Disclaimer: I do not own Commissioner Gordon, Batman, or Clayface. They are character created and owned by DC Comics.


Being a police commissioner has pros and cons. For an old dog like me, the biggest is my smoking addiction. I can't smoke anywhere near police business, or else there'd be retribution from the higher ups. The same's been said for tonight; I get a call for some kind of incident at Daggett Pharmaceuticals. I almost put the phone down before the officer calling me mentions something else. Something that makes me stop dead.

"There's clay residue at the crime scene, Commissioner."

Everything that I was thinking becomes meaningless as I fix on my coat and bust out the door, slipping the phone into my pocket. By the time I'd gotten to my car, I'm subconsciously focusing on how and why Clayface – former actor turned horror monster Basil Karlo – escaped from jail. He's been there for at least three months since his last rampage…it wasn't like he could've escaped without some red flag raised…

Sooner than I'd expected, my car pulls up to the crime scene. I peer out of my window and rush out, catching a glimpse of the flashing police lights. At least ten beat cops and a fine-line of yellow tape are present. Detectives are taking their ten cents on it all while lab techs photograph wrecked machinery strewn like spaghetti on the floor. To my luck, Bullock is assessing the mess from the corner. He notices me coming closer and puts down his donut. Honestly, he needs to get that addiction under control, but I know that me telling him that is more hypocritical than he'd know.

"What do we have, Harvey? Heard it could be something related to Gotham's favorite mud man?" I ask with no hint of tiredness or lacking. Tonight, it's all game face.

"No sugarcoating the obvious, boss," He says back. "Witness descriptions said that Clayface came in and caused a scene inside the building. Security spread thin, machines smashed – the usual package. And the usual clues, too." One of his chubby hands swerves around, directing my eyes to the various clay droppings around the entrance hall. "The crazy thing is, it wasn't a normal heist…"

My brows tighten. Since when is anything he does qualify as normal? "Elaborate."

Bullock sighs, then turns to jab a finger at the nearest lab. Up until this point, I haven't seen it, but the reason why is quickly apparent; the door has been torn right off, and the remaining pieces mimic the clay in scattering itself across the remainder of the lobby. As we enter inside, my eyes balloon at the damage Karlo had done to the place. Entire stacks of computers, torn to shreds…chemicals and glass splattered across the walls in the fashion of some twisted tie-dye experiment. I know he's a mess, but the amount of destroyed equipment is going to cost this place billions.

"Good lord…" I trail off in shock.

"Stinks of his M.O," Harvey fires off absentmindedly. "I'd chalk it up to somethin' stupid, but ain't any evidence to make light of something yet."

"And he didn't steal money or data or anything?"

Harvey blinks and frowns, shaking his head a couple times so hard I'm sure it's going to spin right off. "Nope. All the few witnesses we got could say for sure was that he was moanin'…claimin' he was in pain."

I sigh, then glance at the nearest lab tech. "Make sure you get DNA samples of what's been happening here." The assistant, a young man wearing glasses too reminiscent of Harry Potter, nods in response. I cough and strut back out, all the more confused by what happened here. And all the more determined to find the crazed truth.


The best we have for scientists at GCPD is our forensics unit. With the lackluster funding from City Hall, we've either gotten great or sleazy experts for the job, and more sleazy than great. Luckily, I have one person I can rely on: Janice Martin, a transfer from the Metropolis PD. She has the best instincts and skills I've ever seen, so if I ever need a personal opinion, she's the right woman for the job.

I walk into the lab, thankfully knocking before I enter. She sits at her desk but turns around once I come in, her hands folded like she's praying for something. "Hello, Jim. This another fun visit?

"Sadly, no," I mention with a small but hard laugh. "I've got a case that's quite pressing. Think you've got the time to give your opinion?"

"Sure thing." She takes the file, packed with photos and the DNA, with a smile and place it on her desk. Her hands pick up the DNA strand, which in this case is a small blob of brown clay. "Gotham's resident ball of mud, I take it?" Janice asks with charisma.

"That's what we know," I concede. "We're hoping a look at the DNA will tell us what drove him to cause damages this time."

Janice chuckles a laugh, one I'm too familiar with at police fundraisers and colleague gatherings. It's almost enchanting – but not enough to take me out of the current conundrum. "Wouldn't hurt to try," she replies while scooting the sample underneath a microscope. The entire process quickly becomes dilatory in my purview, so I take to glancing around her office. Various awards and titles from other cities are placed on the walls, one being from Fawcett City. Fawcett, of all places. Never was there myself, but it's a definite standout in an otherwise reputable record.

"Jim." The use of my name is hard and edgy. From my collaborations with her in the past, I can tell something's gone wrong. At the very least I dart over to her position, where she generously allows me to look into the microscope. My eyes enlarge at what I'm seeing; the very clay tissue is turning black and copying from itself into more pieces, all that fall apart in the end.

"There's…some kind of genetic breakdown in the clay. It's starting at a cellular level, and from there, it crumbles just like any other kind of clay when it's too brittle." Her face is completely serious now, the cheerfulness vacuumed away to other pastures.

"What do you think is causing this?" I ask with urgency.

"…Honestly, Jim? This is all new territory for me." Janice struts over to her desk and looks down with her hands planted on it. "I've studied metahuman physiology, but unless I get some sort of larger sample – Karlo himself, perhaps – I'm at a loss for an explanation here."

Her words mince into me, giving me an idea of what I have to do. It's not what'd I'd prefer into his situation, but it's better than the alternative. With a deep sigh, I take the file back in one hand and open the door with the other. A brisk goodbye escapes my lips as it shuts on my departure.


Standing on the roof, huddling into myself to keep warm, is already a fight in itself. But despite the cold and tiredness coming on to me, I feel that I can hold out. And quicker than I figure, the dart of a shadow makes its way to the other side of the roof. Snorting, I swirl to see past the Bat-Signal the very thing I've been looking forward to all night – Batman himself.

If I said that he was a sight for sore eyes, it'd be too much of a cliché.

"Jim," he deadpans, probably for the hundredth time at this point. "Something wrong?"

He's on to me. But then, of course, he is. He's Batman, after all. I sigh and produce the files from my coat, holding them open with one hand. He takes them gently in a dash of black, pouring over them before I even start talking. "Clayface recently attacked Daggett Pharmaceutics and left with nothing," I resign to inform him. "Our lab techs found parts of his body all over the place, dripping like diarrhea."

His fingers scrunch up the report as he hears what I'm saying through his cowl. "His body's breaking down."

Ten steps ahead of me. Exactly what I expected from him.

"That what I figured," I continue. "I checked in with an acquaintance of mine in DNA specialties, and she found that his body's coming apart at the molecular level. Thing is, she can't tell what's causing it. Her exact words… 'it's like clay when heat makes it too brittle.'"

He nods, not looking up from the paper. Suddenly, I get the impression that he's knowing more than he's letting on. And my hunch is affirmed when he gazes back up from the report. "Just as I suspected."

"As you suspected?" I'm about to get more questioning, only to stop myself; he knew because he's Batman. "So, you knew this was happening?"

In his usual dark way, he grunts to confirm what I'd thought. Before I can further ask, one gloved hand dips into his cape to throw a container of some kind at the ground. It hits and skids a couple of feet from where mine are located, but my eyes are too focused on what's inside. A sprawled, greasy substance of some kind...

Then, to my horror, I'm hit with the realization…What I've been looking for this entire time – Clayface - is right there and writhing in his own body like some b-movie horror scene. Dear god…

"That's Clayface?"

"Yes," he deadpans again. "I found him on the far west side, holed up inside a dumpster slowly melting to death. The rest of his body's stored inside of the Batmobile."

My hands tighten and my breaths come to a halt. "The way thing's been going…do YOU have a lead?"

His body tenses up, then he looks right at me. "Yes, I do." Another gloved hand extends towards me, but whatever is inside it is too far off to see. I come right next to it. It's seeds…seeds?

"Oh no…" I trail off. Everything becomes clearer as right there, I come to realize just who's behind this.

"Ivy."