overlithe (overlithe) wrote in batmanjoker, @ 2011-01-25 21:18:00 |
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Original poster: kitcatitalica
Title: You're Gonna Go Far, Kid
Chapter 2/3: Dance ******, Dance (since this post is open to the public, decided to bleep it out. If you know the song, you know what I mean.)
Word Count: 4,799
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: I don't own TDK or its characters, just this weird, twisted, AU, time-traveling, cracked-up plot.
Rating: PG-15 this chapter
Warnings: strong language issuing from elementary school kids' mouths, brief violence, references to adultery, general young!Joker and young!Bruce mischief
Fic Summary: Joker picks up an eight-year-old kid named Bruce as his protégée, and Batman makes a deal with six-year-old Jack to train him by his side. AU
Bruce Wayne had woken up in his mansion that morning still believing the darkened alleyways and hidden recesses of the black nights of Gotham City to be the worst, dirtiest, ugliest, most brutal hellholes he had ever laid eyes on.
Now, as he surveyed the sunlit playground of Gotham Elementary School, he realized he had been very, very wrong.
He had been watching the time-weathered institution from his vantage point of a half-finished office building around the corner for the past four hours, and with each passing minute he had become more and more dumbstruck with the stinging reality that was sinking in before his eyes: the battles fought outside late at night were nothing compared to the misanthropic deeds carried out in here. In here, there were alliances, loyalties, cliques, and circles of hate to put any mafia boss to shame. Their drug deals were the secret swapping of coveted Snickers bars, to be silently enjoyed in the restrooms between classes; their pistols and semi-automatics were spitballs and wads of gum launched with slingshots; their political intrigue circulated school-wide as secret notes peppered with x's and o's found themselves in unsuspecting lunchboxes. While their parents fought the real war outside, within the academic halls the children mimicked back with their own microcosm of domination and fear, where everyone not in the pockets of the mob brats had to keep their heads down and fend for themselves, gripping their sacred lunch money as if their lives depended on it.
As the day had progressed, Bruce had slowly come to a startling conclusion: this was, in part at least, his fault. His desperate antics to improve crime rates had pond-rippled through the city, reaching far more distant corners than he could have ever imagined. In the world of mobsters, punks, wild bats and killer clowns – a world that he had unwittingly helped create – what choice did the children of that world really have but to respond in the best way they knew how?
Though guilt-tripping himself was not the primary motivation behind Bruce's daytime people-watching activity; the actual cause for his excursion came in the form of the lanky youngster at the back of Miss Thatcher's kindergarten class, who was quietly listening to show-and-tell. Although surrounded by a dozen other wide-eyed six-year-olds, he stood out starkly in Bruce's eyes by his…demeanor. While his classmates sat criss-cross-applesauce with the most angelic of looks on their faces, Jack had stowed himself in the corner, limbs folded languidly about him, his eyes ebbing with that fluid, stormy light that both appalled and fascinated Bruce so much. It was almost as if he were…bored, Bruce thought. The kid was a genius; Bruce had no doubts about that now, after being constantly outsmarted around his home by the little devil with a variety of practical jokes (the firecrackers in his toilet had been a particularly nasty experience; his throat was still sore from screaming at the gleeful demon). Finally, he couldn't stand the kid's presence any longer and had demanded that Jack start attending school, for the betterment of both their minds. However, Bruce, knowing exactly what the prodigy was capable of, had found he couldn't leave the boy unsupervised in a public place he hadn't been keen on inhabiting in the first place, so he had staked out the school, making sure his ward wouldn't cause too much trouble when left to his own devices.
But, so far at least, Jack had been relatively quiet. This perhaps unnerved Bruce more than a ruckus would have, for at least that he could handle; with this stubbornly silent charade Jack was putting on, Bruce had no idea what he might be cooking up in that damned head of his. It was like waiting for lightning to strike, or a time bomb to explode. No, bad metaphor! Bruce mentally berated himself. It was bad enough that the child's actions constantly reminded him of his archenemy; the last thing he needed was to start associating Jack in his mind with bombs…
"Now…wasn't that a wonderful story, class?" Miss Thatcher asked, a single tremor in her voice betraying her nervousness towards the storyteller in question: Antonio Falcone, son of the infamous crime lord himself. Although his father was still heavily medicated in Arkham, it was common knowledge that the boy was heir-apparent to the drug kingdom, and as Miss Thatcher's teenage son still depended on obtaining his heroin from said kingdom, she stood no higher on the school's food chain than the students around her. Antonio knew it, as did his cronies, and sniggered arrogantly. Jack's eyes narrowed to mischievous slits, an imperceptible smile playing about his lips.
"Well, I'm not sure 'wonderful' is the exact word I'd use to describe it," he said, causing everyone in the room to swivel around, craning their necks in the direction of the voice in an attempt to locate its daring source. "Cute, maybe. If perhaps lacking a few crucial details."
By this point, Antonio had found his critic, and was torn between his outward air of intimidation and his inner state of confusion. The most response he had ever received from his hideous show-and-tell narratives was a mixture of uproarious laughter from his followers and timid clapping from his teacher and the rest of the class. Having someone call his presentation cute…it was completely foreign. And he did not take kindly to having his tight-fisted control suddenly rocked from normalcy. Not one bit.
Completely unperturbed by the searing glare he was receiving from the junior crime lord, Jack continued with his jest. "So, you say that your puppy what's-his-name…Bubblegum? Bon-Bon?"
"Bonesaw," Antonio growled through gritted teeth as he met the blonde with a burning gaze that clearly would have vaporized its target if at all possible.
"Yes, Bonesaw," sniggered a very much non-vaporized Jack. "You say that Bonesaw fought off a fully-armed pack of twelve men just as they were about to break into your mother's bedroom?"
"That's right," the little Roman grunted.
"And that the scar on your arm is from one of their knives as you blocked it from stabbing your sleeping mommy, who never woke up during this entire showdown?"
"That's what I said, isn't it?" Antonio snapped, unable to stand the blonde's mocking tone any longer. "She's a heavy sleeper!"
"Oh, I'm sure that half the men in Gotham can attest to that fact," Jack quipped smoothly. "Actually, I believe that's the most truthful sentence you've spoken all day."
The silence previously found abundant in the classroom was finally broken with Jack's jab at Mrs. Falcone, as nervous whispers spiraled through the air, spreading as fast as the pallid tomato coloring that was seeping over Antonio Falcone's face.
"But…" returned the smug voice, cutting through the commotion and instantly holding sway over the mesmerized class, "…I think the most…ludicrous aspect of your already-far-fetched tale would be the premise of your newborn puppy having such a…potency of spirit instilled with such…natural fighting tendencies that at two weeks old it finds the fortitude to viciously tear a man's ear off and then proceed to rip his buddies' throats to bloody chunks – all in the name of his new master, whom he has known for only four days of his short-lived life."
"MY DOG WOULD TEAR YOU APART!" Antonio screamed, "AND HE'D PEE ALL OVER YOUR SORRY CARCASS!"
Miss Thatcher's eyes darted helplessly from boy to boy, unable to comprehend what was happening, let alone process that such sophisticated multi-syllabic words like "ludicrous" and "fortitude" could be spewing out of the mouth of a kindergartener as smoothly as a politician's.
"Oh, is that a trick he learned from you?" Jack inquired innocently, baiting the hook. Antonio's hands curled into fists.
"Or maybe from your mother, who can't seem to keep her bodily fluids to herself?"
– Line.
"Or perhaps from dear old daddy-o, who can't even wipe the drool off his own chin without screaming about the voices in his head?"
– Sinker.
Antonio flung himself at Jack, screaming "MOTHERFUCKER!", but the little motherfucker was ready, as the shaft of his newly-sharpened pencil that had been hidden up his sleeve fell into his waiting palm.
xxx
Joker yawned widely and stretched, contorting his body in such a way that he was sure would have driven his Bat wild. He grinned at the thought, and then allowed various fantasies to play through his head as he held the stretch on top of the roof of the law firm a block from Gotham Elementary. After about thirty seconds he relaxed the pose, and then returned to his previous activity of pressing his stolen pair of binoculars to his raccoon-rimmed eyes, spying on Bruce. After a week of showing him all the different weapons at their disposal and all the different schemes he had waiting in line, Bruce had felt he needed a change of routine and had asked the Joker if he could attend school for a day, like a normal child. Joker, after laughing hysterically at the notion, had given it some thought and decided it couldn't hurt, and could even play to his advantage – who knew what hell the boy could raise in the weather-beaten building when left alone! And as an inside man, the kid certainly had the upper hand on the Joker; while cops and nurses he could get by on, it would have been quite a feat for the psychopath to successfully disguise himself as an eight-year-old.
As it was, the true eight-year-old was sitting in art class, where he and twenty other second-graders were silently free-drawing. Most teachers frowned on the idea of giving children's inner creative minds free reign in Gotham City, after so many blank manila papers returned home decorated with gory depictions of mutilated corpses flying out of exploding hospitals, yet Mrs. Bell, the art teacher, insisted that it "stimulated the brilliant minds of our city's future into dreaming big and reaching for the stars!"
Though at the moment, all that it made the classmates reach for was the incoming note from their neighbor; though they also drew pictures as they were told, the term "art class" had long ago been translated in their minds as "Passing-Notes Hour". The extent of their skill of social networking and stealth was unparalleled as they carried on animated conversations via paper trail whenever Mrs. Bell's back was turned.
As Bruce finished the shading on the barrel of the AK-47 he was drawing (the one Joker had promised him three days ago as he had eyed it hungrily in their warehouse hideaway), he could have sworn he heard a giggle from across the room. Startled, he looked up, only to lay eyes on the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. Her smooth black hair parted into two full pigtails at the back of her head, and her soft, full lower lip stuck out mischievously with the aura of a juicy secret. Her eyes were fixed on the paper in front of her intently, almost as if she had quickly looked down from where she had been previously staring. Yet Bruce would have bet his future AK that she had been looking at him not five seconds ago. Irked that she had not continued to do so, he lowered his eyes back to his illustration, only to feel eyes burning into his forehead. Hair on the back of his neck standing on end, he snapped his head back up, only to meet the top of the girl's scalp again, lips curled into an even wider grin. Sighing, Bruce turned back to his artwork, only to hear the mysterious giggle return to his ears. He quickly looked up again, this time meeting the girl's eyes full-force.
And what eyes they were! Their blue, oceanic depths pierced his with their laser beam beauty and mystique. Flattered that he was allowed to be met with such a gaze, he tore off a corner of his masterpiece – a small sacrifice for the masterpiece sitting across the room – and scribbled his message onto it, carefully folding and addressing it with her seat number: B15. His heart beat faster as she unfolded it with her small, delicate fingers and perused its contents with her sapphire orbs:
What's so funny?
Her face breaking into a smirk, she elegantly looped her pencil on the scrap in reply and sent it back to his aptly-chosen seat, C4. Hastily tearing open the note, he read:
My friend in B16 is drawing a picture of you.
Startled, he darted his eyes back towards the mystery girl who was staring right back at him in B15, then scanned his gaze to her left towards B16. He very nearly gasped aloud. How had he not noticed her before? Silvery-blonde tresses framed the porcelain face of the equally beautiful girl seated there, her hazel eyes watching him with thoughtful intrigue. Meeting his gaze, she smiled, shared a knowing look with her blue-eyed friend, then bent back over her paper, drawing feverishly. Drawing him, Bruce realized. A sudden bout of courage possessed his will, and he picked up the paper and wrote down his query to the pair whose attention he now held. His body all but buzzed with excitement as they both craned their necks over the note:
How's it look?
They giggled again and the blonde leaned over to whisper something in her friend's ear, something that caused her whole face to burst with silent laughter. She nodded vigorously to her companion-in-mischief, and gracefully wrote back her reply, which Bruce couldn't have waited any longer for:
Nothing compared to the real thing.
The foul temptresses! Bruce mentally cried out as his stomach tied itself in knots. He now had no idea whether the girls had meant their last correspondence as a compliment or an insult, and thus he had no idea how they felt about him. Were they flirting, as he hoped they were, or just teasing him? Refusing to abandon the chase so quickly, he passed on his burning question in their direction.
What are your names?
Yet before the two sirens could open the note, a gruff hand snatched it up and ripped into its contents. A hand that belonged to Nico Maroni, who was son of the late Salvatore Maroni, and had just been passing by to turn in his finished picture (of a certain former district attorney bursting into flames and blackening the rest of his face), when he had noticed the two giggling girls about to delve into the note between them. Now having claimed that note, his beady eyes scanned its contents. His expression darkened with every word he read, and then he picked up a pencil to write out his own reply as the lunch bell rang.
As the students lined up to hand in their drawings and proceed to the playground, Nico slipped the note in front of C4's occupant. Hands trembling with rage, Bruce read the message scrawled over his own.
Look at those two again and I'll kick your ass.
Bruce looked back up to meet the dark eyes that glared murder into his own, before turning to join his comrades for lunch. The two girls followed close behind him, their faces shamefully red and tears brimming from their beautiful eyes. The brute's arms wormed their way around the pair's waists.
With that gesture, the pencil in little Bruce's hand snapped in two as his hands became tight fists. His jaw set with fury, his murky eyes began to swirl with cold pinpricks of wrath, a smile prodding at the corners of his mouth.
Lunch was going to be fun.
xxx
Crouching behind a playground bench, Jack eyed the throng of yammering students, waiting for the opportune moment to join them. Giving the principal the slip to escape detention had been easier than he'd thought, as the balding old geezer had frustratingly dialed over and over the number the child had given him and time and time again tried to explain that he was looking for Jack's parental units, not Bimbo's Bonanza. What made Jack even happier than his own easy getaway, however, was the triumphant fact that Antonio Falcone had no such option; he seriously doubted that he would be seeing anything other than the interior of a hospital room anytime soon. What little he would be able to see, with only one eye. Jack laughed at the thought of little Tony, staggering around with an eye patch over his right eye for the rest of his life, pitifully tapping one of his mom's lovers on the leg with a white cane, begging for spare change. With that hilarious image in mind, he made his way toward the crowd of hungry children waiting in line for pizza.
Yet before he could reach the front of the queue, a rough hand grabbed each of his shoulders and pulled him back. He rolled his eyes; he should have known the brat's little cronies would come looking for him.
"Isn't someone supposed to be in detention?" a voice hissed in his right ear.
"Yeah," another chimed in to his left, dripping arrogance, "especially someone who apparently knows so much about the Falcone family."
"Wouldn't want to be caught out here," scoffed a third. "With knowledge that dangerous, someone might get…hurt. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"
"Oh, no," the first voice answered his partner. "Perhaps we'd better escort him back to where he belongs." And with that, the hands on his shoulders tightened painfully. Jack, however, had stronger resolve than his aggressors, and suddenly, an idea popped up on the horizon of his thoughts.
"Hey, I haven't been here more than a week," he protested, "I had no idea that that…knowledge was so forbidden. I thought everybody knew about it. At least," he added innocently, "that's how they made it seem."
He felt the split second of hesitation hover around his opponents, and that was all he needed to know he had said the right thing. They whirled him around to face them, or at least face up to them; they towered over him, two burly fourth graders and an ugly fifth grader who loomed over the entire crowd. It was obvious who was in charge here, and the leader's next words were the quietest, most threatening sentence his fellows had ever heard him utter.
"…who made it seem that way?"
Jack, always one for thinking on his feet, scanned the crowd of students around them before settling on who seemed to suck in the most authority: a tall, wiry third-grader who was twisting a kindergartener's ear until they pitifully whined "Uncle" and gave him his Milky Way bar. The mob bully pushed his prey away, a sneer splotched across his face that radiated tyranny.
Jack pointed at the gloating figure by the vending machine. "Him, over there. He was going on about how the Falcone family lost their gambit for power ages ago, and Carmine getting thrashed by the Batman just sealed their fate as wallflowers, and-"
But his foes had stopped listening long ago, and had let the six-year-old's words glaze over them, fueling the hatred that gushed from their eyes towards the bully in question. They stalked off in the direction of the vending machine, muttering something about "Galante pricks,” all thoughts of squashing the blonde evaporating from their minds. In his deliberate haste, the fifth-grader never even noticed as a small, round object fell from a nimble hand into his back pocket.
xxx
Bruce took a step forward in the slowly progressing lunch line, trying as hard as he could not to seek out the two beautiful faces from art class. At the moment, he was attempting to focus his attention on finding the thug who stole them away. But Nico Maroni was nowhere in sight. That is, until Bruce felt a large shadow shroud him in darkness from behind.
"You understand what I told you, short stuff?" the menacing voice asked him to his left. "One wrong move towards my girls, and you're lucky to be breathing in the next ten seconds."
Used to far worse threats from the Joker, Bruce shrugged it off. "Well, maybe I'll get lucky," he murmured back, suddenly spying a silvery-blonde head in the lunch line in front of him.
"What did you say, pipsqueak?" Nico growled, taking a step closer so his breath mingled hot in the air around Bruce's face, who might have gagged were he not accustomed to the overpowering stench of his insane, unhygienic mentor. As it was, he barely noticed, as his gaze had suddenly been drawn to the foreground of the blonde girl, towards three murderously livid moblings marching in their direction, eyes fixed on the vending machine behind him. Seizing his chance, Bruce extended a leg out in their path, effectively tripping one and sending the largest face-first into a passing first-grader's lunch tray, splattering his face with chocolate milk and pizza sauce. Everyone in the vicinity laughed as the only one of the trio who remained standing scraped his two friends off the floor, whirling to face Nico.
"What the hell was that for, Maroni?" their leader exploded, pushing the kid squarely in the chest while chocolate milk still dribbled from his chin.
"What was what for, Falcone?" Nico shot back. "It's your own damn fault for being so stupid and clumsy!" He pushed him back roughly.
"Venetian filth!"
"ROMAN SCUM!"
And with that the two were at each other, tumbling to the floor in their hate-filled fight. The two fourth-graders, suddenly remembering their mission as ridiculing laughter broke into the air, launched themselves at the wiry, chortling Galante. As they tore his hair out in chunks, they crashed into the vending machines, sending a downpour of Fruit Roll-Ups, Nutter Butters, and Ice Cream Sandwiches over their heads.
That was the final straw. Every child in the entire building had been bullied, put down, and psychologically tortured from day one by one of the three warring families rolling around on the floor, and the promise of candy to complete their sweet revenge was all the incentive they needed to leap onto the five young criminals before them and join the maddened fray. The playground quickly dissolved into chaos as fierce punches, kicks, scratches, and bites filled the air, accented with shrieks and battle cries as the progeny of the oppressed populace enacted what their parents couldn't afford to do.
It was then that the smoke bomb planted in the fifth-grader's back pocket went off.
The raucous screams spiked louder and higher in pitch as a dense haze seeped through the air, blinding and choking the children and adding to the confusion. But the frenzied youth didn't care; all they wanted now was to bite, to tear, to scream, to release their pent up frustrations at a world that seemed to have turned its back on them until this golden day had dropped out of the sky to fulfill their needs for retribution. Every noogie, every swirly, every Wet Willie, and every taunting and beating was avenged that day, as the growing tumble of limbs and belongings mixed together, using any means possible to give pain and thus take away satisfaction.
Bruce Wayne sat in his parked Lamborghini, eyes and mouth hanging wide open at the display. He had just been on his way to pick up his wayward ward from detention (after witnessing him drive a pencil into the eye an unsuspecting, albeit deserving, Antonio Falcone), ready to read him the riot act for the umpteenth time, when this had happened. It had to have been the kid's fault; there was no other possible explanation for what had just occurred. Unless, of course, the Joker had been behind it, but Bruce seriously doubted that. What business would the Joker have in watching elementary school kids tear each other to pieces without blowing them up, or involving the adults as well? No, it had to be Jack, Bruce was sure of it, and was not looking forward to finding the child in the midst of that horrible mess.
As if on cue, materializing out of the smoke, not a scratch on his body, the largest and widest of grins spanning his face, was Jack, chocolate coating his mouth as he chewed victoriously on an abandoned Milky Way he had found. Having spotted the sleek vehicle parked on the outskirts of the playground, he had decided to take his treat and leave the pandemonium he had caused to take its course.
Bruce got out of the car and stomped over to the freakishly delighted boy, who had stopped to turn back towards the smoke-filled brawl, surveying his work.
"Who's the motherfucker now?" he intoned, his eyes all but glowing in his victory.
Upon hearing such an unremorseful statement from the child, Bruce shot a look of venom towards him.
"Get your ass in the car. NOW."
Jack sneered at his watchful guardian's wrathful command, but obeyed. "You can't say that wasn't brilliant, though."
Bruce slammed the car door shut, then paused for a second outside the vehicle with his back to Jack, trying as hard as he could to conceal his laughter.
No, he definitely couldn't.
xxx
The blonde-haired, hazel-eyed second-grade girl spun around wildly, searching for her friend. They had just been together a minute ago gossiping about the boy from art class, but then with the ensuing chaos had been separated, leaving her to dodge blows all on her own. Suddenly, she spotted a head with two black pigtails, and quickly leapt over two fifth graders being sat on by a feasting kindergartener, towards the familiar face.
"We've gotta get out of here!" she screamed, hoping her friend would recognize her voice over the din of the battle. She did, and lifted her head to meet her blue eyes with the hazel ones directed at her.
"I know!" she yelled, but not before a gruff hand grabbed her arm and pulled her toward its owner.
"C'mon," Nico ordered. "Come with me."
But the girls had had it with him, and the pigtailed one mustered all her courage – and spat in his face. He cried out in rage, and was about to yank one of her gorgeous pigtails –
– when a fist appeared out of nowhere and smashed into his face, forcing him backwards on top of a knot of writhing, kicking bodies, who quickly enveloped him into the pile.
The hand shook itself quickly, then grabbed the girls' hands, leading them out of the strangling smoke and away from the mob. Once a safe distance away, the three eight-year-olds panted for breath. Bruce recovered first, and turned back to the anarchy behind them, his eyes lighting up with glee as he pictured Nico Maroni getting the beating of his lifetime.
"Now dance, fucker, dance," he murmured, reveling in his victory.
"Wow," came an awed voice behind him, throwing him out of his reverie. "You're so…brave."
Bruce faced his beautiful blue-eyed admirer, then allowed a slight smile to take over his lips. "Well, I try," he smoothly answered.
"Not to mention cute," the hazel-eyed blonde put in, joining her friend in wrapping an arm around him, flanking him as they walked away together. "What else is there to know about a guy like you?"
"Well," Bruce began, as he allowed his arms to settle naturally into place on both girls' shoulders, "there are many things to know about a guy like me. And even more things…" he added in, his voice dropping dramatically to a low whisper, "that no one should ever know about."
The girls giggled as they strolled to the edge of the playground, where Bruce and only Bruce could see the glinting eyes of his guardian from behind an opened newspaper on the other side of the street.
"Well, gotta go, girls. My ride's here," he said, releasing them from his arms. "Maybe we'll meet again, but if not, farewell." And with a flourish and a bow, he crossed the street, leaving two hysterically giggling girls running back towards the playground.
Joker folded the newspaper and rose from the park bench, his eyes never leaving the retreating forms of the beauties. Bruce noticed, and turned back to watch his women go.
"No ladies at the warehouse," Joker chided, bringing his eyes to wander towards the boy, gauging his reaction.
Bruce sighed, then shrugged and turned to go. "It was fun while it lasted," he conceded, hands in his pockets.
Joker chuckled at that, and in two long strides caught up with the kid, and mimicked his ward's previous action by putting his arm around Bruce's shoulders, earning a rueful smile from the eight-year-old to match his own.
Yes, it certainly was.