The Batcave hummed with a cold, sterile silence that felt like a mockery of the burning inferno above. Inside, the roar of the fire was gone, replaced by the low, steady thrum of computers and the quiet drip of water from the cavern walls. Bruce, his body aching and bruised from the impact of the bullet, paced frantically.

“Where’s Hailey?! Is she hurt?!” he demanded, his voice strained and raw. “We have to get to Richard before the Joker does! We have to go, Alfred! NOW!!”

Alfred, his face etched with a familiar sorrow, grabbed a medic kit and began to set it up. “Master Bruce, you are in no condition to be running headlong into a fight,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle. He held up a hand to stop Bruce’s frantic pacing. “We cannot save anyone if you are blind with panic. We must be methodical. We must be sane. One thing at a time.”

Bruce’s shoulders sagged slightly at Alfred’s words, the frantic energy giving way to a weary submission. He nodded slowly and began to walk toward the armory, the heavy vault door standing as a silent testament to the life he had built and the one he had tried to protect.

As he moved, his mind raced. He had been a fool, so incredibly naive. He had believed he could give Hailey a better life, a quiet life, safe from the Joker’s twisted obsession. He had believed his wealth and his carefully guarded anonymity could act as a shield.

Now, their unborn child was at risk. He had put Richard’s life in jeopardy. It was his arrogance, his hubris, that had led them all to this moment. The roaring fire above was not just consuming his home; it was a physical manifestation of his failure.

Just as he reached the vault, Alfred spoke, his voice now a low, solemn command. “Master Bruce. Look at me.”

Bruce stopped, his head bowed. Alfred walked up to him, placing a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“You were not naive,” Alfred said quietly as if he had read Bruce’s thoughts. “You were brave. You gave her what the Joker never could: a home, a family, a true life. The Joker saw what you built, and it infuriated him. That home, that life, that love… it was real. It was the right thing to do.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “Remember that love, Master Bruce. Do not let this tragedy erase the beautiful life you two built together. You must remember it, because it is what you are fighting for now. It is your strength, not your failure.”

Bruce looked at the vault door, his mind’s eye replaying every happy moment with Hailey. His guilt and self-blame began to recede, replaced by a cold, focused fury. His hands clenched into fists.

He wasn’t a fool. He was a man who had loved, and he was a man who had lost. Now, he would be the man who fought to get it all back.

He stripped off his charred jacket and vest, his body shaking with a mix of adrenaline and pain, and began to don the cowl, his identity dissolving as the black armor began to click into place. As he pulled on his final gauntlet, hit the comm.

“Jim,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “They took Hail… They took Mrs. Wayne. I have no idea where Bruce Wayne is.”

The comm line was silent for a beat too long before Gordon responded, his voice low with barely suppressed fury. “Don’t tell me… Bruce Wayne’s wife is Harley Quinn?!” he asked, the name a venomous hiss. He didn’t wait for a response. “What about Bruce Wayne?! What happened to him?! And why didn’t you stop them?!”

Batman ignored the questions, his own voice cold and distant. “I’m telling you what I know, Jim. Focus on the facts.” He paused, his tone shifting from methodical to urgent. “Bruce’s son, Richard, is spending the night at the Cobblepots’. Get a patrol car there immediately! I’m headed there too!”

The line went dead, leaving Gordon in the middle of a burning street, with a burning question in his mind, and a new, urgent command to follow.

Alfred, standing a few feet away, watched as Batman slid into the cockpit of the Batmobile. “Should I alert the Justice League?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Batman looked at him, his gaze steely.

“No,” he said, the word a final and absolute command. “They’ll only be in my way.”

The canopy slid shut with a hiss of hydraulics, and the Batmobile’s engines roared to life. It rocketed full speed out of the cave and into the night.

Alfred stood alone. He hadn’t seen Bruce this angry and focused since the night Jason was murdered.

The stillness was thick, heavy with the weight of the night’s events. He walked over to the main computer terminal, his posture rigid. Bruce’s orders had been clear and absolute. But Alfred’s duty had never been to obey. His duty was to protect Bruce, from the world and, sometimes, from himself. With a few keystrokes, he bypassed the command and opened a secure channel.

“Go ahead, Alfred,” a voice, crisp and calm, responded almost instantly.

“Oracle,” he said, his own voice tight with urgency. “You need to know what has happened.” He quickly explained everything: the Joker’s attack on the manor, the fire, and the kidnapping. He finished by describing the state Bruce was in and his last command.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry, Alfred,” Oracle’s voice finally came back, soft and reassuring. “I’ll alert available members of the Justice League. We’ll look after him.”

***

The Batmobile raced through the streets of Gotham, a black arrow piercing the night. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon and white, a frantic watercolor painting against the smoked canopy. At the wheel, Batman was a statue of grim purpose, his knuckles cracked as he gripped the controls.

Inside the cowl, his mind was a tormented place. He saw two faces, bruised and bloody and broken. Jason’s face, pale and still in the wreckage of a warehouse. And Hailey’s, battered and tear-streaked one on the floor of their burning home. The Joker had taken one from him, a failure that had haunted him for years. He would not allow it to happen again.

Why won’t this crate go any faster?! The thought was a silent roar of fury, a promise made to the ghosts of his past and the woman he loved. He mashed the accelerator harder to the floor. The Batmobile’s engines screamed, and the car lurched forward with a bone-rattling force. He hit the boost, and the world outside became a vortex of speed and sound as he tore through the streets, a dark specter on a solitary hunt.

But Batman wasn’t alone. One by one, the Justice League tried to intercept him, and one by one, they fell.

The Flash was the first, a crimson streak of lightning that appeared in the Batmobile’s path, a warning in his eyes. “Bruce, stop! We can help!” he pleaded. But before the words were even out of his mouth, a high-frequency pulse from the Batmobile’s speakers washed over the hero. The sound was a silent weapon, disrupting the kinetic energy around him. The Flash’s super speed faltered, and he collapsed to the ground, his body buzzing with a dizzying static as Batman’s vehicle roared past him.

Next came Wonder Woman. She descended from the sky, her sword drawn but her intentions clear. “The League has been alerted, friend. You cannot do this alone!” she commanded, landing with a ground-shaking thud. This time, Batman’s contingency was a flash-bang grenade that didn’t just blind, but also emitted a specialized sound frequency designed to disorient her enhanced Amazonian senses. As the powerful sound wave hit her, she instinctively stumbled back, her senses overwhelmed, giving Batman the precious seconds he needed to speed away.

Green Lantern was the last. He created a shimmering green wall of energy, a towering, unbreakable barrier in Batman’s path. “This isn’t you, Batman! What is this about?!” he roared. But the wall was a mistake. Batman’s countermeasure was an EMP, a sudden, powerful blast that overloaded the ring’s delicate circuitry. The green light flickered and died, and Green Lantern plummeted to the street below, his construct disappearing into thin air.

The Batmobile hadn’t even come to a full stop on the Cobblepot Mansion portico before the canopy opened and Batman launched himself out. He was a dark blur, a force of desperate energy tearing across the manicured lawn and into the house. The front door was a splintered ruin.

Inside, the silence was absolute. Not a single sound. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood. He found the Cobblepots in the living room, their bodies arranged in a macabre scene. A horrifying, triumphant scrawl of purple and green graffiti was all over the walls, a clown’s twisted, jagged smile mocking him from every surface.

His heart, a cold stone in his chest, plummeted further. He searched every room, his hope a dying ember, until he found young Oswald in his bedroom, unconscious but alive. He gently placed the boy on the bed. He found Richard’s watch on the floor, the piano black casing marred by a small dent. The Joker’s cruel message was delivered.

He ran back to the Batmobile, vaulting back into the cockpit. His comm line crackled to life, connecting him to Gordon once more.

“Jim…” Batman’s voice was a low, strained growl, devoid of any pretense. “Joker took the boy. Your guys aren’t going to like what they find. Young Oswald is unconscious but alive in his bedroom upstairs, on the bed.”

He mashed the pedal, but the Batmobile wasn’t moving. The tires spun uselessly on the pavement, a low, groaning sound echoing his own mounting frustration. The headlights of the Batmobile illuminated a red boot, and as he looked up, he saw him—Superman, one boot holding the Batmobile in place and the other on the ground.

Batman screamed from the cockpit, his voice a loud, furious growl. “Let me go! They have Hailey and Richard!”

Superman’s gaze was steady, his face a mask of calm resolve. “I know, Bruce,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering. “We’re going to get them back. But not like this. We’ll do it together.”

Batman looked at him, his face a grim mask of torment. “I’m sorry, Clark…”

Before Superman could react, a cloud of green gas erupted from Batmobile’s grill, engulfing the hero. Superman staggered back, a gasp escaping his lips as his powers faded. The gas wasn’t lethal, but it was just enough. The immense strength drained from his muscles, and he crumpled to his knees, his hands weakly grasping at the air as the world swam before his eyes.

The Batmobile’s tires found traction with a screech. The car shot out from under Superman’s touch and roared away into the night, leaving him coughing and weakened in the empty suburban street.

Gasping and coughing, Superman managed to open a comm channel. “Oracle,” he rasped, his voice weak. “He got away! Only Flash, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, and I were close enough to intercept…”

And he knew exactly where the Joker was headed.

His mind raced, piecing together the broken fragments of the Joker’s insane logic. The Joker wouldn’t just hide them; he would take them to a place of symbolic, perverse importance.

The same way he had chosen to burn down the house that represented Bruce and Hailey’s new life, he would choose a location that represented his own twisted origins. There was only one place that fit the criteria, one place that served as a monument to their shared, horrific history: the old Ajax Chemical plant.

It was where the Joker had been born, and it was where he was taking them to die.

The Batmobile’s course shifted, its destination locked in.

Vengeance was coming and it was dressed like a bat.

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.