The Dark Knight Legend

by Stacia Deutsch

  The water’s powerful crash drowned out Rachel’s scream. The Batmobile thumped onto a solid floor inside the Batcave. Batman hooked a steel cable, and ground anchors yanked the car to a halt.

  He lifted Rachel from the cockpit and carried her into the cavern. Hoping it wasn’t too late, Batman reached for the antidote.

  Rachel’s head pounded. Forcing her eyes open, she looked into the mask of Batman.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “If I hadn’t, your mind would be lost,” Batman replied. “You were poisoned.”

  “I remember . . . nightmares. The mask . . . it was Crane! I have to tell the police—” She stumbled, trying to get up.

  Batman caught her. “Rest first.”

  She tried to look into his face, to see his eyes, but he was backing away. . . . “Why did you save my life?” Rachel asked, watching his silhouette.

  “Gotham needs you,” he replied.

  “And you serve Gotham?”

  “I serve justice.”

  “Perhaps you do,” she said softly.

  “I’m going to give you a sedative to put you back to sleep,” Batman said, holding up the two vials. “You’ll wake up back at home, and when you do, go to the asylum. Get these to Gordon. Trust no one else.”

  “What are they?” Rachel asked.

  “The antidote. One for Gordon to inoculate himself. I’m certain he will need it. The other should be used to start mass production. Crane was just a pawn,” he said. “He was working for someone else.”

  As Batman stepped closer with her sedative, Rachel closed her eyes. She trusted him, and she could use the sleep.

  SEVEN

  After changing into a white shirt and dinner jacket, Bruce took the elevator up from the Batcave and emerged into his study through a secret revolving bookcase. His birthday party was in full swing. He would show up for a bit and then leave. He had a long night ahead of him.

  “Rachel’s sedated,” Bruce told Alfred. “You can take her home. Is Fox still here?”

  Alfred nodded toward the crowd, where Fox hovered at the buffet. Bruce was headed toward him when suddenly a guest shouted, “There he is!” Voices began singing “Happy Birthday.”

  Shaking hands and grinning, Bruce moved through the crowd. When he finally reached Fox, Bruce whispered, “Any word on that . . . item?”

  Fox replied, “My contact in heavy weapons says it’s a microwave emitter. It vaporizes water.”

  Bruce’s mind raced. Vaporizing water was harmless—but other substances, when changed from liquid to gas, could be lethal.

  “Could you use the emitter to put a biological agent into the air?” Bruce asked.

  “Sure, if the water supply were poisoned before you vaporized it,” Fox said.

  If the drug that Crane was using had been dumped into the water supply, no one would be affected by drinking it. But if the water became vapor, then the entire city could be poisoned. . . .

  As Bruce realized the horror of what could happen, Mr. Earle called out behind him.

  “Happy birthday, Bruce—not everybody thought you’d make it this far!”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Bruce said, turning around. He was anxious to get away, but he didn’t want to scare his guests. He needed to talk with Fox for a while longer.

  Bruce finally excused himself when a woman grabbed his arm. Mrs. Delane was an old friend of the family. “Bruce!” her fluty voice piped. “There’s somebody here you simply must meet!”

  “I can’t just now—” Bruce protested, but he immediately swallowed his words. With her was a man wearing a blue poppy on his jacket.

  “Now, am I pronouncing it right?” Mrs. Delane trilled. “Mr. Rā’s al Ghūl?”

  Bruce faced the man only to realize that Henri Ducard was not who he had claimed to be. Ducard, in fact, had been Rā’s al Ghūl all along.

  “Surely you don’t begrudge me dual identities?” Rā’s al Ghūl asked. “You were my greatest student . . . until you betrayed me.”

  Bruce suddenly became aware of people who didn’t belong at the party—members of the League of Shadows, dressed as waiters and busboys.

  The guests were in danger. Bruce had to protect them. Thinking fast, he clinked a glass and began to insult his guests, calling them leeches—people who wanted to use their connection to the Wayne name for their own glory. In minutes, angry people were in their cars, driving away. It didn’t take long to clear the house.

  “They don’t have long to live,” Rā’s al Ghūl said with amusement. “Your antics at the asylum have forced my hand.”

  Bruce began piecing together the puzzle. “Crane was working for you!”

  Rā’s al Ghūl nodded. “His toxin is derived from our blue poppies.”

  “You’re going to unleash Crane’s poison on the entire city—and destroy millions of lives!”

  “No. Billions of lives. Gotham will tear itself apart through fear—but that will just be the beginning. The world will watch in terror as the greatest city falls. Anarchy and chaos will spread. Mankind will ravage itself, the species will be culled . . . and the balance of nature will be restored. The planet will be saved.”

  Bruce couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re inhuman!”

  “Don’t question my humanity, Bruce,” Rā’s al Ghūl said. “I saved you. I showed you a path and took away your fear. I made you what you are. And in return you attacked me and burned my home. Since then you’ve used my skills and techniques to interfere with my plans, plans in which you were supposed to play a part.”

  He nodded to his men. They began setting fire to the drapes.

  “You were supposed to be Gotham’s destroyer. Instead you became her only protector,” Rā’s al Ghūl said.

  “You underestimate Gotham!”

  “Gotham is helpless without you. That’s why I’m here. We’ve infiltrated every aspect of the city’s infrastructure. You underestimate Gotham’s corruption,” Rā’s al Ghūl said. He knocked Bruce unconscious.

  EIGHT

  Miles away, at Arkham Asylum, four armed SWAT team members stood guarding Wayne Enterprises’ stolen microwave emitter. One of them checked his watch and nodded to a partner, who quickly powered up the machine. Moving with ninja precision, the men began placing explosive charges along the wall.

  At the same time, high above the street level, Rā’s al Ghūl’s people took over the train system. The city ground to a halt.

  Meanwhile, Alfred found Bruce pinned under a burning ceiling beam.

  “Master Wayne!” Alfred slapped the young man’s face until his eyes finally flickered.

  With a grunt, Bruce pushed upward. The beam jerked—and then crashed beside him onto the floor.

  Bruce pressed four keys on the piano—the combination that made the bookcase swing open. The two men ducked inside the elevator, then dropped downward into the coolness of the Batcave.

  As they landed, Bruce winced at the sound of crashing timbers above. “What have I done, Alfred?” he whispered. “Everything my father and his father built . . .”

  Alfred took a deep, sorrowful breath. “The Wayne legacy,” he said, “is more than bricks and mortar, sir.”

  “I thought I could help Gotham,” Bruce said. “But I’ve failed.”

  Alfred looked hard into the young man’s face and said, “Why do we fall, sir?”

  Bruce knew the answer: “So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up.” He then asked Alfred, “Still haven’t given up on me?”

  “Never.”

  Alfred helped Batman prepare for duty.

  Back at Arkham, someone had set the inmates free and they were rioting. At the same time, Rachel was trying to find Sergeant Gordon to give him the antidote that Batman had supplied her.

  Dr. Crane approached her on a police horse. He was cackling, the burlap mask
firmly on his face. “Crane!” she cried out.

  He hissed, “Scarecrow!”

  At the sound of gunshots, the horse startled. It threw the Scarecrow off its back and took off in a gallop, dragging Crane on the ground by his stirrups.

  Rachel raced around the building and found Gordon, coughing and choking. He turned to her, his eyes wide with fright.

  She knew from his expression that he’d inhaled some of the poison. “Gordon, it’s me, Rachel! I have the antidote! Stay calm,” she said. “I can help you.” She gave him the cure.

  Gordon’s eyes flashed. “Rachel?”

  Inmates rushed them.

  Woom!

  The Batmobile hurtled from out of the cloud. It skidded to a stop inches from Rachel.

  The inmates dived away as the door flew open and Batman jumped out. A brick clipped him on the side of his mask. Shrieking and frightened, the inmates went after Batman, throwing whatever they could find.

  Certain that Gordon could handle himself, Batman distracted the inmates as he lifted Rachel off the ground. He fired his grapnel gun upward, and they soared into the air onto one of the towering spires of Arkham Asylum.

  From the rooftop Rachel could see all of Gotham.

  “They’re going to unleash the toxin on the entire city,” Batman said. “I have to find the microwave emitter.”

  “They’re lifting a machine up to the tracks!” Rachel blurted. She pointed to the elevated train.

  A metallic noise screeched as the train began to inch forward.

  Batman tensed, his eyes following the track’s path into the heart of Gotham. “Of course! The track runs directly over the water mains! If he crashes that thing into Wayne Tower, it’ll blow the central hub, and create enough toxin to blanket the entire city!”

  Batman stepped to the roof’s edge. The train was several stories below, pulling farther away.

  “Wait!” Rachel cried. As he turned, she reached up to his face. “You could die. At least tell me your name.”

  “It’s not who I am underneath,” he said, “but what I do that defines me.”

  Her words.

  “Bruce,” she said. But he was gone, falling into the mist.

  NINE

  Batman held out his arms. Controlling his cape, he caught the wind and sailed into the clear air over the Gotham River. The tracks were below him. He angled toward them, gliding until he was over the train’s engine.

  Inside, Rā’s al Ghūl turned in surprise. “You!” he exclaimed.

  Batman dropped onto the roof, and Rā’s al Ghūl scrambled outside.

  Batman lunged. With a sword in one hand and a cane in the other, Rā’s al Ghūl held him off, swinging wildly.

  As they sped through a tunnel, Batman caught the cane in the hooks of his gauntlet. He lifted his arm upward, and the cane went flying.

  “Familiar,” Rā’s al Ghūl said mockingly. He thrust the sword, and Batman jumped. Batman’s foot slipped on the slick surface, and he lost balance.

  Rā’s al Ghūl took advantage. He raised the sword over his nemesis’s head—

  Chank.

  Batman crossed both his arms in front, and the sword stuck fast in the hooks of both his gauntlets.

  “Don’t you have anything new?” Rā’s al Ghūl taunted.

  “How about this?” Batman said, yanking his arms in opposite directions.

  Rā’s al Ghūl’s sword split in two, and he stumbled back from the force of the jolt.

  Batman spun around. Wayne Tower was close. He dropped to his stomach, leaning over the front of the train. Aiming carefully, he shot his grapnel gun cable into the car’s guide wheels.

  Its wheels sparking and screeching, the train slowed but didn’t stop. It wasn’t going to be enough. The cable wouldn’t hold.

  “What are you doing?” Rā’s al Ghūl shouted from behind him.

  “What’s necessary,” Batman replied.

  He threw the entire grapnel gun apparatus into the path of the guide wheel. The train lurched, hopping off its rail, smashing against the concrete guides.

  Rā’s al Ghūl dived onto Batman, pinning him against the roof. Batman rolled upright, but Rā’s al Ghūl’s grip was tight.

  “Are you afraid?” Rā’s al Ghūl hissed.

  “Yes,” Batman rasped, his strength ebbing. He loosened his own grip and slipped his hand down his cloak to the activating pockets. “But not of you.”

  The cloak went rigid. It caught the wind of the still-moving train, and Batman was yanked upward, into the air.

  Rā’s al Ghūl looked up in surprise, anger, and terror.

  With a horrible noise, the train broke through the guide rail. It plunged to the street, speeding toward Wayne Tower.

  Crash!

  The impact shook the ground as the train exploded into flames, taking Rā’s al Ghūl with it.

  TEN

  A few days later, with the mob weakened and Falcone off the streets, Gotham seemed like a place worth saving, and people were rolling up their sleeves to help.

  Bruce’s home was a smoking skeleton of twisted steel among piles of stone. Inside, Alfred supervised salvage workers.

  Bruce heard footsteps and glanced up to see Rachel approaching. He was happy to see her. “Do you remember the day I fell?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Rachel replied.

  “As I lay there, I knew . . . I could sense that things would never be the same. You made me see that justice is about more than my own pain and anger.”

  “Your father would be proud of you. Just as I am.”

  Bruce stopped. Feeling as if everything he had ever endured had been for this moment, he kissed her.

  When they separated, Rachel turned away. “Between Batman and Bruce Wayne,” she said, “there’s no room for me.”

  “Rachel, I chose this life. I can give it up.”

  She touched his face gently. “You didn’t choose this life, Bruce. It was thrust upon you, the way greatness often is. You’ve given this city hope, and now it’s depending on you. We all are. Good-bye, Bruce.”

  Walking away, Rachel looked toward the house. “What will you do?”

  “I’m going to rebuild it,” Bruce replied, “just the way it was. Brick for brick.”

  Rachel smiled as she left. Bruce watched her go. A moment later Alfred walked up beside him. “Just the way it was, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes . . . why?” Bruce asked.

  “I thought we might take the opportunity to make some improvements . . . to the foundation.”

  Bruce smiled. “Could you mean the southeast corner?”

  “Precisely, sir,” Alfred said.

  ELEVEN

  That night, Batman received a signal from Gordon. He was on the station house roof in minutes, where he found a police spotlight partially covered by a black bat-shaped stencil.

  “Nice,” Batman said to Gordon.

  “Couldn’t find any mob bosses to strap to the light,” Gordon said.

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  Gordon flicked off the beacon. “It’s Lieutenant now. Commissioner Loeb had to promote me. You’ve started something,” Gordon said. “Judge Faden is in jail. Bent cops are running scared, there’s hope on the streets. . . .” His words hung uncertainly in the air.

  “But?” Batman asked.

  “But there’s a lot of weirdness out there right now. We still haven’t picked up Crane or half the inmates of Arkham that he freed—”

  “We will. Gotham will return to normal.”

  “Will it? What about escalation? We start carrying semiautomatics, they buy automatics. We start wearing Kevlar, they buy armor-piercing rounds.”

  “And?” Batman prodded.

  “And . . . you’re wearing a mask and jumping off rooftops.” Gordon pulled a clear plastic evidenc
e bag from his pocket. “Take this guy. Armed robbery, double homicide. He’s got a taste for theatrics, like you. Leaves a calling card.”

  He handed Batman the bag. Inside was a playing card.

  A joker.

  “I’ll look into it,” Batman said.

  As Batman dropped from the rooftop, gliding on the night wind, Lieutenant Gordon smiled.

  TWELVE

  On the street in front of Gotham First National Bank, three burglars checked their equipment. The men were wearing clown masks: white faces, red lips, and bright blue painted smiles.

  “We’re it?” one clown wondered. “Three guys?” Robbing the bank was a pretty big job for just three burglars.

  “There’s more on the roof,” another clown remarked, pointing up above their heads. Two other men were sliding along a cable toward the rooftop.

  Up on the roof, two other clowns were working to disarm the bank’s security system. They were also discussing the mysterious man behind the heist.

  “Why do they call him the Joker?” the clown asked as he watched his partner remove screws from an access panel door.

  “I heard he wears makeup,” the man working the door replied.

  “Makeup?” The first clown gave a small laugh.

  “Yeah,” the handyman said as the panel slid away, revealing a large cluster of wiring and cables. “War paint.” His hands moved quickly across the wiring, turning the alarm off. “I’m done here,” he announced. The clowns entered the bank.

  In the main room, customers screamed. Tellers ducked behind their booths. The masked clowns threatened their hostages.

  One clown rushed down to the basement, where another was busy opening a vault. “They wired this thing with five thousand volts,” the clown reported. “What kind of bank does that?”

  The other clown knew the money they were stealing belonged to organized criminals. “A mob bank,” he replied. “Guess the Joker’s as crazy as they say.”