Young Writers Society

Gordon mulled it over and decided to open the envelope. What he read enraged him. He decided that his instincts had been right: Batman is to be blamed for all that has transpired. Gordon made use of all his advantages, all the connections he has built throughout the years, pulled all the strings his hands could reach and did the unthinkable. He found a way to hurt Batman that his Rogues’ Gallery never even considered.

Bruce has been spending the last few days resting, isolating himself from the world, so he has no idea what Gordon has been up to. He has arrested Crane and thrown him into the asylum. The commissioner has also publicly condemned Batman for concealing vital information from the police and leading to the death of innocent people. The Joker situation has also gotten more complicated. This is how Bruce finds out about it:

Alfred enters the master bedroom with a breakfast tray—cucumber sandwiches and a glass of orange juice. The butler looks pale. He is doubtful that Bruce will ever make a full recovery psychologically. The death of Barbara and Richard’s disappearance are finally catching up to him.

Bruce yawns and sits up in his bed. Upon noticing the distress in Alfred’s face, he asks, “What is it?”

“I have some rather… troubling update on Joker,” Alfred says, putting the tray down on a bedside table. “He has regained consciousness but, how best to describe… he has lost the ability to laugh.”

Bruce stares and listens.

“The doctors don’t quite understand the condition but they suspect that it may have been a consequence of the head injury he suffered in Amusement Mile. It’s not just that. Joker has been… depressed in general.”

“He could be feigning all of it,” says Bruce.

Alfred wavers, skeptically. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s the Joker! He’s a lunatic! You can’t explain his actions using reason.” Bruce begins to hyperventilate.

“Oh, Master Bruce…” Alfred sighs. “I didn’t mean to agitate you. I knew this information would only do you harm. Understand that I’m revealing it to you against my better judgment, because… well, a lot has happened in the last few days.”

Bruce nods for Alfred to go on as he tries a breathing exercise, inhaling slowly, letting his lungs fill, and then holding his breath momentarily before he exhales.

“The thing is that if Joker is not faking… sanity, if we can call it that, he’ll be hanged.”

Bruce cocks his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Certain parties have been busy of late. Especially, Gordon. The figures at the top have been searching for a way to reassure the public that the situation is under control. Gordon has given it to them.”

“No, no.” Bruce shakes his head in denial. “That’s impossible! All inmates of Arkham are protected by the insanity defense.”

“That won’t make much of a difference now that they have declare Joker cured and transferred him to Blackgate,” Alfred says and pauses. “It’s been decided, sir. The laws will be interpreted in whatever way convenient to fit the internally agreed upon verdict. And I very much doubt any lawyer in Gotham who might represent Joker will object to it.”

Bruce bends his back, leaning forward, and throws his face in his hands, struggling to process what he is hearing. “Everything I’ve worked for… achieved… crumbling down all at once. Do you realize what this means? Joker’s hanging will set precedence. Precedence that will be used to persecute, not prosecute! It practically renders the asylum pointless. Why should we admit the criminally insane into Arkham Asylum, if they’re just going to be thrown into Blackgate at the first hint of recovery? They can’t do this!”

“They will. It’s been decided.”

Bruce doesn’t have a response.

“Sir,” Alfred says, sadly, “do you know what your biggest weakness is? It’s your inability to accept that goodness is not a universal trait, that some people are pure evil.”

Bruce gets off the bed, steading himself with the help of a cane, and walks to the window. The more he thinks about the lives lost, the more he feels that Alfred is right, that Joker deserves it. That Joker is pure evil and has lost all trace of personhood because of his actions. But the means of punishment just feels wrong to him.

“As much as I disagree with your philosophy,” Alfred continues to say, “that inability is also one of your strengths! It is what makes you different. You really have been the most unfortunate, sir, but I pray you never lose this part of you.”

Bruce looks out the window. Some trees far off into the Wayne Manor grounds have begun to blossom a vibrant red.

“By the way, sir,” Alfred says, picking out a thin, white envelope from his breast pocket. It is sealed with wax the color of ripe apples. The seal has the emblem of Arkham Asylum stamped on it: AA. “Came in this morning. There is no information about the sender other than the stamp. But I have a hunch as to who it might be.”

Bruce holds the envelope in his hands, thumb rubbing on the sheet and feeling the texture. “Yeah, me too, Al.” He rips it open, breaking the seal, and then unfolds the letter. On the upper end of the full white page are written these words:

“You placed your faith in me. I’m grateful for that. But I’ll never forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve done.

“I’ve studied you. I know what sort of a person you are. You’ll tell I’m not beyond redemption. But for what I’m about to do, I’m confident that even you will never forgive me. However, this is the only way I can make amends now—the only way to save Joker and this godforsaken city.”

Bruce’s fingers shiver violently, as if they’re holding a block of ice at the bottom of Gotham River on a cold January night. The letter slips and falls right past them. Completely unaware of the horrified look in face, he looks to Alfred and stutters, “I have to go.”

The butler frowns. “What’s in the letter?”

Bruce walks right past him without answering, probably on his way to the Batcave where he can suit up. Normally, during an emergency, he would’ve jumped onto his automobile and hit the gas as hard as he can. But that is no longer an option. “Goddamn it, Richard. Goddamn it,” he mutters as he marches down the hallway and then the stairs. Bruce remembers that they still own an old carriage or two. They’re nowhere fast enough but they will have to do for now.

Back in the bedroom, Alfred stands alone, holding the letter in his hand and looking at the uneaten breakfast. He crumples the paper and hurls it out the window. Not in anger, but in frustration and sadness. He listens to the sound of Bruce’s fading footsteps and begins to cry, feeling sorry for him, Dr. Quinzel and everyone else who has had the misfortune of being touched by Gotham City.