Chapter Two

The laboratory was vast. The high ceilings disappeared in the shadows cast by the low-hanging fluorescent tubes. Every metal table gleamed with a pristine glow achieved by only the most obsessively compulsive. Test tubes and beakers sat organized on racks and shelves, neatly labeled and ready for use. Burners hummed softly underneath gently bubbling liquids encased in jars, and somewhere in the distance, March of the Four Seasons played.

The project was complete.

In the corner of the room was a brilliantly polished red leather chair finished with deep mahogany and brass. A small coffee table of the same wood sat next to the chair, and on the table slept a Dr. Howard Young. On his thin, pointed nose rest a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, and a pepper-grey beard neatly framed his jaw.

A sleek cellphone resting by his head began to chirp a mechanical song, and the doctor started. Snatching up the phone, he silenced the alarm and ran a comb through his already smooth hair. It was time.

He slid the phone in the pocket of his corduroy pants and hurried up a flight of stairs overlooking his lab, to the door opening into the alley. He unlocked the several bolts above and below the doorknob and swung the door open.

There stood Lucius Fox, his arm raised and his fist ready to knock on the steel door.

"Right on time!" Dr. Young exclaimed delightedly, smiling brightly. Shaken but amused, Lucius nodded, smiling, and let the chemist usher him out off the street.

"Now you do know getting a patent will take more than just me having you sign a few papers."

"Yes, yes," Dr. Young muttered absently, reaching the bottom of the stairs and flying down one long aisle of set-ups and experiments.

"Tell me a little bit about this . . . what do you call it?" Lucius called, nearly jogging to catch up with the scientist who had now reached the other side of the laboratory.

"Decagent!" Dr. Young cried happily, producing a small phial of a pale violet liquid. "It's a play-on of the words "decay" and "agent" because it's a decaying agent!"

"I see." Lucius held the bottle to the light, and noted the container. "Synthetic crystal?"

Dr. Young's head bobbed up and down excitedly, "Yes, yes. It affects all organic substances, aging them at a considerable rate."

"Really?" Lucius was impressed. Dr. Young took the phial from him and unscrewed the cork. He walked over to a potted rose, and glanced back at Lucius.

"Observe," he instructed, and let fall a single drop on a rosebud. Like time-lapse photography, the bud burst into bloom and then crumpled to a wilted state.

"Astounding, doctor, really," Lucius applauded, smiling. "But what did you make it for?"

Dr. Young looked baffled at the businessman. "I made it, isn't that enough? Let someone else find a purpose. The point, Mr. Fox, is that a concept has been realized."

"To each his own, then. May I have a small sample to take back?"

"But of course!" Dr. Young agreed, and threw open a nearby cabinet. Inside was a single faucet with several handles and buttons. Seeing Lucius's confusion, Dr. Young explained, "I keep all my inventions hidden away, and only the correct combination will yield to my samples. He began turning knobs and punching buttons, and finally a trickle of lavender liquid issued from the faucet. The scientist caught it in a similar phial and screwed the cap on tightly.

"Be careful, Mr. Fox." His tone was no longer light and cheerful. "When I say all organic substances, I mean all organic substances. Plants, rocks, animals, humans. Be careful."

"Doctor, I wouldn't have the job I have if I didn't listen and act cautiously. Relax. There will be no trouble," Lucius assured him. "A meeting will be held on Tuesday as we discuss the possibilities, and you will be expected to give a presentation next Friday at two."

"Yes, yes, that sounds wonderful," Dr. Young cried, smiling brightly. Infected by his good humor, Lucius smiled as he finished, "If you could give me the name of your lawyer or the firm you got to-"

"Oh, no, I don't have a lawyer," Dr. Young interrupted. "I like to handle all my business myself. I don't trust anyone else."

"I'm honored by your faith in me, then," Lucius replied, his mind now uneasy. Something about lawyers (God knows it wasn't the personality) present made him more calm, but the eccentric man had every right to conduct his life the way he chose.

"We'll be in touch, Dr. Young," Lucius said, taking the stairs two at a time. The doctor saw him out the door, and then securely locked it again, thinking, what a lovely day.

/\

"DNA checks out," Detective Ramirez concluded, dropping a folder of paperwork on Gordon's desk. "Same mother, different father, but she's the real thing."

"Thank you." Gordon rubbed his temples, thoroughly perplexed. Of course it was not beyond the realm of possibility that the Joker have a sister; it was the concept that he'd been born at some time, been through puberty, gone to school (perhaps). It was almost too difficult identifying the Joker as a human rather than a beast or a machine. And to be related to a woman so collected, so calm, so . . . altogether normal? It seemed a travesty that such a woman call such a monster "brother," but that was not Gordon's issue to come to terms with.

"Bring her in," Gordon instructed, surveying the folder's contents. The female detective left the office and returned shortly with the impeccably dressed sister.

"Miss Sorora," Gordon began, gesturing for her to sit down, "we tested your blood next to a sample of the Joker's found in interrogation room six-"

"Yes? And you discovered I'm not a liar?" Sorora's tone was sharp.

"Protocol, miss. For the record. You are aware that he is your half brother?"

"Of course. There were no secrets in my family."

"What was your father's last name?"

"Smith, but you won't find the Joker through names, Commissioner. He ran away from home at twelve. Slipped through the cracks, escaped the grid, or whathaveyou."

"Pardon my frankness, Miss Sorora, but do you have any idea how a young boy became a ruthless murderer?"

Although Sorora's face had been expressionless before his question, something in her eyes deadened and her mouth went almost imperceptibly more slack. Seconds passed in silence.

"Yes, I believe I do."

Gordon glanced out the window. The sun had gone down long ago, and dark clouds of night piled over the city. The conditions were perfect.

"Miss Sorora, are you up for a bit of a trip?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine."

The ride in the subway was a much more accurate "welcome to Gotham" than any greeting the commissioner could have given Sorora. Teenagers with sallow skin and sunken eyes sat propped against each other, men in dark coats with shadowed faces whispered hurriedly with one another, and an old woman holding a cardboard box with "FREE" scrawled on one side babbled ceaselessly to a one-eyed, surly-looking cat with matted fur. In a corner sat a middle-aged woman, dressed primly in a business suit and talking politely on a cell phone. Ah, Gotham.

Gordon expected Sorora to ask him all sorts of questions regarding the unexpected trip, but she said nothing. Although he firmly believed a silence was only awkward if one thought it was, he began to feel out of sorts; almost wishing the woman would ask him questions so he could shush her until they reached a more private place.

"My friend is closely linked to-" Gordon broke down from the silence, but Sorora interrupted him.

"I know."

"Oh." Gordon surrendered to the silence and waited for the the right platform. No one else departed when Gordon and Sorora stepped off the train. The North Bottoms were abandoned even by criminal rings and gangs. The buildings--built in the late 1890's--were barely standing, even though they'd been renovated every ten years up until the 1980's, when they were declared unfit for human inhabitance. The streets were impossibly narrow and innocent of any sign of recent civilization. There was no trash littering the gutter, no shell of a broken down car. Nothing. The effect was erie, but, acclimated to the location, Gordon paid no heed.

He finally reached a particular building, and held open the door for Sorora. He half-expected her to make some remark about the clear lack of safety, but was not surprised when she wordlessly entered the lobby of the hotel.

"The elevators are broken," Gordon remarked, his voice echoing throughout the room. "I hope you don't mind stairs."

Seven flights later Gordon stepped out onto the roof, and held the door for Sorora. Without hesitation she walked out and looked hard at the single searchlight sitting in the center of the roof.

Knowing his explanation would be wasted, Gordon approached the searchlight, and flicked it on. Magnified hundreds of times in the clouds, the symbol never failed to give Gordon a sense of security.

Now there was nothing left to do but wait.