Bruce stood in front of the television again. The news, again. But this time it was different. The stories of men, women and children gunned down in the streets or another execution of someone trying to take out the Joker were absent. This time he was watching himself on TV. The police had released CCTV footage of Bruce himself taking out groups of Joker's men, and the all the different news channels were all going through the various videos and giving commentary, criticism, encouragement, and everything in between, either trying to give people hope in such dark times or fearmongering, whichever they thought would get more views. The point wasn't the opinions they read off the teleprompters, though, the point was that people would see something other than what amounted to war footage in the battle against the self proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime. For months people had seen nothing but fire and smoke as the Joker murdered everyone who stood against him. The only time someone had gotten close was when Joker had taken a live television feed on a joyride through Gotham and some guy with a bow and a bunch of fancy arrows tried to take him out. It didn't go well. Now, though, they were seeing someone fight back. The police commissioner himself told one channel that, while he legally could not condone the actions of a vigilante, there were a few dozen guys behind bars at least that they knew were because of him. That was all Bruce needed to hear to know his efforts so far were worth it. That the people were seeing him, and knew someone was doing something. Right now, though, he had something else he needed to do. One more thing from his old life as the cowardly Bruce Wayne. He'd been avoiding the calls from Dr. Crane's office for months, hoping they would give up, but apparently that was not the case. He was a changed man now, though, and it wasn't a problem to deal with this. He didn't need the help anymore, and it was time to close that part of his life.

.....

Jonathan Crane was worried at first. He was worried that he'd pushed Bruce too far, that the poor man had gone ahead and ended it. It would have been so disappointing to have lost his little plaything like that. To have toyed a little too hard with the man's little mind and finally pushed it over the edge. But as time went on and the calls kept going to voicemail, kept going to voicemail, always worked but never went through, he realized that Bruce was still alive. He had just decided to leave. And that was truly unacceptable. He knew Bruce, like the back of his skeletal hand, he should have been locked into the vicious cycle of visits with his "friend" Doctor Crane. Why would he have stopped? How would he have stopped? Where did he get the courage, the absolute gumption to decide that he knew better than the man who knew what Bruce was going to say before Bruce himself knew? Had Jonathan gone wrong somehow? Did he say something wrong? Something to betray his true intentions for Bruce? No, he couldn't have. Jonathan Crane was a master of his craft, he would never have made so base a mistake. So then what went wrong??

And then he had a chance to find out. Bruce himself came in, talked to that idiot little girl who worked reception, the girl who knew just enough about Jonathan's craft that she knew something was off about him, but never enough to know what. It was his craft, not hers. He had mastered it, perfected it. It was so easy to make someone feel good about themselves, to help them heal from their pitiful little emotional wounds. It took such finesse to hurt them, to claw open old wounds and cut fresh ones deeper, all while making the victim feel as though they were healing. So yes, it was his craft, not hers. But Bruce... Bruce was a mystery. He had been so simple, easier than an open book, but that was before. Now he was a completely different person, it seemed. Even the girl knew it. He was... ugh, confident, now. Self assured. He spoke evenly, calmly told her that he wouldn't be needing any further sessions going forward, smiled genuinely. All of Jonathan's hard work, gone. Gone! How?? Hours later, he poured over everything he knew of the man, and came up empty. Empty and infuriated. Stewing, he turned on the wretched TV, maybe that fool, Joker, had done something amusing recently. He skimmed channels, not seeing anything, not seeing anything, not seeing... Wait. He backtracked, and watched the video the channel was playing, muting the newscaster's inane prattle. There was a man fighting some of Joker's gang members. A man who looked and moved... familiar. He flipped through some of the different channels, watching the different footage they were playing, all of the same man tearing into the clown faced thugs. It couldn't be. But suddenly, it fit into place. Of course the man who felt helpless all his life, who watched his parents be shot in front of him, would end up with some sort of saviour complex. He just hadn't thought it was possible. Not Bruce. Not the man he had groomed for constant fear and cowardice for years. How could he? But here it was. Bruce Wayne, positively phobic and completely crippled in life, turned vigilante and self appointed hero of the people. Something had happened that Jonathan had not anticipated, and that was the greatest insult of all. Bruce Wayne was entirely in his power, and he would make sure the pathetic man stayed that way. He would rebreak him, this time so thoroughly that he could never heal again. If Bruce wanted to play at hero, then Jonathan Crane would be his villain. If he knew one thing in this world, it was fear. He understood the psychology, the chemistry, and now, he would use everything he knew for practical application. Bruce Wayne was no one else's, not the Joker, not his own, and not Gotham's. The only weapon in Crane's arsenal was fear, but he wielded it masterfully, and could and would leave everyone who stood between him and his toy catatonic. The Joker had his laughing gas, but Crane would bottle a much baser emotion.

Stolen novel; please report.

.....

Bruce was ready. He was finally ready. Weeks since that first fight, every night spent bringing down another squad of clowns. Every night, more information, more data. The Joker knew about him now, he was sure of it. Bruce was sure that the twisted man watched the news almost as much as Bruce himself did, always keeping track of the goings on of Gotham, if only to stoke his ego with every new block of the city that burned. But he did watch. For as deranged and monstrous as he was, he was smart, cunning. Always working the crowd, always riling the mob. He might have been insane, that wasn't Bruce's job to decide, but he was very aware of what went on around him. So yes, he knew about Bruce. He knew there was a vigilante targeting his men, getting information from them. The police didn't always show up on time, sometimes they got away. And when they did, he was sure they reported back. Joker knew he was coming, he just didn't know when. And he could not be fully ready at all times, so all Bruce could do is get close and wait for the time to strike. He looked over the gear he had. Over the last few weeks, he had worked with Luke to perfect the armor, but it still didn't feel like it was going to be enough. It was probably as protective as it could be, but it could not be perfect. Something resistant to blunt attacks would be weak to bullets and knives. Resistant to gunfire, the reverse. Try to have all three and now you can't move. And that wasn't even counting something he had no information on, like if the Joker had dogs. There were too many unknowns, not enough info. But that was going to be with everything, and sometimes you can only work with what you've got. So Bruce had the best all around protection he could while still trying to maintain mobility. It was worryingly little, but it was the best he could have. Pennyworth had done his best to give tips, helpful advice he had learned in combat, and now Bruce was ready. It was time to get to work.