Notes:

After much consideration, I've decided to rewrite "Many Paths to Night" because as much as the story is about the Batman and the Joker, TIM (Robin here - sorry, no Damian Wayne in this 'verse' - which is a 'mix-and-match' from various Batman verses.) turned out to be the main voice – much to my surprise. The plot remains nearly identical yet the viewpoint change does make quite a difference.

Also, there will be quite many original characters.

Once upon a time, there was a child.

The child walked into darkness.

And the darkness said to the child,

"Shall we make a bet?"

The rain settled heavily on Tim's head. A lock of hair kept drooping over his face and he brushed it away, irritated. The rain even smelled heavy, weighing down on his senses along with the ever-present smell of grass and cold masonry of the place, heightened by wetness.

From his vantage point up on the tree in the courtyard, he looked over the grotesque roofs of the old building in front of him. There were always some crows around the asylum, as if the universe fancied itself a stage director and took pride in setting up an appropriate atmosphere. But Tim knew that the particular crows he was familiar with wouldn't be here right now.

Crane's crows seemed to know exactly when their master was absent from Arkham.

The crows that were around through, were agitated, flitting from one rooftop to another. This was due to the unusual buzz of frantic activity that surrounded the area - loud beeping noises and red lights of emergency vehicles going in and out, people in uniforms carting portable beds flanked with medical equipment, and the media crew. A live broadcast from GNBC was now flowing through Tim's comm:

"... while the exact number of victims from the mass poisoning tonight at the asylum is still being confirmed, it's estimated that there are already ten deaths among both staff and patients. The surviving victims appear to have fallen into a coma. Among such victims are some of the more notorious Arkham residents such as Jervis Tetch, aka Mad Hatter, and Arnold Wesker, aka the Ventriloquist..."

Tim silently skipped around to the back corner of the asylum, mercifully free of such activity except for the presence of two guards.

Apparently the universe was quite unashamed of exaggerated direction this night, for an opportune thunder highlighted Tim as he flew in, even providing a sound effect a second later with the roll of thunder as he landed, causing the guards to gasp and stumble backwards.

"The Hell…!"

"Good – night to you, sirs."

Tim liked to think that he'd passed the phase where he relished every dramatic entrances. So he endeavored to downplay it – if only for the guilt he felt at the flustered guards. One of them he was marginally familiar with – although he'd never learned the man's first name, just the surname of Brennan.

The guards had recovered, Brennan recognizing Tim first. He managed a nod and a weak smile.

"Hardly a good night."

"I understand that, Mr. Brennan, and I'm sorry. Which was why I was going to have a look around?"

The other guard tilted his head suspiciously.

"What, the masks are now coming in for food poisoning cases? I mean, it's bad but…"

Brennan quickly silenced his partner by shooting a look at him. Then he turned to look back at Tim. To be exact, Brennan was looking over Tim. Tim quelled the small disappointment and annoyance that arose. He had been visiting Arkham regularly for a while now and he believed he'd built a rapport between some of the staff. And yet... at times like this, the whole of Arkham reverted to that look. It helped little that Dick, Jason, and Barbara herself during her time as Batgirl – all had experienced it whenever they happened to drop by Arkham without Bruce. The inmates and the staff would keep looking over their shoulders as well as around them, trying to spot another presence. You could practically feel them thinking: 'Oh, you mean it's just... you?'

You call a friend for keeping company. But when you get into an accident, you call your dad.

Outwardly, Tim merely said, "Batman has another matter at GCPD," he pointed up at the Bat Signal, blurred and a little feint against the murky night sky. "...so I'll be looking over the scene. Of course, if you have to get permission for me from..."

"You mean a courtesy call, not an actual permission – it's not like you'd be deterred from your investigation now, would you?"

Three heads turned to the source of new voice - which was a tall, lanky man that had appeared at the back door of the building. He had the standard white gown of an Arkham doctor, albeit rumpled and with rolled-up papers sticking out of every pocket. The man smiled at Tim.

"Turdus migratorius (American Robin) or Erithacus rubecula (European Robin)? Which one did we agree on? I don't remember we did? I think you said you being the former made more sense, what with you being an American cape and all. But you know Turdus migratorius is actually a thrush rather than a robin, right?"

Tim smiled back at the man.

"Dr. Cheng."

"Dave."

Arkham's Chief of Medical Division waved his hand as if to shoo away the title and looked over to the guards.

"I'll take over from here, briefing him and all that – it's been cleared with Marsellus. I know you flit around just as well as an actual Erithacus but I think you'd be better off with a guide if you don't want to unnecessarily bump into medics and GCPD officers swarming the place."

Tim gratefully stepped towards the beckoning doctor, nodding to the guards as he passed them and trying to pretend that he didn't hear the guards whispering behind him. ("What's the doc calling him? I thought he was called Kid Wonder." – then Brennan gravely admonishing his colleague: "Boy Wonder.")

Would you kindly look after the crows, Boy Wonder.

The content of the note hidden deep inside one of his secret pockets echoed in Tim's mind as he followed the doctor in, the imagined voice making Tim's insides go tight.

Act 1-1.

"Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't."

William Shakespeare. Macbeth (Act 1, Scene 5)

"Marsellus would've come himself to greet you, if he weren't so caught up with restraining himself from giving media the finger and assuaging the hysterical board of directors. The speed with which they assailed poor Marsellus is quite remarkable, usually it takes Herculean effort to rouse them enough to be up on their asses for anything. I think the only absent member is Bruce Wayne. I tell you, everyone thinks he's all mien with no actual marrow but that man has wisdom enough to distance himself from the fire-spitting meetings such as this one."

The doctor absently fingered one of the rolled-up newspapers stuffed inside his many pockets, as others would rub their chins in thought.

"Although, I rather think it may have paid to make himself a bit of a showpiece in this case. In his absence, that Marsh fellow throwing his weight about, egging those idiots on."

Tim looked up at the doctor with curiosity.

"I take it you don't like Ronald Marsh all that much? He has recently donated a considerable amount to fund both the asylum and its projects..."

"Perhaps it's because I am a native Gothamite and I feel duty-bound to cheer for one of ours."

"How is Marsellus holding up?"

Tim was genuinely concerned. This would be the first real crisis that Marsellus was facing since he took over the asylum's administration. Dr. David Cheng shrugged.

"The man had been inundated with accusations of keeping his soul in a briefcase since 1994. And that's one of the less vulgar jokes. That sort of thing builds inner strength."

The man's remarkable resemblance to the gang boss character featured in the iconic movie hadn't escaped anybody, to the point where everyone just ditched his surname 'Willman' altogether when referring to the new head of Arkham.

'New' – Tim wondered how long the adjective should stick. After all, it had been over a year since Jeremiah Arkham had unexpectedly resigned and left Gotham seemingly for good. Everyone – including Bruce and Jim Gordon – tensed for the inevitable reign of absolute chaos in the asylum that was already a proper hellhole. Then Marsellus had stepped in and Arkham's legacy had since been divided between Arkham family's reign and afterwards. (Some jokingly referred to it as B.A and A.A – Before and After the 'Arkhams'.)

Marsellus had implemented some radical changes within the asylum: While Arkham's reputation for chemical studies and security measures were already set during Jeremiah's time, Marsellus made them into full-blown projects. Now Arkham boasted a whole separate building that served as a state-of-the-art chemical lab which was unique in the nation as no-one, except perhaps for Batman, had ready access to data such as Poison Ivy's plants, Scarecrow's toxins or the Joker's gas. He installed a resident building engineer to work with the security team that could put most private security companies to shame. Marsellus had also dedicated a whole team to build a digital database of asylum's records. Then the PR team – also newly implemented - liaised with various institutions all across the nation that were interested in such data.

Arkham was becoming a vast multi-research center and an information consultation hub.

Marsellus had also weeded out much of the previous staff of long-standing influence to bring in new bloods within the facility – although, given the institution's reputation, some wondered if he'd kidnapped many of these new staff and threatened them with grievous bodily harm. David Cheng was one of the more celebrated members of this so-called 'Marsellus Era' staff.

"Well, to be frank, perhaps not Marsellus. But Lily, now, she's the one who really needed to see you. What with how your last visit went."

Tim nearly stopped in his tracks.

"I'm speaking not only in my professional stance, but also of concern for you.

I don't think it advisable that you continue your interviews with Dr. Jonathan Crane, Mr. Robin..."

"What did…Dr. McGuire say?"

Tim inwardly kicked himself, he sounded so accusatory – but thankfully, the man walking beside him didn't seem to catch it.

"Nothing, I'm just inferring. You did look like thunder when you stormed out of here the last time."

Tim felt the flush of shame and anger rising – and of course, feeling it made the flush even worse, climbing up to the tips of his ears. He was grateful for the misty darkness of the asylum.

Quite unaware of his companion's discomfort, David Cheng continued, "If only she hadn't been hit by this silly poisoning business. Oh, perhaps you didn't know it yet? I keep assuming you masked vigilante types already know everything before anything happens."

People who weren't familiar with the current Arkham staff would no doubt consider David Cheng as either malicious or so apathetic to the point of being clinically diagnosed. Due to Marsellus' belief that competency could excuse nearly everything, the new staff tended to be of – if one was being polite - distinct personalities. To the point where people sometimes felt that many of the new staff now belonged on the same side of the glass that their patients were in. Tim, however, had gotten used to them during his visits and could tell certain signs.

"I have the preliminary information about the victims although the number isn't exact - what with people being transferred from here to other facilities. I am aware that Dr. McGuire and many of the patients under relatively - 'stable' conditions are being treated here at the asylum."

As Tim spoke, he noticed that David had taken out one of the rolled-up newspapers tucked into his side pocket and was absently slapping it onto his other palm as they rounded a corner on the hallway, away from the frantic sounds of GCPD officers, the press, and grim medics. The man subscribed to all manner of regularly published paper and any sort of emotion he felt was expressed in how he fumbled with his reading materials. Right now, David Cheng was agitated and angry.

"You know she was supposed to be on leave until today? Except the idiot came to work this evening straight from the airport, she'd been to New York to visit Sharon – you know her story – and she always comes back feeling worse from that pristine purgatory they call Sinclair NY Psychiatry. I mean, ours have a personality at least – so she came to work had dinner here, and now she's in a coma."

The swinging of the paper stopped momentarily as the doctor pondered the idiocy of workaholics. In that moment, Tim noticed a headline on the crumpled newspaper - NY Times – and frowned. Although only a few words were visible, Tim could practically recite the headline as it was part of a series of news that had been bothering them for a while now:

"Red Hood Out of Control? The casualties from the escalating war with local gangs increase..."

Oblivious, David went on, "Just a chance that I'm not in the bed next to Lily, felt like a takeout sandwich tonight for some reason. Heh, does that make me a suspect?"

Tim raised an eyebrow.

"You suspect foul play? Doesn't everyone think it's just an accident?"

"Well, you are here."

"It's Arkham, you know how Batman and… the rest of us are with Arkham."

They'd stopped by the front of the medical ward. This was devoid of any other medic except the Arkham staff inside, because the coma cases had already been somewhat 'stabilized' here. Tim peered inside as he spoke, "That, and considering the expertise of current Arkham Medical Division, one'd have thought there'd be measures taken already for any ordinary food poisoning. Yet there doesn't seem to be any announcement regarding the nature of the poison nor the exact source, not to mention the exact treatment..."

Tim let the words hang in the air for a moment. Then suddenly, David started to rattle off certain words in succession: "Tropane alkaloids – hyoscyamine, scopolamine, and atropine - found in Solanaceae family, very likely Datura metel in this case. Aconitine, produced by Aconitum. Coniine, present in Conium masculatum – "

Tim tilted his head. "Plant of Nightshade family, probably Devil's Trumpet, monskwood or wolf's bane, and – hemlock."

David beamed, "Very good. Most of the GCPD had trouble googling them."

Tim suspected that the doctor probably hadn't won any fans among Gotham's Finest during his interview regarding the poisoning case. Outwardly, he said: "Names of toxins found inside tonight's victims?"

"And what remained of tonight's stew at the kitchen. No idea how the stuff got in there, though. And it's just some parts of the damned thing we've managed to identify. It's a cocktail of various toxic entities. Which is why we still can't figure out the treatment – and it's not just a fact that it's a mixture, but it seems to contain mutated versions of the previously existing alkaloids…"

"…and the toxins are all derived from flowering plants.…"

The two looked at each other for a moment. Tim broke the silence first: "Poison Ivy? But why…"

David shrugged. "Only because other possibilities are slim. Like you said, our medical division isn't too bad in what we do but this level of chemical alteration… the only examples that I can state are those that have previously been studied within Ms. Isley's hybrids."

Whump-whump, the sound of the rolled-up newspaper marking the doctor's agitation rang hollow in the relatively quiet hall. The doctor intoned again, "Not saying she's the culprit, but the nature of the toxins heavily points towards her being the source of the compound, at least. Too bad she's not here to give advice nor defense."

"I understand that it's been a more than a week since her latest breakout."

"Another sore point for our dear security team. And she seemed to have been getting along so well - our feelings are hurt. Well, I suppose one will break out even from a five-star hotel if you're being held there. Which reminds me, it's been a while since I've heard of any of the Names – you don't know anything about Nygma planning any riddle-related heist since he got out of here? I miss him."

I bet you do.

Tim replied, "No idea, I'm afraid. To be honest, it's been bothering us as well – been a while since we've seen anything of them."

David shrugged again. "Perhaps it's just as well they weren't here. It'd have been a mass panic on top of all this – there'd be practically no staff left to deal with them if they were here. Well, granted, I suppose most of them barring the Joker – never know how any chemical might react within that one – would've been knocked out as well. Just look at poor Tetch and Wesker."

Tim felt a ghost of that stomach-plummeting sensation he had when he first heard about the mass poisoning at Arkham. It had abated only when sense kicked in and reminded him: He's not there right now, he's not there. He's fine -

Tim put a metaphorical foot down on that reminiscence. "Thank you so much, Doctor – Dave, I'll just look around the area and the – patients in the ward, if you don't mind."

David winked. "And that's the cue that you want to be left alone, right? Sure, just give me a call when you need me."

As he passed Tim and went back down the hallway, the doctor turned once and called over his shoulder: "Just curious, it's not because of that rumor of Bat-Sickness that the Bat isn't coming, is it?"

Tim looked back at the doctor. Honestly, the thought hadn't occurred to him.

"No." I don't think so.

"Well, nothing in it, I'm sure. But people are superstitious and even if you're not, you're sometimes forced to accommodate those who are."

With that note, the doctor got away from Tim's vision and Tim was left alone. Sighing, he pushed open the door to the medical ward – left unlocked right now, staff getting in and out too often – waved hi to the familiar staff overseeing the patients – and crossed over to where Dr. Lillian McGuire was lying. Close, he could see the minuscule rising and falling of her chest, her blond hair that was usually in a tight, professional bun splayed like bunch of straws across the pillow, and the constant drop of the liquid that the IV was pumping into her system.

"Mister – Robin, I felt it best to inform Batman about you – your - situation regarding Scare - Dr. Jonathan Crane. I thought Batman would talk to you. Make you understand. You're angry, of course. I'm sorry it had turned out like this."

"I'm sorry." Tim whispered. Whether it was a sentiment for her current state or an actual apology, he wasn't sure.

He turned away from the pale, gaunt face – it was uncanny how the absence of a mind affected the body, he could hardly recognize the alert yet humorous psychologist from this – shell of a woman lying here. He wondered if that was how Lillian felt whenever she visited her former mentor and lover, Sharon.

His gaze absently traveled over to a small stand next to the unconscious woman - which had a stack of clipboards, files, and papers. Tim gestured to the orderly.

"These are…?"

"Dr. McGuire's work pile – nothing important, it's more for show. You see, it's Dave's idea that since she's such a workaholic that the presence of the familiar might rouse her or something," the orderly seemed embarrassed and added sheepishly, "Yeah, it probably sounds pretty silly to you – "

"No, I understand."

As the orderly went back to her duties, Tim picked up one of the files and absently flipped through it. Like the orderly had said, it wouldn't be anything important. The notes on the patients or any official reports were classified and for those, you needed permission or... more indirect means.

Tim didn't really expect to find anything related to the poisoning here, it was really a sort of preliminary exercise to get his senses revved up before beginning an actual investigation but something caught Tim's eye. It was a note that the doctor had scribbled. To anyone, it was exactly that – an illegible scribble but Tim was aware that Dr. McGuire always did her notes in a code of her own making – an analogue 'encryption', as she described it.

She was quite good at it too. It had taken Tim nearly two full days to figure out her code after he'd 'accidentally' picked up a few of her discarded notes.

Of course, he hadn't used any of the computers at the cave as it was just a personal challenge. However, in this case... Tim's brain translated the scribbles almost on autopilot: Talk to Batman? Meeting with Tetch?

Since Crane wasn't at the asylum right now, Tetch was her current primary patient among the Names, aka Rogues. But… Frowning at the still-cryptic note, Tim turned it over to the very last page on the file. His eyes widened a little. It was an empty report format, yet to be filled – but attached to it with a clip was a rumpled trump card. A fancy one, perhaps even custom-made, with an intricate illustration of black, red and green.

A joker.

Had Tim known that his mentor was staring at a very similar incarnation of what he'd found among Dr. McGuire's notes in that very same hour, he might have felt the directing hand of the universe even more keenly.

The joker card that Batman was looking down at was attached to a page of what could be described as a handmade booklet of a sort. On the facing page was the same Bat symbol that was a permanent fixture on the rooftop of GCPD office – drawn in what appeared to be black ink. Across the two pages lay a heading in letters torn from some magazines – 'Dramatis Personae'.

Jim Gordon fought the urge to shift his feet as the looming figure kept looking at the open booklet – as motionless as the gargoyles that adorned other rooftops of the city. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle a moment ago and was now mostly gone. Small mercies. It'd have been awkward to have all these members inside his office or crowding around the stairway like some over-sized kids smoking in secret. Gordon glanced behind him. The woman and the man standing there seemed comfortable just looking at the dark caped figure studying their handout. Gordon seemed to be the only one here who was unsure of his role. Well, he knew what his role was, actually, the FBI agent had said it the moment she'd stepped into his office.

"May we ask you to summon the Bat for us, commissioner."

He hadn't been caught completely off guard, except for the blunt way that the request was put. He had received a call from his old colleague Brandon Walsh, now an agent at the NY field office for FBI. A heads-up for an old friend, Walsh had said.

"While I appreciate you letting me know that a couple of FBI special agents would be barging in here in about… oh, twenty minutes to inquire about our rooftop equipment, I can't help but wish that your bureau had given us a heads-up a bit earlier,"

"I myself found out only a few moments ago. I'm only calling you because you were my least annoying partner back in Chicago days, Jim. Well, I wouldn't wish the Pulp Investigative Team upon my worst enemy."

"The… what?"

"P.I.T. From the Pulp magazines of the olden days, you know – The Shadow, Zorro, Doc Savage? It's not an official title as such, more like a bad joke. We call them that because they specialize in cases that might have been written by Pulp authors – criminals with grandiose names and costumes. But that's not half of it. If I give you details over the phone, you wouldn't believe me, Jim."

"Don't tell me they're after… Batman…. Or does this have to do with Red Hood issue in New York?"

"I think it's more like they have something for the Bat. Look, Jim, I just wanted to warn you to stay away from those agents and whatever they bring. Especially from Special Agent Tanith."

Special Agents Melinda Tanith and Sergio Lopez had arrived soon after Walsh's call. Gordon sensed that Walsh's warning might not have been enough. Agent Lopez could have been a textbook model for the FBI, dressed in immaculate yet no-nonsense dark suit and silent to the point of being almost nonexistent despite his considerable bulk. Agent Tanith was the one who apparently made up for the official normalcy of her partner – she was dressed in shabby black jeans and a black jacket that was a couple sizes too big as well as worn black leather shoes – giving an impression of something like an undertaker from a comic-book setting. But what turned heads as she stepped into the GCPD office was her face – where burn scars like spiky red snakes dominated, slithering all the way down her neck to hide beneath her rumpled collar.

"Not quite as symmetrical as your ex-attorney, right? Too soon?" were her first words upon noticing everyone's looks.

After the agent's… direct request, Jim Gordon had regained enough footing to counter: "And might I ask why the FBI would like to call upon Batman?"

The answer to this had derailed Gordon once more.

"Why, because we don't know how to summon the other one, that infamous Clown of yours."

As Gordon sat behind his desk, trying to find a suitable reply or a question, the agent had pulled out that damn booklet from her bag. Then came the story that went with it.

And now here they were.

Gordon hoped that the agents weren't expecting him to relay the whole story to Batman. He was still having trouble grasping it. He was relieved to see Agent Tanith step forward again, craning her neck towards the caped figure.

"Anything inside that thing mean anything to you? I mean, aside from that obvious front page."

"Should it, agent?"

Those were the first words Batman had spoken since the arrival and Gordon's introduction. Gordon felt a strange, cold sensation running along his spine upon hearing it, like a spell breaking. Perhaps the agent felt it too, for she answered with a shaky laugh.

"I just wondered, because I can't make heads or tails of it. And that's not usually the case. Actually, all this is highly unusual. We don't usually approach Dramatis Personae this directly – because no-one would believe the story we have to tell them but, this time, we figured we had a chance because – it's Gotham, the Motherland of costumed criminals. And you, are a bat-man who swoops away such criminals. Compared to that, our story might sound positively banal."

The agent swiped a hand downwards in a mocking gesture of a theatrical bow. "My role here, as you might be wondering, is that of a prologue, a narrator. So I shall narrate: All this concerns a certain character that our team has been hunting for a while. We call this character – well, might be he, she, or they – the Director."

The agent took a breath. "The Director likes to stage dramas using people involved in crimes. What you're holding could be called his script. The Dramatis Personae, as indicated there, are his protagonists,"

The agent had leaned against the Bat Signal. Against its light, Gordon could see the woman's damaged lips curling upwards in a sneer.

"What the Director calls his protagonists, we call his victims."

Notes:

So it's a pretty cheerful incarnation of Arkham that I've envisioned here... I know 'cheerful Arkham' is like saying 'bitter sugar' but quirky Arkham staff bouncing off its... unique residents is something I enjoyed picturing.

I don't think I've seen Crane's recent incarnations keeping actual crows but in the comic "Haunted Knight", Crane had crows that looked as if they were trained by him, and the image stuck to me.

I try to research how FBI works but I am no expert and I do take liberties in how I write their operations. The Pulp Investigative Team idea is from the Pulp magazines of the early-to-mid 1900s. Some do consider superhero media to be 'successors' of those works.

As for the new head of Arkham, I'm talking about Marsellus Wallace from the movie "Pulp Fiction".