbeat, like a magic mist that turns people into statues. Despite such, it is not fatal. No. Of course not. Were the ploy successful, it would cause one to be trapped in that rictus grin, but halting before it proceeds terminal.
So simple. So direct. He could have done something like this a hundred times before. But not until today... when he no longer felt like he was in some grand theatre play with the Dark Knight. The Joker, utterly without nonsense.
‘’Smilex.’’
Batman lets out a choked gasp of surprise as the gas catches him full in the face. He feels the muscles in his face burn and contort, stiffening and leaving him with the rictus grin. He’s trained himself. Inoculated himself against countless variations of the gas but never this kind. He topples forward, holding out a hand to steady himself only to have it collapse under him as he falls to the ground.
‘’Worse than usual,’’ he thinks, panicked thoughts that seem to last an eternity but fly by in the firing of a synapse, ‘’Fatal? Could be. Stupid, dead old man.’’
‘’Damian. Dick. Tim. Cassandra. Alfred. Don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve to lose me to some lunatic.’’
“Cuh ... “ he coughs through clenched teeth as his face twitches and pales, “ ... Auh ... “
Whatever words he wants to say are lost. His back arches, his fists clenching painfully. A fresh wound on his palm from a few nights before bursts open as his fingers dig into it.
‘’Not fatal. Incapacitating. Switch to retinal control.’’
His eyes flick across the HUD, vocal commands shunted to one side as he takes control with only the motion of his eyeball. Suddenly, an SOS begins to blink on the screen. Beamed back to the Cave and the other members of his Family.
But all he can do, it seems, is lie there and wait.
"See?" the Joker states, grasping the handcuff. His fingers all dislocate in tandem, and like some terrible nest of snakes are yanked from the one locked cuff before dropping it on the ground. Slowly he twists and clenches into a fist, popping them all back into place as the mist disperses. The civilian and thug are overcome as well, giggling and laughing in the background.
"You came in here and warned me, Batman. But this time, I'll warn you. DON'T disappoint me again. The raging, unfocused thing that came here... /never again./ Get your real priorities straight."
A hand would extend, to do nothing more than push Batman backwards to plop on the floor. "We'll call this a mulligan. But I think we need some time apart. Don't call me... I'll call you."
And then the Joker listlessly strides towards one of the emergency exits, leading right into the very alley Bruce's parents died in, allowing it to clank shut. Leaving Bruce to struggle not to laugh, trapped on the ground. Plenty of time to reflect, before his allies come to rescue up. It will wear off in a few hours, even if nothing is done... although the standard antidote would work, if grudgingly.
Category:Log