Author’s note
This is a work of fiction inspired by characters created by Bob
Kane, Bill Finger, Paul Dini, Bruce Timm, Robert Kanigher, Sheldon Moldoff, and
various other renowned writers published by DC Comics. It is a retelling of the
origins of the Batman Universe, which is copyrighted and should not be
considered a true part of the mythology. I have created this project purely for
the joy of dictating the actions of characters that I have grown to love over
the years, and to suggest scenarios that I have often wondered myself would
happen if those said actions were to have occurred in the mythos. Basically,
its me being a kid and playing with my favorite toys again. That said, this
story will never be published, nor distributed as an original idea, for it is
not. It began as a writing exercise that at some point, transformed into an
exciting unofficial chapter in the Batman series, that which is just far too
awesome to keep to myself. Therefore, here it is. Hope you enjoy my
interpretation of the origin of one of the most iconic villains in comic book
history.
Chapter 4
The dawn was met by the presence of a gathering storm on the
horizon. The distant thunder sent echoes of gunfire reverberating from his
memory. Still he could recall every wrinkle that stretched from the corners of
her mouth as she screamed; every bead of sweat that appeared from the
perspiration at her brow when she lifted the small gun to seek her vengeance.
She had no chance. He had gunned her down before she could even lock on to her
target. Martha’s hand was steadier than his in her last moments, but the tides
were against her. Jack had never killed anyone in his life, and now he had the
blood of a woman on his hands; a mother’s blood…, a widow’s blood. His first
kill made without honor. He had robbed the poor woman of her rightful claim to
Joe Chill’s life, and so too stole from a child his mother right before his
eyes. Jack’s wife had seen everything… the mother of his own unborn child. Now
he was under orders to silence her as well.
Scarcely
did he shed a tear for any victim whom has lost a great deal by way of his
work, but for Bruce, Martha, and Thomas Wayne…, for his wife he wept. She was
to pay the ultimate price for his sins, and he was to be her reaper. Jack knew
he needed to do something, to get her somewhere safe. But first he had to get
close enough to her so that he could explain. If he could only talk her down
from doing anything rash, perhaps he would be able to get her out of Gotham
before word of any of this should ever reach the Falcones’. He had to hurry, he
knew as he raced his sedan back to his apartment in East Burnley.
When
he came around the corner to head down the street that led to his home, he saw
Harley’s SUV parked precariously off to the side, one of it’s front wheels
mounted upon the curb, and the driver side door hanging open. He pulled up next
to it, the car squealing to a stop. She heard the sound of the tires from
inside her apartment. An open suitcase lay before her on the bed with clothes carelessly
jammed inside. With a handful of needed supplies at her chest, she turned her
attention toward the window that overlooked the road. She scanned it for a
moment in stunned silence, the light reflecting off her tear drenched cheeks.
Freeing a hand she carefully peeled back a corner of the curtain. Seeing her
husband still in his red jacket as he reached into her open car to collect the
keys from the ignition, she gasped with fright, immediately pulling away from
the window. She then dropped the things in her hands and ran for the bedside
phone. Fumbling for the receiver, she quickly punched in 911, and only a few moments
later someone was on the other line taking her information.
“Hello!”
She said with terror in her voice. “Please help me… I think I’m in danger…”
When
jack turned to head for his apartment a black limo suddenly came tearing its
way toward him. Sliding to a stop directly before him, two men with machine
guns aimed at his chest poured out from the rear passenger doors, and forced
him into the vehicle. Inside he found Joe Chill, and Carmine Falcone. Joe
appeared to have been beaten mercilessly, as his face was covered in stark
purple bruises, deep bloody gashes, and swelling knots. His left eye was
consumed by blackened swollen flesh that appeared hard as bone, and his right
could only shoot a brief apologetic glance his way before retreating back to
the floor.
“Jack,
please make yourself comfortable.” Carmine greeted, feigning exuberance. “Nice
jacket.”
The
armed men in black suits sat on either side of him, as he took his seat
directly across from Carmine.
“Look…”
He began pleading his case. “I have no idea what went wrong, but…”
“Your
back was turned retrieving the package when an unexpected sound startled Mr.
Chill here, thus causing him to pull the trigger upon our hostage’s esteemed
father.” Carmine said in a stoic tone. “Then you saw the woman with a weapon at
hand and took action. I am well informed of the details, and a trial over who
did what and why is not the reason I have donned my best suit at such a
miserable hour in the morning. I am here by the call of my father to give you a
message.”
“What
message?”
Carmine
looked to the man across from Joe Chill and nodded his head. The henchmen then
reached into his jacket and withdrew a pistol equipped with an elongated
silencer. He pointed the silver barrel at Joe’s head, and before the man could
utter a word of protest a whistling bullet sent chunks of his liquefied brain
spattering against the rear window of the limo. His skull collapsed into the
side door, as the killer found his next target. The end of the barrel was still
scorching hot as it pressed hard at Jack Quinzel’s groin.
In
a panic Jack squirmed away from the man, but the other hired hand wrapped his strong
bicep around his throat, seizing him in a fixed position. Sweat was trailing
from his scalp to his widened eyes, but Jack dared not to make another hasty
move.
The
spray of blood that found the side of Carmine’s face was already beginning to
run down to his neck as he said, “I understand that you are a man of jokes…
Well I have one for you: In a library run by monsters, what would you find in their
books?”
Jack
said nothing.
Carmine
smiled and said, “The devil in the details… I believe you have some unfinished
business to attend in that apartment there.” He nodded toward his home.
His
head peering out from the mass of muscle around his jaw, Jack shook his head
and begged, “Please… She’s my wife… You can’t make me do this. I won’t!”
The
pressure had suddenly tightened around his neck, and he could sense that an
antsy finger was testing the trigger at the pistol aimed for his manhood.
“Yes
we can, and yes you will.” The boss challenged, leaning in closer. “You can
either give her a quick and easy death, or we can show you both the true extent
of the evil that the media has claimed the likes of our kind to possess.”
“She’s
pregnant with my child.” Jack cried.
“Indeed,
and if you wish to maintain the tools to try for another, than I suggest you
get up there and do your fucking job.”
His
demand was met with reluctant silence, until the henchmen with the gun pressed
even harder, placing his genitals in an unbearable vice.
Unable
to endure the pressure any longer, Jack caved and yelled, “Okay! I’ll do it.”
Before
long, he was walking back toward his apartment, gun in hand, and Falcone’s men
watching his every move. When he made it to his floor, he headed up the hardwood
stairs to his room, where his wife was still standing next to the bed. The
phone was lying off the receiver, and she was grasping a baseball bat in hand. Baring
her teeth like a feral animal, she glared at him, fire in her eyes.
Holding
the bat high she said, “Stay away.
He
hid the gun behind his back as he cautiously made his way toward the window,
freeing the doorway to the stairs. Glancing out the window he saw the men sill
there, waiting outside of the limo.
A
heedful eye upon his distraught wife he said, “Harley…”
“Don’t!”
She spat, silencing him with guilt. “I saw you… You killed that woman. You’re a
murderer.”
“I’m
sorry, but I…”
She
threw up a hand of warning, closing her eyes to chase the tears away. “How
long? How long have you been doing this? How long have you been lying to me?”
“Almost
a year.” He answered without hesitation. “We needed the money.”
“Could
you not have gotten a real job?!” She snapped. “A bank teller, a gas station
clerk? Christ! Even a fucking restroom attendant would be better than being a
goddamn murderer caught in a life of crime!”
“You
don’t understand. I wanted more for us.” He argued.
“A
lot of good that has done us. Now my son will come into this world a bastard,
born to a man responsible for the deaths of two of the most important people in
Gotham.”
He
let out a long grieving sigh. He hardened the features of his face, though a
tear found way down his cheek. “No…” he said, raising the gun and pointing it
at his wife. “He won’t.”
Aghast,
she could only stare at the weapon in grave silence. Her hanging jaw quivered,
the handle of the bat escaped her grasp and dropped to the floor. The clatter
of the object bouncing off the hardwood was all that was heard for many
moments. Then Harley uttered her husband’s name.
“I’m
sorry… but this must be done.” He said coldly.
Harley
then hurried across the bed trying for the door, but a sudden pain shot to her
womb sent her tumbling off the other side of the bed where she collapsed to her
hip. A throbbing sting exploded at her side, but still she crawled for the open
doorway.
His
gun locked on her back, Jack said, “Why?” His voice cracked with emotion. “Why
couldn’t you have stayed out of this?”
At
her feet again, Harley turned to look back at him, her face white with fear.
She continued for the stairs.
“Harley,
stop!” He warned.
She
ignored him, taking the first step down, her hand protectively at her swollen
belly. Even with all that had happened, she could have never dreamt that Jack
would have shot her, especially in the back. But he had, the bullet exploding
out of her midsection like a shooting star with a tail of crimson. And then he
had again, the second only inches across from the last. It was not the pain
that had stopped her in her tracks; though severe it was, being the worst she
had ever endured in all of her life. It was the feeling of her child dying
inside that sent her falling. As the weight of gravity pulled her down a
foreign breath escaped her lips, and she knew it was not hers. Somehow she saw
it as the soul of her unborn escaping the womb, and in that fleeting moment she
wanted nothing more than to go where ever he or she was going, to escape this
cruel world, to become one with the wind. Indeed she thought she had when the
feel of the steps escaped her reach, when the empty air wrapped around her and
the pull of the Earth heaved. She fell, as she had done so long ago over love,
she found herself doing yet again by the hand of that very same man. Her
everything she lived for turned harbinger of death… Her prince, her king, her
push, her fall.
Outside,
Carmine’s henchmen heard the gunfire, but then another sound followed like an
ominous lilt on the wind. The police sirens were growing, and they knew they
would have to move quickly if they were to escape the scene unnoticed. One of
the men knocked on the passenger window, and Carmine rolled it down.
“Police.”
He warned.
“Collect
the package.” Carmine replied, still with a cool about his voice. He then
rolled back up the window, the reflections of his men making way for Jack’s
sedan caught upon the glass.
At
the trunk of the car, they dismantled the lock with yet another whistling
bullet from the weapon with the silencer. It popped open, and they retrieved
the ransom. Soon, they were back in the limo with their prize, and the driver
spared little time fleeing the scene.
Jack
froze a moment, the smoke from his gun still sifting in the air. His eyes
hanging low, he moved for the stairs. He descended slowly, taking in the image
of his lifeless wife sprawled out upon the floor before him to add to the on-going
nightmare of that day. Blood was pooling from a wound at her skull where she
had collided with the floor when landing. He knelt down by her side to feel for
her pulse. To his disappointment, she was still alive. He stood and aimed the
weapon at her head. His hand trembled as his guilt yet again took his conscious
by storm. He found that he could not finish it, and when he heard the wail of
the approaching sirens, he put the weapon away and fled.
He
saw the trunk of his car still hanging open, but he paid little mind as he dove
into the driver side and made for his escape.
Looking
back at his street in the rearview mirror, he shook his head and said under his
breath, “I’m so sorry, Harley.”
In
Carmine’s limo, one of his men turned to him and asked, “What if he fails to
silence the girl?”
His
boss never looked away from the window, admiring the sight of the passing
buildings as he answered, “Then we will make him regret it. If her eyes should
see the light of another day, we will show them both to the darkness.”
#
Some weeks later at Gotham General, shortly after a nurse had
checked on her unconscious patient, assuring that her visitor had not tampered
with any of the equipment while there, the heart monitor began racing. Her
dormant hands sprung to life, gripping at the sheets beneath her, balling into
white-knuckled fists. She shook her head, her breathing elevating. A word
poured from her lips, tainted with desperation, loss, and fear.
“n…no…”
Harley Quinzel then threw open her eyes and screamed at the top
of her lungs, “NOOOOO!!!!”
