Chapter Text
3:34 am – City Center.
Very rarely did an opportunity like that arise. Thanks to an anonymous informant, the police department had certainty: one of their worst criminals would meet with his followers in an abandoned warehouse at dawn to prepare a wave of crimes that would encompass the wealthiest areas of the city, of which robbery was not the worst crime, but setting fire to a long row of houses in the best neighborhood.
A large part of the police department was surrounding the warehouse and its nearby streets. A huge group of men with weapons and bulletproof vests stood with their eyes high but with a huge latent fear. They looked at the surrounding rooftops, hoping that their hero would end it all at once to stop thinking about the number of possible deaths they would have that morning. The chief officer of the entire operation raised a megaphone.
– We have them surrounded, come out with your hands up and no one will be hurt.
The thunderous voice did not stir any movement. The dark warehouse was still silent as if there were not a considerable number of criminals with firearms inside. The next two minutes were the longest. The officer spoke again through the megaphone.
– If you don't come out in eight minutes, we will enter by force. Don't make it any harder than it is.
This time, a certain man was standing in the building that faced the warehouse. Some police officers noticed his presence, but he didn't care. He counted to himself every second. Until the count finally had ten seconds to end. He took a shortcut and, taking advantage of his time limit, descended to the interior of the warehouse, pushing his entire body against the glass inside. He threw some smoke bombs before the people inside the warehouse could know who it was.
He left the rest of the work to the officers when he opened the interior door; it was not the easy-to-catch criminals that worried him. He lay down again on the building and observed a thin, familiar silhouette sneaking through a dark alley around the warehouse. He ran with all his might until he positioned himself stealthily in the dead end that his criminal mind seemed to want to use.
"Joker" He whispered to himself. The man was facing away, crawling to the railing in front of him as if he had a chance to escape. He began to laugh but did nothing more than take two steps, ignoring the man. When Bruce approached him to hold his arm and immobilize him, an aroma that he never expected to feel in that situation crept into his chest in a very annoying way. He watched silently. The unusual aroma began to mix with that of the city, and that only made it even more real.
Aroma of omega.
"J..." He was about to say when he felt the presence of a huge line of uniformed men behind him. The police were waiting for him to move out of the way so they could arrest the villain who was lying on the ground, emitting the closest thing to a forced laugh. Perhaps the fresh and somewhat innocent aroma made Bruce put aside the strong attitude and for a moment believe what was happening before his eyes.
Joker was an omega, and he was sick.
His sense of smell was never able to know what Joker's subgenre was, and for several years he believed that the villain was a crazy exception to being an alpha or omega; for God's sake, he was almost sure that he was a beta. But from one second to the next, knowing that felt like it changed everything. Not only was he an omega, but he was also seriously ill, which he was able to know thanks to his perfect sense of smell, which could predict even the subgenre of someone he saw from afar; a sick omega so serious was easy to recognize for a pure alpha like he was in this case.
He took a few steps back, and just as the police began to approach, also inhibited by the soft aroma, the man on the ground said in a hoarse voice.
— The party is not over!
And from one second to the next, the now omega was standing with a blade in his hands, being fast enough to slash the dark knight's cheek, taking some blood in the process. Not satisfied with that, he quickly approached the police officer who looked closest (and most frightened) and tried to half-heartedly drive the rusty blade into his torso, twisting it with the last milliseconds he had left before Batman gave him a beating enough to put him back on the ground.
He couldn't believe he had done all that so sick.
When he bent down to immobilize him and put handcuffs on him, the aroma seemed to slap him. Joker was saying incoherencies that the hero was not really interested in. Even so, immobilizing him was just as difficult as any other occasion. There were bites and attempts to kick, and all that came from the same man who gave off an aroma that now seemed to fall due to the illness. The police officers who dared approached to hold Joker by the arms and take him away as soon as possible. Bruce followed them to the patrol car, clearly noticing that the villain was being dragged to walk.
— He's sick, they must take the...
The police chief, a beta, anticipated him with his gaze fixed on him.
— We know, now we take care of it, Batman.
His way of speaking was a somewhat disguised attempt to tell him to leave the scene at once, as if they had been the ones who caught the biggest criminal and were getting rid of the inconveniences. Bruce ignored him; he didn't even have time to dwell on the officer's words because right now he was lost looking at only one thing. The Joker with his head down inside the vehicle, the lights illuminating his hair, and the feeling that every part of that criminal was dying little by little.
So… strange. and worrying.
He disappeared when the officer turned around to repeat that he should leave.
That night he didn't sleep well, or as little as he was expected to be able to do with six hours of sleep in a chaotic week like everyone else.
In the local news, only the capture of one of the city's biggest villains was reported; luckily for Bruce, at no time did the articles mention anything about the villain's subgenre, and that transmitted a certain peace to him knowing that those involved in the police forces were rather discreet.
Or so he hoped.
On the other hand, that morning he went to his desk and before the sun came up, he wrote on his computer with information about Joker.
"He is omega"
He typed and stayed in his chair looking at the computer as if he had just seen something very relevant. Being a man of whom he never knew exactly his age or his real name, that was a very big step in knowing about him. And he was an omega, the lowest subgenre in society, the type of people relegated to being housewives and living under the stalking of whoever wanted to take advantage of such defenseless beings.
And there he had a cold-blooded serial killer spreading hormones as if it were normal.
There were a thousand intrigues within him. Why now? After years of struggles and wounds that would leave a tomb even for a good alpha, at no time did Joker turn around to tell him that he would take a break in his own way. In no fight did I feel his pheromones or anything like it, even when I tried.
Why was he exploding at this moment?
When he heard Alfred's voice calling him to have his breakfast at once, his thoughts briefly dispersed. Then, just as he was about to turn off his computer, another reminder,
Joker is sick, seriously ill.
He knows that if he stays there, standing, he will waste valuable time in his morning, but he knows that he cannot afford to stay without visiting Joker even once, and then he says to himself.
"I'm not worried, I'll just visit him because the doctors might have discovered something about his condition, and information is power"
When he goes down the stairs, he sees his breakfast plate and decides to start the morning by getting rid of the thought that last night he risked his life uncovering another red criminal. He begins to drink from his glass of orange juice, enthusiastic enough to start his day. But even now, when he drinks it, the juice feels like a rock passing through his throat, because he has Alfred's gaze on him as if he were judging him harshly with his eyes.
He leaves his glass.
— What's going on?
Alfred says bluntly.
– The "criminals" you caught last night, sir, were not criminals.
And suddenly Bruce's face turned pale and as if he had been expecting it for a while, Alfred turns on the television in front of them, which was paused with the latest news.
Images of the abandoned warehouse he visited last night are shown; the supposed criminals with weapons to whom he did not pay much attention were, in reality, innocent civilians with masks and firearms tied to their hands with packing tape.
Which reminds Bruce that he threw a smoke bomb at people threatened to stay still in a place with little ventilation.
He puts his hands on his head and looks down while the interview with one of Joker's victims is played on the news from a hospital bed.
"Batman threw smoke bombs at us! Innocent civilians, for God's sake!"
– I'm afraid, that's not good publicity – Alfred says as he turns off the television to leave only Bruce, who cannot have believed it noticed, thinks how it could be that he was distracted so as not to notice first, and suddenly, remembers that he was distracted by Joker.
He curses himself internally.
The rest of the morning will be dedicated to inspecting the reports of his company. Everything about the new investments and an abbreviated but detailed report about his income, and luckily, unlike his career as a hero, everything is going with absolute normality.
While he is reviewing reports and going from meeting to meeting, he decides to pay more attention to the men and women in suits who work in his company; he had never stopped to think about how many alphas occupy high-ranking jobs, but in his company there are and he never took the time to think about the inequality of conditions, which keeps him a little ashamed but he takes it as another opportunity to change some things in his company, just like when he donated to shelters for omegas in difficult situations.
Exactly one month later, Bruce puts on the suit and decides to go out a little earlier that night. He goes to Arkham Asylum, just to see him one more time.