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“No big, fancy rescue this time.” A crackling laugh follows the statement, punctuated by the thump of a fist hitting flesh.
A subtle scrape of metal on concrete, then the choking gasp when a crowbar meets an abdomen. Chains clink, retraining movement around wrists and ankles. With the harsh yank of a loose chain, the attached ones are pulled taught, holding their captor up with arms extended and feet barely brushing the ground.
Dark gloved finger scramble for hidden lockpicks, only for his assailant to hold up the thin pieces of metal. The madman lets out a howling cackle, long fingers bending the lockpicks into useless twists. At his side are large pieces of protective armour that used to be on the hanging figure, now discarded like yesterday’s trash. Then, his white gloved hand grabs the crowbar again. A stalking gait brings him closer, until he can rear back and slam the crowbar into unprotected ribs, which crackle under the blow. A stuttered gasp breaks out from the hanging man’s throat.
The captor makes a loping circle around his victim, before stopping behind him. He crouches down and peers around the man’s stretched torso, grinning wide at a dark camera recorder across the room. His grin gets wider at the thought of the people watching. A laugh bubbles up, overtaking his body in convulsions. He throws his head back, howling his glee to the ceiling.
— — —
Business at the watchtower went as usual. Heroes came in and out, performing regular duties and patrols as laid out by Batman and Superman. Staff continued to operate the teleportation pad, fingers flying and voices chirping in their ears as they pulled heroes to and from disasters and back alleys.
It isn’t uncommon for heroes to come back bloodied, or for them to sound alarmed when calling for a pick-up. It is, however, uncommon for them to come carting a bloodied, injured civilian with a disarmed bomb around their chest and a small cardboard box clutched in their hands. So when Green Arrow beams up with exactly what situation, things get a little crazy.
The civilian is carted off to the medbay with a bomb disposal team scurrying after them, and Green Arrow starts yelling for Superman with the box beginning to crumple under his grip. His hands are slick with blood, the red colour covering the front of his suit and wetting the box. He waves off every attempt at being checked over, insisting that he’s fine.
“Superman! Get your big blue ass down here right now!” Other heroes pause to stare, watching as Green Arrow stumbles from the teleportation pad.
His eyes are wide behind his mask, hair disheveled and costume askew. His skin is pale where it can be seen, and his voice is pitched. Seeing civilians injured is one thing, but this screams of a different kind of desperation. A growing horror that something is terribly wrong spreads through the watching masses as a red and blue shape comes down from the observation deck.
“Arrow, what’s going on?” Superman touches down in front of the other hero, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders. “What happened? You need to get to the medbay.”
But Green Arrow brushes off Superman’s hands and words, instead shoving the box into his fumbling hands. He leans in close to the larger man, saying something hushed and urgent. When big blue pales as well, onlookers begin to whisper and some come closer to investigate.
Before anyone can ask, Superman has flown off, hand to his communicator, voice hushed and urgent. Green Arrow collapses where he is and stares at his hands. From the crowd, Black Canary pushes herself forward and approaches the man. They share quiet words, Green Arrow slumping into her side. When a sharp gaze casts through the crowd, people begin to disperse, unwilling to incur her wrath.
Slowly, she manages to get Green Arrow to his feet and they shuffle along towards a changing room and the attached washracks. When they reach the closest one, Canary snaps at the few people inside to get a move on. Seeing the state of her companion, they don’t argue, and rush through changing to get out of the room. She locked the door behind them.
When she returns to Green Arrow, he’s pulled his mask off and started to tug at his gloves. He’s pulling in all the wrong ways, more likely to damage them than take them off. Canary gently grabs his hands, working the gloves off easily. Then, she moves to the rest of his bloodied uniform. Once he’s been stripped down to his underclothes, she sits beside him and cups his face with her hand.
“Arrow, Ollie, what happened?” Her voice is soft, but he still flinches at the sudden noise. His eyes meet hers, and her heart breaks at the fear in them.
“The civilian, she…I was in Gotham helping Nightwing with an op. He wasn’t with me but, I’ve been- been trying to help out more, around there. Roy and I, we- we’ve been better, you know-” He stops, takes in a breath, and starts again. “I was in Gotham, and a civilian came up to me. She had a bomb; it was timed. I disarmed it, and she told me that a Joker goon put it on her and told her to get a box to the nearest hero. She said that it had to do with Batman, and I couldn’t help it Dinah; I had to look, I just had to, because it’s Bruce and-”
Dinah takes his face in her hands and smoothes her thumbs over his cheeks, shushing him gently. He’s worked himself up to near hyperventilation, and she coaxes him into taking deep breaths. When his breathing has evened out, she moves her hands to his and gestures for him to continue.
“I looked in the box, and it was a tablet. It was on, and being livestreamed to from some other device. And it was him, Dinah; it was Bruce, and he was chained up. Joker was there, and I watched him hit Bruce with a crowbar.” He flinches at the word, mind going to a certain recently legally revived young man before he shakes himself back to the present. “It’s bad, Dinah.”
Canary takes some deep breaths, trying to keep herself calm. She wants to worry, wants to break down and rush into the meeting Superman is no doubt in; wants to take that tablet and crawl through the screen to help Bruce. But now isn’t the time. She needs to be here for Oliver, needs to keep him calm and get him cleaned up.
“Bruce will be fine. He always is. The others will rescue him, and he’ll be stubborn and refuse treatment, but he’ll be fine.” Dinah watches Oliver take in another deep breath, then rise to his feet.
“Well, no use sitting around here doing nothing.” He grabs his discarded uniform and moves towards the washracks to clean them.
Dinah lags behind a moment, allowing him to get ahead of her so she can press shaking hands to her face. She tries to believe her own words, but she finds it difficult. The Joker is always a dangerous thing when it comes to Batman.
She just hopes they’ll be able to get Bruce out, so they can give his kids some good news.
— — —
The meeting room is quiet and tense, all eyes on the small screen broadcasting a live image of Batman hanging from chains. Explanations have already been had, and now the founding members of the Justice League are waiting for the system to locate their captured member. Normally, Batman would be the one finding the location, fingers flying over the computer and mind analyzing every number coming up on screen. Except this time, he’s the one they’re looking for.
J’onn is the one at the large computer console, diligently working away at finding their missing teammate. Everyone else stands watch over the tablet, ready to relay any information they can garner from the recording.
It’s been 10 minutes, and they haven’t seen Joker yet. Batman hangs there, limp and breathing raggedly through likely-broken ribs. It’s disheartening to see the man like this. Normally, he’d be fighting tooth and nail to get free. He must have been there for long enough that he’d exhausted all ways of breaking loose.
Finally, the padding of footsteps comes out of the tablet’s speakers, and Joker makes his first appearance. He swaggers forward, something clutched in his left hand. When he raises it to the light, Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Everyone here knows how Jason died, and seeing the crowbar brandished towards his father brings with it a sinking dread. It feels far too much like things coming full circle.
When Joker gets to Batman, he turns to face the camera. His arms spread out wide, a grin plastered on his face.
“Welcome, dear audience. I trust you’ve gotten my little gift. Do thank the wonderful messenger for me, would you? I didn’t get the chance to meet them in person.” The Joker’s voice comes out tinny through the speaker, occasionally crackling with static, likely from the distance. “I do hope you all enjoy the show.”
With that, Joker turns and slams the crowbar into Batman’s ribs, earning a choking gasp and a full body flinch. Batman shakes where he’s chained up, almost convulsing. His body is locked up, chest fluttering without taking full breaths. They watch as he grits his teeth so hard they can almost hear them creak, fighting back whatever other noises he wants to make. When he finally takes in a proper breath, though wet and shallow, the watching members let out the breaths they’d been holding.
Joker rears back and swings again, this time at a shin. The sharp crack echoes through the room, causing more than one of them to flinch in sympathy. This time, Batman lets out a pained whine, unable to keep the noises at bay.
As the assault continues, Clark finds himself looking at the others. Barry has turned his head, unable to continue watching the assault on his friend. Diana and Shayera continue to watch, staring resolutely at the screen even as they fight to hide their flinches at every blow. Hal and John are talking quietly to themselves, discussing ways they attempt to aid the search; none of them sound like they’d be fast enough. J’onn hasn’t turned from his work at the console, a determined set to his shoulders.
When Clark looks back, it’s just in time for Joker to drop the crowbar and reach for something off screen. He rolls a canister of something attached to an oxygen mask. The idea of Joker helping Batman breathe to prolong his fun flutters through their minds before they see the label scrawled on in green paint.
Fear toxin.
Batman had been almost deathly still, but now he begins to struggle. Little growls and gasps of pain leave his lips as he kicks out with his good leg, catching Joker in the stomach once and the arm on the next attempt.
“Ah, ah, Batsy, you’re being very naughty. Now take your medicine like a good boy.” Joker grabs onto Batman’s broken leg, eliciting another gasp, and lurches into the hanging man’s space to put the mask over his face.
They all watch with bated breath, holding theirs as Batman holds his. He holds for nearly a full minute before his already-strained lungs break, and he lets in a shuddering breath. Green smoke fills the mask, entering Batman’s lungs and poisoning him. Joker laughs at the sight.
Clark’s fists clench, knowing what’s coming and bracing himself for it. He desperately wants to look away like Barry, but he can’t. He can’t let his friend suffer through this alone, even at this distance.
It only takes a minute for things to get even worse.
Batman continues to try and hold his breath, breathing as little of the toxin in as possible. However, what he’s already breathed in is beginning to affect him. His breaths are coming quicker, lungs expanding and sputtering against broken ribs, desperately sucking in whatever air they’re given. By the time that minute has gone by, he’s nearly hyperventilating.
They can’t see his eyes, but they can imagine how they dart around. His head twists, following shadows they can’t see. His legs kick, a broken keen leaving his lips when his shattered shin shifts. He starts to mutter to himself, voice so low that the speakers can’ pick it up. Joker decides that this is his moment to shine again, relaying Batman’s words to his audience.
“‘No, no, no’ says the little lamb. ‘No, not again, please not again.’ Oh Bats; poor, poor Bats. tormented by unseen horrors, left here alone to suffer and wallow. But don’t you worry, I’m right here.” Joker approaches, ignoring the frightened whimpers coming from Bruce, and cradles the man’s head in his hands. “I can make the pain go away. You just need to hold out a little longer and it’ll all be over.”
Clark feels the table beneath his hands give way, a large crack echoing through the room and the stone crumbling to dust in his fingers. No one says a thing, all too tense and worried.
“J’onn, hurry.” Clark can barely speak, voice strained and harsher than he means for it to be.
There’s no response, but the clacking of keys speeds up.
“Now Bats, I have a little game I want to play. It’s a bit overused, already had its time to shine, but it’s a classic.” He goes back over to the crowbar, then turns back to Bruce. “Now tell me Batsy, what hurts more?”
They all watch as Joker brings the crowbar down again and again, voice so laden with cackles that it's unintelligible. Clark finds himself flinching with every strike, eyes growing hot as he listens to the whispers that turn to cries or pain. Bruce is losing hold of himself, breaking down, and it’s impossibly hard to watch.
When Joker brings out the knife and hammer, Clark stops breathing. He doesn’t breathe as the white-skinned madman steps closer to Bruce, doesn’t breathe as he brings the knife’s tip to rest over Bruce’s heart, doesn’t breathe as the first bead of blood rolls over black under armour. Clark leans in closer, knowing his lungs won’t start aching for hours, and desperately wishes he were human so he could feel even an inch of Bruce’s pain.
Joker turns to look at the camera, smiles even wider, and brings the hammer down on the end of the knife. Bruce gasps around the intrusion, and then the hammer comes down again, and again, until the knife’s handle sits flush against Bruce’s chest.
Spots dance before Clark’s eyes, his vision swimming. The camera sways even more as Joker brings it closer to Bruce, setting it up so they can all watch as Bruce gasps and chokes. J’onn’s fingers have stopped moving, then they start up with a renewed ferocity. Blood runs in rivulets down Bruce’s lips. Someone in the room sobs, but Clark can’t look away from Bruce’ eyes.
He looks so scared. The toxin is still eating away at his mind, putting him through unimaginable horrors, as his body goes through another one. Joker can be heard cackling in the background, so loud they almost can’t hear Bruce’s breath whistling out through the hole in his lungs. But they can certainly hear the sucking pop as something gapes around the knife.
Bruce gasps again, and for a moment it looks as though his eyes clear, focussing on the camera. His mouth moves around words he can’t speak, obscured by the green smoke in his mask. His mouth moves again, and again, then slower. His eyelids droop, his head lolls against his chest.
Clark watches as the lights in his eyes go out. Watches as his best friend dies.
They don’t even know what his final words were.
J’onn’s fingers stop moving, and a hard mental shove sends them all careening for the doors. Directions lay themselves into their minds, sending them flying and running through the halls. No one stays in their way for long, but stares follow them.
They reach the teleportation pad, and they’re beamed down without a single word needing to be said, courtesy of J’onn’s telepathy. Clark is thankful for it in this moment. He’s not sure he could have said anything if he tried.
As soon as his feet hit concrete, he’s flying. The wind whistles by his ears, stinging his eyes and streaming tears into his hairline. He ignores all of it, following those mental directions to a warehouse near the Gotham docks. Of course it’s in Gotham. Where else would it be? Clark should have known, should have been searching down here the whole time. Maybe he would have found Bruce sooner.
He sweeps the area, looking for Joker, and crashes through the roof right on top of the madman. He doesn’t look at the rest of the room, doesn’t acknowledge the body hanging by its hands. Clark grabs onto Joker’s collar and stares into the gleeful eyes of a monster. He brings his fist back and punches the man in the face. When all he gets is a wide grin, he punches again, and again.
Joker starts to laugh, punctuated by coughs and gurgles as his teeth start to break and cut his tongue and throat. He laughs, then coughs up blood, then laughs again. His nose breaks and more blood smears his painted white face. He laughs as his jaw snaps out of place, he laughs as his cheeks shift, he laughs as bruises swell over his skin.
And all Clark can think about is the fact that he saved this man. Years ago, after Jason died, he stopped Bruce from killing him. Stopped Bruce from killing a murderer. He doesn’t regret his choice; he knows that Bruce would have broken irreparably if he’d killed Joker. But Superman wouldn’t have. Superman should have killed him, damn the consequences. He should have killed him before it was too late.
Clark hears the others enter the building, hears them find the room. He hears them gasp and sob and cry out for a teammate that suffered too much. The chains are released, and a body is gently laid on the ground. He doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t see the man he failed while the one who killed him is still breathing.
He could kill Joker easily, could snap his neck or burn his brain away. But this man made Bruce suffer, made him afraid and made him break. Superman may believe in mercy, may be benevolent and may have killed Joker quickly. But Clark? Clark just watched his best friend die. Clark has no mercy for this laughing clown. So he keeps punching him, slowly beating the man to death, avenging a lifetime of pain and suffering. No one stops him.
No one tells him that it’s too little, too late.