Victarion
Iron Captain
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- Jun 10, 2006
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This is a story set in the BB universe, picking up after BB left off. It is rated PG-13 as of now, for Language & Violence as well as Disturbing images. It will not be a STRAIGHT Batman versus The Joker, but Joker will be in here, so don't worry about that!
Chapter 1-Cleaning Up
Night had fallen over Gotham City. Four months had passed since that night that the mad Dr. Crane launched a biological attack on the city. A dark figure leapt from rooftop to rooftop, silent as a trained ninja. What appeared to be a set of great dark wings spread to help the specter land. It knelt and picked up a small object-part of an arm bone. The bong had been gnawed at the ends, broken off from the rest. The dark figure turned the bone over in his hands, looking at the bite patterns along the bone as well as what was readable from the chewed ends.
Suddenly, there was a noise. It was a deep, exhausted pant. In the stillness, the sound of distant footfalls reached the ears of the dark figure. The piece of the bone was forgotten as the figure rushed off noiselessly after the panting escapee. As the pursuer rounded a corner between an old gift shop and a rundown tackle stand, it caught the tail end of its quarry. The prey’s destination was now dreadfully obvious, thus the figure altered its course as necessary.
Looming before the dark figure was a great old slaughterhouse. The dark figure stepped over the threshold, then was pulled up into the concealing darkness of the upper levels. A few minutes later, his quarry-a large, hunched figure entered the slaughterhouse.Quietly, the dark figure followed the progress of the cannibal. Clutched in a clawed hand was a hunk of ambiguous meat with a watch still attached to it.The cannibal would look back every now and then, unaware that its pursuer was still there. As it would look back, the hunter noted the strange head shape of the escapee: a slightly jutting jaw and the gray-hued skin that appeared to be covered in pebbly scales.
In the distance, a cry rang out. Looks like someone found Jones’s last victim. That was when the dark figure acted. He swooped down on the cannibal, landing a solid kick in the beast’s side, throwing it into a stack of crates. The thing recovered, eyes bloodshot with rage.
The dark figure released an object from its hand. The cannibal monster had charged, the dark figure assumed a defensive stance. A net of crates came crashing from above burying the large thing and effectively halting its charge. Sounds of sirens began to drift over the cool breeze towards the slaughterhouse. Kicking aside crates and raw meats revealed the clawed hand of the beast. Producing a syringe from with his ‘wings’, the dark figure injected a dark green fluid into the wrist.
A lance of light cut through the darkness. The dark figure stepped around the crates and there was a muffled fwoosh, and the dark figure disappeared into the concealing shadows of the slaughterhouse’s upper levels.
From a catwalk, he watched the scene unfold: the doors of the slaughterhouse were kicked open. A cadre of GPD officers entered, accompanied by who, if he heard Gordon right, was Flass’s replacement. He was around five six, slightly chunky, and wore his hair in the style of a black crew cut. Bullock was his name. Harvey Bullock . He had his service arm drawn, flashlight dancing around, then after a while turned it off.
“Spread out boys. Keep your gun at the ready at all times, but for god’s sake, don’t shoot your partner.” Bullock cautioned.
While the GPD were searching the rest of the slaughterhouse, one of the newer officers (just installed by the new D.A., Dent), heard a sound up above on the catwalk. His light beam whirled around, trained it on the catwalks, but he saw nothing.
Bullock, however, had found something. He spotted a pile of raw meat and crates. At the bottom of the pile lay a limp pebbly claw/hand. With one hand pulling aside crates and raw, steadily spoiling meat, the other holding his gun, trained on the center of the pile, he revealed the chest of one Waylon Jones. He appeared to be in a deep sleep.
“Enjoy your midnight snack, sicko?” Bullock asked with a look of disdain. He pulled around the big lug’s arms and cuffed him up. “Hello? This is Bullock. Patch me over to Arkham.”
There was a burst of static, then a melodious voice came through: “You have reached the office of Doctor Hugo Strange, Head Administrator of Arkham Asylum. This is Dr. Strange speaking.”
“Hey, Doc Strange, we got Waylon Jones here in la-la land. You wanna send a wagon to collect your pet?” Bullock nudged the Killer Croc's limp claw/hand with his shoe.
"Yes, and thank you, Detective Bullock. Transport will be sent out right away.”
“One more thing: Keep your crocodile muzzled.” Bullock had fresh in his memory what that poor soul back at the harbor gate looked like, torn into like that, intestines resembling large portabella caps…After speaking with Dr. Strange, Bullock switched frequencies over to the GPD.
“Hello? Anybody there?”
“Detective Bullock.” It was that one guy, James Gordon….the honest cop. It had surprised Bullock to find someone who wasn’t in the pocket of Thorne, Alberto, nor the new kid in town, Maroni.
“Hey, Jimbo. We found that missing person…”
Gordon cut in. "Was there a playing card found with the body?"
“No. It was that freak, the cannibal they called the ‘Killer Croc’.”
“Oh…" Gordon said gravely. He had seen picture of the 'Killer Croc's' work. There were never any survivors. "I'll alert the coroner, then."
“Thanks, Jimbo.” Bullock switched his scanner off and placed it at his service belt.
At that time, the officers Bullock brought with him returned.
“Sir, we found this,” one of the GPD (the new guy Dent had appointed) offered a small steel item shaped like a bat to Bullock. He took it and looked it over.
“Sonofa*****. The Bat got here first. Oh boy, Loeb’s gonna pissed off about this.” Bullock had been with the GPD for roughly three and a half months, and he was a quick learner. A conference in the aftermath of the Narrows attack had been the first time he saw Loeb demonstrate his animosity towards The Batman, and he didn’t want the Commish to launch into another diatribe.
Bright headlights cut through the kicked in doors, and a team of burly orderlies arrived, and were surprisingly able to get Jones up and into the old paddy wagon without any assistance.
“Well, that’s it for tonight, boys. I hope you’re all ready for one more in a long line of *******gs." Bullock said with a resigned tone.
They all exited the old slaughterhouse, blissfully unaware that the source of Commissioner Loeb's "*******gs" had been there to observe the entire exchange, though the nervous cop came close to exposing him.
As the Batman made his way home, a question was gnawing away at his mind: Where are you?
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Another event that occurred on the exact same night as the Narrows attack had nearly as much notoriety-the piggish behavior of a drunken playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne, and the destruction of Wayne Manor by a fire he accidentally set, though the papers said otherwise…But fortunately, on a night soon after Bruce returned to Gotham, he bought out a fine hotel so that he and two lovely models (the names escaped him, but god were they good), and thus he and Alfred had taken up residence in it.
A sharp sting shot up Bruce’s arm, and he jerked. Alfred, sitting beside him, was examining a nasty bite mark he had sustained last night. he always hated the needles, Alfred thought.
''Now regal me with just how you got this trophy,” Alfred asked as he removed the shot needle from Bruce’s wound.
“Getting the rest of them back in Arkham. And could you hurry up? I need to get in a bit of training before the meeting.”
Alfreded nodded. "Cleaning up the mess?" It was his own way of saying, 'cleaning up the mess you made, that you brought into the city', but spoken so that it would come out sounding ambiguous.Alfred placed the used needle in a garbage can marked: BIOHAZARD, and bandaged the bit that the ‘Killer Croc’ had given him in their skirmish.
"And as a former medic, I should adivse you to stay away from strenuous exercises for now." Alfred added as he took a set of clothes from the suite's closet. Bruce had been adding weights to the barbell. “But by all means, you are free to engage in your business pursuits.” Alfred said, laying a sleek black Armani suit across the master bed.
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At the heart of Gotham City was the magnificent Wayne Tower, established by his father Thomas Wayne. As Alfred was dropping Bruce off, he asked,
“What’s the subject of today’s meeting, Mr. Wayne?”
“More people from Sionis’s company. So that means you’ve pretty much got the rest of the afternoon to oversee construction.”
“Very well, Master Bruce. I shall be waiting around five-thirty, then.” Alfred began to climb into the black Lincoln, when Bruce stopped him.
“And make sure all the wells are properly sealed.”
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Wayne Tower's ground floor was in the middle of rennovations, due to the monorail cars that had crashed into the parking garages. Employees and construction workers filled the lobby, tracking dirt and sand as they went. Their own little way of spitting those higher up in the financial heirarchy.
While Bruce was waiting for an elevator, an African-American man with grizzly white stubble about his face, equally white hair and a prim dark red business suit joined him.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wayne. I hope the sedatives took care of that 'damn nasty sleeping disorder'."
Bruce shook his hand. "It worked very well. Pretty powerful stuff. I doubt I'll be needing anymore."
Lucius Fox grinned. "I should hope not. A whole syringe would be enough to knock out a good sized rhino."
They got out on the seventh floor, and walked down the long corridor to the Board Room. As they were passing the windows, a beat-up Crown Victoria whipped around a corner, and sped by an establishment across the street from Wayne Enterprises, men leaning out the windows, guns blazing.
Bruce was stopped dead, the drive-by taking him back to a familiar place from his nightmares: He was in a dank and cold alleyway beside an opera house. Dead at his feat lay his parents, Thomas and Martha. He was looking up at their killer. He had a gun pointed at Bruce. Chill's hand wavered as he backed away in fear...
"Bruce!" Fox gripped Bruce's elbow. He shook it. "Bruce!"
Bruce blinked several times, released his grip on the wooden rail, saw he left nail marks.
"Do you need any medicine?" Fox asked anxiously.
Bruce shook his head. "No, just spaced out for a bit. Let's get this meeting over with."
When they entered, and Bruce went to take his seat, several of the Board Members from his birthday party cast looks his way. Some of them shot him curious looks, others, like the stuffy man with the turkey wattle and glasses still looked upon him with disapproval. He instead focused on their guests.
There were three men: two setting up charts and a third that looked to be their astute speaker on behalf of Roman Sionis. The charts were various figures. Pie graphs, flowcharts, line graphs dealing with finances and the like. It reeked of a proposed merger.
"Good afternoon," their speaker, the astute man lawyer-type man began. "I am Mr. Fries, speaking on behalf of Sionis Industries medical department. I study cryogenics, which is the preservation of an organism through freezing." He stopped, took a sip of water, set his cup back on the podium.
Bruce raised his hand. Fries pointed to him.
"I ask you, Mr. Fries, is there any proof behind your cryogenics? It's all B-grade sci-fi to me."
Fries's voice took on a hard tone. "I was getting there, Mr. Wayne. Now please allow me to continue. Cryogenics is indeed possible. As a lad, I began to freeze small animals, like gerbils and mice. I wanted to preserve them, you see. In college, a professor of mine introduced me to the field of cryogenics. Mr. Sionis wishes me to skip the more interesting parts and get right down to the meat of the matter. But in closing I will tell you that there is a wide range of applications in medicine for cryogenics."
Fries stepped back, and one of the men setting up charts took his place.
"Greetings. I'm Mr. Boyle, Financial Adviser to Mr. Sionis. Now, let us get down to the niddy-griddy. Here," he pointed to the line graph, "are the stocks of Sionis Industries. Not too good." His pointed moved over to a line rising above the blue one. "These are Wayne Enterprises's stocks," he pointed to a red line jagging above the rest.
"Wayne Enterprises, however, has nearly become a monopoly in Gotham City. So I propose a merger to ultimately save both companies." Ferris Boyle licked his lips nervously as the Heads began discussing amongst themselves.
Bruce sat back, glancing at his watch. Almost five. Why couldn't it just be five already? His mind was made up. He did not care for a merger at all at the moment. He chuckled to himself. He still had to learn what Wayne Enterprises was excelling in since the Narrows incident.
"What's your say, Bruce?" Lucius finally asked. All eyes were on him.
"This was my father's company, and I intend it to stay as Wayne Enterprises."
Fox noded, then stood, and addressed Boyle. "Tempting as your offer sounds, Mr. Boyle, I'm afraid that Wayne Enterprises will not accept any mergers, at this point. If that is all, then I will call this meeting to a close."
This drew a number of surprisingly nasty looks towards Lucius from the other Heads.
Boyle briefly cast a glare at the Heads as he and his men left the room with Mr. Fries carrying up the rear, arms full of charts.
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Chapter 1-Cleaning Up
Night had fallen over Gotham City. Four months had passed since that night that the mad Dr. Crane launched a biological attack on the city. A dark figure leapt from rooftop to rooftop, silent as a trained ninja. What appeared to be a set of great dark wings spread to help the specter land. It knelt and picked up a small object-part of an arm bone. The bong had been gnawed at the ends, broken off from the rest. The dark figure turned the bone over in his hands, looking at the bite patterns along the bone as well as what was readable from the chewed ends.
Suddenly, there was a noise. It was a deep, exhausted pant. In the stillness, the sound of distant footfalls reached the ears of the dark figure. The piece of the bone was forgotten as the figure rushed off noiselessly after the panting escapee. As the pursuer rounded a corner between an old gift shop and a rundown tackle stand, it caught the tail end of its quarry. The prey’s destination was now dreadfully obvious, thus the figure altered its course as necessary.
Looming before the dark figure was a great old slaughterhouse. The dark figure stepped over the threshold, then was pulled up into the concealing darkness of the upper levels. A few minutes later, his quarry-a large, hunched figure entered the slaughterhouse.Quietly, the dark figure followed the progress of the cannibal. Clutched in a clawed hand was a hunk of ambiguous meat with a watch still attached to it.The cannibal would look back every now and then, unaware that its pursuer was still there. As it would look back, the hunter noted the strange head shape of the escapee: a slightly jutting jaw and the gray-hued skin that appeared to be covered in pebbly scales.
In the distance, a cry rang out. Looks like someone found Jones’s last victim. That was when the dark figure acted. He swooped down on the cannibal, landing a solid kick in the beast’s side, throwing it into a stack of crates. The thing recovered, eyes bloodshot with rage.
The dark figure released an object from its hand. The cannibal monster had charged, the dark figure assumed a defensive stance. A net of crates came crashing from above burying the large thing and effectively halting its charge. Sounds of sirens began to drift over the cool breeze towards the slaughterhouse. Kicking aside crates and raw meats revealed the clawed hand of the beast. Producing a syringe from with his ‘wings’, the dark figure injected a dark green fluid into the wrist.
A lance of light cut through the darkness. The dark figure stepped around the crates and there was a muffled fwoosh, and the dark figure disappeared into the concealing shadows of the slaughterhouse’s upper levels.
From a catwalk, he watched the scene unfold: the doors of the slaughterhouse were kicked open. A cadre of GPD officers entered, accompanied by who, if he heard Gordon right, was Flass’s replacement. He was around five six, slightly chunky, and wore his hair in the style of a black crew cut. Bullock was his name. Harvey Bullock . He had his service arm drawn, flashlight dancing around, then after a while turned it off.
“Spread out boys. Keep your gun at the ready at all times, but for god’s sake, don’t shoot your partner.” Bullock cautioned.
While the GPD were searching the rest of the slaughterhouse, one of the newer officers (just installed by the new D.A., Dent), heard a sound up above on the catwalk. His light beam whirled around, trained it on the catwalks, but he saw nothing.
Bullock, however, had found something. He spotted a pile of raw meat and crates. At the bottom of the pile lay a limp pebbly claw/hand. With one hand pulling aside crates and raw, steadily spoiling meat, the other holding his gun, trained on the center of the pile, he revealed the chest of one Waylon Jones. He appeared to be in a deep sleep.
“Enjoy your midnight snack, sicko?” Bullock asked with a look of disdain. He pulled around the big lug’s arms and cuffed him up. “Hello? This is Bullock. Patch me over to Arkham.”
There was a burst of static, then a melodious voice came through: “You have reached the office of Doctor Hugo Strange, Head Administrator of Arkham Asylum. This is Dr. Strange speaking.”
“Hey, Doc Strange, we got Waylon Jones here in la-la land. You wanna send a wagon to collect your pet?” Bullock nudged the Killer Croc's limp claw/hand with his shoe.
"Yes, and thank you, Detective Bullock. Transport will be sent out right away.”
“One more thing: Keep your crocodile muzzled.” Bullock had fresh in his memory what that poor soul back at the harbor gate looked like, torn into like that, intestines resembling large portabella caps…After speaking with Dr. Strange, Bullock switched frequencies over to the GPD.
“Hello? Anybody there?”
“Detective Bullock.” It was that one guy, James Gordon….the honest cop. It had surprised Bullock to find someone who wasn’t in the pocket of Thorne, Alberto, nor the new kid in town, Maroni.
“Hey, Jimbo. We found that missing person…”
Gordon cut in. "Was there a playing card found with the body?"
“No. It was that freak, the cannibal they called the ‘Killer Croc’.”
“Oh…" Gordon said gravely. He had seen picture of the 'Killer Croc's' work. There were never any survivors. "I'll alert the coroner, then."
“Thanks, Jimbo.” Bullock switched his scanner off and placed it at his service belt.
At that time, the officers Bullock brought with him returned.
“Sir, we found this,” one of the GPD (the new guy Dent had appointed) offered a small steel item shaped like a bat to Bullock. He took it and looked it over.
“Sonofa*****. The Bat got here first. Oh boy, Loeb’s gonna pissed off about this.” Bullock had been with the GPD for roughly three and a half months, and he was a quick learner. A conference in the aftermath of the Narrows attack had been the first time he saw Loeb demonstrate his animosity towards The Batman, and he didn’t want the Commish to launch into another diatribe.
Bright headlights cut through the kicked in doors, and a team of burly orderlies arrived, and were surprisingly able to get Jones up and into the old paddy wagon without any assistance.
“Well, that’s it for tonight, boys. I hope you’re all ready for one more in a long line of *******gs." Bullock said with a resigned tone.
They all exited the old slaughterhouse, blissfully unaware that the source of Commissioner Loeb's "*******gs" had been there to observe the entire exchange, though the nervous cop came close to exposing him.
As the Batman made his way home, a question was gnawing away at his mind: Where are you?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another event that occurred on the exact same night as the Narrows attack had nearly as much notoriety-the piggish behavior of a drunken playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne, and the destruction of Wayne Manor by a fire he accidentally set, though the papers said otherwise…But fortunately, on a night soon after Bruce returned to Gotham, he bought out a fine hotel so that he and two lovely models (the names escaped him, but god were they good), and thus he and Alfred had taken up residence in it.
A sharp sting shot up Bruce’s arm, and he jerked. Alfred, sitting beside him, was examining a nasty bite mark he had sustained last night. he always hated the needles, Alfred thought.
''Now regal me with just how you got this trophy,” Alfred asked as he removed the shot needle from Bruce’s wound.
“Getting the rest of them back in Arkham. And could you hurry up? I need to get in a bit of training before the meeting.”
Alfreded nodded. "Cleaning up the mess?" It was his own way of saying, 'cleaning up the mess you made, that you brought into the city', but spoken so that it would come out sounding ambiguous.Alfred placed the used needle in a garbage can marked: BIOHAZARD, and bandaged the bit that the ‘Killer Croc’ had given him in their skirmish.
"And as a former medic, I should adivse you to stay away from strenuous exercises for now." Alfred added as he took a set of clothes from the suite's closet. Bruce had been adding weights to the barbell. “But by all means, you are free to engage in your business pursuits.” Alfred said, laying a sleek black Armani suit across the master bed.
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At the heart of Gotham City was the magnificent Wayne Tower, established by his father Thomas Wayne. As Alfred was dropping Bruce off, he asked,
“What’s the subject of today’s meeting, Mr. Wayne?”
“More people from Sionis’s company. So that means you’ve pretty much got the rest of the afternoon to oversee construction.”
“Very well, Master Bruce. I shall be waiting around five-thirty, then.” Alfred began to climb into the black Lincoln, when Bruce stopped him.
“And make sure all the wells are properly sealed.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wayne Tower's ground floor was in the middle of rennovations, due to the monorail cars that had crashed into the parking garages. Employees and construction workers filled the lobby, tracking dirt and sand as they went. Their own little way of spitting those higher up in the financial heirarchy.
While Bruce was waiting for an elevator, an African-American man with grizzly white stubble about his face, equally white hair and a prim dark red business suit joined him.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wayne. I hope the sedatives took care of that 'damn nasty sleeping disorder'."
Bruce shook his hand. "It worked very well. Pretty powerful stuff. I doubt I'll be needing anymore."
Lucius Fox grinned. "I should hope not. A whole syringe would be enough to knock out a good sized rhino."
They got out on the seventh floor, and walked down the long corridor to the Board Room. As they were passing the windows, a beat-up Crown Victoria whipped around a corner, and sped by an establishment across the street from Wayne Enterprises, men leaning out the windows, guns blazing.
Bruce was stopped dead, the drive-by taking him back to a familiar place from his nightmares: He was in a dank and cold alleyway beside an opera house. Dead at his feat lay his parents, Thomas and Martha. He was looking up at their killer. He had a gun pointed at Bruce. Chill's hand wavered as he backed away in fear...
"Bruce!" Fox gripped Bruce's elbow. He shook it. "Bruce!"
Bruce blinked several times, released his grip on the wooden rail, saw he left nail marks.
"Do you need any medicine?" Fox asked anxiously.
Bruce shook his head. "No, just spaced out for a bit. Let's get this meeting over with."
When they entered, and Bruce went to take his seat, several of the Board Members from his birthday party cast looks his way. Some of them shot him curious looks, others, like the stuffy man with the turkey wattle and glasses still looked upon him with disapproval. He instead focused on their guests.
There were three men: two setting up charts and a third that looked to be their astute speaker on behalf of Roman Sionis. The charts were various figures. Pie graphs, flowcharts, line graphs dealing with finances and the like. It reeked of a proposed merger.
"Good afternoon," their speaker, the astute man lawyer-type man began. "I am Mr. Fries, speaking on behalf of Sionis Industries medical department. I study cryogenics, which is the preservation of an organism through freezing." He stopped, took a sip of water, set his cup back on the podium.
Bruce raised his hand. Fries pointed to him.
"I ask you, Mr. Fries, is there any proof behind your cryogenics? It's all B-grade sci-fi to me."
Fries's voice took on a hard tone. "I was getting there, Mr. Wayne. Now please allow me to continue. Cryogenics is indeed possible. As a lad, I began to freeze small animals, like gerbils and mice. I wanted to preserve them, you see. In college, a professor of mine introduced me to the field of cryogenics. Mr. Sionis wishes me to skip the more interesting parts and get right down to the meat of the matter. But in closing I will tell you that there is a wide range of applications in medicine for cryogenics."
Fries stepped back, and one of the men setting up charts took his place.
"Greetings. I'm Mr. Boyle, Financial Adviser to Mr. Sionis. Now, let us get down to the niddy-griddy. Here," he pointed to the line graph, "are the stocks of Sionis Industries. Not too good." His pointed moved over to a line rising above the blue one. "These are Wayne Enterprises's stocks," he pointed to a red line jagging above the rest.
"Wayne Enterprises, however, has nearly become a monopoly in Gotham City. So I propose a merger to ultimately save both companies." Ferris Boyle licked his lips nervously as the Heads began discussing amongst themselves.
Bruce sat back, glancing at his watch. Almost five. Why couldn't it just be five already? His mind was made up. He did not care for a merger at all at the moment. He chuckled to himself. He still had to learn what Wayne Enterprises was excelling in since the Narrows incident.
"What's your say, Bruce?" Lucius finally asked. All eyes were on him.
"This was my father's company, and I intend it to stay as Wayne Enterprises."
Fox noded, then stood, and addressed Boyle. "Tempting as your offer sounds, Mr. Boyle, I'm afraid that Wayne Enterprises will not accept any mergers, at this point. If that is all, then I will call this meeting to a close."
This drew a number of surprisingly nasty looks towards Lucius from the other Heads.
Boyle briefly cast a glare at the Heads as he and his men left the room with Mr. Fries carrying up the rear, arms full of charts.
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