The Six O' Clock Lounge
The Six o’ Clock Lounge.
If there could ever be said to be such a thing as a neutral territory within the war-torn streets of Gotham City, then it would be the Six o’ Clock Lounge. Two stories of unrepentant steel, cinderblock, and concrete, the Lounge was one of the largest hole-in-the-walls in Gotham. It was also one of the most heavily frequented. At any and all hours of the day, the sounds of clinking glass, raucous laughter, and drunken revelry filled the Lounge wall to wall, as did the smells of alcohol, bile and sweat. The Lounge was a working man’s bar, and that was precisely how the working men who drank there liked it. They’d come in at all hours of the day or night: cops and muggers, plainclothes and wise guys, strikers and scabs; it didn’t matter who you were or what you did, as long as you paid your tab by closing time.
The cops and plainclothes liked the Lounge because it was one of the few bars in Gotham that was open—and more importantly, served food—24/7, and also offered them the opportunity to earn a little extra money on the side. The thugs and wise guys liked the Lounge because they could talk ‘business’ freely without fear of eavesdroppers against the cacophonous backdrop of barroom camaraderie, and it also offered them the opportunity to find out which cops were bribable.
Bruce Wayne liked the Lounge because it was an excellent source of information.
Once, on one of the exceptionally rare nights when the Lounge had been occupied by only a few lone stragglers, Bruce had gone up to the bar in the guise of Matches Malone, a street-walking, smart-talking wise guy, and asked the bartender on duty about the Lounge’s unusual moniker.
The bartender, a large, heavyset man with lumberjack arms and a beer gut that hung out over his waistline, smiled like a catfish. “Now that’s a story to tell, friend. Buy us both a round and pull up a stool, because it’s a long one.”
Bruce returned the smile and slapped a bill onto the table. “Make it a bottle. Bartender’s choice.”
The bartender’s smile grew wider as he stared at the note. “I like your style, friend. Bartender’s choice it is.” He took the bill and disappeared behind the bar for a moment, and came back with a large mason jar filled with clear liquid. “The house best,” he said simply.
He pulled out two glasses and filled them. Bruce took one and tipped it down. It felt like he was drinking acid. “Strong,” he managed to spit out after a fit of coughing.
The bartender—who, Bruce had learned later, was actually the owner of the Six o’ Clock Lounge—downed his own drink and broke into a croaking laugh. “Now that’s the kinda drink’ll put hair on yer chest, friend!” He refilled his glass. “But if want something a little weaker, I won’t say I blame you.” He made as if to put the mason jar away.
“Like Hell,” Bruce grabbed the jar, “I paid for it, I’m drinking it,” he said, refilling his own glass.
The bartender chuckled. “That’s the spirit! Alright then. You ever hear that song? The one about it being ‘five o’ clock somewhere?’”
Bruce nodded that he had.
“Well, with all due respect to Mr. Buffett, that song’s full ah more shit than a pigeon coop. You know what I did before I started this place, friend?” He continued on before Bruce could reply. “I worked in a factory. A leather factory. You ever work in a leather factory, friend?”
Bruce shook his head.
“Well I did,” he said with an air of self-importance. “And let me tell you, it wasn’t no picnic. I worked in the old leather plant on 34th and Main; smack dab in the center of the old industrial park, for ten years! You know anything about makin’ leather?”
Bruce lied that he didn’t.
“Well it ain’t easy. See, in the factory where I worked, there was four floors: the ground floor, where we boiled the leather, the second floor, where we treated it; the top floor, where we did all the cutting and stitching, and the basement, where we kept the furnace burning. If you was a women, then you got a nice cushy job on the top floor, stitching and cutting leather into belts and boots and coats, but if you was a man, then you worked either in the basement, shoveling coal, or on the factory floor, shoveling skins.
“We’d get the skins straight from the slaughter house; they’d bring ‘em in every morning in huge truck, piled up to the ceiling—God, the smell was something awful—and we’d shovel ‘em outta the trucks and into wheelbarrows to take into the factory, and that’s what I did when I started there.” He said it with an air of pride, as if shoveling piles of slaughterhouse slough was some grand occupation. “I was sixteen when I started working there, and for two years I spent every morning shoveling skins and wheeling ‘em in to the boys on the main floor. “But when I turned eighteen, and was legally declared a man”—he winked as he pronounced ‘legally’—“well then I got to do the real work.”
The bartender paused to take a gulp of what was now his fifth glass; Bruce was still nursing his second.
“See, they skin ‘em over at the slaughterhouse because ain’t nobody alive that wants a slide of steak with the hair still on it. But after a while you got a whole mess a crap to clean up, and ya can’t just throw it away either thanks to them bigwigs in the government. So they’d skin em’ and we’d buy the skin. Win-win. But see, no one wants a leather jacket with the hair still on it either. And plus, those animals are filthy! You ever been to a farm? Well I used to work at my uncle’s farm for the summer—before I started working at the plant, mind—and let me tell you, it was something Goddamned awful. Whole place smelled like three kinds o’ shit, and looked even worse than it smelled. Was almost enough to make me go vegetarian. Almost.
“But that’s the thing, see? We had to get the hair and dirt and crud off o’ all that skin ‘fore we could we could treat it proper. So we boiled ‘em.”
More than half of the large mason jar’s contents had been emptied now. The bartender wasn’t drunk, but he was well on his way.
“See, after I shoveled the skins in on to the boys on the main floor, there was another batch of trucks that would show up. Only these would be filled with coal.
“See, in the basement, there was a huge furnace, and I mean huge. Must have filled up half the basement. And right above it on the main floor were these big tubs of water. We would throw the skins into the these big metal cages—kinda like giant colanders—and drop ‘em into the tubs for a bit. When we pulled the cages up, the skins would be clean and ready for the ol’ treatin’. But to keep them tubs boiling, we had to keep that furnace burning.
“See, if you was too young to work in ‘a potentially hazardous working environment’”—the bartender said the last three words with undisguised contempt—“meaning if you wasn’t eighteen, then you were stuck heaping skins onto wheelbarrows and later shoveling coal into the chutes that led down into the basement. But if you was old enough to sign a release form, then you got to go into the cellar, and make the big bucks keeping them fires burning hot.” The bartender leaned in close to Bruce and whispered secretly, “Unless you was colored, then you got paid pocket change.”
This hadn’t surprised Bruce. Gotham City was not a civic-minded place at the best of times and threats to the status quo were usually dealt with brutal efficiency. If Rosa Parks had refused to give up her seat to a white man on a Gotham City Bus, it would never have made the news, and Miss Parks would probably have never been seen again.
The bartender continued, “But anyways, I worked front of that furnace ten years shoveling coal, stoking those fires. The only way you weren’t getting burned is if you didn’t show up for work, and you had to keep your face clean shaven or you were liable to catch fire! It was hard, backbreaking work.” The bartender emptied the last of the jar’s contents into his glass.
“And you know what I felt like at five o’ clock, after shoveling coal for eight hours straight?” he asked suddenly with a grim smile. “Hot, sweaty, burnt and covered in soot. When that whistle blew at the end of the day, I felt like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. I’d punch my ticket and wander out into the street with my the rest of the working schmucks, and I’d stop at the first bar that looked like it had some empty seats. He raised his glass to his mouth, and looked surprised to discover that it was empty. He looked from the empty glass to the empty mason jar for several seconds, looking almost mournful, and finally said, “Now we was at the back of the park, over by the harbor, so all the closest bars was usually filled up by the time we got our sorry carcasses outta there. But we’d eventually find a place before too long, and after that, we’d all gather ‘round and drink ourselves stupid. Good times. But anyways, you wanted to know why I named this place six o’ clock, right? Well it’s because five is when you clock out. You’re stiff and sore and beat all to Hell. But six o’ clock? That’s when you’ve had a couple of rounds with your buddies. When you’re warm and drunk, and all the crap life throws seems miles away. Now that’s the moment Buffet should have written a song about.”
Bruce Wayne pretended to contemplate these words of pseudo-wisdom for a moment, and then raised his empty glass, “Amen to that,” he said, and slapped another bill on the countertop. “Let’s drink to it!”
The bartender smiled with the warmth of a cordial drunkard. He produced another mason jar and refilled their glasses, and they toasted to six of the clock.
They talked for a long time after that, discussing things of much greater interest to Bruce. The bartender, his tongue thoroughly loosened, had been very forthcoming. He never noticed that Bruce never actually drank his third glass, and by the time Bruce walked out into the street the next morning, he’d learned more about the various crime families that ruled Gotham’s underworld than he’d been able to glean from six months of surveillance.
It had been a very productive evening.
“I can’t believe this place is closing down.”
Bruce was broken out of his reverie by a voice behind him. He turned around to find a women standing behind him: tall, slender, with porcelain white skin and raven black hair. Minimal makeup and real jewelry. Tight black dress to accentuate her figure, and designer high heels that made her taller than most of the other women here. She wanted to be seen. Most likely either a mobster’s mistress, or an ex looking for a new beau.
Bruce smiled, “Yeah, it’s hard to believe. I’ve had some good times here.” He held out a hand to her, “Matches Malone, good to meetcha.” He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes as she offered her own hand.
“Selina Kyle.”
“So, Miss Kyle, what brings a fine women like you to a place like this?”
Selina smiled and tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a practiced motion. “I just came to pay my respects to the Lounge; it won’t be the same once Cobblepot takes over. Word on the street is that he has big plans for this old hole-in-the-wall.”
Bruce nodded in sympathy. Oswald Chesterfield “Penguin” Cobblepot had purchased the Six o’ Clock Lounge just over a week ago, and his “plans” for the bar were exactly what Bruce had come here hoping to find out. From what he had heard about the man, Cobblepot was not the most savory of entrepreneurs. He gestured to the empty stool to his left, “Buy you a drink, sweetheart?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down. “White Russian, no ice.”
“You got it.” Bruce waved the bartender over and ordered her drink. “So what exactly have you heard?”
“About Cobblepot? Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that: he plans on turning this place into a luxury restaurant, or Gotham’s premier casino, or both. I even heard someone say he’s going to build a zoo!” She leaned in closer to him, “I talked to a guy, swore up and down that Cobblepot was bringing in an actual iceberg from Canada.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. She had a nice laugh.
Bruce.
Bruce went still at the mention of his name—his real name. He looked around, eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
“Is something wrong, Malone?” Selina asked.
Bruce turned back to her and smiled. “Nah. I just thought I heard someone calling my name. In my line of work, that’s not usually a good thing.”
Selina cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And what ‘line of work’ are you in, Mister Malone?”
Bruce widened his smile, “Insurance.”
Bruce . . . the voice came again, louder this time. Bruce ignored it.
“Insurance,” Selina said flatly. “You know, usually when I ask a man what he does for a living, they tell me that this isn’t a dream.”
Bruce froze on the spot, “What did you say?”
Selina took a sip of her glass. “I said that this isn’t a dream, Bruce Wayne.” she smiled, her eyes blazed with a cold blue fire. “It’s time for you to wake up.”
Bruce Wayne woke up with a gasp.
The few sheets that he hadn’t kicked off the bed were dark with sweat, and his body felt like one big bruise. His legs, his arms, his chest, his head. Everything hurt.
“The usual dream again, Master Bruce?” came a voice from his doorway.
Bruce groaned. He felt like a corpse in a coffin. “Surprisingly, no.”
Alfred Pennyworth walked over to the bedroom window, and pulled the curtains aside. Sunlight streamed in, blinding him for a moment in a flash of red and yellow floaters, and made the pounding in his head worse.
“Really? I honestly couldn’t tell the difference.” He placed a folded newspaper on the bed. The line BATMAN: METROPOLIS’ NEW HERO? was captioned on the front page above a blurry photo. “News of your escapades last night are all over the morning news. You’ve made quite an impression on the good people of Metropolis."
Bruce groaned again, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. “This city . . .” he sighed. “Metropolis doesn’t have many lightweights.”
Alfred looked at Bruce’s body, covered in bruises and bandages, then out through the window, at the plumes of smoke where large portions of Metropolis were still burning. “Yes. It must pay dividends to be a contractor in this city. To say nothing of job security. Though I do hope that Master Kent returns from his honeymoon soon, Master Bruce, for both this city’s sake, and yours.”
Bruce stood up, winced, and smiled grimly. “You and me both, Alfred.”
The corners of Alfred Pennyworth’s lip twitched in what might have been a smile. “But I digress, Master Bruce. You have several of the ‘usual’ appearances to make this morning; Lucius Fox called to tell you that our meeting with Lex Luthor will have to be postponed indefinitely—hardly surprising considering recent events—but he was able to schedule you for an interview with Modern Life Magazine to fill the space. Also, the Daily Planet is going to be throwing you a party tonight in commemoration of their new owner. You will be expected to at least make a cursory appearance. I’ve already taken the liberty of having a fresh suit pressed and drawing you a bath.” Alfred gestured in the direction of the master bathroom.
“Thank you, Alfred. I could use a bath. Fetch me in thirty minutes.”
“Of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, bowed curtly, and walked away.
Bruce went into the bathroom, and collapsed into the tub; the water was scalding hot, immediately dulling the pain in his muscles and bones. Bruce tilted his head back on the rim of the tub, using a washcloth as a makeshift pillow, and closed his eyes. Around him, the world seemed to float away, setting him adrift in a calm, soothing sea of black silence.
“Wake up, Bruce!”
Batman’s eyes flew open as a hammer blow slammed into his chest. A stream of water flew out of his lungs, and he began to cough and hack wretchedly.
“Phew. For a minute there, I thought you weren’t going to make it,” a familiar voice said from the edge of his vision.
Batman looked up, to see Superman staring at him concernedly.
“I thought . . . that I was . . . supposed to be . . . saving you,” he said in between gulps of air.
Superman smiled grimly and placed a hand over the bleeding hole in his chest, where a kryptonite bullet was inching its way towards his heart, like a carnivorous worm, eating through his flesh. “You’ll get your chance, I’m sure.”
“How long was I out?” Batman asked, getting to his feet.
“A minute. Maybe two.”
“And Metallo?”
Superman gestured at the ceiling, “Still topside. I don’t think he’s following us.”
“You know that for certain?”
“No. The kryptonite—”
“Then we can’t stay here. Can you walk?”
“Barely.”
“Then I’ll help you. There’s an entrance to the Batcave not far from here.” Bruce placed Superman’s arm over his shoulder, and they made their way through the sewer in silence.
Superman laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Is there any place in Gotham that isn’t close to the Batcave?”
“It’s possible, but not likely.”
"That was a joke, Bruce."
"I know."
“Bruce?” Superman asked, after they’d left the tunnel under the graveyard.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember Magpie?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever happened to her?”
“She died.”
“What!? Are you sure?”
“Reasonably.”
Superman was silent for a minute after that, and then asked, “Bruce, why is it that the good villains always die?”
Batman looked over at Superman, “Clark, what the Hell are ‘good villains?’ ”
They walked in silence after that, until they came to a thick iron gate. WARNING: HIGH VOLTAGE was emblazoned in bright red paint on the door. “Your place?” Clark asked.
Batman nodded. “I left my keys in the Batmobile, can you?”
“Yeah.” Superman shrugged Batman off and shakily walked over to the gate. He took a breath, and grabbed the gate with both hands. Immediately his body was engulfed in blue crackling fire, Superman roared, and wrenched the door free from the gate. He tossed it into the water behind Batman and said, “Door’s unlocked. How much farther?”
“Not much, it’s only a few—” There was a CRACK! And suddenly the floor beneath Batman split open wide, pulling him down into its cavernous depths.
“Bruce!” Superman yelled after him as he fell, falling farther and farther, faster and faster . . .
I’m falling too fast, Batman thought as he plummeted through the air.
Someone had cut his line, mid-swing, high above the streets of Gotham. And now he was plummeting to his death, the city that he had protected for so long rising up to meet him in its familiar embrace.
There was no chance of recovery—his line had been cut at the point of maximum downward momentum. Unless he did something soon, he was going to meet his end on the pavement below.
There, not even twenty feet below him, was a stone gargoyle jutting out from a precipice into the cool Gotham night. It was his only chance. He outstretched his arms, and caught it.
His body failed him first, as his arm pulled loose from its socket. His city failed him second, as the stone gargoyle pulled loose from its precipice.
There was no time to do anything else but cover his head with his uninjured arm before he landed. He struggled to maintain consciousness and his traitorous body refused to move.
“Well, well, well, look what just fell into our laps, boys. The Batman. It must be our lucky day.”
Batman looked over to see a group of men coming towards him. At a glance, they appeared homeless, but they were too clean. They were dressed in rags, but their necks were clean shaven, their faces lacked the telltale gauntness of men who went hungry most nights., and they didn’t smell like men who’d been sleeping in refuse. The lead man smiled through tobacco stained teeth. “How much you think we could get for the Batman’s head, boys?” he asked.
“I don’t know, boss, but I’d bet a lot,” said one of the goons.
“Yeah. We turn his head in to Penguin or the Joker, and we’ll be rich!” said another.
Not likely. Penguin would them and take credit himself, and the Joker would just kill them. They were almost upon him now, and his traitorous body wouldn’t heed his commands. This wasn’t going to be a long fight, but these men had the look of common thugs; he’d have to work quick and try to scare them off.
The leader stopped and bent over him, “Hold on a sec, fellas. I want to see who’s behind the mask.” He reached down and took ahold of Batman’s cowl.
Big mistake.
The countermeasure in Batman’s cowl springs forth with a hiss, spraying the head goon’s face with tear gas. He bellowed, clutching at his face. Batman brought his legs up and kicked into his chest, sending him flying into a nearby trash heap. A stunned silence descended into the alley.
“The Bat’s alive!”
“He got the boss!
“Let’s get him!”
The mob charged at Batman.
Bruce Wayne’s eyes shoot open; he sits bolt upright with a gasp.
He’s in his bedroom, at Wayne Manor.
“The usual dream again, Master Bruce?” a voice comes from behind him. Alfred Pennyworth walks into his view and parts the curtains covering his window, revealing a cool night sky outside.
“Alfred!?” Bruce asks stunned. “Is that . . . really you?”
Alfred raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know who else I would be, Master Bruce."
“No, no. It’s just . . . I had the strangest dream.”
“Really? That doesn’t happen often,” Alfred says with an air of disinterest.
“I was in Metropolis. It was During Clark’s honeymoon. The day after the LexDrone attack, and then I was in a sewer, and then I was falling, and then . . . and then . . .” Bruce holds up a hand to his head. “I can’t remember.”
“How nebulous,” Alfred says. “But if we don’t have any more dreams to discuss, then you have several appearances to make tonight, Master Bruce, and I must insist that you make yourself presentable. I’ve already taken the liberty of drawing you a bath—is something wrong, Master Bruce? You look a little unwell, all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine Alfred, but I just had the strangest sense of déjà vu.”
“Really?” Alfred asks. “That doesn’t happen very often either. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Shall I schedule a visit to Gotham Presbyterian?”
“It’s nothing to worry about, Alfred.” Bruce waves Alfred off and goes to the master bathroom. Inside, the bathtub is filled with clear steaming water.
“If you need anything else, Master Bruce, just call.”
“Thank you, Alfred. This will be all for now.”
Alfred smiles, and closes the door behind him. Bruce waits until he hears the sound of Alfred’s footfalls receding, and then walks over to the bathtub.
Five minutes and forty-two seconds later, the bathroom door flies open with a crack and Alfred Pennyworth storms in with a double-barreled shotgun leveled at the bathtub. “Die!” he screams, unloading both barrels into the bathtub with a sound like roaring thunder. Water spills out over the bathroom floor in a torrent, and stone-grey dust fills the air in an explosion of porcelain. Alfred keeps the gun leveled at the space where the tub is, unmoving.
Bruce Wayne, standing silently behind the pseudo-butler, watches this all transpire with cold detachment. No chance to miss at that range, with that gun, with him wedged into a bathtub like a stuffed turkey. Quick and simple but unquestioningly effective. Professional.
“You just made one mistake.”
The gunman spins around on his heel, bringing the rifle up and into Bruce’s waiting hands.
“You picked the wrong butler.”
Bruce jerks the barrel down, sending the stock into his assailant’s face, breaking his nose with a sharp crunch. As his assailant screams, Bruce rips the gun from his hands, and swings it into his chest, sending him sprawling into the remains of the tub.
“Now, you’re going to tell me, who you are, why you just tried to kill me, and what you’ve done with my butler.”
The imposter spits out a gob of blood and says, “Screw you, rich boy.”
“Wrong answer.” Bruce brings the rifle down onto one of his kneecaps. Hard. After he stops screaming, Bruce asks again. “Now tell me: what have you done with Alfred?”
“Is this how you get off, rich boy?” He asks through bloody teeth, clutching his leg. “Is this how you get your kicks?”
Bruce doesn’t bother to reply; he brings the rifle down on assailant’s other leg.
“Now, I’m going to say this one more time and then I stop being nice.” He stoops and picks up “Alfred” by his jacket lapels, hoisting him into the air. “Where. Is. My. Butler.”
The imposter looks up at him and smiles through bloody teeth. “Dead,” he says, and slams a fist into Bruce’s chest. There’s the sensation of flying, of slamming into the bathroom wall, of going through the bathroom wall, of landing hard on the carpet of the bedroom, and then pain. Exquisite pain.
Bruce lays there stunned; his visions blurred, he can’t breathe. He’s just been punched through a wall. Metahuman. From the pain he guesses that he has a broken sternum, several broken ribs, and possibly a collapsed lung.
“You couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could you, rich boy?”
Bruce tilts his head up to see the Not-Alfred stepping through a hole in the wall. He’s limping badly, but after what Bruce did to his kneecaps he shouldn’t have even been able to stand. The hand that he’d used to punch Bruce through the wall is a bleeding mass of broken bones and torn flesh. Unstable metahuman. He has strength, but his body can’t take it.
“What did they promise you?” he asks, trying to get up. “A serum to stabilize your powers? They won’t give it to you.”
Not-Alfred smiles. “Oh, rich boy. I was going to make it easy for you. But you caused me pain. So much pain. And now you’ve caused me more pain. So now I’m going to cause you pain. I’m repay each wound you inflicted upon me tenfold. I’m going to make you beg for death.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I’m getting tired of your empty bravado, rich boy,” Not-Alfred growls. He brings back his leg and kicks Bruce square in the chest. The pain is excruciating, but it’s exactly what Bruce is waiting for. He grabs ahold of Not-Alfred’s leg with one hand—holding him immobile—and swings his other fist into Not-Alfred’s crotch. Not-Alfred lets out something between a croak and a shout and crumples to the ground.
“And I’m getting tired of you calling me rich boy!”
“Why won’t you just die!?” The false Alfred screams, bringing his good hand up to claw at Bruce’s throat.
Bruce grabs barely manages to hold Not-Alfred’s arm down with both of his. He reaches over and grabs his broken fist, and squeezes. Not-Alfred shrieks in pain, and his arm slackens. “Because,” Bruce breaks his wrist with a quick jerk, “I’m not afraid of nightmares, Depriver.”
The false Alfred’s—The Depriver’s—face goes slack. “What?” he whispers. “You remember?”
“I remember everything,” Bruce growls at the him.
“That’s not possible! How could you possibly remember!?”
“When I looked into your eyes and you said that you’d make me 'beg for death,' I remembered.” He pins The Depriver’s good arm with a leg, trying to get his arm around his neck.
"That’s not possible! The spell can’t be broken!” The Depriver wails, flailing wildly in Bruce’s grasp.
“Too bad,” Bruce says, swinging his fist into The Depriver’s face. The pain in his chest is getting worse. Can’t keep this up for much longer. He punches The Depriver again, and still he doesn’t go down. Changing tactics, Bruce wraps an arm around his throat, trying for a choke hold.
One of The Depriver’s elbows finds Bruce’s chest. He coughs up blood. “You’re nothing! You’re a maggot in a rotting corpse! A Worm! Nothing! Why won’t you give in!?” The Depriver screams, his face twisted in pain, fury . . . and fear. “What are you!?”
Bruce Wayne looks into The Depriver’s black eyes and says, “I’m Batman.”
The Depriver glares at Bruce with hate filled eyes and opens its mouth as if to reply . . . and burst into flames.
For a single split second the world seems to go still with the shock of The Depriver’s spontaneous combustion . . . and then The Depriver lunges at him like a rabid animal.
“Nonononono!” The Depriver screams, swinging madly at Bruce with burning hands.
Bruce fights the sudden instinct to let go of The Depriver’s flaming body, trying to keep him at arm’s length. The flames engulfing are working faster than any ordinary fire should; even as he watches, the skin and muscle of The Depriver’s face boils and melts away like wax, revealing something horrific and inhuman underneath.
“You have to die!” spews forth from the place where the burning thing’s mouth used to be. The Depriver no longer even faintly resembles anything human; the fiery maggots eating away at its flesh have transformed it into something horrific, something that will—if Bruce manages to survive the next few moments—be the cause of many sleepless nights.
Bruce musters the last of his strength and raises a fist, “Go to Hell!”
He punches The Depriver in the face. Something cracks as his fist connects; The Depriver makes one last inhuman wail, and crumbles into dust. The flames disappear as quickly as they came. After a few seconds, even the dust begins to dissipate into the air.
Bruce watches this all transpire, and then falls back onto the carpet with a gasp equal parts relief and pain.
It doesn’t take him long to figure out the cause of The Depriver’s sudden immolation: sunlight. Outside the window, what had been a starry night sky only minutes before was now bright blue and cloudless; sunlight fills every corner of the room.
“HELLO, BRUCE WAYNE,” a sound like the voice of God comes forth from outside the window. “ARE YOU WELL?”
Bruce is too tired to be startled by the voice. “Luna?” he asks. “Is that really you?”
“YES.”
“Prove it.”
There was silence for a moment and then, “I JUST SAVED YOUR LIFE AND YOU WISH FOR ME TO ‘PROVE’ I AM WHO I SAY I AM!?” Luna replies indignantly. “I WILL DO NO SUCH THING! SUSPICIOUS HUMAN.”
Bruce allows himself the ghost of a smile. Definitely Luna. “Where are you?”
“IN THE WAKING WORLD, Luna replies. I AM, AT PRESENT, UNABLE TO ENTER THE SLEEPING WORLD, THOUGH I AM STILL ABLE TO EXERT SOME INFLUENCE OVER IT. WE ARE COMMUNICATING THROUGH YOUR PHYSICAL BODY.”
“I’m assuming this was your handiwork then?” Bruce says, gesturing at the blue skies beyond the window.
“YOU WOULD ASSUME RIGHT. I WITNESSED HOW YOU FELLED THE BEAST WITH SUNFIRE AFTER I DEPARTED. I HOPED THAT IT WOULD WORK AGAIN. I WAS RIGHT.”
“You ‘hoped’ it would work again? You mean you didn’t know?”
Another pause. “NO. I DID NOT. BUT I WAS VERY CONFIDENT THAT IT WOULD SUCCEED. THE BEAST WAS BURIED DEEP, AND AFTER ALL, WHAT BETTER WAY IS THERE TO REMOVE A BURIED TICK THAN TO BURN IT?”
“‘What do you mean it was ‘buried deep?’” Bruce asks, shakily rising to his feet.
“AFTER I WITNESSED YOU PLUNGE YOUR BLADE INTO THE BEAST’S CHEST, I HAD THOUGHT IT DESTROYED. BUT YOU DID NOT DESTROY THE BEAST, BRUCE WAYNE,” Luna replies. “YOU DAMAGED IT, DAMAGED IT FAR BEYOND WHAT ANY NIGHT BEAST SHOULD HAVE BEEN ABLE TO ENDURE, AND YET IT DID. IT BURROWED DEEP INTO YOUR MIND, AND DREW YOUR CONSCIOUS SELF IN WITH IT. BY THE TIME I REALIZED THIS, THE BEAST HAD BURROWED TOO DEEP FOR ME TO FOLLOW. ALL I WAS ABLE TO DO WAS INTERFERE WITH THE BEAST’S DESIGNS BY PULLING YOU FROM ONE MEMORY TO ANOTHER; IT WAS TOO WEAK TO STOP ME.”
“What was it trying to do?” Bruce asks.
“I KNOW NOT. BUT IT SEEMED TO BE TRYING TO FIND A MEMORY IN WHICH YOU WERE NEAR DEATH—IN ORDER TO MAKE YOU EASIER TO KILL, I IMAGINE.”
Bruce considers everything that Luna’s said. “What’s going on here, Luna? What was that thing and why did it call itself ‘The Depriver?’ What’s happening to me?”
“THERE IS MUCH THAT WE HAVE TO DISCUSS, BRUCE WAYNE; WE WILL HOLD PALAVER WHEN YOU AWAKEN BUT NOW IS NOT THE TIME.” There’s a flash of blue light to his left, and a door appears out of the wall. “THIS DOOR LEADS TO THE WAKING WORLD, BRUCE WAYNE. YOU NEED ONLY OPEN IT.”
Bruce walks to the door and places his hand on the doorknob. “Luna, one last thing.”
“YES?”
“The Depriver . . . it’s completely gone?”
“YES. THE NIGHT BEAST WAS TRULY DESTROYED. THERE IS NO TRACE LEFT WITHIN YOUR MIND.”
“But this isn’t over yet, is it?” Bruce says with a forlorn finality.
Luna does not reply immediately, and when she does, she sounds resigned. “NO, BRUCE WAYNE, THIS IS NOT THE END. I FEAR THAT THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.”
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Really, another cliffhanger?
Good to see that you are still updating this fic.
More!
5464657
5464855
I plan to finish this story, one way, or another.
5468084 Well done. I very much enjoyed the memories and how they told us more bout Bruce Wayne. I also liked how you depicted Superman. In the short amount of time he was present he seemed much more interesting than he is in most movies.
(finishes reading) .....Has anyone ever told you that you're an excellent writer? Cos it's true.
5470801
That's high praise coming from you!
This is very much a Bruce Wayne story every inch as much as a Batman story. Growing up, my favorite Batman comics were always the ones who put an equal focus into both Batman and Bruce Wayne. It's one of the things I love so much about Scott Snyder's depiction's of Batman in The New 52: none of that "Bruce Wayne is only a mask I wear" crap that became so popular in the late nineties. In TN52, Bruce Wayne wages a war on crime by day with with fundraisers, public awareness campaigns, and urban renewal projects, and wages a secret war by night as Batman with his fists, and a private arsenal of bat-themed weaponry. Two different wars, fought by two different warriors. Oh my God, I'm totally using this in a later chapter, Thanks Spanner!
The rule of thumb I go by with DC and Marvel is as follows: Marvel makes the better movies, DC makes the better comics. In the comics, Superman wields the power of a god, and he is all too aware of just how much he can do with his power for good . . . or ill. And it really makes you feel for him.
5472109
I don't think that there's any compliment that a writer hopes to get more than that!
5472262 Thanks
I thought they did an okay job at making Bruce more developed in the new movies (they could have done more). What I think is funny is he may have said something along the lines of wearing a Bruce Wayne mask in the new movies. What I find the most interesting about Batman and Bruce Wayne is that he is so traumatized and perhaps internally insecure. He has to do things for himself and challenge his physical and mental skills just to make himself feel self-worthy.
When you had him getting upset with Luna for forcing him to let her heal him it reminded me of this exact character flaw in Batman. He is so afraid of not being able to help himself that he doesn't want help from anyone. The irony (maybe it isn't) is that he helps others for the exact same reason, he figures they need protection from things they can't fight alone.
Thus the tragic hero archetype was born, except Batman does it the best.
5477096
Spanner you magnificent bastard!
I wish I could tell you how magnificent you are, but for now, at least, I have to keep quiet.
You're really going to like the next several chapters.
5478191 Ha! lol.
I'll settle with you correcting the next chapter of ATTtP soon. (working on it now). Not literally now because I'm typing this message, and chances are by the time you read this I won't be working on it then either. However, be assured I am working on it and GRAM too!
I have done my review! Read it here.
5541965
I have made a blog post to promote it. Read it here.
Wow tht was good
Must have more
6153222
You have impeccable timing, friend. I just finished the newest chapter today. Once it's been through the prereading it will be promptly posted.
Oooooohhhhh!!!!
*Wipes manly tear.*
6768265 I thought it was supposed to be liquid pride? Or something like that?