He Who Laughs Last

CH 11: Trial Run

Bruce stood watched the news, breathing heavily. Months had gone by since he had been caught breaking into Fox Tech, and he had been training as hard as he could since then. He had went from mostly out of shape and depressed to in the best shape of his life and determined. Every night he came home after a dead sprint for as long as he could, and watched as the city rent itself to pieces over the Joker. As much as he hated to give the clown anything, one thing he was very good at was inciting fury. Every couple of weeks he would make an appearance, publicly killing more people who tried to come after him. Many nights Bruce lay awake wondering if he was just running towards his own death, his own public execution. It didn't matter. If he had even the slightest chance of ending the reign of terror Joker held over the city, he had to try. So many others had done the same and failed. Every day he wasn't ready, every time he faltered, hesitated, collapsed from exhaustion, was a failure, was another dead. But now, he was ready. He knew it in his bones. He could run, he could fight, everything he could do to try and succeed, he had done. Now he only needed to find the maniac and end him. And with men in clown masks or face paint prowling the streets more and more often, how he would get his information was obvious.

.....

Ben didn't really care for the Joker. His little sister had a condition, and he needed money. He'd always needed money. He would get an actual job, but no one would hire him. He had sold some pot when he was in school, back when it was illegal, just to try to get some cash for her. He'd been stupid, had sold to the wrong person, got busted for it. Now the best job he could get was a fast food gig, try to at least make ends meet. Then a buddy of his told him about something a little more below the board, something really lucrative. This Joker guy. Now, he wasn't sure at first, he'd seen some stuff on the news, but wow did he deliver. Supposedly he didn't care about money at all, just took whatever he wanted, killed anyone who tried to stop him. Of course, working under somebody like that is dangerous, and that's not even considering the mood swings. Ben hadn't ever really been around him, just worked with middlemen, but apparently he could turn on a dime. Laughing his ass off one moment, furiously stalking off the next after shooting a guy, only to think of something and be laughing again a second later. So yeah, dangerous was putting it nicely. But the money. Ben had never seen so much money. His sister's bills were a breeze to pay for, and he had more left over besides! He just wanted to keep going for a little more, make a little more money, and then he'd be out. That's what he told himself, anyways. What he told his sister, his friends. What he didn't tell them, wouldn't even admit to himself was that he was starting to like it. He enjoyed the chaos, the violence, the looting, the destruction. He didn't want to quit. He hadn't felt so good in years. Ben grinned under his mask, hidden from his friends as they hauled tvs out of a storefront. No, he was going to stay with the Joker. He was going to stay and enjoy it. Movement out of the corner of his eye. These masks were impossible to see through. He turns, and a man steps out of the shadows, wearing some kind of weird body armor. Looks almost scifi. It would be absurd if the guy wasn't over six feet tall and looked like a good two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. Ben dropped the garbage TV and pulled out a knife. He'd gotten it the day he killed a man. He was about to kill another.

.....

Bruce limped home. He had gotten his information. It was a hard fight, not how he expected, and certainly went worse than he'd hoped, but it was informative in and of itself. The armor Luke had given him was pretty easy to fight in, but it caught in places, kept him from fighting as well as he felt he should be able to. He would have to talk to Luke about it, maybe learn how to fix it himself. The fight itself was difficult, he had to remind himself constantly that he wasn't fighting one opponent, and needed to keep his eye on all of them. One of them in particular had a wicked knife that Bruce had almost taken in the ribs when he lost sight of the guy. Two had bats that they used with practiced efficiency, and one had a pipe in one hand and a chain in the other. Bruce was pretty sure he dislocated his arm fighting him. Slowly, though, he had taken them out one at a time, until he was able to get the information he wanted out of the last one still conscious. He knew where Joker was. But now was not the time to take him on. Not yet. This fight alone told him he was not as ready as he had thought he was. He needed practice, practical experience, especially if he was going to survive against a building of killers. So he would go out, night after night, and slowly work to clean up the streets. Hopefully the police would get there in time to pick up the pieces and put away the thugs. He would get Joker, just not today. Not right now. Right now he needed... He needed... Bruce Wayne collapsed outside his door.

.....

Alfred Pennyworth came home, as drunk and high as usual and with a positively stunning woman under each arm. As usual. He had loads of money from his time in the war that the government didn't know about (shhh, don't tell them) and he was going to spend it every single night for the rest of his life doing whatever he wanted. And he wanted to party. Unfortunately, there was some guy passed out in front of his door. He was wearing some kind of costume, or something, and he looked a tad beaten up. Alfred wasn't in the war anymore, no longer the field doctor he once was, but he was British, and he would be damned if he gave his country a bad name when it came to hospitality and politeness. It was polite to stitch random strangers up when they're unconscious in your hallway, right? He thought so. Staggering slightly, he waved the girls off and hauled the guy up. For heaven's sake, this was more difficult than he remembered. Maybe because he had been fifteen years younger last time he tried to do this. As he thumbed through his keys, it sluggishly came to him that he should have opened the door before trying to carry the guy in. Oh well, he'd come this far. Finally getting the door, he dragged the guy over to the sagging couch that probably should have been burned years ago and very unceremoniously dropped him on it and plopped down beside him, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, he got a beer from the pantry, took a long swig, and got to work. First order of business was to get rid of that silly mask. Honestly, Alfred had no idea how the poor bastard could even breathe in the stupid thing. Once it was off, he stared at the man half slumped on his couch, and swayed lightly, beer in hand, trying to remember where he knew him from. Finally, the spinning gears connected, and his eyes lit up. It was that annoying guy next door who was always on about the music! What was his name? "Bruce!"

.....

Bruce woke up and didn't recognize his surroundings. Immediately, he leapt up, ready to fight off whoever came at him, but immediately stumbled and almost fell, his vision swimming. Someone caught him, and he couldn't honestly care less who, so long as the room stopped spinning and his head stopped pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He let himself be laid back, and slowly he realized his hearing was returning, and someone was talking to him. He hadn't even noticed it had gone, with everything else bull rushing him at once. He looked up as his vision stabilized and saw... Alfred? He shook his head, regretted it, and looked again. Alfred, yeah. And he guessed that he was in the old man's apartment, what with the party lights, turned off, thankfully, and expensive looking speakers in every corner. His forehead felt crusty and he reached up, felt stitches, and his hand came away with dried blood. He felt more stitches on his chest and back, and looked over at his neighbor questioningly. The old man shrugged and took a drink of his beer. "No idea what you were doing out, but you were pretty torn up. I stitched up what was torn, and did what I could with everything else. Honestly, that armor stuff you have doesn't seem to be worth whatever you spent on it." Bruce grunted, and pressed a hand to his head. It had started throbbing again. Alfred offered some aspirin Bruce took it, very gratefully. Alfred took another drink of his beer and sat across from Bruce, ready to get some answers. "Now, since I was so kind as to sew you back together and let you sleep on my couch, would you mind telling me how you ended up in such a sorry state?"