Disclaimer: Don't own Batman or any related materials. Except that Joker action figure I bought. I own that. Otherwise, though, it's all DC's.

Underworld Rumblings

Chapter 1: Running the Asylum

In the recess area of Arkham Asylum, the wall-mounted TV ran the same news story it had been showing for the past two hours. As inmates cycled in and out of the 'lounge' each one reacted to the story differently. Some scoffed, some cheered, others scowled in frustration. Only one seemed to ignore the story completely, seated nearer to the corner of the room than the flickering screen. Jonathan Crane had been present since the story first broke, courtesy of his 'privileges', and while he had been initially intrigued, his interest had quickly cycled into irritation at the vapid, constantly repeating headlines. Commissioner at Risk? Unknown Gunman Fires Three Shots, Three Dead. 'Bat Man' Involved in Attack on Commissioner?. Oh, and Another Attempted Assassination by Crimson-Clad Killer, that had been a particularly desperate case of alliteration.

The bespectacled inmate only raised his head from the pages of his heavily-thumbed book when the pattern of repetition changed, the media desperately converging on a new piece of information with all the grace of a flock of vultures on a single chunk of meat.

"…the gunman has been positively identified by GCPD as one Floyd Lawton, a hitman better known as Dead Shot. Reports indicate that Lawton, who was released several months ago from Blackgate Penitentiary after being convicted last year for the attempted murder of then-Lieutenant Gordon, has not been taken into custody, raising fears that-"

Crane tuned out the empty-headed anchor, focusing instead on the pictures that were flashing up on the screen. A man built like an athlete, with a well-trimmed moustache and goatee, sat talking to another, far more heavily built man. Lawton was circled in a pastel red, clashing with the wine-red shade of his tailored suit. Another image, this time of Lawton alone, wearing a trenchcoat and wide-brimmed hat of the same red shade. The picture was badly blurred, but the curious metal-grey contraption Lawton wore was clearly visible under the hat, as were the just-as-whimsical arm-mounted handguns. Crane's musings on how he actually fired them were interrupted by the final picture of the hitman – last year's mug shot. Two black eyes and numerous other bruises (not to mention the sling around his arm) attested to the manner of his capture; the Batman. Which, mused Crane, only made the inane speculations of the press all the more amusing.

"With multiple sightings of the 'Bat-Man' on the scene, some are making connections between the dangerous vigilante and the attempted murder. Many thought that Gotham's most mysterious criminal could sink no lower after the murder of-"

Crane simply tuned out again, not bothering to suppress a slight smile. The city thought it knew Batman? No, they understood nothing about him. From urban legend to rough-and-tumble vigilante to mysterious saviour to monstrous killer in barely more than a year. Their perception of him flip-flopped in all directions, as though he was some common celebrity, an empty cipher for their lost dreams and hopes. No. Crane knew. He had seen the heart of the Bat, looked into his very soul that night under the Asylum, and he knew that if the Batman was anything, he was consistent. Relentless. A Jungian archetype made flesh, the-

The ex-psychologist's musings were cut short by a violent scraping noise, as another inmate dragged their chair over to him. Wincing at the sound, Crane turned to the only man in the asylum with the mental faculties to match him.

"Jervis."

A former computer programmer, Jervis Tetch had been sentenced to Arkham after going so thoroughly postal on his office that his ex-employers had had to all but replace the entire floor. Unlike most of the other inmates, whom Crane had treated personally before his incarceration, he didn't know exactly what had set the otherwise mousy and unassuming man off – but he could guess. A girl, most likely, and the Doctor suspected the deaths of his other co-workers had been more-or-less incidental to Tetch.

"Dr. Crane."

Jervis nodded to the screen.

"Your thoughts on the, ah, incident? I don't suppose you were, erh, really that surprised, hm?"

"Of course not. Our dear Commissioner might as well have painted a target on his back after the last few months. First his entire department is violently made a fool of by –"

A glance in the general direction of solitary confinement was the closest Crane would come to admitting discomfort. Arkham's most infamous inmate, an internment that had led to rebuilding parts of the asylum like a fortress at the behest of the GCPD, was… feared, even among the more prestigious members of its clientele. The corridors had rung with laughter for weeks after his sentencing, until the news of Batman's murder of the District Attorney had somehow filtered through. For the first few days, the sullen silence had been worse, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. The media had labeled Crane the 'Master of Fear' during the few glorious months of his freedom, but even he paused before so much as mentioning the – Joker. You never knew who might be listening.

"- then our dear Mr. Dent takes a fall, and his only remaining ally of any real effectiveness is named his killer. This attack was only the beginning. Darker times are ahead for Mr. Gordon."

"Oh? I don't suppose you, ah, have some inside information to that effect?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tetch. It's simple logic. With both of Gotham's so-called 'Knights' out of the picture, Gordon really is the only thing left keeping the city from falling back into its old ways. He's not a knight. Not a... symbol. He's just a man, he can be killed." Crane gestured at the screen. "It seems I'm not the only one to have come to that conclusion."

"So you, eh, don't think the, ah-hnh, Batman had anything to do with this?"

"No. Not even in the slightest."

"But then, ah, you don't think he had anything to do with Dent's death, either?"

Jervis flinched slightly at the look Crane shot him over his glasses. For all his neurotic ditziness, the 'Mad Hatter' as some had taken to calling him, could be irritatingly perceptive at times.

"No." He admitted finally, looking away. "I don't. It doesn't fit the Batman's profile at all. I-"

Crane was cut off again by a tapping on his shoulder. He pursed his lips in irritation at the familiar gesture, but suppressed the urge to snap at the man. His influence in Arkham was largely down to his former reputation as former head of the asylum, along with his good behaviour. So when he turned to the guard, it was with a smile that could, at a distance, be described as friendly.

"Yes?"

" Doctor Crane? You have a visitor."

Imagine the stereotypical visiting station of an asylum – a single flickering light hangs above a room more suited to interrogation by the Gestapo. The off-white walls are covered with biro-graffiti and miscellaneous stains, and the inmate and his guest sit in either soulless plastic or uncomfortable metal chairs, separated by grimy bulletproof glass, airholed like the cage of a homicidal hamster.

Surprisingly, although the biro-graffiti and unwelcoming chairs were fully intact, the visitor's station at Arkham was otherwise pleasant, thanks to the taxpayer's dollars rerouted here after the Joker's capture – not everything was spent on extra security. The walls were scrubbed, the glass was clean, and the room was brightly lit - but even with the face of the man across from him in full view, Crane couldn't place him. A private investigator? A reporter? A fan? Certainly not an actual visitor – he had no family or friends to speak of.

"Doctor Crane. I'm pleased to see you."

"A sentiment shared by few. You are?"

Far from looking hurt at not being recognised, the man beamed. It was the kind of open, friendly smile that told Crane he was being paid a lot to talk to him, and that he was likely a professional. Not a fan or PI then, despite his apparent enthusiasm.

"I'm just here to talk to you about-" Please don't say Jesus, Crane thought. I'm not a sociable man, but you're the first certifiably sane piece of conversational material I've happened upon for weeks, and I'd really rather you weren't religious. "-your opportunities outside of the asylum." Inside, Crane sighed with relief before crooking an eyebrow in curiosity. Outside, he remained blankly polite and alert.

"Well, despite the undoubted and steady effectiveness of my therapy, I have to admit to not having given much thought to life outside of Arkham, Mr…"

The man rolled his eyes, and replied. "John Doe. Call me John." Before mouthing We Are Being Recorded. Now it was Crane's turn to roll his eyes, or at least close them momentarily in exasperation.

"I would remind you, Mr. Doe, that I once ran Arkham Asylum."

The man's smile didn't fade. "Of course, Doctor, of course. I didn't mean to cause offense." The mouthing returned. We Want You Out Of Here.

"None was taken." replied Crane, watching the mystery man's lips closely. "What sort of future outside of Arkham do you believe I could have, Mr Doe? My… actions were highly publicised."

"I'm sure a man of your talents could find something to do, if properly treated and reformed." Mob. High Pay. "Remind me, which Doctor is currently assigned to treating you? Ms Quinzel, isn't it? I'd talk to her, if I were you."

"My sessions, I'm afraid, are rather irregular, due to the... current influx of patients. We live in stressful times, evidently. Of course, I'll be certain to pass on your suggestions to Dr. Quinzel. If I can get hold of her – I'm afraid she's been rather busy these past few weeks with our most high-profile patient."

"Their most high profile patient, Doctor." The mob-scout offered. "You don't work here anymore." In response, Crane smiled the smile of a man to whom fate has opened a door and begun beckoning. It was a smile that made the mob-scout falter, a man who regularly oversaw his co-workers breaking fingers without flinching. It was the sort of smile every surfer dreads seeing coming up at them from out of the water.

"No, I don't suppose I do, do I?"

As he had said, it had been some time since he had been able talk to his Doctor. Harlene showed a fascination with Arkham's celebrity inmate that Crane, a man who ran around gassing people while wearing a burlap-sack mask, found unhealthy. He had, as her mentor at Arkham, warned her about becoming too attached to patients – like rescued animals, they would one day have to be released into the wild, to bite children and spread disease.

Her interest in the patient only became more amusing when his appointment with her finally came around. Crane doubted anyone else would have noticed that her eyeshadow and lipstick were heavier than usual, or that a near-empty packet of skin-cleansers was among the items in her bag. As she rifled through it for her notebook, Crane reached across with deceptive quickness and drew the wipes toward him. She looked up in confusion, followed quickly by well-hidden dismay. Good. She didn't underestimate him, even as an inmate.

Crane tapped the packet in mock disapproval. "Looking to empathise with your patient, Ms. Quinzel?"

Her response was high-pitched, fast, and wavering. "I'm sure I… don't… um." She rallied magnificently. "It's a new technique I'm using. I feel that if I present him with a friendly face, one with he recognises and that obviously pleases him, he may open up more effectively."

"Treating him to a smile? Or treating him with one, anyway."

She gave him that dazzling smile that had stunned madmen around Arkham. "Absolutely, Doct- Er. Mr? Crane. My theory is-"

Her smile faded as he cut her off with a finger raised in criticism. "I may be clinically insane, Ms. Quinzel, but I still have a PhD. Doctor will do. Continue."

"Sure, well, Doctor, I believe that he's totally alienated himself from humanity; he views himself as separate from, or above us, in the same way as the-" the corners of her mouth turned down ever so slightly "-Batman. By... imitating him in our sessions, I put myself on his level, giving him someone to empathise with."

"There's no need to dumb down the psychological terms for me, Ms. Quinzel. Otherwise a very convincing excuse, although I recommend you give the execution some work." Crane smirked visibly at her confusion – how much of it was false and how much real even he couldn't tell. "Cura te ipsum, Ms. Quinzel. But enough about that. I'd like to talk about my impending release."

Her eyebrows furrowing so cutely that even Zsaz would have been enraptured, the doctor flipped through her notebook. "What relea-" she paused. "Oh. Oh. That release. Of course. Well, Mr. er, Ichabod, you've been declared legally sane. You will be quietly released at the end of the week."

"Very good." She nodded, and gave him a tight smile. "Just for reference, Harlene, how much did they pay you?"

The smile tightened. Still some trace of professionalism in there, Ms. Quinzel? The thought amused him. "Enough." She got up, and moved to the door.

"One last thing." She turned back in exasperation, obviously eager to leave. He just raised an eyebrow. "Ichabod?"

The cheeky grin he remembered from her early days in Arkham returned. "Sure! Johnny Ichabod. That's the name on the release form." She left before he could reply, and all he could think was Very mature, Quinzel.

At the end of the week, Johnny Ichabod was quietly released from Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, thanking the guard at the door profusely for his part, however slight, in curing him of his rampant kleptomania. He even jokingly returned the pen he was given him to sign the form, leaving the guard feeling good about himself – it wasn't often you saw how much good you were doing up close.

Johnny Ichabod died three steps out of the door, and Jonathan Crane discarded his nervous grin with barely-concealed distaste. He was not-at-all surprised to find that his bag of 'personal effects' didn't include a certain burlap mask and modified aerosol-cans, but remained upbeat – sacking and aerosol could be acquired easily enough, and a rebreather would be fairly simple to purchase once he was back on a mob payroll.

Speaking of which… Crane had barely turned the corner when a car pulled up next to him. A limousine, black with a black trim and black windows. How subtle thought Crane wryly, watching it for signs of life beyond the softly grumbling engine. The window didn't roll down, and no horns were honked, but the door opened with a barely perceptible hiss. A clear invitation, albeit one without R.S.V.P.

The inside of the car was red, like old wine on a white shirt, and Crane briefly compared it to being swallowed by some great black whale, able to see the ribs and red tongue from the inside.

Sitting down on the red-leather seats were two figures, the left of which gestured for the driver to get moving. He wore expensive-looking black trousers, black shoes, black gloves and a black suit, with an-equally expensive-looking black shirt and a curiously ratty red tie. His face, to Crane's chagrin, was mostly hidden by the lack of light in that corner of the car, very obviously intentionally. All Crane could make out was the angular silhouette of sunglasses on the outline of his head. Crane wondered incredulously at who would wear sunglasses inside a darkened car. The pretentious. Or those who want to hide as much of themselves as reasonably possible to the common observer. So either he was dealing with an egomaniac, or a paranoid. Either way, he was in familiar company.

Next to him, and holding a gun uncomfortably close to Crane's temple, was the second man. His dark red trenchcoat blended well into the leather, and but for the crosshair-marked monocle and custom pistol he could have been a particularly flamboyant Italian businessman. Crane recognised Gotham's newest hitman, having spent much of last week watching the reports surrounding him. Floyd Lawton, Deadshot.

The man in black leaned forward slowly, gesturing to his bodyguard to lower the gun, which he did so. Reluctantly. As his face came into the light, Crane studied him. Short black hair, styled sparingly and without obvious care, that barely reached ears that curved outward slightly. Ice-blue eyes, cast into shade by the bright lights and the thickness of his brow. A strong nose which, when coupled with a well-defined jaw and prominent chin, gave the impression of one of the more unconventionally attractive action heroes of Hollywood. But action heroes didn't have certified madmen broken out of asylums, or procure the services of one of the most infamous and successful assassins in modern history.

"Dr Crane." His voice was smooth with a hint of gravel, and little accent - one of Gotham's elite, curiously well-practiced at the art of ingratiating himself with his lowers, if Crane guessed correctly. The man reached into a side pocket of the car, retrieving a familiar piece of stitched burlap. "We need to talk."