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Chapter 9 – First Meeting with the Hero himself Batman
The circus tent hung heavy with smoke, green, purple, curling like living fingers in the dim, flickering light. Broken rides loomed like skeletons of old fun. Bodies lay twisted on the floor, grins frozen on faces, silent except for the faint hiss of the lingering Joker gas. Jack—Clown, for now—stood at the center, chest heaving, fingers twitching, eyes wide and alive.
A shadow fell from above. Batman. Cape flaring, cape heavy, falling like a black storm into the middle of the tent. Muscles coiled, fists tight, eyes scanning the chaos, measuring the man at the center.
Jack's grin widened. A long, high-pitched laugh rolled across the tent. "Finally! Someone to play with! Ahahahaha!"
Batman moved first. Quick, silent, precise. He struck low, fist crashing into Jack's midsection. Jack twisted, the blow grazing him, suit ripping slightly under the force. A board from the floor flew up as he dodged, smashing against a pole and splintering.
"Still playing games, Clown?" Batman growled, stepping forward, boots crunching over debris.
Jack tilted his head, grin stretching wider. "Games? No, no, no… this is life! Life is the game, life is the trick, life is the joke!" He flipped over a broken chair, spinning, arms wide, fingers snapping. Smoke from the gas hissed around him, masking his movements.
Batman adjusted, inhaled shallowly, clenched his teeth. The gas stung, burned, but he moved with practiced efficiency, kicking a hanging balloon off its string to clear space. It popped loudly, gas hissing into his face. He coughed but didn't falter. Every punch he threw was calculated, precise, aimed to disable, not just hit.
Jack darted forward, pulling a small device from his pocket. Sparks flew as it hit the floor, miniature explosions sending fragments of wood and metal into the air. Batman ducked, rolled, grabbed a fallen pole, swinging it horizontally. Jack flipped backward, laughing as the pole barely grazed him.
Objects flew everywhere. Chairs, poles, boards, splintered toys, and rigged jars filled with Joker gas — Jack tossed them like confetti, his movements erratic, chaotic, impossible to predict. Batman countered each one with quick strikes, precise kicks sending objects flying back into the clown's path. A broken ride wheel spun dangerously close to Jack, but he leapt aside, landing in a crouch, fingers pressing a button. A wall panel opened, releasing a cloud of thick smoke from a hidden canister.
Batman coughed, inhaling the thick green fog. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. Hands outstretched, senses on high alert, he moved silently, listening for Jack's laughter, anticipating the moves. Jack lunged, knife gleaming in the dim light, swung high. Batman blocked with his forearm, twisting, disarming him, spinning him into a rigged barrel of gas.
Jack rolled out, twisting midair, landing on a broken carousel horse. He leapt from it, grabbing a dangling rope, spinning through the air. "Ahahaha! You have to catch me first!" He flipped, threw a small explosive jar at Batman. It exploded, sending smoke and shrapnel into the air. Batman blocked the worst with his gauntlet, kicking debris aside.
Every move was chaotic, deadly, theatrical. Jack ran along beams, swung from ropes, throwing knives, bottles, small bombs, even using rigged props as weapons. Batman countered every attack with fluid precision — ducking, rolling, striking, throwing objects back at Jack. Fists, feet, poles, everything became a weapon. The floor cracked under their movements, boards splintered, broken metal rails clanged and fell.
Jack laughed, high-pitched, low, guttural. The gas made his voice echo strangely, hauntingly, across the tent. "Come on, come on! Fight! Dance with me!"
Batman lunged, catching Jack midair with a precise kick to the chest. He slammed him into a broken ride, ribs cracking under the force. Jack gasped, coughing, but his smile never left. He rolled away, grabbed a small rigged jack-in-the-box, wound it, and threw it. A flash, a burst, more gas. Batman flinched but blocked with a metal beam, stepping through the smoke.
Jack circled, spinning, flicking knives, bottles, small explosive vials. Batman's eyes narrowed, reading the rhythm, anticipating. A thrown chair nearly hit him — he ducked, rolled forward, catching Jack's arm, twisting, sending him crashing into a pile of barrels.
Barrels exploded, smoke hissed, chemicals burning eyes and lungs. Jack emerged from the haze, laughing, swinging a pipe like a baton. Batman met it with his forearm, twisting, shoving him back into the wall. Paint and grime smeared across Jack's face, yet the grin never broke.
They collided again, fists against fists, feet against feet. Batman's strikes were precise, punishing. Jack's were chaotic, wild, unpredictable. Each countered the other perfectly, a dance of chaos versus order.
Jack's final trick came — he pulled a small device from his coat, pressed a button. The floor panels beneath Batman gave way, sending him sliding across the tent, narrowly avoiding spikes hidden beneath fake saw blades. Smoke thickened, gas curling like serpents, eyes watering, lungs burning.
Jack laughed, laughed, rolled on the floor, hands clapping. "You almost got me! Almost! Hahaha!"
Batman stood, breathing heavily, muscles screaming, eyes scanning. This was it. One final strike. One move to end this. He launched forward, catching Jack by the shoulders, slamming him into the central pillar of the tent. Fists rained down, fast, brutal, precise. Jack grunted, blood smearing his makeup, ribs cracking under repeated blows.
The clown lay there, gasping, twitching, blood dripping. Batman's final punch raised — to end it. To end him. To finish.
Jack's head lifted slightly, eyes glinting in the dim light. A soft, eerie laugh escaped. "You… you could kill me…" He coughed, smiled wide through bloodied lips. "But… but why… why end the fun… ahahahahaha…"
He rolled to the side, vanished into the thick green haze, twisting between shadows, leaping over debris, slipping out of Batman's grasp.
A whisper, carried just for Batman, just enough to chill him. "Call me… Joker."
And then he was gone.
Batman stood alone, chest heaving, cape torn, fists bruised and bloody. Around him, the circus was a ruin, gas curling and fading, bodies sprawled in grotesque smiles, broken rides, shattered props. The clown was gone, but his name — Joker — hung in the air, a promise, a warning, and the first step of a nightmare Gotham had yet to see.
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