Batman Arkham Knight (34 page)

“Oh, c’mon, Bats. Is this the best you’ve got?”

Suddenly, the radio crackled with life.

“Welcome to
Good Evening Gotham
. I’m Jack Ryder.”

Then a second voice. “And I’m Vicki Vale. So, Jack, it’s the one-year anniversary of the Joker’s death. Any thoughts on the occasion?”

“Sorry, Vicki…? Who?”

Vicki Vale laughed. “Oh, you remember. The Joker.”

“Oh, right,” Ryder chuckled. “The question mark guy. He’s dead?”

Vicki laughed again. “No, not him. Try again.”

“Gosh darn it, Vicki. I’m clueless. Help me out.”

“You know what, Jack?” Vicky laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s forget about him and move on.”

“Yes, Vicky. You’re right. Let’s forget about him and move on.”

Vicki cleared her throat and continued with her report. “In other news, a museum dedicated to Batman and his arch-nemesis, the Penguin, opened on Bleake Island today…”

The radio faded to static, then silence. The Joker stared at it then looked up, away from the table.

“Oh, you think that’s scary, Bats? When I get out of here I’ll write my name in blood on every street corner. I’ll carve it on every corpse. No one… no one is forgetting me.” He gave a self-satisfied
humph
then searched the room again. “Now how do I get out of here?”

The room looked bigger to him now, extending far beyond where the wall had been just a moment before. The table with the radio and newspapers seemed to vanish, and near where it had stood was another large statue of Batman, this one with flaming red eyes.

The Joker laughed then shot at the statue. “Running out of ideas already, Bats?”

More statues suddenly surrounded him. The Joker raised his gun and fired. The closest statue exploded, but instead of crumbling, a flesh-and-blood Batman stepped from it, grabbed the Joker and threw him to the floor. The Joker raised his weapon again, but his attacker was gone.

“Come on, Batman. Where the hell are you? Show me some sack, Bats. Look me in the eye. Talk to me. Let me put a bullet through you.”

Silence. No Batman. No statues. The Joker was back in the room where he had started, but this time it wasn’t completely dark. Through a crack in the wall he could make out a sliver of light.

He aimed his gun at it and fired.

The wall gave way, revealing an open space with a steel gantry that projected into the distance.

A way out.

“So long, Bats,” he laughed. “Good try. Hell of a ride, but I’m getting off now.” A switch was on the far wall. As he pulled it he could hear distant machinery whir into life. The Joker let out a deep breath and relaxed. “You know, Bats, you almost had me scared back there. Me. Ha! I mean, what have I got to be afraid of?”

The machinery sounded louder now, like an elevator rising to his floor.

And then a voice.

His
voice.

“You’re afraid of being ashes. You’re afraid of being forgotten. And you will be forgotten, Joker.” A door appeared where there hadn’t been one. It slid open. Batman was standing inside.

“Because of me,” he finished, and he stepped closer even as the Joker stumbled back.

“No. Get away.” Another step back. “Die, damn you.” Another step. “Stop. Stop. Stay away.”

But Batman wouldn’t stop.

“No. Just die,” the Joker begged.

Batman wouldn’t die.

“I am vengeance,” Batman said. “I am the night.”

His voice deepened. “I am Batman,” he growled.

His gloved fist lashed out and the Joker fell to the floor. Another fist slammed him along the corridor. Yet another sent him sprawling back, and back, and back. All the Joker could do was plead for his existence.

“Bats, please. Don’t do this.” Another fist pushed him back to the floor. “You’re making a mistake. C’mon, Bats, after everything we’ve been through.” He tried to stand but he was knocked down yet again. “I’ll be good. I’ll tell jokes. Nice ones. You don’t have to do this.”

He felt a wall behind him and he tried to use it to push himself back to his feet. The wall vanished and he fell again. “I know. I know what we can do. We can share your brain. I’ll take it on weekends. Listen, listen to me. I’ll leave Robin alone. I’ll be nice to him.”

A gloved fist smashed the Joker’s face, crushing bone. He was bleeding and he was in tears. “You’ll miss me. You know you will. No more dead parent gags, I swear. C’mon, Bats. You really want this to end?”

Another gloved fist knocked him backward. A heavy iron door slammed shut in front of him—he was in a cell. “No, Bruce. Don’t leave me. I need you.”

Batman pressed close to the bars. He was almost smiling.

“Goodbye, Joker,” he said as the cell pulled back and away.

* * *

“Do you understand, Gotham?” Scarecrow said. “You have no savior. No more hope.” He pointed to Bruce, who was thrashing on the cot, two of the cameras trained on him. “And no more Batman.”

He leaned in close to Bruce and whispered in his ear.

“I am your master now. I have won.”

But Bruce Wayne only smiled at him. “No, Crane. No, you haven’t. I’m not afraid. You failed. Again.”

“No.
Impossible
,” Scarecrow rasped, backing away. “Without fear, life is meaningless.” He saw the cameras still filming and raised his gun, aiming it at Wayne. Then he pressed the gun to Wayne’s head.

“Even if you refuse to feel fear,” he said, staring into the camera lens, “they will feel it when I put a bullet through your head. They’ll see that if you can die, anyone can die.”

“You’re right, Jonathan.” Bruce smiled at him again. “Anyone can die. We’re all human. Even you. Do you see it?”

Scarecrow looked at his hand, the one holding the gun, and he saw a small red laser dot centered on it. An instant later he heard the soft puff of a silencer, and the gun fell from his hand.

Bruce looked up to see someone on the balcony. The figure moved into the light, and he could tell who it was.

But Jason Todd was no longer the Arkham Knight. He wore a bright red hood over armor emblazoned with a large red bat. The Arkham Knight had been a deluded villain, but he’d been shown the lies that had warped him, and he chose to fight them.

Jason Todd was now the Red Hood.

He took aim and fired again. The restraints that held Batman to the gurney were shredded, freeing him. Scarecrow fell back as Bruce Wayne clambered off the gurney, then turned to the cameramen and shouted.

“Keep filming,” Bruce instructed. “I want everyone to see this.” He lunged for Scarecrow and forced him to the floor. Crane tried to crawl free, but Wayne held him firmly. Scarecrow tried to stab with his syringes, but Bruce grabbed his wrists and pushed them back.

With a powerful thrust, Bruce forced the poisoned syringes back into Scarecrow’s chest and neck. He held him still for several moments as the toxin took hold.

“It’s over now, Crane. And fear loses.”

Wayne stood and stepped back as Scarecrow staggered to his feet.

* * *

He reeled back and forth, flailing wildly at the monsters that were suddenly everywhere. He wanted to run, to get away from them, but they surrounded him, then pushed closer until he had nowhere to run.

One by one they took their turn biting his flesh, ripping it from bone. He fell again to the floor as the monsters turned into dark shapes with blazing eyes and long talons that ripped into his armor then cut into his skin.

The bat monster was going to gorge on him and turn him into one of them. He screamed in uncontrolled horror as ten thousand bats clawed their way into him. He could do nothing but succumb to his fears.

* * *

Gordon stared at his old friend, looking confused.

“Who was he? In the red hood? Why did he help us?”

Batman stood but turned his back to Gordon.

He can’t see my face. He should never see what I’m becoming.

“That’s what friends do,” he said.

* * *

It was almost over. Bruce watched Gordon cradle Robin, still bleeding but no longer in shock. He stood near Gordon but kept his back to him.

“Look after him, Jim. Look after them all.”

Gordon stared at Batman, at first surprised but then understanding what Bruce had said.

“What’s going to happen to you now?”

Bruce retrieved his mask and put it back on. Bruce Wayne was just a man, and it didn’t matter now if everyone knew it. But Batman could be anyone who believed in justice. Batman was a symbol.

“You’ve been a good friend. The best I could ask for. You were there at the beginning,” he said as he walked toward the cameras, then past them. “And now you get to see how it ends.”

Alfred stared out the window of Wayne Manor, and saw the endless throng of reporters packed behind the front gates. There must have been a thousand of them, sent to Gotham City by every news agency and television network. Camera crews had set up spotlights aimed at nearly every door and window, on the off chance there’d be something, anything, for them to film.

* * *

Vicki Vale stood before the gate, microphone in hand. She dated Bruce Wayne, thought she understood him, but she still couldn’t accept that the supposed playboy was actually Gotham City’s protector. Her cameraman aimed his camcorder at her as she began her report.

“This is Vicki Vale reporting live outside Wayne Manor following the dramatic unmasking of billionaire Bruce Wayne. There have been unconfirmed reports that Wayne would address the world and we are waiting for—”

They heard the roar of the Batwing as it emerged from the thick cloudbank blanketing the sprawling mansion. It circled over the great lawn before landing near the marble fountain Wayne’s great grandfather had found in Italy in the late nineteenth century, and shipped back to the States.

“That’s him,” she shouted. “Are we still rolling?” The cameraman nodded. A figure stepped out of the aircraft.

“It’s him.”

“It’s Wayne.”

“It’s Batman.”

He stood in front of the Batwing as at least a thousand camera flashes illuminated the night. Vicki turned to her cameraman.

“Get a close-up. I want to be sure it’s him.”

It was Batman. He pulled back his cowl and so the reporters all knew he was also Bruce Wayne.

The front door opened, and Alfred Pennyworth walked out to greet him.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”

Bruce pulled his cowl back over his head and fastened it under his chin.

“I’ve got to, Alfred. It’s the only way to protect them.”

* * *

Alfred looked out toward the reporters. The flashes were so bright they almost blinded him. He saw Vicki Vale speaking to the cameras. He always liked her. She was smart and would have made a good match for Master Wayne, if circumstances had been very different.

“You should go now, Alfred. This isn’t for you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But my job here isn’t done. Shall we, then?”

* * *

“Batman is Bruce Wayne,” Vicki said. “My God, Gotham, this is huge. What does it mean for the future of the city?”

* * *

For a moment Alfred felt sad, then he straightened his tie and stood tall, proud and maybe a bit defiant. He held the door open for Master Wayne to enter, followed him inside, then closed it behind them.

And the mansion exploded.

The first detonation was off to one side, and allowed the press to pull back. Then there were a hundred separate explosions, beginning with the largest one set by the front door, destroying the long foyer into the living room to the left and the dining room to the right. Explosives had been carefully placed in every room.

In a matter of seconds, the once-proud manor was gone.

* * *

James Gordon sat on the roof of the G.C.P.D. headquarters. He could see the fires licking at the dark skies from more than fourteen miles away and he knew it was over. His journal was opened on his lap, and he finished writing his thoughts.

Gordon was staring at the city. Months had passed, and he was still only beginning to recover from the events that had occurred. He had decided to begin a new journal, starting with strength, not defeat. It was night, and Gordon, dressed all in black, blended into the dark.

He almost preferred it that way.

“A friend once told me that criminals were a cowardly and superstitious lot. That the only way to beat them was to give them something to be scared of.” He paused and lit his pipe and took a puff from it. “I understand now. As his world grew darker, so did ours.”

He paused and looked at the pieces of the dismantled Bat-Signal. They had wanted to cart it to the junkyard, to bury the memory of it, but he asked them to leave it in place. It wasn’t much, but it was something he needed in order to remember.

He returned to his new journal, thought for a few seconds, then started writing again.

* * *

“When his war ended, he believed our lives could begin again. So he set us free. To live… and to love.”

He paused again—his phone was buzzing. An email message appeared on the screen.

From: Tim Drake

To: James Gordon

Don’t forget the ring.

Tim and Barbara. Batman would have loved it, too.

He took the elevator from his office down to the street, where a limousine was waiting to take him to the ceremony. A motorcycle escort surrounded the limo as it hurried through Gotham City’s streets.

He took out his pen and continued to write in his ledger.

There was an inquest, of course. Hundreds of suspects. Who killed Bruce Wayne? I guess we’ll never know for sure.

So what’s next? Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot. But what happens when they have nothing to be scared of?

Who will protect Gotham City now that the Batman is dead?

The limo passed the building that had been Gordon’s campaign headquarters. The sign proclaiming “Gotham City’s new mayor” still hung in the window. It passed an alleyway that had, until recently, been called Crime Alley. Two months ago Gordon had officially changed it to Wayne Way.