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Dark Humor	By : xxnadsxx Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Batman (All Movies) > Batman (All Movies) Views: 2361 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Dark Humor
Eleven
�A trauma powerful enough to
create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules
of right and wrong no longer apply...�
-Batman Forever

"Dear
Bruce,
Please stay
I'm so sorry
What I do is none of your busin-
It's a little ironic that my last note wasn't exactly the farewell I had
intended it to be. That, right now, this is my final goodbye, and there really
isn't any reason for you to see me again.
I don't really think you want to anymore, anyway.
I hope you don't see me as a criminal, or doing this out of some petty
reason. It's funny, but I hope you don't hate me after this. Even if you want
to forget me completely, or even if you're angry at me, or feel as if I've
betrayed you, somehow�please don't hate me. Please don't stop believing in
people, because even after all this, you should still believe that we all have
some good in us no matter what. Gotham is counting on you to believe in that.
But you don't have to have any hope for me anymore. You don't have to worry
about me. I no longer qualify as a 'person'�for now, in my mind, at least, I'm
a vendetta. And I'm doing it for you, and for Gotham as well. Please believe me
when I say that I wish things could have turned out differently for both of us,
but they haven't and it's too late so don't get mixed up in this�
but all we can do now is pick up the pieces, and try to move on.
It's not who I am underneath, but what I do, that defines me,
Your frie�
Rachel."
oOo
Fingers clasped the crisp envelope in a grip so firm she knew it was only to
keep herself from letting her body pry it from her fingers. Rachel was standing
at the door of Wayne Manor, the gigantic abode towering above her and making
her appear as feeble as she felt, her lips pursed in a thin line, her hollow,
sleepless eyes dark-ringed and staring at the door she had just knocked once,
twice. There was no need to appear presentable, when the rest of the world
seemed to be in shambles�anyway, it was impossible not to see the wraith hidden
beneath her glassy blue eyes.
Hours seemed to pass before the heavy door abruptly swung opened, Alfred�s
kindly face peering through the shadows of the manor recesses at the crack of
dawn. She could make out the fatigue that lined his face, obviously having
woken him up from a deep sleep, yet hadn�t been anticipating the surprise that
accompanied it. There was no hostility in those gentle eyes, and for that she
was glad. She wanted to see his face for the last time as an imprint of
kindness in her mind�as a constant.
Alfred�s pale, wrinkled face curled into a small smile as he briefly looked
over her stiff frame, resting with a long pause upon the envelope, then meeting
her eyes again.
�It�s good to see you again, Miss Dawes,� he began automatically, a broken
record in her memories, �Have you come to see Master Wayne?�
The tone in his voice seemed an already-answered question, carrying a heavy,
almost sympathetic finality that did not go unnoticed by her sharp ears. She
kept her gaze as resolutely fixed upon his as she could, fingering the envelope
unsteadily before pushing it forward between their still hands,
�I wanted to give him this before�before I left.�
Her voice didn�t crack. Perhaps she had more strength than she felt she had
at that moment, with her shoulders hunched and her lips pursed tight, the very
countenance of a rigid statue. Alfred�s eyes flicked sharply to the envelope
again before returning to meet her stare, understanding passing between the
both of them. He would refuse to show it to Bruce, of course, just like her
last possible death-note. Always the self-appointed caretaker, to pamper his
master with lies, hiding away anything from the real world that could cause him
harm in his vigilante pursuits.
She didn�t blame him. She was once that way, too, a long time ago.
�Please.�
The world fell from Rachel�s lips as if it had come from a beggar on his
knees. Sympathy poured from Alfred�s wizened eyes, sympathy that almost
overwhelmed her with its crippling strength. She could so easily wander into
the recesses of the Manor, give into the sudden pull, rest her head against the
guestroom bed and feel Bruce�s hands against her, comforting, powerful, safe.
She would be safe, if only momentarily�if only in theory, in hallucination.
What I would give to be ignorant again, to be under Harvey�s wing, with
my nose upturned and all the world beneath me, living valiantly in my little
blanket of blind justice�
�Alright.�
He nodded; and the envelope fell into his opened hands. It was done. Alfred
was signing her away, somehow, knowing this was beyond him�beyond even Bruce
himself. She couldn�t bring herself to fully measure the sadness in those aged,
knowing eyes as they watched her turn forcefully on her heel, descend the steps
of the Manor one last time. She measured each step carefully as she went,
curiously heavy with the eyes boring into her back, until she was feet away
from the Manor itself, until she heard the door slam. Until the Manor was
nothing more than a pinpoint of darkness, just another spot of black in
Gotham�s bleeding horizon.
oOo
It was dark in her new home. Dark, grimy, filthy�
She had trouble telling it apart from the rest of the world.
She had rented a room; she wasn't sure where, some dilapidated motel at the
fringes of downtown. Faces had passed her as she wandered through the rank,
dirty halls; faces of people she once regarded with interest, curiosity, faces
that now passed in a blur of red and black and paranoia. She wondered if each
one carried a hidden motive, if one would emerge from the pack, scarred and
wild-eyed, to slash at her in a moment of weakness.
When she had shut and bolted the door, triple-checking the locks, she wished
she could deny it was because she had lost her trust in people.
She was lying in her bed�a mattress on creaking wheels, as small and
confining as a hospital gurney, a stretcher. She tried to ignore the wet spot
at the edge of its badly torn surface, or the fact that the arctic air through
the broken vent cast chills across her spine as she tried to sleep.
Sleep.
It was more like a struggle.
Who was she kidding? She couldn't even try, couldn't even get herself
to close her eyes. All she could see were the twisting shapes of the darkness
before her, infinite and thick and suffocating in her tiny new room, afraid it
would somehow take solid form and batter her frail body. Her breath was short
and shallow, and for a moment she felt like an object; a wiry basin collecting
the cold and the dark and substituting it for oxygen until it slowly began to erode
the thin wooden skin, her thin wooden brain.
Snap out of it, Rachel. You're just tired.
Tired.
The word was a cruel understatement. Tired. Who were the people to
invent the diction of the English language, to twist complex emotions with
mockingly simple expressions? Tired couldn't even begin to describe her;
fatigued, exhausted, worn out, beat�
Slowly, compulsively, a giggle rose from her lips at her thoughts. Here she
was, lying awake and damaged and beat at an hour where the portion of
Gotham's finest citizens were asleep in their comfortable little homes,
shrouded in normalcy and ignorance. The only people up this night were people
asking for trouble, the homeless and thieves and criminals�
And the freaks.
No.
She wasn't one of them. She prosecuted them, punished them, locked
them up and made sure they wouldn't wreak anymore havoc on Gotham's streets
again. It ensured she was always a cut above, was always better,
somehow. More moral, more stable, more confined, more restricted, living
more of a lie�
"Stop. It."
She hissed to nothing, to no one, but the boring eyes of the darkness that
watched her, breathing mutely with each cold chill pressing upon her bare skin
as she lay confined in her stretcher-mattress. The darkness was so much like
those eyes, those penetrating, violating black eyes in swirls that raped her
with every unblinking stare; every gaze straight into her soul to grasp hold of
her flaws and her imperfections and tear her carefully built foundation apart.
It was more terrifying than any physical cut, any tear of knife against flesh.
More devastating that the greatest weapon against herself lay within
herself, breathing and conscious and growing like some black, demonic seed,
eating away at everything until there was nothing left but a gutted emptiness
where her heart and soul had been. She grit her teeth and clutched her thin
sheet against her breast, for a sickening moment reduced to a child hiding its
head beneath the covers, wanting to protect itself, thinking that if she
couldn't see it then it wouldn't be able to see her. Hurt her. Kill
her.
She wasn't afraid of death. She knew that, she knew that he knew
that; she had even confessed it. She was afraid of the other ways in
which he could kill her. The other ways in which she was knowingly killing herself.
She hadn't eaten in so long; she could register this in the emptiness she
felt, the weakness. So frail, nothing but papery skin and bone, not quite so
sure of what remained of the organs that lay within her, the mythological
existence of a soul. Her soul. Maybe that was what had been drained of
her the past few days�her chance at salvation. At redemption. Maybe
God�if there was some sort of God up there, in Gotham's dreary, faceless
skies�maybe God had abandoned her, had left her to play mind games with Satan
himself.
Or maybe she had chosen to slight Him, and she was slowly but surely
disintegrating by her own will, becoming one with the darkness and the Satan
that contorted it so expertly in his dancing black irises.
Another laugh, this one from deep down within her throat, more of a reflex;
almost like breathing. She had never been one for dramatics, for all this
self-pity. It had always been dedication to others, for the expense of herself;
always like some sort of sacrifice, rushing headfirst into the D.A. position,
an embodiment of the perfect, ideal justice that they all knew to be nothing
more than a child�s fantasy in the twisted playground of Gotham�s streets.
She had never had time to concentrate on herself�to be so fully and
utterly alone, with none there to whisper words of influence in her ear, no
Harvey at her side to keep her vigilant, to keep her stubbornly believing, time
and time again, that there would be some ultimate resolution, some full
circle to outweigh the overwhelming crime that plagued Gotham with a miraculous
downpour of justice. They had even counted on Batman to bring that ultimate
justice, had even vainly hoped that one man behind a feeble little mask
would be enough to battle the city itself.
We�re all so foolish. I was foolish.
As if an afterthought, eyes lingered towards the crumpled papers at her
side, wrinkled news headlines balled away in feeble fury, as if it would put an
end to the contents within. Bold letters haunted her within the darkness,
outlined as if illuminated from inside:
GOTHAM CITY A CIRCUS AT HANDS OF MASS-MURDERING CLOWN
CITIZENS GRIEVE LOSS OF WHITE KNIGHT
DENT�S FUNERAL FOILED: WHERE IS BATMAN?
Where is Batman?
As the darkness of sleep pressed around her, as sudden and final as a fatal
blow, she wasn�t sure if even a human as insane and enraged as Batman could
save this city without dying inside.
oOo
Her phone was ringing. She was barely aware of its incessant humming against
the quiet darkness; her hand slumped forward to stroke its side, her fingers
falling slack and careless within seconds. Let it ring. It didn't matter
anymore. She just wanted to rest.
Minutes passed; hours, maybe. Time was lost to her for the moment, as she
shifted restlessly against the narrow bed, beads of sweat rolling across the
nape of her neck. Burning, save for the cold metallic feel of the phone against
her fingers. It was still vibrating as frantically as it had before, its bright
green glow casting an almost sickly sheen against the darkness. She fumbled for
it, her fingers twitching with every intent to fling it across the wall, watch
it break into a million pieces, destroy destroy destroy because nothing
seemed eternal or constant anymore, everything changed no matter how badly she
wanted to preserve it all--
Of course.
Bruce's name lit the phone's glossy surface in fractured digits. She watched
the voicemails pile, letting the vibrations hum through her palm for timeless
minutes; five, six, seven, eleven...
Her teeth grit, the sticky heat only edging her onto frustration.
Hadn't she told him to leave her alone? Did he understand the
implications of a farewell letter?
She couldn't deny the momentary flutter in her chest at the sight of his
name, yet...it was fading. It was fleeting; nothing in comparison to the
sickening ache she used to feel, the incessant tugging at her insides whenever
he came near, as if they had been attached by a thin hook through their hearts,
tugging them painfully together until the pain was unbearable the further apart
they were. That was nonexistent, now; it was only smatterings of the past, and
then the sickly churning of outrage in her gut at his stubbornness.
Her frustration continued to stoke and ebb with each passing second, the
phone nearly making her palm numb in its urgency.
Twenty voicemails.
What was going on?
She needed to get him to stop. To shut up. To die away from her life,
to make this process easier for the both of them. The heaviness of the days she
had suffered weighed down upon her throat as she sighed, dialed the number and
mentally composed herself for her calm, cool tantrum.
"Rachel?"
She hadn't been able to get a word out; the frantic voice didn't miss a
beat. There was no guilt to drown her in waves at the horrifically twisted
anxiety in his voice; she was blinking back tears of rage, biting down gently
on her tongue to keep from shouting, the pain between her ears intensifying,
"Yes."
It was all she could say, a confirmation. She waited as the crackling pause
ensued on the other end, each silent second blazing with panic on the other
line, something unsaid, something hidden from her. Her nails dug into her palm,
cut the skin with white-knuckled force, her eyes wrenching shut,
"Bruce, why did you call me? What do you want? I thought
I made it clear--"
"Rachel, you need to get out of there."
She found it was her turn to go quiet. The rage went dormant within her,
replaced by a tingling cold that chilled the sweat along her spine. Suddenly,
she was aware of how compacted she was in this room, how confined, as if
the walls were bearing down on her, grating her, watching her as they pressed
upon her with crushing eyes. She pressed the phone hard against her ear, pulled
herself to her knees,
"what are you talking about? If you think you can get me back
into your manor--"
"No, goddamnit, no, Rachel, you have to listen to me!"
The voice on the other end was nearing a hysterical scream. She had never
heard him like this, before, had never heard him so...panicked, so frightened
in her life. It chilled her, brought the hellishly scorching room to a
prickling subzero as she found herself pacing the creaking floor, her eyes
darting frantically from one blank wall to the next.
"Rachel, you need to leave right now, and I don't care where you go, I
just want you out of there until I can track you down and help you. There are people
after you, nobody can be trusted, don't talk to anyone--"
"You're not making any sense, Bruce," she was hissing, her eyes
wide as she grabbed her keys, pausing at the closed door as a part of her
regarded his words with shocked skepticism, "I don't understand how I
could be in any more danger than I am right now."
A pounding at her door.
Her ears throbbed with each forceful crash. Her breath halted, then
quickened with her pulse, as she automatically jerked away from the door,
eyeing the tiny window at the side of her room. Bruce was quiet on the other
end, obviously having heard the noise as well--had he gasped?--and she
was edging towards the little glass rectangle as each knock grew more frenzied,
more frantic, more forceful. For a moment the door seemed to rock on its
hinges, the series of strong knocks jamming forcefully into her skull with each
second, confusion jarred with panic and fear. Was it the Joker, coming to claim
her at last--to finally kill her?
"Open up!"
A deep, forceful voice boomed at the other end, the pounding so fast and so
strong the door began to almost bend with each blowing force, and she was
working the latch of the window, cursing beneath her breath as she began to
pull it upwards, her heart beating frantically with the knocking.
"Rachel," Bruce was crying on the other end, "Rachel, stay
with me--stay with me, what's happening, Rachel?! What's
happening?!"
She had the window almost halfway up--it was old, stubborn, opening too
slowly, and a scream caught itself halfway within her throat as a section of
flimsy wood burst from the tiny door to give way to a bloodied fist. Oh God.
Oh my God. She was wrenching the damned window up with all her strength,
clutching the phone against her ear, swearing and cursing as she continued to
push, the glass suddenly snapping upwards enough for her to reach her head
through, then her shoulders, and then she was wriggling her way, almost
half-way against the lonely outside, her shoulders digging into broken glass,
biting her lip in pain as it cut into skin--
"Open the fucking door, we're not gonna hurt you! Just open the
goddamned door!"
With a shriek, she was wriggling through the tiny window by her waist, her
hips pressed against the outline, her palms digging into asphalt, pushing the
weight of her body further so she could slide through. But she was too slow,
too afraid, too panicked, and Bruce was screaming into her ear, screaming at
her to stay with him, to tell him what was happening, and the door was
breaking, she could hear the wood splintering away, could hear its dying yawn
as the hinges began to break off, and whoever was on the other end would be
grabbing at her ankles within minutes, oh God, they were shouting with
their heavy voices, dangerous, they were going to kill her--
With a cry she landed onto asphalt, pulling herself to her feet, just in
time to hear the ringing shotgun blow that crippled the door to her room and
gave way to a pair of dark faces on the other end. They could see her, free or
not, they would be after her within minutes, their faces were contorted in
determination and unmistakable primal thirst--
She was running. She was running to her car, running across the long expanse
of asphalt, running until her feet were tired and aching, her breath heavy and
laboured against the phone that never seemed to stop crying out in her ear to hold
on as she found the streak of black that her mind barely registered was
hers and unlocked and pulled the door opened, slammed it shut, started the
ignition with a frustrated cry at the barest sounds of frantic footsteps
bounding so close to where she was sitting like a helpless little mouse,
again, the mouse--
The dark faces were looming, pressing towards her against her rear-view
mirror. With a frantic cry she pressed down hard against the gas and
zoomed forward, bursting across the road like a blur, her mouth dry and every
part of her screaming. Another shot pierced through her ears, but it was too
far to reach her now--she was zooming past, her skin prickling with sweat,
feeling viciously and incredibly intact and alive. The phone was dead
against her lap; Bruce was gone on the other end. She wondered how he thought
he could find her.
She wondered what the fuck was going on.
As if to answer her, the radio was crackling; Rachel's fingers prickled with
the urge to shut off the unsettling noise before the high-pitched cackle filled
her car. Nearly swerving as her stomach hit rock-bottom, she kept her composure
steady while the madman's crackling words, somehow broadcast over the radio,
filled her suddenly tiny, vulnerable vehicle.
"Good eveeeening, people of Goth-am! I hope you've all been,
ah...keeping in touch with the news recently, I'm sure you've all been
as di-li-gent as Mister Reese here, all tied up and eager
to hear my...broadcast."
The voice paused for a moment, as if to allow the audience to register his
words. Rachel's throat burned as a peal of the horrifically familiar laughter
scorched the night air.
"Good. I really do hope we've all been on the look-out
for, uh...my lovely accomplice, as well. Rachel Dawes,
your...um...for-mer D.A.? Ya see, we've been...working together for
quite some time now, and we agreed on...a little deal,"
she could feel the grin spreading across the sickly red lips, the tongue
snaking over scars, as if to taste the blood beneath,
"If one of the good people of Goth-am doesn't play my
part for the night and bring me their lovely...little...Ra-chel.
Then I will simply have to blame her little no-show on the rest of you!
Ya see, Rachel here knows who Batman is, she's just been keeping
it a secret because she loves to let the crimes toll up, loves to be
everyone's little pro-tect-or, the shoulder we cry on to
clean Gotham up! You can blame her for all those deaths...and for the ones to
come."
Her entire body prickled with raging heat; her eyes burned with unshed
tears. She could feel her lip quivering, her heel digging into the gas pedal
with the crushing force of wanting to dig her heel into rib, to break bone. The
voice was taunting, twisted, sickeningly delighted in its own sound...enjoying
the fact that she was out there, somewhere, squirming with each syllable. Each
and every truthful little lie.
"If I don't get Ra-chel right here where I can see her
by, oh...let's say, an hour, I will blow up a hospital in
downtown Gotham, because I know how you all like to see things burn."
The sound of a tongue smacking against lips, reptilian and thirsty. Bloodlust
in each syllable; she couldn't quench her own urge to shut him up, to hurt him,
to make him bleed.
"Buuuut...if she's here by the time specified, I won't harm a single
soul..I really can't guarantee her well-being, anyway. You have an
hour to play my game. Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
She was blinking back tears as she dug into the gas pedal, her car whipping
sharply past curbs and abandoned street lights, heading full-speed towards
where she knew to be the news station. A dull vibration shot across her lap
again; it was Bruce, yet she cursed and concentrated on the roads before her,
refusing to allow him to put the lives of others at stake for her own.
Her mind suddenly seemed to blank as a thought hit her. What had he said
before?
...Until I can track you down and help you.
Her lip curled in disgust as she gauged the full meaning of his words.
Sonar.
Bruce was tracking her down through her phone, tracking her like a
criminal.
And so was the rest of Gotham.
As the realization registered within her mind, her eyes darted instinctively
to the rear view mirror.
She only caught a glimpse of the police car before it rammed straight into
her.
- 10
- 11
- 12
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