The city is silent.
For the first time in decades, Gotham doesn't tremble with fear or hope - it just watches. Smoke curls from the ruins of what used to be Wayne Tower, the symbol of the man now gasping at my feet. Blood pools beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the broken pavement, a deep crimson against the moonlight.
Batman - no, Bruce - is barely holding on. His breath rattles like a dying engine, and those once-unbreakable eyes flicker, searching for something. Purpose? Salvation? Oh, Batsy, there's nothing left for you.
I crouch down, pressing two gloved fingers against his shattered ribs, just to hear that last, delicious groan of pain. My grin stretches, a grotesque gash across my face, as I tilt my head and drink in the moment.
"Oh, Bats. Look at us. Just two old friends at the end of the road. You fought so hard, didn't you? So noble, so self-righteous, so damn predictable. And for what? To be left in the dirt, broken, while the city you swore to protect watches in silence?"
I gesture with a dramatic sweep of my hand at the gathered crowd, their faces pale, their bodies still. Not a single one of them tried to stop me. Not when I took the Boy Blunder's last breath. Poor little Robin. He begged. Not for his life - no, he was a brave little soldier - he begged for The Batman. Begged for you to save him. But you never came. You sanctioned his tourture. You let him die alone in the dark.
My mind drifts back to Alfred. There was no pleasure to be taken from his death. The old butler was ready to go. Tired. Humourless.
And Harley? oh, my dear, dear Harley. What a train-wreck. She thought she could fix me. Thought she could be my light. But love? Love is just another joke, a bad one, with a bloody punchline. I watched the hope die in her eyes before I snapped her neck. And still, I feel nothing.
I lean in close, my voice dropping to a whisper, a companion's farewell. "No one cares, Bats. They never did. You were just a mask to them. A myth. A bedtime story to keep the monsters away. But me?"
I laugh, and oh, it feels good. It's deep, guttural, twisted with triumph and madness.
"I am the monster. And now there's no one left to stop me."
Bruce's fingers twitch, grasping for something - justice, maybe? Oh, how adorable. I take his cowl, pulling it back to reveal the man beneath. The real man. He's just flesh and blood after all. Weak. Mortal. Defeated.
"I almost wish you could see what comes next," I whisper, smoothing back his damp, matted hair. "Gotham will burn, Bats. Not in a glorious inferno. No, no, no. That would be too kind. It will rot. It will fester. And every single soul who ever turned away, who let you die in the dirt, will come to understand what real suffering is."
His breath stutters. The light is leaving those tired blue eyes. I grip his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
"The joke's on you, Bruce."
A final gasp. A shudder. Then, nothing.
And just like that? it's over.
For a moment, just a moment, I feel something I don't recognize. A flicker of? emptiness? No. No, no, no, no.
I push his body aside and stand, arms outstretched, facing the city that let this happen. That let me win.
But my laughter doesn't come. It should, shouldn't it? This was the plan. The punchline. The grand, tragic joke of it all. And yet, the moment hangs in the air like a bad note, a ruined symphony.
I look down at him, at the cowl in my hand, at the broken bodies around me. Cops. Robin. Civilians. Alfred. My henchmen. Harley. Batman. My greatest enemy, my only equal.
The game is over.
My hands tremble. I wipe them against my ripped and tattered suit, but the shaking won't stop. What do I do now? What is a comedian without his audience? A king without his war? A joke with no fucking punchline?
A hollow, rattling breath leaves my lips. It sounds almost like a sob.
Is this fear?
I reach into my coat and pull out my revolver, spinning the cylinder lazily. One bullet. I press the cold barrel against my temple. The cold feels real. My finger tightens against the trigger.
The city watches.
I smile.
