The Black Bishop (Batman SI)

Bruce Wayne's sixteenth birthday celebrations were truly unprecedented on several fronts. The properly appointed Wayne Manor had balloons and streamers mixed in with the traditional decorations as raucous laughter echoed through its vast hallways. Yet hiding behind all this gaiety was a disquieting tension. Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-watchful guardian, kept an eye over his youthful client, his brow furrowed and a suggestion of sadness in his otherwise keen eyes. Little did the tenants know, the boy they were celebrating was determined to live a life much darker than the dance of shadows at the walls.

On an invitation from Alfred, having seen off the last of the guests, Bruce was standing near the great staircase, gazing out across the night beyond the window. Alfred addressing him, "Master Bruce," spoke, gentle yet firm, "it is time we talk about your future."

Bruce made a turn toward Alfred, pouring his young heart outside out with tones of excitement and dignity. "You know what this night means now, don't you, Alfred?"

Alfred nodded darkly. "Quite, to be sure. The night you are no longer Bruce Wayne."

With this realization lingering silently between them-a tacit acknowledgment of Bruce's chosen path-Bruce released his breath. "I'm ready, Alfred. I've studied; I've trained. I know in my heart what I must do to protect this city."

The look in Alfred's eyes was a conflagration of emotions: fear, pride, and resignation. "I know you've prepared for this, Master Bruce. I've seen your dedication, have noted your strength. But donning the cape and cowl, especially at such a tender age, is no light matter. The responsibility weighs heavily. The darkness of this city might eat a man alive."

Bruce knew that Alfred would probably die if he ever came to know how much he was prepared, for the cosmic secret was riding through him. But, as he often did, he smiled that small grin of reassurance. "I know the risks, Alfred... But I've got to do this. For my parents, for Gotham."

Alfred stepped forward, from the concentration on the young man's face seeking any thread of thought which may lend doubt. "Your parents would be proud, certainly. But then they would be worried, too," and he placed a compassionate, strong hand on the youth's shoulder, really quite a good show of solidarity. "But I'm here for you, always."

The two, however, shared a deep bond, one of understanding that lay beyond butler and ward. Bruce squared his shoulders and met Alfred's gaze with steely determination. "I know," he said kindly. "And I'll make them proud."

In an embrace that expressed every unspoken word both he and Alfred felt in this touching moment, Alfred murmured into Bruce's ear, "Remember, Master Bruce; the suit is not you, nor are you a symbol to instill fear in hearts; you are mortal, and that is most important to keep in mind."

Bruce almost laughed, resisting the urge to correct Alfred's statement. He himself was an incarnation of the cosmos, a dead god of darkness and chaos by the name the Batman Who Laughs or The Darkest Knight. But he would, of course, never tell him that; instead, he solemnly nodded. "I know, Alfred. Thank you for everything."

The two pulled apart, and Alfred smiled gently. "Now then, on to getting you dressed."

Alfred led Bruce down into the Batcave, their footsteps echoing in the stark stone corridors. The large room itself buzzed with technology, smelling of oil and metal. There the early Post-Crisis Bat-suit stood waiting on a pedestal, an elegant and imposing armor to be the new skin of the Dark Knight. The only change was that instead of the blue version, it was black that still had the same yellow bat emblem.

Alfred helped him put the suit on, and Bruce felt the weight of both of his identities upon him. The suit's fabric embraced his muscular contours closely, each piece fitting as though it were a second skin. Looking into the mirror, he saw himself, but not merely Bruce Wayne: The Darkest Knight, the cosmic entity, looked back with a blend of anticipation and gravity.

"This is it, Alfred," he said, half-breathless with excitement and nerves.

"It is indeed," Alfred replied, his eyes shining with a hint of moisture. "The first step into a developed world that will demand so much of you."

With a final nod to Alfred, Bruce leaped into the night, the cape billowing around him as he slipped into the fading shadows. The cool Gotham air kissed his skin, each heartbeat of the city resounding like drums in his ears. The technology of the Batsuit functioned like a silent symphony of utility and protection; but it was the power of The Darkest Knight truly that sang him to life.

Swinging through the city, Bruce's heightened senses picked up the commotion erupting in a dark alley. The boots hit the ground announcing thunderous punishment as he landed. A man had pinned a woman against the wall, his blade catching the moonlight. The instant he appeared, the assailant froze in an instant, an indiscernible yet profound terror hung in the air.

The woman's eyes widened as she beheld the figure robed in blackness, a monster in the shape of a man clad in a bat. Yet, something else resided in her—a fervent desire for hope. Bruce approached and emanated nothing but raw fear. "Let her go," he growled, the bark of his voice sounding like a deep snarl melded into a bone-chilling fear gripping the criminal.

The attacker, ensnared in a vice-like grip of terror, went staggering backward and dropped the knife. It clattered, metallic, to the ground, a harsh noise against the sudden lull. "B-Bat...man?" He stuttered, his wide-open eyes fanning from the masked vigilante to the escape of his quarry.

The power of The Darkest Knight in Bruce combusted into pure rage-fear viciously confounding the brute, scaring the life out of him. The man's pupils dilated; he went gaunt and fell into position on the floor, whimpering like a cower. Bruce had moved close meanwhile, the cape spreading like outstretched wings around him. "You won't bother anybody anymore," He said-a whisper, echoing like an explosion in an alleyway.

With a flick of the wrist, Bruce whipped out a set of bat-shaped handcuffs-the soon-to-be infamous ones that would definitely leave a mark on every crook he had ever encountered. He clasped them tight about the man's wrists, satisfying enough-click! The female victim cried out; she suddenly staggered away from the wall, legs trembling to regain strength.

"You okay?" Bruce asked, his voice soft, the edge of danger retreating into the shadows.

The woman nodded, her breath constricting as she gazed up at the towering form of the Batman. "I... I think so," she managed to whisper.

With the assailant bound and the immediate threat neutralized, Bruce felt the adrenaline rush beginning to dwindle. He looked around the alley, his eyes slowly adjusting to the contrast between the bright light coming from inside his cowl and the ink-blackness of the night. The woman had come free from the wall, her legs shaking beneath her as she found the strength to walk toward the street-light.

Bruce knew the Gotham City Police Department would be there any moment now. They were not prepared for a figure like him-a night living being who operated outside the law. At least, for now, he was a vigilante-the shadow whom they would pursue. But he also knew that in time he would become more than that, more than they could ever imagine they needed. He turned to the woman, his cape swirling in a grand manner about him.

"Stay safe," he said in a low and soft voice. The woman nodded, stunned. Bruce leaped into the air as if shot from a cannon, vanishing into the nighttime sky like a bat taking off.

The thrill of his first victory still rushing through his veins, he swung through the city, searching for his next challenge. The Clock King had been plaguing Gotham for weeks now, his meticulous crimes leaving the GCPD baffled. Yet, in the chaos of the city, Bruce felt a strange kinship with this creature of habit. His mind had anticipation, a silent symphony playing the tune of the hunt.

Batman's detective instincts drew him to the clock tower of Gotham City, an absurd and grueling sight in the night sky. Inside, the colossal clocks tick-tocked like some kind of warlike counting machine in a vibrant predawn survive-as-you-can. The Clock King would definitely be there, pulling strings for his next move like a master conductor. The iron, greasy odor of gears permeated air thick like curd; this bore a stark comparison to the solaces of Wayne Manor.

The Clock shone in white through the windows compared to the glooms below. Bruce felt The Darkest Knight swelling within him, muscles coiling again under high tension within. He leaped out from the shadowy corridor, his cape waving like the spread wings of the bat midair. When the Clock King, the man-dressed in a frayed cloak with a clock-face mask, turned at the sound, wide-eyed with astonishment.

"A Batman!" he stammered, his hands trembling as he fumbled for his cane. Currently, with the lights were playing crimson over the surface of his mask. How bold the Clock King had been to presume himself the master of this city, carefully crafting his schemes around smooth functioning, always one step ahead of bumbling cops. But this! This was something specific.

A crooked grin crept at the corners of Bruce's mouth under the cowl. "I am the night," he spoke, rumbling low. "And I bring justice."

The sneer of the Clock King faltered the moment he faced the sheer size and power of the creature that appeared before him. This was no ordinary thug or corrupt cop. It was something...more. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the glowing display on the cane. It showed complex patterns, but none of those made sense any longer. Batman was the wild card he did not expect.

Clock King now acted more confident then he was feeling, sneering back at Batman. "You're just another man in a costume! What do you understand about the dance of time?"

Bruce stepped forward, shining like the light from the edges of the universe. "Well, I know fear," he said plainly. "And I know long and hard from experience that fear is ever a step ahead of any plans."

Almost instantaneously, the henchmen, clothed in an eerily similar fashion of clockwork attire, charged at him mechanically and precisely like the clockwork mechanism they followed, mere pawns of their king. He could nearly see the fear in their eyes enhanced by the bravado they tried to put on. With the demise of their leader's confidence, like a house of cards, their resolve started to crumble against the Dark Knight.

Bruce met them halfway, strikes landing on their sides and front, causing the cadences in the beating of his thumping heart to fall together. Like a master, he pulled them in a synchronized, controlled sweep.

Those men were no match for the unpredictable fury of Batman. With every strike he aimed, followed by even swifter counters, the Clock King could see his meticulous timing was off due simply to the creature before them. Bruce felt the might of the cosmos flowing directly through his veins, heightening his reflexes, making him more than just a man in a suit. He was a natural disaster, a living embodiment of fear.

The Clock King could only watch as horror befell him with the slow unraveling of his plans. What he had instilled in the people of Gotham was ringing true in the wide eyes of his henchmen. The Clock King had formally underestimated this new player in the nasty game the city had been forced to play by his hands. The men went down like airless clockwork toys.

Pulsating designs on The Clock King's cane swiveled gallantly, unable to keep up with the ongoing disorder before him. "No!" he screamed, resorting to slamming the device on the floor. He was well aware that he had to find a solution before the Dark Knight could reach him.

But then again, Bruce had other plans. He leapt, an unseen shade of night, weaving through what felt like the chaotic dance of the Clock King's finely-tuned ballet. He anticipated the Clock King's next move, mentally attuning himself to the latter's well-laid plans.

The Clock King tried to do away with him using his cane; Batman caught it midair, the electrical charge leaping to the suit's gauntlet with a crackle. "You cannot outplan fear," Bruce said, his natural voice modulator giving his words a sinister quality that made up the Clock King's heart stutter, like that of a broken clock.

The villain tried to pull away from Bruce's unrelenting grasp, and the cane was pulled from the Clock King's hand and thrown out of the way, clattering down against the cold stone floor as the flickering cane winked one last time, like dying stars. "Your reign over this city is over," he said, his voice still booming ominously through the tower like the ringing of a doomsday bell. 

The Clock King staggered back, his apparent confidence crushed under the weight of terror manifesting in him. He could sense the power of The Darkest Knight swirling in Bruce's veins. The raw dread-the terror of the Dark Multiverse-wrapped itself in the shape of a man. "Please," he stammered, trembling. "I-I won't come back!"

Bruce could never show mercy as Batman. He was the night, and it was justice that ruled him. "You may leave," he replied, dully-cold as ice. "But justice will always find you."

More sirens closed in around them, a concerto of wails slicing through the still night. Stridulation from the GCPD had arrived; the flashing lights painting the walls of the towers with their colorful chaos. Bruce's time was limited-he had to vanish before they saw him. He stepped back to allow the Clock King room to frantically withdraw into the dust of his own territory. The officers went on, guns out, as they entered the room, eyes darting about for the criminals whom have ransacked their city.

"Freeze!" yelled one of the officers, the lights from outside the windows striking a stark contrast against the figures within. The henchmen, now subdued and shivering with fright, raised their heads in surrender. The grandeur of their clockwork attire now wore somewhat of a fizzling effect.

A block stood in the way of the Clock King. He knew better than to resist; so up he went with his hands, as the cops fell on him, his winds within the cogs of his mask still turning. "It is over," he murmured, resignation creeping in.

They poured into the room, guns on, and gleefully plastered the cowering figure. Officers looked about the chamber, eyes scanning for whichever brought such a truly brief end to this chaos. Yet, the Dark Knight had long since flown from the night, leaving nothing but the remnants of his footsteps asleep on the stone floor.

Bruce turned swiftly back to Wayne Manor, his heart pounding still violently in his chest. The night hadn't been anything short of long and torturous, yet it was just the beginning. The criminal lots devastated Gotham with a vengeance, and he was a weary plague the criminals will soon learned to dread.

As he walked down into the dank abyss of the manor's secret lair, Alfred awaited with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. The scent of it hung in the air, contrasting sharply with the metallic taste still lingering after the battle. "Master Bruce," he began, gently inquiring in clear relief from the harshness of the night. "It seems your night has… been productive."

Bruce nodded, slowly taking off his cowl, all sweaty. The burden of his mission, nevertheless, never departed from him, even in his civies. "They're just beginning to taste what's in store for them, Alfred," he replied gratefully, accepting his steaming cup. It calmed his throat while the first sip of the brown liquid immediately jolted him achingly into alertness.

The worry in Alfred's features clearly indicated the gravity of the situation to him. "You're already working too hard, Master Bruce," he gently scolded. "You can't keep up your pace forever; after all, you're only a boy."

Bruce inhaled deeply, feeling hotness race down his spine to his fingertips on being told that by Alfred. He knew fully well that Alfred was right-the balancing act between being Bruce Wayne and being immensely powerful at night was ever so delicate. "I'll sleep when Gotham is safe," he replied, nodding his head.

They both knew that it was practically impossible; they're just words, however. The steaming cup of coffee was at just the right temperature, which Bruce drank greedily, feeling warmth enveloping him. The level of caffeine responded quickly in his system: fatigue slipped away as a reminder of Alfred's love, as he quietly kept a watch over Bruce's dedication in leading his double life.

"What did you do tonight, Master Bruce?" The voice was gentle, although Alfred could not hide a tinge of anxiety in the gentle voice.

Quietly Bruce folded his arms, his eyes still glowing with power. "I stopped a rape in an alley," he started, letting these words hang in the air like the dust kicked up from the crumbling clock tower. "I secured the Clock King."

Grave was Alfred's expression. "Aha," he said, astonished by the weight of the evening. "What did you make of the criminals?"

For Bruce, a sip from his mug of coffee cast his gaze far away. "They are in custody; but god damn, the fear in their eyes… was something to see, Alfred."

His eyes were sober, and he said, "What you instill in them is a powerful weapon, but it is also a heavy burden."

"I know," Bruce said with the weight of his new-found adeptness. "But it is a burden I will gladly bear for Gotham." Another sip brought warmth to him, further anchoring him into reality from his basement of thoughts that swirled in a riotous uproar. "The Clock King came and went, but he will not be the last."

At the dawn of day, the sun, from its lofty position kissed off from heaven through Wayne Manor; an opportunity to put off one disguise and put on another, from the Dark Knight to a billionaire philanthropist. The rest of the suit was cast off piece by piece, each of the sections of armor which had donned him in a terrible exoskeleton trembling on the floor. Quiet and sober, he contained the darkest fears, a dead horror from the cosmos that had chosen Bruce to be its avatar in this reality. But it was time now for him to put on the mask of Bruce Wayne; that mask might as well have been heavy-not for his protection from the encroaching darkness but rather for the fact that it confronted him.

With eagerness, Bruce stepped into the shower and let himself be cleansed by the warm affirming water that swept away every remnant of the darkness of the night. Other muscle aches pleasantly reminded him of the potency that they embodied. With his eyes shut, he felt unbelievably good as the warm water dissolved all the feeling inside him: anger and fear that had propelled him through the night. The water blistered down on him like a majestic solemnity, a pendulum that swung, thoughts that transcended from encounters with criminals turning over in his mind to his immeasurable board meetings.

Clothing himself in the elegant suits of Bruce Wayne, he felt the dual forces of each lie he had constructed intertwine and merge. These luxurious suits were infinitely far removed from the rugged armor he had been draped in before. The Darkest Knight accosted by terrible terror was just imprisoned behind this shield of strength.

Upon entering the boardroom of Wayne Enterprises, the nerve center of the corporate world, he took his place at the head of the table. Some of the faces in the room were friendly, some suspicious, all hungry for power. They whispered about the events of the night, a new ghostly vigilante terrorizing the worst in Gotham. Bruce knew that among these men and women, they were the very thing he had been fighting against in the shadows.

He'd much rather listen to the whispers of his alter ego, the Darkest Knight, who urged him to disclose his identity, to let these sharks know who exactly was the apex predator among them. But he remained aloof, his eyes cool and calculating in traversing the corporate minefield. Each handshake bore the impulse of a dance with death; each smile, a grimace that very much could be painted a knife.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," the CEO of Gotham National Bank, Mr. Hampton, said, smiling a smile without liquidity, with a shake of hands he'd learned to just delight in. Bruce knew this man was tied to the Falcone crime family, but played the parlor game; his own smile, honed like a dagger edge. "The future of our partnership is eagerly awaited."

"Indubitably," he replied, smooth as whipped cream.

The walls of the boardroom were fortified with the very elite of Gotham-their teeth, sharp with avarice, glistened with sheer villainy. But he knew their game-he had played it as well, in and out of cape. As they dove into the discussion of the merits and pitfalls of various ventures and corresponding profits, thoughts of the dirty alleyways and rooftops he marked in the night before crossed his mind. The smell of money and raw power hung heavily through the air, as he choked on it.

"Well, Mr. Wayne, what's your take on this?" said a board member, bringing Bruce back to the present.

Bruce's eyes snapped into focus and narrowed slightly, taking in the scene. "Pardon me," he said, his voice like a velvet hammer. "I was merely reflecting on what an investment in the East End Development Projects would imply."

"Ah, yes," Mr. Hampton said, his smile tightening. "A project that would truly change Gotham as we know it."

Bruce felt the desire to crush the man's hand with his iron grip but resisted. He replied in a flat tone, "Yes, of course. But let us not forget the sustainability and community impact."

The room became anguished for a moment, the board members exchanging glances as Bruce was obviously referring to the Falcone family's ties to the underside of East End. In Bruce's mind came a great thought, weighing between maintaining appearances and the intense raging desire to bring those criminals to justice.

"I can assure you, Mr. Wayne," replied Mr. Hampton, his smile unwavering, "our interests are purely in the betterment of Gotham."

With unflinching concentration, Bruce said, "I hope so," a warning in his voice but also a question. "Because Wayne Enterprises will not support any venture that harms the city or its people."