(As per this: superhero, vigilante & meth lab)
NEMESIS
The year following the fall of the Joker was a time of relative peace for Gotham.
With most of the criminal elite rotting in Arkham or serving time in Blackgate and with Commissioner Gordon's influence firmly established over the police, there was little need for the Batman.
Finally I could let it go. Finally I could live a normal life.
Rain falls heavily from the black clouds gathered above, hitting the ground with a wet smacking sound that reminds me all too well of something entirely different.
From the outside, the decrepit looking theatre looks empty enough.
From the outside you can't see the rot that lies within.
'Commissioner?'
My conscience twists. I could have handled this differently. I could have told them the truth.
Men might die here tonight.
The revolver hangs heavily in its holster at my side.
'Move in.'
In the power vacuum that followed, a series of turf wars broke out amongstthe gangs and mafia families of Gotham.
Too distracted for any one group to consolidate power, I watched from my mansion as the police began to take what remained apart piece by piece.
And then came Nemesis.
I take Smith and his squad with me through the front, Vasquez and his men move
round to cover the rear.
At precisely 10.45pm on the 26th of June we simultaneously enter the building.
And then it all goes to hell.
Nemesis.
The name given by the media
circus to the one who has again brought evil to Gotham City.
My city.
The lobby is empty; all smashed glass and cobwebs.
Smith moves to cover the entrance to the theatre proper.
No one speaks. They've seen the photos. They know what they are up against.
The theatre is a small one by modern standards, seating perhaps a couple hundred.
Old leather seats, ripped and torn, sit in silence before a silver screen that is dark and smudged with dirt.
I signal Smith forward to a small wooden door that stands next to the screen.
It hangs askew on its hinges.
Smith kicks it open and I see him gag involuntarily.
'Jesus...'
Even after all these years, the smell of blood churns my guts.
In all the chaos I did not see the pattern; did not detect that something dark had begun to haunt the streets.
I was preoccupied with being Bruce Wayne.
I dread what comes next.
The space behind the screen is narrow, no more than a few feet between it and the back of the building.
Smith gestures with a torch at a square of steel that stares up at us a few feet away.
Evidentially a trap door that once led to a storage area.
I nod at Smith.
'Open it.'
I can tell he doesn't want to do it. But he does.
The door swings back with a screech to reveal a rats nest of tubing, plastic drums, cheap laboratory gear and death.
Smith’s torch travels over the scene in jittery movements.
I can see a tattooed arm, draped over the closest drum.
It is partially obscured by the door.
Smith turns to me, pale.
'Is this what you expected?'
No. No it isn't.
'I didn't know what to expect. I-'
A strangely familiar whirring springs to life, and suddenly the backspace is bathed in a flickering luminescence.
Tinny music fills the theatre, punctuated by the sound of steel clashing on steel.
I look up from the scene of devastation below me at the sound and my heart skips
a beat as a figure, cowled and draped in black lunges at me.
Fool.
It's only the movie.
‘Is that Zorro?’ someone asks.
And then we hear the screams.
Helena’s body was found beaten and bloody in an alley at the edge of the Narrows.
Although the Huntress and I rarely saw eye to eye, she was one that stood against those that preyed upon the weak
That was enough for me.
I hear the tremor in Oracle’s voice as she speaks and my thoughts turn dark.
Something heavy hurtles out of an alcove to the side, slamming into a velvet covered wall.
Vasquez, face barely recognisable beneath the blood, throat crushed and nose pulverised back into
his brain.
Someone opens up at the darkness, punctuating the mariachi soundtrack with a brief staccato of gunfire.
I spit commands, spreading everyone out in twos and threes.
From the corner of my eye, I see a long shadow detach itself from the gloom.
An inarticulate shout is all I offer before it strikes.
Too long. I’ve been away from the night for too long.
It has made me lethargic and slow witted. Now others are dead.
Jason. Kate.
Selina is missing.
It is my fault, of course.
And now I suffocate under a vicious sense of déjà vu as I once again make this vow over the bodies of loved ones:
Nemesis. I will hunt you down. I will stop you.
I watch in fascinated horror as it decimates a third of my team in the time it takes me to lift the gun.
He’s fast.
Unlike the Batman, the silhouette bears no cape.
Unlike the Batman, he’s not holding back.
The shadow springs amongst us, breaking bones and crushing organs.
In a hoarse voice, I demand it stops. I beg it to.
I am sure it is hit by at least one shot, but it doesn’t stop or even slow.
Guttural laughter underpins the cries of pain. He is enjoying the killing.
I steady myself in the chaos, waiting for the moment.
What I’ve been dreading.
Nemesis disengages and readies to strike again.
In the flickering light I see my chance: a crescent of pale flesh in the darkness.
The gun booms.
Anger and despair fill me with rage. They are old friends and I embrace them warmly.
Nemesis has learned my identity and struck from the shadows into my very home.
Alfred…Damian.
Something unfurls its wings and chitters in my soul.
The first blast goes low, slamming into his chest.
The seconds rocks the figure back, sending a spray of scarlet that splashes vividly against the screen.
The figure hisses a wet leopard growl at me and turns, fleeing towards the side entrance.
I wave the others back as I race after it, firing as I go.
‘Secure the area! Get the medics in here!’
I find him sprawled in the alley, a pool of blood spreading
outwards from the gaping wound that has destroyed much of his jaw.
Pale moonlight glints off black body armour.
I pause, stunned at the reality of the situation.
Without the cape and the shadows he is just a man.
Somehow, despite the ruin of his face, I can hear him whispering.
I kneel next to him and gingerly pull back with one hand the mask that has mostly been obliterated.
‘Jim…I tried...stop it,…it...it can’t hear their voices anymore...it...it hates that we won-’
In examining the bodies I discover trace elements of methamphetamine and a simple chemical compound used to preserve film. In his pocket I find a yellowing piece of paper and a digital camera.
What I see there devours me.
This ends now.
I turn away, distraught, as the words trail away to a soft gurgle that eventually fades to nothing.
All I can think about is how long I have known of his burden.
Of how it must have driven him mad.
I could have stopped this.
I could have saved him.
As the sirens approach, I drop the still smoking gun from numb fingers. It hits the broken concrete of Crime Alley with a clatter.
I pull the crumpled envelope from my pocket and draw out the dog eared flier and the photos that lie within.
Zorro stares up at me.
Scrawled across the flier in hastily written handwriting our analysts have identified as belonging to Wayne’s butler are four words:
‘Where it all began.’
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