A Life in DC
Chapter 5 - Part 1
High above the city, deep within the cavernous, humid air of the Batcave, a monitor flickered to life, displaying the grainy feed from a camera Batman had installed in Vieri's house weeks ago — a precaution, a surveillance measure meant to track a man who moved like a ghost in Gotham. But now, the feed was a slow-motion nightmare.
It showed the small, red light blinking in the corner of the room, hidden behind a stack of old magazines. The device had captured every primal moment of their coupling — the wet slap of skin, the guttural screams, the shock of milk, the violent climax. It had recorded the complete destruction of Selina Kyle, watching as she was reduced to nothing more than a trembling, gasping vessel for a man she couldn't resist — a man who didn't even need to be Batman to command her.
Batman watched the screen, his gloved hand tightening on the console until the plastic groaned under the pressure. His chest heaved with a mix of shame and a burning, possessive jealousy that twisted in his gut like a live wire. He had seen her fight, seen her steal, seen her outmaneuver him, outwit him, outplay him — but never like this. Never so… undone. Never so utterly surrendered.
He didn't look away. He couldn't. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. The image burned into his retinas: her legs folded, her body broken open, her voice cracking under the weight of pleasure and pain. The way she begged — not for mercy, but for more. The way she called Vieri's name like a prayer. The way her body betrayed her, trembling, spasming, leaking, *begging*.
And then — the alarm blared.
A red light flashed across the cave. A priority alert. Joker.
Batman didn't move at first. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, watching as Vieri collapsed on top of her, his body heaving, his sweat mixing with hers, their breaths ragged and synchronized in the aftermath. He saw the way Selina's fingers twitched against the couch, the way her eyelids fluttered, the way she didn't even try to move — just lay there, broken and satisfied.
Then, the alarm screamed again.
He tore his eyes away. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, pulling up the location. The old abandoned chemical plant on the riverbank. Classic Joker territory. Classic chaos.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Alfred's voice came through the comms, calm as ever.
"Master Wayne, the Joker's targeting the riverfront. He's got hostages — three of them, tied to the railings. He's broadcasting live. Says he's 'redecorating Gotham's skyline with a splash of color.' He's… unusually agitated."
Batman didn't respond. He was already pulling on the cowl, the familiar weight settling over his skull like a second skin. He didn't need to hear the rest. He knew what Joker was like when he was agitated. He knew what it meant when he was *unusually* agitated.
He didn't need to hear the part about Harley.
But he did.
Alfred's voice, softer now, almost apologetic. "He's… mentioned Harley. Said she's 'gone soft.' That she's 'playing dress-up with the girls.' He's furious, sir. More than usual."
Batman's gloved hand clenched into a fist. He didn't need to hear that. He didn't need to hear that Harley had left him — that she had chosen Selina, chosen Ivy, chosen *them* — over the madness of the Joker. He didn't need to hear that the one person who had always been there, always chaotic, always loyal in her own twisted way, had walked away.
He didn't need to hear that she was now part of something bigger — something that included Selina.
Something that included *him*.
He didn't need to hear any of it.
He was already in the Batmobile, the engine roaring to life with a guttural snarl that vibrated through the cave's stone walls. The tires screamed as he peeled out, the screech echoing off the cavernous ceiling like the wail of a dying beast. The Batmobile surged forward, a black bullet tearing through the underground tunnel, the lights blurring into streaks of white and red as he punched the accelerator.
The city outside was a storm of neon and rain, the streets slick and reflective, the buildings towering like tombstones. He didn't see them. He didn't see the flickering signs, the wet pavement, the people huddled under umbrellas, the cars crawling through the downpour. He saw only the screen. Only Selina's face, twisted in ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes rolled back, her body arching under Vieri's brutal thrusts. He saw Vieri's hands — large, calloused, possessive — gripping her hips, pulling her apart, forcing her to take him deeper, harder, until she was nothing but a trembling, gasping mess. He saw the way she had screamed his name — not in defiance, not in protest, but in surrender, in *need*. The way her body had betrayed her, convulsing, spasming, *begging*.
He didn't need to hear Joker's voice over the comms, crackling with manic energy. "Batman! You're late! Again! You always are! Always running after the wrong things! You think you're the hero? You're just a ghost! A shadow! A coward who watches from the dark while the real fun happens!"
Batman didn't respond. He didn't need to. He was already there.
The Batmobile skidded to a halt outside the chemical plant, the tires kicking up a spray of rain and gravel that hissed against the metal. He didn't wait for the doors to open. He was out before they finished sliding, his cape snapping behind him like a living thing, the wind whipping it into a furious arc. The air was thick with the smell of chemicals and smoke — acrid, biting, the kind that clung to the back of the throat. The sound of laughter echoed through the night — high-pitched, manic, unhinged. It wasn't just Joker. It was his goons, too — a chorus of cackles and whoops, the sound of men who had lost their minds and were having the time of their lives.
Inside the plant, Joker was holding court, but his heart wasn't in it. He stood on the catwalk above, a king surveying a kingdom of rust and decay, his green hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face painted in a grotesque grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. His suit, once a garish symbol of chaotic authority, was stained with sweat and cheap bourbon, the bottle of which he clutched in one hand like a scepter. In the other, he held a detonator, his thumb hovering over the big red button with a kind of bored, petulant menace.
His goons, a ragtag collection of thugs in cheap clown masks, were scattered around the yard below, their usual manic energy replaced by a clumsy, uncertain enthusiasm. They dragged three terrified hostages toward the railings overlooking the churning, chemical-green river, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. They were trying to laugh, to whoop and holler, but it was forced, the sound hollow and tinny in the cavernous space. They were feeding off Joker's energy tonight, and his energy was a poisoned well.
"Come on, come on, you lumps!" Joker snarled, his voice a grating rasp that lacked its usual musical glee. He took a long, burning swig from the bourbon bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. "Tie 'em tighter! We're making a statement here! Art! You're all my brushes, and they're my… well, they're the canvas. A very, *very* boring canvas, but we work with what we have, don't we, boys?"
One of the goons fumbled with a rope, and the hostage, a middle-aged man in a suit, whimpered. Joker's eyes narrowed, and for a second, the grin faltered, replaced by a flash of pure, venomous irritation. He pointed the detonator at the goon. "Do I have to do everything myself? I'm the visionary! You're the muscle! The muscle is supposed to be… muscular! Not… floppy!"
He turned away, pacing the length of the catwalk, his boots thudding a restless, uneven rhythm. He wasn't looking at the hostages. He wasn't looking at his goons. He was staring into the middle distance, his gaze unfocused, his mind a million miles away.
"Harley," he muttered, the name a low growl, almost a curse. He took another swig of bourbon. "Little Harlequin. Thought she had a vision. Thought she was an artist." He let out a short, sharp, humorless laugh. "An artist. She was a critic, that's what she was. My best critic. Always knew where the joke was going." He spun around, his arms wide, addressing the empty air. "But now? Now she's playing tea party with the plant lady and the kitty cat. 'The Queens of Crime,' they call themselves." He spat the title, his lip curling in disgust. "Queens? Please. They're a book club. A gardening society. They're… *domestic*."
He slammed the bourbon bottle down on the metal railing, the clang echoing through the plant. "She left me for a *cause*! For *sisterhood*!" He shrieked the word, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and genuine, baffled hurt. "Sisterhood? We had a brotherhood! A beautiful, chaotic, *explosive* brotherhood! And she traded it in for… for what? For Catwoman's hand-me-downs and Ivy's… *potpourri*?" He started pacing again, his hands gesticulating wildly, a conductor leading an orchestra of madness. "Oh, she thinks she's so clever now. So *independent*. 'We're taking what we want, Mistah J,' she'd say. 'We're not just your sidekicks anymore.' Sidekicks? SIDEKICKS?!" He roared the word, his voice echoing off the steel walls. "She was my *muse*! My better half! The yin to my yang! The… the other half of the punchline!"
He stopped, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. He stared down at the detonator in his hand, his thumb tracing the red button. "She'll see," he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hiss. "She'll see what real art is. What real chaos looks like. When this whole river goes up in a beautiful, green, bubbly… *poof*… she'll come running back. She'll remember what real fun is. She'll remember who the real king of this city is."
He looked down at his goons, who were now watching him with a mixture of fear and confusion. He plastered the grin back on his face, but it was a brittle, fragile thing. "Alright, boys! Showtime! Let's give the Bat a real welcome! Let's make some… noise!"
"Batman!" Joker shrieked, his voice ricocheting off the corroded steel walls of the chemical plant, sharp and shrill as shattered glass. "You're late! Again! You always are! Always running after the wrong things! You think you're the hero? You're just a ghost! A shadow! A coward who watches from the dark while the real fun happens!"
Batman didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He was already moving.
One moment he was a silhouette against the storm-lashed night, the next he was a blur of black and gray, cape snapping like a war banner as he leapt from the roof of the Batmobile to the catwalk above. He landed without a sound, boots biting into the grated metal, the rain sluicing off his cowl.
Joker whirled, his grin widening into something feral, delighted. "Oh, look! The Bat's finally decided to show up! Took you long enough! You've been busy, haven't you? Watching? Waiting? Or maybe you've been… distracted?"
Batman didn't respond.
He was already in motion — a predator striking. His fist connected with Joker's jaw with a sickening crack that echoed through the cavernous space. Joker's head snapped sideways, his painted grin slipping for a fraction of a second — not from pain, but from genuine, startled surprise. He hadn't expected Batman to move so fast. Not at this moment when he'd seemingly been so… distracted.
Joker staggered back, boots scraping against the wet metal, but he didn't fall. He spat blood onto the grate, then laughed — a wet, gurgling sound that turned into a wheeze. "Ooooh! Feisty tonight, Batsy! Did someone steal your lunch? Or maybe… maybe you're just mad 'cause the city's gone soft on you?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, smearing crimson across his cheek. "Harley's off playing dress-up with the girls — Catwoman, Poison Ivy. They've got their own little circus now. Guess they don't need the Clown Prince of Crime anymore. Too messy. Too loud. Too fun." He spat the last word like a curse, his voice dripping with a venom that was only partly for show. The insult was a wild, lucky shot in the dark — but it landed with the force of a hammer, and Joker's eyes lit up with manic glee as he saw the flicker of something unreadable in the Bat's stance.
Batman didn't react. Not outwardly. His jaw remained locked, his eyes narrowed behind the cowl, fixed on Joker like a predator on wounded prey. But inside, the words cut deeper than any knife. Harley's off playing tea party. They've got their own little club. The image flashed — not of Harley, but of Selina, sprawled on that couch, her body broken open, her voice begging for more. And Vieri — not a villain, not a hero, just a man who had taken what Batman had never dared to claim.
He didn't let it show. He couldn't. Not here. Not now.
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