Chapter 792: The Deadly Joke (Sixteen)

Eventually, Constantine and Bruce sat side by side on the curb, watching the bustling neon lights of the opposite commercial street; Constantine's drug- and alcohol-numbed mind always saw illusions in such glows, and then he said to Bruce:

"You're not from here. You shouldn't have come here. You should return to where you live, not sit here and sneer."

"Yeah, they all say that," Bruce replied. "They say I don't belong here, that I should have left long ago. I don't live in the same society as them. I can't find any answers here."

"No, that's not what I mean," Constantine said. "When I told an angel, 'You shouldn't walk in the realm of hell,' I wasn't praising heaven's beauty or urging him to return and enjoy it—I was warning him not to sink with us."

"Those who are already beneath the abyss can't save others. They can't even save themselves. I can't stand up now. I feel like vomiting. My mind is full of lowborn hallucinations. You can't expect me to go to a charity and help the poor, to preach in a church, to change this city…"

Constantine glanced at his palms, covered in years of lines. He wasn't truly old—just his body, worn down by decades of vice, had reached the brink of collapse. He said: "You're young, strong, full of vitality. You're wealthy and stable. You can do many things I never could—the very things I once wanted to do but never finished…"

"Why didn't you finish them?" Bruce asked.

"Because a hand reached out from hell and dragged me down. That's my fate," Constantine said, glancing back at the alley of the slums. "Whether born in hell or lured into it halfway, they aren't born evil. Maybe they once wanted to save the world."

"Don't think that's childish, Batman. The things you once thought of doing on your attic roof, the time you spent trying—they may not have yielded the results you wanted. They may seem tiny compared to what you could've done. But they're not laughable."

"You think everyone's watching you, mocking you—that you could've done ten but only did one, and still feel proud."

"But if someone benefited from you, they'll only thank you. Those who never benefited can't demand more on behalf of the helped—because it wasn't the bystanders who saved them. It was you."

"Take me. You tried to save me. For some reason, you lacked the power to do it. But I saw your effort. That's why I'm willing to call you my friend. And if someone steps forward saying you didn't try hard enough, that you should've done more to save me—I'd punch them."

Constantine looked at Bruce's face and saw no easing of his expression. He understood what Bruce was thinking—his soul's pulse spoke of his inner turmoil.

Before, Batman might have thought all this was simple: his goal was to fight criminals, to avenge his parents. He believed he'd already achieved much—in just two years, he stopped countless crimes.

Later, Bruce Wayne planned to make changes—to use Wayne Enterprises to do more. He'd been full of determination.

But brutal reality struck like a blow. He realized Gotham's decay wasn't because criminals had no shame or the poor refused to work. Those trapped in this vortex struggled just to survive. When he fell, he couldn't escape either.

His past actions and thoughts now seemed absurd. He wasn't the night—because even from the top of Wayne Tower, the night he saw wasn't dark enough. He wasn't vengeance—the tragedy of his origins likely stemmed from more than just the few criminals he'd toppled.

Constantine took a deep breath. He realized Bruce was in grave danger—his spirit was sliding toward some abyss, and hidden instincts were awakening.

He'd done all he could to comfort Bruce, but Constantine knew he wasn't good at comforting people.

If Batman didn't snap out of it, the consequences would be dire—not just a trained superhero turning into a supervillain. The collapse of Wayne Enterprises was the true horror.

Constantine rubbed his eyes, thought for a moment, then decided to call for backup. He left Bruce's side, glancing back every few steps, found the nearest public phone booth, and dialed Gotham PD.

At Gotham PD, Gordon was interrogating Cobblepot.

But he was tired of it—he knew Cobblepot could get a psychiatric report from any hospital. He'd never end up in prison, only Arkham. But Arkham had become the mob bosses' headquarters. For Cobblepot, going there was like going home.

And every time Gordon pressed for key details about hired murders, Cobblepot would make the sign of the cross. Everyone in Gotham knew what that meant: the police chief was the Godfather's man. As Gordon questioned him, the chief's face grew darker.

Then he got Constantine's call. Hearing Batman was in trouble, he seized the chance to leave.

Arriving at Bruce's location, Gordon was equally shocked by Bruce's state—he understood better than Constantine what happened when Batman went mad.

He quickly gripped Bruce's shoulders and said: "Bruce! Look at me. I'm James. We can talk. Really…"

As he gripped Bruce's shoulders, he felt Bruce's body trembling. Gordon strained to listen—and thought he heard uncontrollable laughter echoing from his chest.

Gordon had a bad feeling. He covered his forehead and said: "Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on? Is it that lunatic again?!"

Suddenly, Bruce looked up and asked him: "I gave you the Bat-Signal. Why have you barely ever lit it?"

"I…" Gordon hesitated slightly. "I don't want to lie to you. The truth is, the Bat-Signal works well as a light—its power is immense, illuminating the entire police yard. So I mounted it on the roof behind the precinct…"

He rushed to add: "But it's still fully functional. Just adjust the angle, and the bat shape appears over Gotham…"

"And I never kept doing it because I thought you were busy," Gordon sighed. "Alright, no more games. I'll be honest: Wayne runs Wayne Enterprises. Bruce goes to school. Bruce Wayne raises children and educates them. Batman goes out to fight crime…"

"I just didn't know when to find you without interrupting what you had to do. Unless it was truly desperate, I didn't want to use this method."

Bruce looked up at him, as if sensing Gordon wasn't telling the truth. Gordon glanced at Constantine, who shrugged: "You two talk. I need to find a place to lie down. I'm feeling awful."

He turned and left. Gordon sat on the curb beside Bruce and said: "Ever since I got promoted, I learned one thing: Gotham PD's inaction isn't just about lack of firepower."

"There are three kinds of people who become cops in Gotham. First: bottomless scumbags. They join the force to take bribes. Their bosses let them in to make things easier. If others pay them, they're happy to help criminals escape justice."

"The second kind are ordinary people. They see policing as just a job. They show up when called. Whether they solve anything depends on luck. If someone pays them, they take it. If it's not too hard, they do it. They believe all the evil in Gotham will resolve itself naturally—no effort needed."

"And the last kind—like my partner Bullock. On the surface, he looks like a dirty cop, always taking mob money. But he's actually a good man. He solves people's problems his own way, doing what he can to uphold justice…"

"What about you?" Bruce asked, looking at him.

"Me? They call me a madman," Gordon said, looking up at the sky. "And yes—in this city, I am a madman. I don't take bribes. I don't help the mob. If someone calls for help, I do everything I can to solve it—even if it costs me my safety or my life."

"At first, I was furious. How could they call me mad? It was them who were insane—colluding with evil. Only I stayed clean. But later, I realized: in Gotham, being a madman isn't bad."

Bruce's eyes shifted toward Gordon, as if confused by his words.

In his mind, Gordon was Gotham's last conscience. You could lose hope in anything here—but you could always trust Gordon.

"One day, I got caught in a complex mob dispute. Everyone in the precinct—even the rookie who'd been there three days—told me to let it go, to make it small, to bury it."

"Then I drove an armored police car to the mansion's entrance. Bullock, behind the wheel, pointed a rocket launcher at one of the mansion's windows. I walked in with a rifle, into the meeting room of the mob bosses."

"I told them: I need the truth. Otherwise, we all die here. Everyone here except me is guilty. And I volunteered."

"They all said I was insane…" Gordon squinted at the neon across the street. "They were all stunned. Called me a madman."

"They started blaming each other—each said the other had provoked this madman. Finally, they found the real mastermind themselves—and shot him dead. One mob boss sent a car to take me back to the precinct and told the police chief: 'The Godfather shouldn't let a madman be a detective.'"

"See?" Gordon spread his hands. "In this city, to stop evil, you can't be a good man. You have to be a madman."

Gordon took a deep breath and stood up, bending forward, hands on his knees, looking down at Bruce.

"Batman, don't think of yourself as the only sane person in this city. We all know: there are no sane people here."

Gordon's gaze at Bruce held an indescribable hope—like seeing his younger self. He said:

"I don't use the Bat-Signal to find you because I don't believe in your resolve to fight crime. Not because I think you're useless. But because if you see yourself as sane, you can't fight these madmen."

"Don't be ashamed of madness. Only when you're madder than everyone else can you defeat them."

Sitting there, Bruce thought of the fire he'd seen—the reality even crazier than the Joker.

Batman had always believed he was sane, and the Joker, with his endless laughter, was the madman.

But now Bruce realized: in this insane reality, no one was exempt. In the decade he'd dreamed of vengeance, he'd still been shaped by madness, blinded by it.

The endless rain here falls equally on everyone. If you think you're still sane, you've probably been mad all along.

Bruce wondered—if he couldn't be sure he was awake, how could he fight criminals? How could he save Gotham?

Gordon couldn't answer that. He wasn't skilled in philosophy. He could only advise Bruce from experience.

But he knew someone who was. He called Harvey Dent—Bruce's mentor and friend.