His Nightmares, His Monster

The shadowy figure crossed the rooftops, leaping from one to the next with impossible speed and accuracy on the backdrop of a starless night, the Gotham smog having rob the city of any natural nocturnal illumination.  A quiet chuckle edge over the noises of the night, the murmuring pedestrians and traffic going to and fro on their errands, little more than a whisper of a sound that beckoned the being cloaked in black.  Ahead of the figure ran a man dressed in a divided suit.  One half was an off brown color, the other charcoal gray.  The man in the suit panted as he ran at full tilt, but the shade that pursued him closed in.  Heavy boots landed in the man’s back, sending him sprawling across the rooftop, handgun skittering away from his hand.  He rolled over, half of his face covered in shadow as the black clad pursuer clutched the front of his shirt, dragging him up.

Face to face, the Batman glared at his prey.  In a voice that edge just shy of a roar he demanded “Why!?!”  The two toned man’s head hung low.  He lifted his face and the Batman saw him, the face of his parents’ killer.  But it couldn’t be.  This was Harvey Dent, barely a year older than himself.  There was no possible way Harvey could have been in the alley that night.  Lighting flashed across the sky, illuminating the other half of Harvey’s face.  With the crack of thunder came a cackling laugh as they face was shown to be pale, with emerald hair and ruby red lips, twisted into a grotesque grin.  Batman dropped Harvey and spun as laughter erupted all around him.  They stood around him, Penguin, Two-Face, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, Calendar Man, Victor Zsasz, Mr. Freeze, all with cackling laughter, and with each lighting flash their faces morphed into Jack Napier, standing in the alleyway, gunning down Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Emerging from the shadows at his feet were them, his mother and father, and they together cradled a third figure, Alfred Pennyworth, aged and frail, lying limp, beaten and bloodied.  Alfred’s weathered features looked up at him “Why did you fail us, Bruce?  Why did you let us die?”

The cackling rose to deafening levels, threatening to split his eardrums, to rupture his brain.

                Bruce almost launched himself out of his bed, dripping in sweat, the echo of the name “Alfred!” on still in his mouth.  Thudding footsteps came down the hall and whisked open the doors to the master bedroom.  “Mr. Wayne?” she called out.  It was Carrie, a woman in her late twenties with strawberry blonde hair wearing an “Ozzy Osbourne” t-shirt and sweat pants.  She adjusted her black frame glasses as she turned on the bedside lamp.  “Mr. Wayne, are you alright?”  The old house was cold.  The dark mahogany walls seemed deep, black veils that drew in light rather than reflected it.  His only light was the full moon spilling in from the open window.  Distantly a cloud of leathery wings escaped some dark confines and flurried into the night.

Bruce nodded vaguely.  Despite her being in his employ for the last four years, he was still adjusting to her presence in his usually quiet home.  She went to his prescription medication by his bedside, but he waved her off.  “I’m not in pain…” Bruce lied.  He stood and went to his mirror.  At 64 he maintained his formidable build and agility, but his joints were slowly betraying him.  As far as Carrie was to know it was from extreme sports in his misspent youth.  She was unaware of his double life, a life that he left buried beneath Wayne Manor a decade ago.

“More nightmares, sir?” Carrie asked cautiously.  Bruce braced his hands on his dresser and nodded.  “Its…its fine, Carrie.  What time is it?”

She looked at the clock on the nightstand “Three thirty three sir.  Would you like anything?  Water, or tea?”

He shook his head, determining that sleep would not be returning that night.  “I might as well start the day.” He muttered.  “Very good sir.” She said, the edge in her voice indicating that she could have slept a few more hours at least.  “If you want to go back to bed…I’m just going down to the gym.”  She shook her head.  “I’ll sleep later.  You have to go to work sometime.  I’ll prepare your clothes for the day, ready the shower and start breakfast.”

“Carrie…” he said, briefly thinking what else this young woman, less than half his age could be doing as opposed to caring for an aging lunatic “…thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Bruce pummeled the punching bag as though it said something personal about him.  Strike after strike threatened to tear it open.  “You’re dropping your guard, sir.” Carrie offered, bringing in a towel and cold bottle of water.  “Really…” he muttered delivering another one-two combination.  The chain attaching the bag to the ceiling threatened to break away with every new blow.  “Well, beating on a bag that can’t fight back really doesn’t improve your skill, sir.”  She took off her glasses and picked up a pair of boxing gloves.  “You think you can handle me?” He said with a slight smile.  She chuckled “Well, I’m half your age, and you’ve been doing this for about an hour and a half so I’m fresher than you.  Plus…” she swung hard and Bruce barely had time to bring his arm up to block.  He countered but she had already dodged and came at him with a second blow, this time aimed at his ribs.  He dropped his arm just barely in time and backed away from her.

He came at her again with a right and she deflected, catching him in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. “Beating up on an old man…” he choked out a chuckle “How could you?”

“That’s what you get for attacking a helpless young woman.” She danced back and the balls of her feet, arms poised for another strike.  He rose up too in the ready position.  “I think both of those are a bit of an exaggeration.”

Her eyes narrowed and she came in hard.  He sidestepped this time, catching her foot with his ankle and sending her sprawling to the mat.  “Sorry.  That was mean.” He admitted.  “You think?  I mean, you think…sir?” she said getting back up.  Their sparing match was interrupted by the chiming of the telephone.  Bruce glanced to the digital clock.  It was almost five in the morning now, Lucius Fox was probably answering his message.

“Where did you learn to fight, by the way?” he asked, peeling off the gloves and moving to the telephone.  “I spent two years training under a local guy.” She shrugged.  “I need to learn how to defend myself.  I grew up in a rough neighborhood.”

Bruce glanced at her, and his heart sank.  “All the neighborhoods are rough in Gotham.”

He picked up the phone turning on the speaker.  “Good morning, Lucius.”

“Good morning Bruce, though at 3am I hesitate to call it “morning.””

“It was three thirty five, Fox.  Don’t be a baby.  We’re you able to set up what I need?”

“Yes, sir.” He said with an edge in his voice.  “Though I feel incumbent to ask why you feel you need this particular meeting.  Arkham Asylum isn’t the easiest facility to get visitation in, and with his history with you…”

Bruce cut him off. “I just need to speak to him for a few minutes.  I have questions that, honestly only he can answer.”

“I…understand, Mr. Wayne.”  Fox took a few moments.  “They will expect you at 9:30, though we do have a board meeting at 10.”

“I will be there for the board meeting.  I haven’t missed one in ten years.”

“Just reminding you.  Do you need a driver?”

“No, Al…Carrie will drive me.”

“I see.  Well, we’ll see you there.”

Bruce hung up the line.  “I’m sorry Carrie.” He whispered.  “Mr. Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth raised you.  I’m just the Household Manager.  It’s okay.  Your clothes are laid out as are your items for your shower, and your pain pills.  Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

“Thank you.”

                He let the steaming water cascade over him.  He could feel it wash away the sweat but not the guilt.  The pills could take away the ache, but not the pain.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, a mad man laughed at him.

Dressed in his dark suit, white button down and yellow tie, Bruce Wayne eyed Arkham Asylum suspiciously.  From its wrought iron gates to towering black visage, he could not imagine how such a place was beneficial to anyone’s mental health rehabilitation.  Positioned on a cliff against Gotham’s almost permanently gray sky, the asylum loomed more like a castle than a hospital.  The thick, wild tree line that flanked the driving path and surrounded the other two thirds of the building added to the allusion that perhaps Dracula or Dr. Victor Frankenstein might be more at home here.

Carrie pulled the vehicle to the front steps, and exited.  In her black dress suit, she cut an intimidating figure.  She was poised, her movements were precise, and her eyes scanned the catwalks and towers, the shadows and doors for any potential threats.  Though he hated it, he knew she concealed a glock under her coat, with spare magazines behind her back.  Opening the door she ushered him out and walked him to the large doors of the building. “I’ll be fine from here.  I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Yes sir.” She said with an edge of military training in her voice.  She returned to the vehicle and pulled off into the parking lot.

                Bruce entered the long, dark halls of Arkahm.  While this wasn’t his first visit to this institution, it was one of the few times he came as Bruce Wayne.  The Batman, on the other hand, didn’t go through the formalities of making appointments or using the front doors.  A guard met him at the door and checked his identification.  He appreciated that while he was the most powerful business man in Gotham, they still insisted on check his identification.  “Sorry about this, Mistah Wayne…” the powerfully built guard ushered him through a full body scanner “But ever since Basil Karlo impersonated you that one time trying to get out, we have to scan you.”

“That’s fine, officer.” Bruce said with a charming smile “I completely understand.”

Having his identity confirmed, Bruce checked in at the front desk and was escorted to one of the maximum security visitation room.  The halls of Arkham were wide with high ceilings and covered florescent lights that shone of the dingy hospital sea foam green walls.  The visitation booth itself was little more than a thick panel of transparent plastic and a single chair.  Visitation wasn’t a priority at Arkham.  Already seated was Harvey Dent.  The “clean side” of his face was light by the overhead lamp, showing a dark skinned, roguishly handsome man, the man Bruce had supported as the new District Attorney.  Bruce sat down and picked up the phone.  Harvey’s eyebrow arched and he smiled broadly.  Picking up the phone he said with a smooth voice “Bruuuuce! How are you doing?  You look well, keeping in shape I see.”

“Hello Harvey.” He replied with far less joy in his tone.

“So…what brings you by?”

“I want to know why you did it.” Bruce leaned on the table, talking in a low voice.  Harvey leaned back, switching his phone to his left hand and placing his right hand on his chin thoughtfully.  “Are…are you sure you want to know?  I mean, that doesn’t seem mentally healthy, right?  You caught us…that’s the important part.  Do you really want to know the “why”?  Oh, wait, this has to do with your parents, doesn’t it?”

“You know what I’m talking about Harvey.  Why Alfred?”

Dent shrugged and when he spoke a new voice came over the phone, a darker voice, almost gravelly.  “You know why, Bruce.  You damn well KNOW why.”

“But why didn’t you tell the world what you knew about me?”

Harvey Dent’s smooth voice came back “Just luck of the coin toss, I guess.”

“Then why kill Alfred?”

Dent leaned forward and his scarred face came into view.  Horrific burns marred the left side of his face from the edge of his nose to past his ear, burning away his hair into thick gray ash.  In comparison to his mocha brown skin, Two-Face was light pink, pockmarked and pulled tight with deep, coursing wrinkles.  “Just luck of the coin toss, I guess.” He growled.  Two-Face slammed down the phone and began punching the window and roaring in rage even as blood seeped from his knuckles and speared the plastic, dripping onto the small shelf. “I should’ve killed you Wayne, I should have torn you apart!  It’s your fault…all your fault!”

Two guards burst into the room and dragged Harvey Dent away.  Bruce stood in silence.  He tried to act shocked, but wasn’t sure how convincing he was.  “He’s far from well, I’m afraid, Mr. Wayne.” A bald man with glasses and a beard that stretched from ear to ear said from behind him.  “Do you think he ever will be?” Bruce asked.

Dr. Hugo Strange gave a hard sigh.  “I frankly don’t know.  He’s harboring some deep secrets, some deep hurt.  There’s no telling what is at the pit of his soul.  We will try, of course, we will try everything.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Bruce said turning away.  “I do have to ask, Mr. Wayne, why does the Wayne Foundation pay for his medical bills?  He did after all brutally murder your…” Strange seemed to search for the word.  “Friend.  Alfred Pennyworth was my friend.  I’m paying for his treatment because Harvey Dent was once my friend.”

“But…if our treatment works and he can be declared sane, he will stand trial for that, and many more murders.  He will likely receive the death penalty.”  Bruce looked to the floor “Perhaps its better he die a man than live as a monster.”