Batman: The Promise

Chapter 1: The Promise Talk

Gotham. December.

Snow pelting down, whiting out all of Gotham in a tidal basin of wind and greyness. The red and blue lights of the GCPD cruiser cut through the dark white; mixing with the red, green, and blue of the lights above the glass canopy of the plaza of Falcone's towering skyscraper. The cruisers had sped and skidded to a halt. Once upon a time ago it would have been Jim Gordon stepping out, yammering into a speaker and asking for his team to make a perimeter. Now it was two young women slipping out in their Kevlar-clad suits; their hair in ponytails, and an impassive look on both their faces. The driver, Stacy, let out a yawn as she shut the car-door.

"Joker?" she asked the other.

"Don't underestimate him, Stacy. He's psychotic and at the end of this rope."

"So is the majority of Arkham Prime and they're all snugged up cozy. Joker'll be in there before the night is out."

Mel looked up only to see the dark, blurry shape that sped through the whiteness. She looked over to her partner and smiled.

"Guess he'd like to take this one personally. Hang back. Make a perimeter, you know the rules," she said as she stretched and cracked her neck. "This'll be quick."

Carmine Falcone's home away from home was a towering pylon of massive proportions. The Bat had already thermal scanned from afar. He slammed in through the window of the twenty-second floor, rolling, and landing into a dilapidated room filled with reports and drawing cabinets. Up above on the top floor was the penthouse that belonged to Falcone. He slid through each floor like a shadow, cracking, breaking, trampling, and incapacitating every goon who'd wandered down from Falcone's abode.

The final goon before he'd entered the penthouse was a scrawny man with a face painted in white and red makeup. Joker. The fear spread on his face as the Bat lifted him up by his throat. "How many inside?"

"Joker's got Falcone tied up. Twelve more," he said, straining to breathe under the crushing weight of Batman's hand. "Please…don't." The left fist went to his temple, shattering through skin, cracking bone. The goon's body went limp and he fell to the floor.

He slid in through the ventilation to the right hallway, passing by cheap antiques and paintings which reminded him of his own place; tacky. Once he'd slipped into the penthouse, he was on the second-floor, crouching and peering through the metal railings to see below.

Falcone was gaunt and looking tired with dried blood down his pajamas. He was tied to a chair, surrounded by six fully automatic rifles trained on him. Behind him was the door to his vault, wide open. From inside it stepped out familiar shape—the purple suit, white skin, and cringe-inducing smile.

"Not much in there but old books and papers, Carmine, my boy. You don't keep cash on you?"

"Digital world, clown. I don't need it."

"You know," said Joker as he slid out the signature revolver with the extra-long barrel, "When we picked you up at the manor, I thought you'd put up more of a fight. Guess I figured wrong. Old age will do that to you I guess."

From the vault stepped another familiar shape. Harley Quinn, in her red and black jumpsuit morphing to her petite form. He watched her stepped out quietly, nursing her eye which looked like she'd been socked hard.

"Harley—the Bat'll be here soon. You know what to do."

"Yes, Mistah J," she said with an air of sadness.

"Toot sweet," snapped the Joker.

"What the fuck are you plannin'? I ain't got no money. You'll pay for this—" The butt of the revolver went across Falcone's cheek, spraying blood and teeth out. "You bas—"