Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-10-29 22:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman |
Who: Luke → Bruce
What: Narrative of insanity, courtesy of Scarecrow.
Where: Las Vegas → Gotham.
When: Recent, following this.
Warnings/Rating: The crazy train has officially left the station.
If he'd been thinking clearly, he would have done things differently.
But he wasn't. That in and of itself was the problem. Luke was not thinking clearly, and he was incapable of recognizing his irrationality, so there was no reason to suspect anything was wrong. Bruce's silence had, instead of sparing him, only ensured that he would be left entirely defenseless and unprepared when the madness hit. The thought of Wren and Silver alone together was enough to raise his ire under normal circumstances, but now... now his anger was unstable. Unpredictable. He felt off-kilter, like the world was tipping precariously and he was struggling to keep his balance. Normally, he would have contacted Wren over the forums, but no, he decided against that option and settled on face-to-face confrontation instead. Yes, he knew that Silver would be less than welcoming, and depending on Wren's condition, might not let him see her. He knew that waiting for Jack would be wisest, or even getting in touch with her first.
He knew all these things, but they were distant thoughts, far away, and others were far more predominant. So he called the sitter, and he kissed Gus good-bye, telling him that he would be home soon, and if he was a good boy they could make a cake when he returned.
The most grievous consequence of Bruce's secrecy was, perhaps, that it struck Luke as entirely logical to take a knife with him. Not a gun, no, he could have, but he liked knives, liked the curve of the blade and the way it shone and the sharpness. He liked thinking about cutting into Silver, about watching him bleed, and he smiled to himself as he got into the cab and gave Silver's address. The thing he'd been at the party had been wrong. He didn't want to burn people-- he wanted to cut them. It should have horrified him, that thought, but his head was fuzzy and he felt oddly blank when he tried to tell himself it was bad to think things like that. Now, now, it didn't seem so horrible, that want, and the small, quiet part of himself that protested was easily brushed aside.
It began after a few minutes, the pounding in his ears. Like a drumbeat, a steady rhythm, and he could feel everything. The blood flowing through his veins all throughout his body, the expansion and deflation of his lungs, the steady beat of his heart; he was so very alive. Wonderful. He turned his head to look out the window and saw the streets pass by as a blur, and the people were faceless beings, meaningless, sacks of flesh and blood and nothing like him. His lip curled in a sneer, and he settled back against the seat, thinking of Silver, of Wren, of how he would get her back--
And then he caught sight of her, sitting next to him.
For a brief, agonizing moment, Luke realized something was wrong. A dead woman couldn't be sitting next to him, and Jesus, he had a knife under his shirt. What the hell? But that second of clarity didn't last, and he stared at her, oh, so familiar, in that black dress with the slit up the side, lips stained red with her own blood and more wet, sticky blood around her abdomen, where shards of glass protruded. "You're dead," he said, his mind short-circuiting, because she was, he knew she was, and he skidded back along the seat until he was pressed up against the door. He didn't realize his hands were shaking, the tremor spreading up his arms to his entire body, and his thoughts of knives and blood and skin were replaced by raw, burning fear.
He was afraid.
"That's no way to say hello," she cooed, lips parting to reveal bloodstained teeth in a perfectly curved smile. "My sweet boy. Have you missed me?"
He whimpered and shook his head, no, no, no, and up front the driver glanced in the rearview mirror, asked if he was okay, but Luke was oblivious to it. "I--I killed-- No. No. You can't-- I killed you." He shook his head violently, and suddenly it was cold inside the cab, oh, so very cold, and she was laughing, laughing, calling him her sweet boy, telling him he was all grown up, and hadn't she done such a wonderful job, carving him into the man he was today? She reached for him with nails sharp as claws, and his protests became painful wheezes of breath when he felt a pressure around his throat, cutting off his air, scratchy and rough like all those years ago. Rope. His fingers tugged, tried to loosen, but nothing worked, and he saw she hadn't been reaching for him at all, but the rope itself, like a leash. Like he was a pet, a dog, nothing more.
"Hush now. You're mine, and you always have been, and I've simply come to collect," she told him, even as he reached for the knife, scrambled to free it from its hold, and lashed out in a swipe of metal and sharp as soon as it was loose. The cab driver cursed and swerved, and he went skidding into her, where her arms wrapped around him and he was suffocating, couldn't breathe, so cold-- and wet, yes, water like ice, and he shivered as he screamed and screamed and fought to free himself. The knife met nothing but air and the leather seats, but in his mind he was stabbing her, coating himself in more blood, and he was in the midst of his frenzy when the door opened and he was hauled out by strong, unfamiliar arms.
Luke went spilling onto the street, along with buckets of icy water that weren't there at all, but reality no longer mattered, not now, when he saw only what Crane's drug wanted him to see. He struggled to his feet, knife held in his outstretched hand, and saw a crowd of people around him... with the faces of those he had killed over the years, eyes hungry for vengeance, for blood, and he turned round and round and saw no end to them.
"I should have killed you when I had the chance." This voice was not hers, not the woman's, but someone much, much more familiar, and Luke turned with an agonized cry caught in his throat.
There it was again, that hiccup, telling him Thomas couldn't be standing in the middle of the street, and even if he was, he wouldn't look like this, a menacing figure in black, like something out of his nightmares. "What?" His voice came out quiet, broken, and his shivering became more violent.
"What?" His voice became mocking, and not-Thomas took a step forward, causing him to stumble in his haste to retreat and end up landing solidly on his behind. "You heard me. I should have killed you. You're a rabid dog, and you need to be put down, but I couldn't do it." He shook his head. "I thought you might be a man and do it yourself, do the world a favor, but no, you were too much of a coward for that." His voice grew louder as he approached, and Luke tried to move, to get away, but he couldn't. Blood was spreading through his shirt, all those scars reopening like the day they'd been inflicted, and the cold had begun to numb him, ice crisscrossed with spiderwebs of blood crawling up his legs to consume. "You're a monster, Luke," not-Thomas said, and repeated the word, over and over, each repetition like a physical blow.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
"Are you going to let him speak to you that way?" Her voice was a hiss in his ear, and while he couldn't see her, he could feel her behind him, her presence, as her nails dug into his scalp and scraped the bone beneath.
Luke screamed and lunged at the man before him, who was very much solid, but he didn't see the look of surprise or the fact that the man wasn't Thomas, no, not at all. Instead of bringing the knife down, he lashed out with his fists, wild-eyed, and didn't stop screaming, even as he brought the knife up and poised to strike. "I tried! I tried to-- to end it, and I couldn't-- I couldn't-- you ruined my life, you fucking bastard! I was happy before I met you! I was good!" And now-- now-- his screams turned to sobs, and he pulled back, away, brandishing the knife wildly, unsure if the screams he heard were real or imagined. His veins were on fire, and the pounding was so, so loud, and when he felt the touch of someone or something on his shoulder, he did what the small, quiet part of him said; he ran.
How long he ran, he didn't know. He didn't know where he was, or where he was going; when he paused long enough to look around, he saw various scenes of hell interposed over one another, and then things would come for him, and he ran again.
The men he'd murdered were following on his heels when he reached the hotel, and he tripped on the stairs up, reduced to crawling the rest of the way, while the dead and sheets of ice slid up behind him. Luke needed to reach a door, but he didn't know why-- why? There was a voice, very, very quiet, telling him he would be safe there, and he listened, because he was afraid, and he didn't like being afraid. Tears streaked his cheeks, and he sobbed every so often, crawling closer, closer, to the door that would take him away. A key-- yes, he had a key, and he hauled himself to his feet as he slid it in the lock and turned. The voice sounded sad, so sad, when it told him to go, and he looked down at himself once, bringing a hand to his bloodied chest, before closing his eyes and stepping through.
Bruce came through in the Batcave, with only a second of lucidity before it was gone, extinguished, like a candle flame in the wind.
There was no chance to call for help. It was too late. His parents were there, waiting for him, cold and dead, and this time when they reached for him, he went, allowing their embrace, cold enough that it burned. Death itself. His mother stroked his hair, and his father patted his back, and he closed his eyes as he listened to their words.
Gotham is burning.
"Gotham is burning."
You have to save it.
"I have to save it."
They don't fear you anymore, Bruce. Sweetheart. You have to make them fear you again, or Gotham will burn and burn, and blood will rise and drown it.
"I need to make them fear me. I won't let it burn. Won't let it drown."
The liars who bear your name, who falsely claim you as theirs, will try to stop you, but they're not your family, darling. They don't care about you. They only want to hurt you, to make sure you fail.
"They're not my family."
We are your family, Bruce, and we love you. We love you... so much...
It was there, in the darkness and the embrace of the dead, that Bruce knew what he must do. Gotham had become contaminated, overrun, and only he could save it now. Before, he had been weak. Ineffective. No one feared him. What good was Batman if he was not feared? He had clung to foolish morals, to rules, but he saw the truth now. His mind was clear, though in truth, it was a mess, like muddied water. Batman was capable of great destruction, but his morals had kept him back. His humanity had kept him good.
But this, as he was now, because of the drug, was a man stripped bare and raw, to his core, having lost his grip on sanity, and that made him very, very dangerous.
The caresses of his dead parents turned violent, fingers ripping and tearing, and when they were done, Bruce rose from the cool, bloodslicked floor and smiled. He donned his suit, and he chose his weapon, and he set out to give Gotham what it deserved. He would begin his quest in the slums, where only the most despicable criminals lurked, where his parents had died and Batman was born from the ashes.
Crime Alley.