#25: Trauma, Pt 5 (LaFleche / Swimer)

Alfred was wheezing. Like a chewed up rusty bellows. Like an unrepentant emphysema patient still sucking cigarettes through that damned hole they drill in their throat. Wheezing.

This was a young man’s game. If he ever had illusions otherwise, rattle climbing up from the bottom of his lungs dispelled them with the cold dispassion of a coroner. The cowl was hot and stifling. Even the suit didn’t fit right. Oh sure, it was made for him. One of Bruce’s custom jobs. But the last time he wore it was four years ago during those Joker gas riots. Four years. An eye blink really. A heart beat. That’s all it took for Alfred to lose some muscle mass along with his hair. Now the suit is a little big. His arms and legs slide a bit inside the body armor.

Alfred was wheezing. This was a young man’s game. So said the bullets slamming into the concrete service shed he was hiding behind. Each crunch of rock that fell away said it. This is a young man’s game.

He’s been through worse, you understand. A lifetime spent working with Batman, and before that a lifetime in the British secret service will do that to you. Alfred’s age had never really mattered before. He knew there are always those who roll their eyes and mock. Too slow. Too weak. Too old. Always made Alfred smile. Idiots. He was a dangerous man. No. Is a dangerous man.

But this was different. Harder.

So much harder.

Alfred was wheezing. This was a young man’s game. Like the young man armed with twin glocks firing an avalanche of bullets, trying to swallow them all in his own grief and madness. A young man once a boy. Once Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s adopted son. Later Redwing, Batman’s first partner. Still later a corpse burned beyond recognition. And now a masked killer who has forsaken his names and replaced them with a crude red X placed over his heart.

Jason could kill him with ease. Alfred knows this. But the boy wants to make a point first. To all of them. He’s god. He’s Jehovah. He’s Zeus. And he could blast them all out of existence whenever, and however he chooses.

This was a young man’s game and Alfred was wheezing.

“Aw, come on out Alfie! What’s the matter? Afraid to face your handy work?”

“Young man,” Alfred said, slowly peaking a glance around the shed, only to snap his head back when Jason fired another shot. “Young man, I’m quiet certain I raised you with better manners than these! For the last time, put the guns down!”

“Yeah, yeah Alfie. You raised me. You and Bruce both right?” he said, slamming another cartridge into one of his guns. “Until you both left me in that hands of that sick bastard! He tortured me, Alfie! Tortured me! AND YOU LEFT ME!”

Another spray of gunfire, this one taking away a chunk of concrete near Alfred’s shoulder. This shed wasn’t going to last.

“Master Jason, you’re behavior is quiet unbecoming!” Alfred said, diving out from behind the shed, and tossing a grenade at Jason. The marksman fired, destroyed the grenade in mid-air releasing a blanket of smoke across the rooftop.

Good, thought Alfred. Good. This will buy him precious seconds. Jason wasn’t firing armor piercing rounds, so Bruce should be ok. Sore, but ok. Thomas Elliott on the other hand…

“Oh I am just so impressed, Alfie. Smoke? Ha! Even those losers I’ve been capping put up a better fight than this!”

“Keep taking, boy,” Alfred hissed, trying to take a deep breath. “Just keep talking.”

There. Behind that vent. He could see it. The edge of a red cloak. That’s where Thomas Elliott fell.

The smoke was clearing and he could make out Jason’s form stalking closing.

“Oh, Alfie? Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

Move! Alfred thought. Damnit you old goat, move!

Alfred dove behind the vent with a hail of bullets on his heels.

“Take a breather, Alfie,” Jason said, reloading again, this time slowly and deliberately. He’s a tiger playing with his prey “You so need to hear about the time the Wrath water boarded me. Five straight days. I prayed for death every day, Alf. Every damned day. Thought I was about to die a few times there. But that Wrath. Clever bastard, always knew how to keep me alive…”

Alfred reached down for Elliott’s body. That’s when he saw it.

“My word,” he hissed between pants. He tapped the com link on his cowl. “Master Bruce? Please tell me you’re conscious…”

“Uh…barely. I’m ok…Armour held…”

“…I mean, he even had IV bags handy, you know? Pumped me full of drugs that enhanced the receptivity of my nervous system. Nice, huh? So then he brings over this live wire….”

“Bruce, I’ve reached Mr. Elliott’s….well, where he fell sir. Thomas isn’t the Wrath…”

“I know, Alfred,” Batman said, his breathing starting to come more naturally. “Figured it out as soon as I saw him in the suit. It was a just charade.”

“….and sticks the wire right into the water! Right into it, Alfie….”

“That’s not the whole of it, sir,” Alfred said, peaking around the vent long enough to see Jason still hadn’t moved, but was loading a cartridge from his utility belt by hand. “There’s no body here. Just the Wrath costume and clumps of clay….”

“Don’t think I don’t know why Bruce brought you here. The old man is as predictable as clockwork Alfie. Strength in numbers right? But leaves Nightwing behind because he’s afraid the Wrath might get his claws into the little guy. So I guess that makes you expendable huh? How’s that make you feel, Alfie?” Jason asked. “By the way, Nightwing is a pretty sad, I gotta say. Too easy to take out. Frankly, I expected more from Redwing-lite.”

Alfred knew Jason was close. He pulled two batarangs from his belt and steeled himself. If he could make it to the roof service entrance just ten feet away, he’d be ok. Just ten feet. But he was wheezing. And this was a young man’s game.

He lunged forward, but the first shot caught him in the edge of his thigh. It was an armor piercing round and took a chunk of meat with it. Alfred went down hard, smashing his nose on the roof’s gravel surface. He rolled over and threw his weapons. One missed completely, the other catching the edge of Jason’s mask. The boy didn’t even flinch.

“Nice try, Alfie. But this party had to end for you some time, right? So don’t move, I’ll end this and then I’ll wake up the old man….”

The zip line wrapped around Jason’s wrists like a vice, forcing him to drop his guns. He felt the cord start to pull to his left, so Jason yanked his arms hard to his right. The tug of war lasted a few moments before it hit a stale mate. Both men pulling back on the line, neither moving.

“Jason.”

“Bruce.”

“Alfred,” Batman said over the com link. “Get down to the car. Start it up and wait for my signal.”

“But Nightwing…”

“Can handle himself and you’re leg is injured. Get to the car,” Batman said. “I’m going for Vicki and we’re getting out of here before this gets further out of control.”

Batman pried open the museum sky light and slowly slipped inside. The inside of the building reflected the gothic architecture of Gotham itself. Vaulted ceiling. Gargoyles. Several monolithic statues and obelisks from ancient Egypt circled the main hall. Getting down to the ground unseen was going to be easy.

He crept down long the wall, dropping behind a replica of the façade of the Parthenon. Noiselessly slipped behind the bust of Epicurus and saw her. Lashed to a marble table, Vale was unconscious. Pale. Almost with a gray pallor Batman recognized at once. She’d lost a lot of blood. The pool of crimson liquid on the ground and the bandage hastily plastered over her left wrist told the tale. Batman felt a sharp twist in his stomach. He wanted to rush to Vicki, pull her out of here. Where he not what he is, he surely would.

But he is what is he is.

Staying back, Batman scanned the dimly lit room for the Wrath. He must have stopped killing when the gunfire started on the roof, Batman thought. The Wrath need everything to go just so and he likely backed off to assess what was happening.

Then he heard it. About five feet to Batman’s left. A sharp, penetrating hiss.

Batman dove to the floor, rolling underneath a barrage of razor sharp knives thrown at his head. He pulled his grapnel from his belt with his right hand, and fired it the neck the statue of Ra, while throwing his own cloud of batarangs toward the Wrath.

The Wrath lunged forward under Batman’s blades, and drew his own grapnel and fired it at the statue. The device pulled his body upward and the Wrath hissed in panic. It was too late. Batman was coming back down.

The Dark Knights heels drove into the Wrath’s face, sending the killer spinning backward, crashing to the marble floor in the middle of the hall. Batman landed noisily a few feet away, spun and leapt into the air toward his fallen prey.

The Wrath rolled aside, pulling his head out of the way of Batman’s incoming fist. The blow crushed the plating that reinforced Batman’s glove and cracked the floor. Before he could turn around, Batman caught the Wrath’s knee under his chin.

With a hiss, the Wrath pulled a long, curved blade from his robes, swinging it at Batman’s head. The detective stooped under it and sprang away. The blade only sliced through part of Batman’s cape.

Now facing each other, the men slowly circled without a word. There was no need for banter or threats. They both knew. This was the end for one of them. Maybe both.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Batman and Wrath both snapped their head to the side and saw it. A small blinking red light on a black box strapped to the knee of a statue of Horus a few feet away.

“Damnit,” Batman muttered as the bomb went off.

A week later:


Arnold Etchison was ready. Hell, he was born ready for this. The future was his and all he had to do was reach out and steal it. This would be his last night in this one room fleabag apartment. He was going to hit a big score tonight. The biggest.

One armored truck robbery and everything would change.

“All I need is a name,” he said to his shadow. The doctors said the shadows didn’t speak back but Arnold knew better. “Something catchy. Like…oh, like what? The Abattoir. Yeah, you’re right. Yes…that will work.”

“That sucks.”

Arnold spun around in time to eat the first shot. For more pounded into his skinny frame before he hit the floor. Jason Todd emptied his clip into Arnold’s body, pulling the trigger four more times before he realized he was out of bullets.

He sat back on the squashed mattress Arnold had called a bed and tossed a small card on the body. It was marked with a red X.

After a long moment he got up and crossed the floor of the apartment no bigger than a jail cell to a crusty mirror hanging on the wall by a single, rusty nail.

Jason Todd pulled his mask off and looked hard at this own reflection. After several minutes, a single tear began to slide down his cheek and Jason drove his fist into the glass.

Elsewhere:


The Red Warriors are a known and feared biker gang among known and feared biker gangs.

Well, they like to think so.

Truth is they’re small time. Tiny. Almost microscopic. Their big claim to fame is that Black Mask sometimes uses them for muscle. And only then for dime store crimes. Kid stuff really. Strictly amateur.
Didn’t matter Truman “Bones” Clavel. Working for Black Mask meant the gang was moving up. And that made him, president of the Red Warriors, a big man.

Well, a big man in a little gang. Tiny. Microscopic.

The club house still stunk of stale beer and cheap smokes when the Red Warriors got in. The night was young. Soon the girls would be coming by and the fun would real start.

Bones hit the light switch in the main room. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Again.

Nothing. And there was something else in the air. Something other than the stale beer. Something like rotten meat.

“Man, yous losers didn’t pay the ‘lectric bill or what?” Bones said to the five bikers behind him. “And what’s that smell? You stupid fu…”

“Now, now, such language,” said the voice from the dark. “I’ve disconnected the power for dramatic effect. These sorts of the things work so well in the dark don’t you think?”

Bones pulled his knife and wandered into the room lit only by the moonlight. He could make out the thin figure on the couch wearing a hat with a wide, round rim.

“Let me tell somethin’ to you, jefe. You jus’ made a big mistake comin’ into our house,” he said.

“Yeah, a big mistake, jefe,” said a fat biker standing behind him.

“Oh I don’t think so. This is it for you boys. The big time. The jack pot. The Publisher’s Clearing House grand prize. No purchase necessary!,” the man in the dark said, slowly getting to his feet and doing a pirouette. “You’re going to the show, Bingo.”

“My name is Bones, man. Don’ you forget it,” Bones said, pointing his knife at the man. “Now you gots, like, two seconds ta tell me you name before I gut you like a freakin’ fish.”

“I’m sorry, Bingo. Introductions must be made,” said the man who stepped deliberately into the moonlight. The bikers all felt a chill run down their spines. They all knew who belonged to the chalk white face and green hair.

The Joker began to cackle and pulled a small hand gun from his jacket pocket.

“You know, the last time I left old Arkham I really didn’t amass the kind of body count that really says JOKER WAS HERE! And now that cheap knock off the Wrath is running about grabbing all the headlines…so I was thinking, Bingo, it’s time to really take this town by storm. Don’t you?”

“My name is Bones man…”

The Joker lost his grin at once, pointed the gun at Bones’ face and fired. The biker’s skull spilt in two as his body slumped to the ground like a sack of wet cement.

The clown turned the fat biker and pointed the pistol at his head.

“Now, sonny, what’s your name?”

“M-m-m-my n-n-n-ame,” he said, his legs shaking. “Its uh, Fran---fran…my name is B-b-b-ingo…”

“Bingo! Old pal! It’s been too long!” the Joker said, sliding up beside a tall skinny biker with a mullet. “Oh you’ll have to the hair cut, chum. And what’s your name?”

“Uh…Bingo?”

The Joker put the gun in the man’s ear and pulled the trigger.

“Oh my that was messy,” he said, wiping the clumps from his face. “There is only one Bingo, silly boy!”

The Joker clapped his hands together and the lights in the club house came back on. Several of the bikers in the door way started to vomit. The room was filled with their dead brothers. Their arms torn off. Their faces ripped away. Blood coated the floor and the walls.

The Joker laughed. And laughed. The walls seems to shake with his voice.

“It’s a brave new world for you chums! The Joker’s going corporate and you losers get to join in on the ground floor? Any objections?”

No one said a word.