Batman Legacy: Book One
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 14: Madness Spreads
Narrows – Night
The first one went down hard.
A blur of black dropped from the fire escape, crushing the air from the thug’s lungs before his scream could even leave his throat. Batman’s gauntleted fist slammed him against the wall, concrete dust raining down with each blow. The clown mask cracked under the impact, splitting to reveal a bruised, bloodied face beneath.
“Where is he?”
The man coughed, choking on blood. “I—don’t—know—”
Batman’s grip tightened on the collar. “Wrong answer.”
From the shadows, Robin said nothing. He stood back in the darkness between dumpsters, his cape brushing against wet brick, eyes fixed on the way Batman’s punches came faster now—less calculated, more brutal.
The thug slumped, unconscious. Batman let him drop, turning without a word.
The second one was cornered in a dead-end alley, his cheap revolver still smoking. Batman stripped it from him, tossed it into a puddle, and drove him against the wall so hard his teeth clicked together.
“Talk.”
The man’s voice was a whimper. “You think I’m scared of you ... after seeing what the clown did?”
Batman’s silence was answer enough.
But the thug’s eyes darted wildly—not to escape, but as if searching for something just over Batman’s shoulder. “He sees everything. Even now. You don’t get it—” His mouth twisted into a grin that didn’t belong on a sane face. “You think you’re the monster? Wait until he—”
Batman hit him again, but this time the laughter didn’t stop. It echoed after the man hit the ground, spilling into the empty alley like a curse.
It went on like that for hours.
A man in a sewer tunnel, hands bound with a zip tie, smiling with teeth painted red.
Two more in an abandoned arcade, their heads snapping back under the weight of Batman’s questions, but refusing to give him anything except riddles and laughter.
Some were terrified—shaking, sobbing, begging for him not to hand them over to “the Boss.”
Others were something far worse: loyal. Their eyes were wide and shining, their words full of reverence, as if they were speaking about a prophet instead of a murderer.
Not one of them broke.
By the time they reached the last alley, the rain had started to fall, plastering Batman’s cape to his shoulders. He stood over the final thug, his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. The man on the ground was smiling through a split lip, eyes glassy with fanatic devotion.
“You can break every bone I’ve got,” the thug said, spitting blood onto the pavement. “And I still won’t tell you. Because when he finds you—” He chuckled, low and hoarse. “—you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Batman’s fist twitched ... then lowered.
He stepped back, shoulders hunched, head low. The rain hissed against the rooftops.
From the corner, Robin didn’t move. He could see it in Batman’s posture—the stiffness, the weight in his steps as he turned away. The silence that clung to him wasn’t the silence of patience. It was the silence of a man realizing a dark truth.
Robin swallowed hard. “What ... what are we supposed to do?”
Batman didn’t answer.
Robin’s voice cracked, quieter now. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
For the first time, what frightened Robin more than the Joker ... was the possibility that Batman was just as scared as he was.
And if Batman didn’t know what to do—then maybe no one did.
Gotham Harbor – The Selene – Night
The yacht’s deck glowed under strings of golden lights, their reflections rippling across the black waters of Gotham Harbor. The hum of conversation and the clink of champagne flutes floated over the low thrum of jazz from the live quartet. The air was warm but carried a hint of the river’s brine.
Rachel stood near the railing beside Harvey Dent and Selina Kyle, their eyes occasionally drifting toward the distant skyline. The city’s jagged silhouette was still marred by the smoke stains of recent fires, some buildings cloaked in scaffolding like half-healed wounds.
They were dressed for the occasion—Rachel in an elegant navy dress that caught the lamplight with every step, Harvey in a perfectly tailored suit that gave him a statesman’s sharpness, and Selina in a sleek, sleeveless black evening gown with a generous amount of cleavage, a low back, and a daring slit running up the side. The cut revealed one of her long, sensuous legs with every subtle shift of movement, a detail designed to draw eyes, to unsettle or entice.
Yet here, beneath the dim glow of the yacht’s lanterns, the allure only deepened the contrast with the mood that lingered between them. Their expressions were subdued, weighed down not by the glamour of the night but by the shadows pressing in on Gotham, shadows they each carried differently on their faces.
Harvey glanced between them and gave a wry smile. “We can’t look like we’ve already lost. If Gotham sees us faltering, the city’s already halfway in the grave. Tonight’s about showing a brave face.”
Rachel’s brow furrowed. “That’s not easy for a lot of people right now.”
“I know,” Harvey said, voice softening. “That’s why I wanted this gathering. As part of my mayoral campaign, I want Gotham’s elites united—not just to honor the dead, but to remind people there’s still something worth saving. We can’t let the Joker’s massacre define us.”
He scanned the deck, eyes searching. “Where’s Bruce?”
Rachel glanced toward the pier. “He’s coming. Just a little late.”
Harvey’s lips curved into something mischievous. “So, you two finally made it official, huh?”
Selina tilted her head, caught off guard. “Official?”
Rachel’s cheeks colored faintly. “Harvey—”
“Don’t give me that,” he said, his grin widening. “I’ve been waiting for this matchup since we were kids. I always knew you had a crush on Bruce. I just wondered how long it would take for you to find the spine to do something about it.”
Rachel punched his arm—lightly, but enough to make his champagne slosh. “Stop grinning like that.”
“How can I?” Harvey teased.
Selina’s smile was small but genuine as she looked at Rachel. “Well, at least now we’ve got a better excuse to spend more time together. I’ve always wanted to try those double dates.”
Rachel chuckled, meeting Selina’s gaze. There was an unspoken warmth there now, a truce born from rocky beginnings. They weren’t just tolerating each other anymore; they were quietly, steadily becoming friends.
And somewhere beneath the laughter, Rachel carried her own secret. She knew Selina was Catwoman. She knew what that meant, what kind of life that entailed. But she’d never say a word—not to Harvey, or to anyone. For now, this was enough.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop at the edge of the private dock. The city’s night air carried the faint tang of river water and the distant hum of the yacht’s generators. Bruce stepped out into the glow of the dockside lamps, his expression carefully schooled into something calm and neutral.
Straightening his jacket, he started toward the ramp leading to the yacht, his polished shoes clicking softly against the weathered planks. The damp scent of river water mixed with diesel fumes from nearby boats, and the gentle slap of waves against the docks echoed in the quiet. Overhead, rigging creaked and lines rattled against metal masts, the distant hum of the yacht’s generators a low, steady vibration. That was when he noticed them.
Straightening his jacket, he started toward the ramp leading to the yacht, his polished shoes clicking softly against the weathered planks. The scent of salt and fuel mingled in the night air, and the gentle slap of water against the docks echoed in the quiet. Overhead, rigging creaked and lines rattled against metal masts, the distant hum of the yacht’s generators a low, steady vibration. That was when he noticed them.
Three men walking ahead, coming from the direction of the dock. Their suits fit the dress code, but the details didn’t match. Tattoos creeping past their collars. Studded nose rings that caught the light. A smear of dark eyeliner under one man’s eyes. They weren’t guests—at least, not the kind Harvey would’ve invited.
Then Bruce’s gaze settled on the one trailing behind wearing a naval uniform and white cap as if he were just another member of the crew. He kept his head low, his collar and the brim of his sailor’s cap shadowing his face. Even so, something about the man’s posture—too wary, too coiled—set Bruce on edge.
Without breaking stride, Bruce slipped a pair of slim, tinted lenses from his pocket and fitted them over his eyes. The world shifted into sharp night-vision clarity.
Details jumped into focus. Skin, bleached a sickly, unnatural white. A few stray strands of green hair sticking out from under the hat. And then—Red. Eyes like raw embers burning from within.
Bruce’s throat tightened. His pulse kicked into a faster rhythm. He veered toward the shadows beside the pier, moving with the same unhurried grace he wore at board meetings—except now every step was purposeful, every motion calculated to go unseen.
By the time the men reached the ramp, Bruce Wayne had vanished into the dark. And somewhere below deck, the Batman was already assembling himself.
Soft strains of a string quartet floated across the yacht’s deck, elegant and restrained, painting the evening in warm, classical tones. Guests murmured politely over their drinks, the chandeliers above casting a gentle glow on their tailored suits and glittering gowns.
Harvey raised his glass, signaling for attention. The music softened to a respectful hush. He cleared his throat, voice steady but tinged with genuine sorrow.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, eyes sweeping across the crowd. “We gather tonight not to celebrate, but to mourn. To remember those lost in the unimaginable chaos wrought by the Joker’s massacre. Ninety-seven lives—innocent lives—snatched away in a single night of madness.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, scanning the faces of the wealthy Gothamites before him. “And many more injured. Families torn apart. Streets left haunted by terror.”
A shadow crossed his brow as his gaze darkened slightly. “And yet, even beyond that night, Gotham suffers. Dozens of people—men and women from all walks of life—have been going missing. We fear the Joker’s hand in this, and our hearts ache for those families left searching for answers. Tonight, I ask that we keep them in our thoughts. I hope—and pray—that they may be returned safely to their loved ones.”
The murmurs around him softened, a few attendees nodding in silent agreement. Harvey straightened, his voice gaining strength. “We cannot undo the horror, but we can repair what has been broken. I call on all of you tonight, the leaders of Gotham’s community, to unite in rebuilding. To support the victims, to help the police who brave the streets daily, and to ensure that the monster who caused this chaos is brought to justice.”
A faint clink of silver against glass echoed as the last notes of the string quartet lingered in the air. Then, almost imperceptibly, the music shifted. A dark, jagged undertone cut through the melody, jarring against the respectful tone of the evening. Guests turned their heads, unease prickling their spines.
From somewhere in the crowd, a hand shot out. A microphone was snatched from the stage. The man’s hat flew off in a swift motion, and the first screams erupted as the pale, bleached-white face came into view. Emerald-green hair, eyes glinting with manic fire, and a crimson smile twisted unnaturally across his face.
“Wow,” the Joker’s voice carried across the yacht, sharp and mocking, “What a speech, Harv! You’ve got my vote!”
Gasps and shouts filled the deck. The musicians—once instruments of beauty—now revealed cold steel hidden in their cases, rifles and pistols flashing as they leveled at the crowd. Guests froze in panic, some trying to duck behind tables, others reaching for their own concealed weapons.
From all corners of the party, men with tattooed faces and elegant coats stepped forward, weapons drawn. The Joker’s grin widened, stretching impossibly across his face as he twirled the microphone like a baton. “Ladies and gentlemen, the night is young ... and the party is officially mine.”
Joker’s gaze swept the room, scanning the terrified elites, then landed on Harvey. “Bring me Dent,” he purred, voice dripping with amusement. “I want to get an autograph from Gotham’s golden boy ... he can sign it in blood!”
Selina stepped forward, voice sharp. “Over my dead body!”
Rachel’s tone was thinner than Selina’s, but she still managed, “Mine too!”
The Joker laughed, a high, musical sound that made the crystal chandelier above them shiver on its gimbaled mount. It was built to stay steady even in rough seas, but somehow his voice seemed to rattle it just the same.
“Now, now, ladies ... don’t go having your periods on me. We’re all about equal opportunity here, so there’s room for everyone in the slaughterhouse.”
He gestured lazily, and his thugs moved forward, grabbing Selina and Rachel with effortless menace.
Harvey’s jaw tightened. “Do what you want to me, filth—but leave them out of this.”
Joker’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “Oh, goodie. Another hero archetype. I love those. I love watching them break!” He raised a pistol to Harvey’s temple.
The thugs chuckled, confident in their control—but they didn’t notice the small, sleek drones whirring through the air, hidden in the shadows. Each drone was fashioned in the unmistakable shape of a bat, wings curved and sleek, their black metal reflecting the chandelier light. Blue arcs of electricity crackled along the edges as they swooped through the air.
With a sharp buzz, the drones struck. Lightning danced across the thugs’ bodies, throwing many to the floor with cries of shock and pain. The bat-shaped silhouettes darted between the rafters and corners, blending with shadows, their precise movements like an airborne predator hunting through the night.
Joker’s attention snapped to the chaos among his men. His grin faltered for a fraction of a second—enough. A shadow cut across the room, and Batman glided in, cape fanning out like a living storm. He kicked Joker squarely into a set of drums, the impact producing a comical clang, and the madman’s laugh turned self-mocking.
“Oh! Oh-ho! My, my—such force! Bravo!”
The yacht shook with the reverberations of gunfire, crystal glasses rattling against polished tables. Joker’s laugh ricocheted off the walls, a high, manic melody over the chaos, punctuated by the thuds and screams of his men being incapacitated.
One of the thugs lunged at Selina, grabbing her wrist with a grip like iron and yanking her toward a shadowed corner of the yacht. She hissed, twisting and kicking, but the thug was relentless, dragging her out of sight. Her heels clicked against the deck, metal and wood, a staccato warning to anyone nearby.
Batman didn’t hesitate. The rest of Joker’s men advanced, weapons drawn, but he moved with fluid precision, a whirlwind of black and muscle. Fists collided with jaws, boots slammed into kneecaps, and elbows cracked against ribs. Each movement was surgical, calculated—but when chaos erupted, he adapted seamlessly. The bat-shaped drones swooped from the rafters, arcs of blue electricity igniting as they struck, frying weapons out of hands, shocking thugs mid-lunge. Sparks rained down like fireflies in the dim light, illuminating the terror in the remaining men’s eyes.
Joker stumbled back to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders. A purple tommy gun appeared in his hands, spitting lead into the crowd with a staccato rhythm of death. Screams erupted. Guests dove for cover, overturned chairs and tables creating temporary barriers, but some were too slow. A bullet tore through a railing; another struck a server, sending him sprawling across the polished deck.
“MOVE!” Batman barked, shoving Harvey behind a solid column of scaffolding.
Then, without pause, he pivoted to shield Rachel, his armored back taking the brunt of a ricocheted round. The impact hammered into him—once, twice, three times—each shot a jarring, concussive thud that rattled his ribs beneath the plating. The state-of-the-art armor held, its skintight weave light as fabric but strong as steel.
However, the force still drove through muscle and bone, promising deep, ugly bruises before the night was over. His jaw tightened, refusing to give the pain any purchase. The sharp bite of gunfire hummed through the air as he adjusted, cape snapping out like a living thing to sweep aside shards of glass and splintered wood that rained around them.
Joker froze for a heartbeat, his wild eyes flicking first to Harvey, then to Rachel, before settling on Batman. A cruel, knowing smile spread across his face as he opened fire again, laughing like a kid playing a videogame.
Several guests were wounded, and one unlucky bodyguard fell beneath the hail of Joker’s spray. Batman’s eyes narrowed; he couldn’t save everyone. He focused on the immediate threat. A swipe of his gauntlet, a flick of a wrist, and a drone darted from the ceiling, whirring through the air with lethal precision. Electricity arced from its wingtip as it knocked the gun from Joker’s hands.
“Spoilsport!” Joker hissed, his voice rising to a shrill crescendo.
He yanked a golf club from beneath his purple coat and began smashing the drones with wild, precise swings. Metal clanged, sparks flew, and the smaller machines twisted violently, some falling into the fray with broken circuits.
Batman advanced, fists ready, cape billowing like a storm. Every muscle coiled for the strike. But Joker, with uncanny reflexes, sidestepped, spinning and planting a boot squarely against Batman’s chest. The blow sent the Dark Knight skidding back, his gloved hand scraping the deck as Joker sprinted past, laughing maniacally.
“Oh, Batsy, you always make it so fun! Guess who I’m calling for my Sweet Sixteen?”
From the sky, a purple-painted helicopter descended, its rotors slicing through the chaos, lights casting flickering shadows across the terrified guests. A ladder unfurled, dangling over the water like a serpentine invitation. Joker leapt, grabbing hold and ascending with a speed that defied gravity, his laughter slicing through the night like a blade.
Batman moved to follow, instincts screaming, but a sharp, panicked voice froze him mid-step.
“SELINA!” Harvey’s shout was raw, desperate, echoing across the deck. “WHERE’S SELINA?!”
The Dark Knight’s jaw clenched. He turned toward the sound, scanning the yacht’s corners where shadows ran long and deep. Selina—still unseen, still in danger—was his priority now.
In a secluded corner of the yacht, the thug pressed the gun to Selina’s head, his hot breath ghosting across her neck from behind. He leaned in, his voice a low, taunting whisper.
“Yeah, I know you’re a feisty bitch,” he hissed. “But don’t even think about it. I’ll blow your pretty head off the second you try.”
Selina didn’t flinch. She said nothing, her lips tightening into a thin line, but her eyes flashed with cold indignation. Every muscle in her body was coiled, waiting for the opening she knew would come. For now, she played the part of the helpless damsel, but the fury simmering in her gaze promised a reckoning.
The thug’s eyes roved madly for a brief second as he tried to figure out what to do next. Then he caught sight of the purple-painted helicopter lifting Joker into the night. His escape route was gone.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
Then he glanced down at Selina, her proud chest heaving with fear and fury. A wicked grin crept across his face.
“Well ... at least I got a sweet consolation prize.”
His hand drifted toward the plunging neckline of her dress, fingers groping crudely at her breast. Selina’s eyes narrowed, the promise already forming in her mind: she’d break that hand the first chance she got.
Then the thug froze, his body stiffening against her back as a shadow loomed across the deck. Batman stood there, shoulders squared, fury etched into every line of him.
His voice sliced through the night like steel. “If you know what’s good for you, shit stain, you’ll take your filthy hands off her.”
For a fleeting moment, Selina’s breath caught. Beneath the raw anger in his tone, she heard something else—concern, burning hot and sharp. He wasn’t just angry for her. He was worried for her. The realization touched her more than she wanted to admit.
The thug stepped back, one arm still draped around Selina’s throat while jerking the gun from her toward Batman.
“Or what?” he said with a defiant sneer.
Selina moved like liquid steel. Her hand shot up, seizing the thug’s wrist and twisting sharply, forcing the gun away from Batman. Before he could react, she drove her stiletto heel into his foot, eliciting a strangled scream. Then she slammed the back of her head into his face, the impact snapping his attention and leaving a thin trail of blood on his chin.
She twisted violently, breaking his wrist with a clean snap and disarming him completely. An elbow struck hard into his jaw cut off his scream, and an open palm followed, slamming against his face with brutal precision. The thug staggered, still trying to seize her, but Selina was faster.
As he reached for her again from behind, she snapped her leg straight back in a high kick, the motion precise and explosive. The toe of her foot jabbed into his temple, dazing him. The slit in her gown rode up with the movement, briefly revealing the smooth line of her pale leg and the curve of her black thong.
Before he could regain his balance, she coiled her legs around his head in a fluid motion, using the momentum to hurl him over her shoulder. He crashed to the floor with a bone-jarring thud, sprawled and unconscious. The exchange occurred in a matter of seconds.
Selina came to her feet with feline grace, exhaling softly as the rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She tugged slightly at the neckline of her gown, which had slipped dangerously low during the fight, settling it back into place. Her gaze met Batman’s, and she let a slow, dangerous smile curl across her lips—an unspoken challenge and a spark of triumph lingering in her eyes.
Batman cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing away as he said, “Good work.”
Selina’s cheeks flushed for some reason, and she glanced away, her usual composure slipping for just a moment. “Yeah ... same to you,” she murmured, voice a little softer than usual.