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The Art of waging War	By : Triyune Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 1399 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not make money of writing this fiction and I don't own Batman nor the characters from that universe.

Chapter List
- 1-Part 1: a safe place
- 2-The visit
- 1
- 2
Bruce Wayne and I didn’t speak anymore.
The next day the Butler brought me breakfast like the day before and I didn’t touch it like the day before. I stayed in bed, waiting for him to come, simply because I certainly wouldn’t be the one approaching him.
12 hours he refrained from even going past this room. Pissed and hungry, I turned around to sleep when the dark was setting
At that time, I wasn’t interested in why I actually was pissed. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to waste one second on reflecting why I was pissed that Bruce Wayne had not come to see how I am or at least come and made another tasteless joke.
In fact, I spent two more days with the Butler alone before I was so angry that I forgot my pain and got up to search heaven and hell for that bastard only to tell him that I was leaving. The Butler wasn’t anywhere close so I just started opening doors and peeking.
When opening the door of the fifth loo by now I started questioning my behavior. Why exactly should I tell him that I was leaving?
Right, because I needed some clothes.
“WAYNE!!!” I shouted as loudly as I could. My ribs ached; they still felt sore.
“Goddarnit, Wayne, you bleeding git, where are you?!”
Usually, he was Batman for me. Or the Bat, or Batpuss or whatever came to my mind and satisfied me, but now, he was Mister Wayne.
“Suck me sideways…WAYNE, asshole, where are ya?!”
“Master…Joker, he is at work.”
Frowning, I turned around to face the old butthead.
“Master who?”
“He is taking care of business in the Wayne tower. He will not arrive before 8pm.”
“Then you deal me some clothes, I’m outta here.”
Alfred was standing there, looking at me in silence. I could see one of his beard strands slightly moving. But just one.
“Come on, shoo, do something!”
“As you please,” he said dryly and disappeared somewhere.
I went back to my room and shortly after I had gotten rid of all the bandages Alfred returned with some garment. A black pair of jeans and a black shirt.
The Bat really was a very consequent man.
Only then I saw the flip-flops.
It took me half an hour to get dressed due to my wounds not having fully healed yet. But I didn’t give up, it was now or never. I went straight to the main entrance; Alfred was gone, I was alone. I didn’t even want to know what the Batcave was like, what kind of machine he used for brewing his coffee, which gadgets he was storing in his house…I really didn’t care. Often, I had been dreaming of examining that house, looking behind doors, finding out dirty secrets, things which would make me laugh, but now I didn’t care anymore. It was just the home of a man as crazy as I was, or as sane as I was, depending on the perspective.
I opened the heavy door and stepped outside. The cold wind caressed my toes. Freedom was just ahead. One step and I was gone. No drama, no tragedy, no hard feelings, no chocolates for the noble thing he had done: letting his enemy sleep in one of his luxury beds. I could do that, I was the bad one.
Walking down the long road to the gate, I was facing mixed feelings though. How could he take me home with him. How could he know that I wasn’t going to steal the Bat carriage and bomb Gotham to smithereens? I didn’t understand what was going on inside that head.
Having reached the gates finally I opened them and left the ground and with that abandoned those thoughts as well.
I could trust the old butthead not to inform Wayne about my leaving because he hated me and wanted me gone so I felt safe for now.
After hundred meters I had to pause. I still was in awful physical condition, but I had learnt how to deal with that. The need for a pause now showed me though that it was too much for me to handle it like that. On the one hand, there was no taxi anywhere to be seen, on the other hand I needed to be gone before 8pm when Wayne would return. With a long sigh I started walking again, trying to ignore the stinging pain in my legs.
Wayne Manor was built in the open, yet not too far away from the city’s suburbs and I knew that soon, I’d hit upon some cars and if I was lucky some cab too.
And really, ten minutes later I was sitting on the cozy cushions of a taxi, the driver being intimidated to the bone, driving the Joker around.
When I got out of the cab, seeing the house I was squatting at that time, I cheered up. The second I had left the cab the driver stepped on the gas and left as quickly as he could. Slowly, I went upstairs and pushed the door open. Familiar sight, familiar scent.
I hobbled to the bed and let myself fall down on it, carefully, relaxing finally. Was I fleeing from the Bat? Was I fleeing? Escape, yes, I knew that well and there was nothing wrong with it, but flight?
There was more to it than the possibility of going back to Arkham of which I was afraid of, deep inside.
I was afraid of him. Afraid of his behavior.
Suddenly, I felt tortured, terrorized, naked and vulnerable. Dressed in Wayne pants. I could feel his touch.
I sat up and got rid of the shirt, dropping it on the floor. 100% cotton, fairly produced. That asshole.
I was at his mercy…from smoke to smother. He had saved me from them and he was expecting something in return, didn’t he. No, he didn’t, he was the Bat. The Bat never expected anything in return for his heroic actions. What was it then?
I could feel him looking at me. He was miles away but I could feel him. I could clearly see his eyes, fixing me and that smirk. Running from Wayne Manor had been futile.
I felt watched and I could swear that something was inside the room although I couldn’t see anything strange anywhere. I just knew he was there.
Fear seized me and I got up and ran to the kitchen to get a knife from a drawer. The big one, no, the biggest one. Ready to defend myself against this thing, this abject of my mind, I crouched in a corner of the room.
5pm.
It was silent. There was no noise from the streets, no screaming of drug addicts or teenagers, no moaning from the whores on the streets finishing their lovers…dead silent.
Slowly, I got up again. The bed was empty. The door was shut.
Somewhere deep inside, a somewhere I had tried to get rid of many times and even Harleen had almost touched once during our sessions, something was moving. Stirring, roaring, louder and louder.
It was a deserted place and though full of life. The dark things went there, the terrible things, the horrible things. Pain, tears and hopelessness was stored there. I made sure to always lock that door when I was opening it to check whether it was still there. But somehow, the lock had been broken.
Fear was spilling into my mind, blinding panic, similar to the feelings I had experienced when they had abused me. Everything turned black, pitch-black and liquid. Everything turned hostile, the bed, the carpets, the chairs; they were made of pure hatred and violence.
Gasping, I took a step back and pressed my body against the wall. Somewhere, in this primitive chaos, he was lurking. The tension inside was unbearable.
Black came spilling through the window, lying down on everything inside the room. My self was breaking apart. I hated it when that happened, I couldn’t control it.
A silent black spot fell from the ceiling.
I cut the back of my hand. Once, twice. There was no plaster there and I would have slashed my entire lower arm but I had to make do with that for now.
Dark red blood welled from deep cuts. The pain was different, very different from the pain they had inflicted on me. Panting hard, I gazed at the red, trying to find my place in this whirling chaos around me. The blood was grounding me, connecting me to the world I was used to and knew. But it wasn’t enough to make the blackness vanish.
In deepest despair, I started cutting my thighs, savoring the pain and losing myself in it. Warmth spread on the floor, embracing me. Like a black cloak.
The tips of my fingers were tingling and I could hardly hold the knife anymore. I knew that feeling and suddenly I got aware of the cause. However, I couldn’t control that either, I was past any control and I knew what would happen soon.
The knife dropped on the floor and my arms and legs started twitching, my heart racing. I hated it when I fell the victim to hyperventilation. Not only was it too embarrassing than to be admitted, it was feeling like dying. Dying a small death.
I began to feel lightheaded; the black intensified.
6 pm.
The world felt like separating itself from me; I wasn’t part of that any longer. The black was swallowing everything.
Every.
Thing.
I wanted to escape, to flee, whatever, but leave this state. It was fucking with my mind in a way I couldn’t handle and I could handle a lot as for creepy, wicked stuff. Hallucinations, panic attacks and cyclothymia were part of the business. No one could be insane with a little insanity, but that was beyond fun. The last time I had suffered from a psychotic episode I had been delivered to Arkham, which, take a wild guess, made things even worse. Thorazine just served to shove me in deeper and the things I experienced then should remain obscure forever.
Someone had called the police when I had just been throwing the golden Cross of Gotham church through the window, believing that it was a tool of an ancient society which was about giving immortality to the wrong kind of people. A few hours later I had been made understood that that had been a wrong assumption. And the fact that I had done that stark naked in order to prevent their thoughts from getting caught in the material hadn’t helped the whole situation at all.
Right now, miraculously, I was naked again except for the briefs of Master Bruce. That didn’t help either.
The darkness was seeping into me, twisting my thoughts, making me lose. How often had I lost to myself. The lack of carbon dioxide made me feel dizzy and the room looked like it was shaking in unison with me.
The black manifested and crept through my mouth and eyes, taking all sight from me, making me go deaf with a shrill tone ringing in my ears until I didn’t hear nor see anything anymore.

When I regained some kind of awareness again I found myself lying on the floor, my leg twitching.
That was not where I belonged.
It took a lot of effort just to lift my head. Everything felt heavy and out of place. The aftermath of such fits was almost as bad as the fit itself.
“You look like shit.”
Echoing through the space like voiced in an endless hall by someone lacking vocal chords.
Reality had caught up on me.
Gentle arms lifted me up. I let them. Dazed, intoxicated by black threads spinning this reality back and forth. I wasn’t able to react in any way except giving an uncoordinated grunt. I’d get carried away.
Tenderness crept on my thigh, carefully and gently, the way I had always wished it would. I smelt leather and wet stones. Darkness lay down on me again, that time in a more considerate fashion, leaving me in blissful ignorance.
And that was what I needed.
A silent, black spot fell from the ceiling. It was my briefs.
Clouded with darkness and delight I felt the air falling down on the exposed skin. Benumbed by that intense feeling I wasn’t familiar with at all, I reached down but was met with defense.
Fingers met, merged until they were one organism, pulsing, breathing, begging.
Lips closed around my dick.
I arched into the air, feeling bones cracking, neurons firing aimlessly but passionately and reality giving way to something less real but more dangerous.
Velvet sucking gently on my tip.
The feeling was overwhelming. Wings of something I had never seen before slid over my body, leaving a strange sensation on my skin.
Then it turned violent.
Nails tore at my skin, bruising it, digging into my flesh where I had cut before, making the blood flow again and mingling with the sweat. Cries of pain left me. So unfamiliar to hear that from myself.
Something wormed itself through my lips and explored my mouth, touching my soft palate and making me gag. At the same moment my balls were squeezed and I twitched, helplessly surrendering to the various intense feelings the darkness gave me.
They left my mouth and traced my lips like those lips traced the vein now standing out against the hard flesh, mercilessly pumping more liquid inside of it. I could barely hold back.
The darkness reacted to that; fingers closed around my throat and I gasped, remembering the invasive plants again but immediately getting distracted again by the harsh moves up and down between my legs.
So close.
The grip round my throat tightened and I reached for the fingers to ease the tension, but they relentlessly tightened even more until I couldn’t inhale anymore.
Panic rushed through my veins, hardening those feelings to a point where it hurt.
And there it was. The pain in my stomach turned into pleasure.
The tight net of reason tore and spilled darkness on my thighs in a silent scream.
Liquid filled the room, wings spread out and a black veil of pain crawled under my skin. I was uncontrollably twitching and fighting for air but there was none.
The fingers released my throat and I reflexively turned to the side, coughing. It took me some time to force myself to inhale deeply; it had damaged my windpipe. Not permanently, but enough to worry about.
Darkness rushed past my eyes and whirled around. During another coughing fit it left silently, taking something with it.
I was done. Full of weird feelings, bleeding, aching, trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered mind to put it together again. And that sticky mess around me…
A sigh escaped me. No one would ever know whether that had taken place in this world around me or whether it had been the product of this shattered thing inside my head.
At the moment, it felt too real than to be ignored. I couldn’t make sense of it. My experiences told me that it should have been impossible.
I closed my eyes and moments later fell asleep.
During the night, I didn’t wake once. However, when I woke up in the morning the night took its toll.
The blood had dried and stuck to the sheets, the wall, the floor and to myself, but mostly to myself. My fingers were covered with red and sticky stuff.
Whatever it had been, it had been one hell of a ride.

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The Art of waging War