By Jake Fox, Copyright 2004 All Rights Reserved
What if I was to tell you that, once upon a time, there were infinite earths. That they clashed, that your heroes, the people you helped and loved died. That even you died… And then you were alive and they were alive and you remember nothing.
What if I was to tell you that you are the second you to exist and that somewhere out there there are many more of you.
What if I was to tell you that before you were what you are, you stood for death, hate and violence- The things which you now despise.
I would tell you, but of course you wouldn’t believe me.
So I show you now, in my last moments. I show you all that you were and all that you are. But you won’t remember.
You will never remember the Crisis of Infinite Earths.
Batman: Rebound
“The Batman, eerie figure of the night, has become a legendary figure of the teeming metropolis, righting wrongs and bringing justice where it has never been before.” –Detective Comics 29, 1939
Night swept over Gotham City as its protector hung above the city, torn between the red sky and the abyssal drop to the grime covered streets below.
His sharp features cut against the backdrop of the city as he gazed out over the buzz of activity below.
He was an ominous creature. Born of hatred and vengeance; Created by death and tears. He had been eight when his parents had been killed by a hit man after leaving the Mask of Zorro; a movie that was supposed to be celebration after his rescue from the boarding school. Celebrating, happiness… A child and his parents and then… The papers said that the Wayne family had been torn apart when Thomas and Martha Wayne died, but the papers were wrong. The boy, Bruce, had died also.
Bruce would never again grace the earth, never again have that sense of happiness and boyhood. He would rid it of evil. Then he could be happy. Then there would be time to live. But until then, there was only vengeance. Only night. Only Batman.
He hung in the balance, never able to truly grow up. His mind- though keen and dark- was still clinging to that youthful imagination that had never been allowed to be lived out. And though one of the most accountable for his sins he was innocence.
And as he watched a man fall over the girding of a mobster build site, accountancy, innocence, vengeance and Batman leapt into action.
“Stryker!” The monotone was laced with hatred as the foreboding figure of the Batman landed on the walkway. “It’s scum like you that keep me alive.”
Stryker whipped around, drawing his gun as three henchman ran at his opponent. Batman lunged forwards, grabbing the closest man by his shirt and hurling him over the ledge, the Kevlar padding protecting him from the thug’s guns.
He swung his rope off his belt and pulled it around the second’s neck, snapping it in a single motion.
Stryker turned to run.
“Game’s over Stryker.” Batman uttered, stepping forwards as the final henchman’s body dropped in a puddle of blood. “Your chemical syndicate’s finished.” He stepped forwards, punching Stryker’s gun away and taking him in a deadly headlock. “And so are you.”
Squad cars could be heard below, screeching to a stop amidst car doors as policemen poured onto the scene.
Stryker gurgled a reply, met only my the grip of Batman’s arm tightening. “Your going to be a message Stryker. A message to criminals like you that think their business is more important than innocent people’s lives.”
Jim Gordon, commissioner of the GPCD, stepped out of a car and drew his gun. “It’s the Batman. Get him!”
“Goodbye Stryker.” Batman sent the man flailing over the girding, plummeting downwards into the industrial acid tanks below with a splash. “A fitting end for his kind.”
And then he was once again gone into the night.
Bruce Wayne regained consciousness.
He lay in his bed, his surroundings blurry. He was too worn, too beaten to try and focus on the details of his surroundings.
But the Batman did not get “worn” or “beaten” or “tired” or anything else. He certainly did not lay somewhere waiting to die.
Nor did he murder, but in the memories… Stryker. The name was so familiar and yet… distant. It was like a secret had been written on a chalkboard and then erased, leaving only lingering scribbles of dust- indeterminable from the rest.
He pulled himself up and onto the floor, stretching as he tried to force himself fully awake.
Something had spoken to him. The memories… They were not his, but in a way… They were.
He knew his origins, knew he had never killed, knew he stood against it… But he also knew that he had existed before. Or again. Or something. Somewhere. Some other world. He could remember things suddenly. Remember worlds upon worlds. Destruction.
The Fiddler’s last cry that there must be other worlds out there, the meeting of two Flashes, the feeling of hanging in the balance.
He saw Kane murdered, then the first Batgirl, now Firebird… Were these memories or imagination? Was he himself going insane?
He fell to his knees, blinked tightly and opened his eyes again.
It was all crazy. Perhaps reality somehow. Perhaps there were other worlds. Other realitities. But he could not allow himself to fall victim to fantasies.
And as memories of two beings, the Monitor and Anti-Monitor, flooded from his mind again he almost laughed at himself.
Of course there were not other worlds. Of course he had never been any different from how he was now…
It must have all just been a dream.
If I made any errors regarding continuity, etc. Please tell me so I can fix them.