Police tape ran all around the entrance to Arkham Asylum. News vans were scattered across the entrance, reporters all trying to get the first story out. A strong gust of wind whipped at Jim Gordon's face. His grey tie flicked into his eye and he recoiled in pain. He swore loudly, wrenching the tie out of his face. He gritted his teeth and looked at an officer from the forensics team.

"How long until there's any evidence?" he asked bluntly.

"To be honest Detective, I have no idea. We'll have to do a full sweep of the facility and then the perimeter. It could be days, more likely weeks, until there's any hard evidence to go off. This guy probably only left evidence because he wanted to. He enjoys manipulating people, especially the Police Department. He's sending a message of some sort," replied the officer. He could tell from Gordon's eyes that it wasn't the answer he was looking for. He shrugged at Gordon and walked under the police tape and back into the Asylum.

Gordon knew there was nothing more he could do. He moped over to his car and fumbled with his keys. They slipped from his hands and fell onto the ground. Gordon hadn't realised how cold it was. His hands were numb. Drops of rain began to fall from the sky. His boots crunched on the dirt as he bent down to pick his keys up. On the underside of the car Gordon spotted something peculiar. He frowned.

All heads turned as pieces of Jim Gordon's car flew into the air. Slowly, but surely in the night wind, the air was filled with fluttering joker cards, floating to the ground. The scene was somewhat surreal, the white cards contrasted the flaming molten wreckage of Gordon's car flying to the ground. The rain began to really pour down. Steam rose from the destroyed car as the flames slowly dipped back to the ground, fizzling away as the clouds opened up.

Dick rolled out of bed with a groan. Although he didn't live at Wayne Detective Agency like Bruce, there was a guest room just for him. Recently, more often than not, Dick found that he was sleeping overnight at the Agency. He rotated his neck until he felt it crack. Satisfied, Dick stood up and looked out the window. Being a Saturday, the traffic was light. He remembered the rain had dissipated sometime after midnight. He put on some pants and walked into the kitchen shirtless. He opened the fridge, but had to shield his eyes from the overpowering harsh light. He eyed the pizza they hadn't eaten the night before.

The ding of the microwave pulled Dick from his thoughts. He bent down and pulled the plate out. Except it was too hot. He recoiled with pain and the plate dropped from his hands. The ensuing sound seemed so loud to Dick he was surprised that Bruce didn't wake up. Dick shook his head in frustration. He grabbed a dustpan and began to clean up the mess. That was a nice plate dammit, and even nicer pizza, he thought. He heard footsteps ascending the stairs from the Agency. Dick pondered who it was for a moment. A key went into the lock. None other than Alfred Pennyworth trudged in. In his hand he held the morning paper.

"Morning Master Dick," Alfred smiled. Dick laughed. He walked over to Alfred and embraced him warmly.

"I've told you before, Alfred, just call me Dick," Dick said.

"I will take that into consideration, Master Dick," Alfred replied smartly. Dick rolled his eyes and resumed cleaning the broken plate on the floor.

"Bit of trouble in paradise?" enquired Alfred.

"He's out, Alfred, again."

"Never mind that now. Go and wake Master Bruce and I shall cook you both a tasty warm breakfast. Can't be solving crimes on an empty stomach now, can we?" Alfred declared cheerfully. Dick shook his head.

"Alfred it's a Saturday, and your day off surely-"

"Master Dick, a true butler's job is never done until the day he passes from this world." Alfred pointed Dick away from the kitchen.

Dick knew who was going to win this argument; he couldn't recall any occasion where he managed to beat Alfred Pennyworth in an argument.

Bruce wasn't sure what was a better experience to wake up to. The soft, supple skin of a beautiful European model in his bed, or the sound of crackling bacon. Seeing as he never argued with bacon, nor he had any relationship problems with the meat and he preferred the smell.

Bruce sat up in his bed and turned on the tv in his room. He distractedly flicked through the sport channels briefly before switching it to the 24/7 news channel.

"I see that you're awake." Dick was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest.

"Honestly, how can you sleep so well knowing that he's out? I could barely sleep all night," Dick remarked.

"Sleeping is like any other skill Dick, you get good with practice." Truth be told, Bruce had slept woefully that night. He had been restless for hours. His mind raced with thoughts that he couldn't block out. Everything he had been put through as a detective had seemed to all combine into one single traumatic dream. Maybe it was a premonition. Either way, Bruce did not feel good at all. No need for Dick to know that though, one of them needed to work with a clear mind.

"Bruce, should I call in Tim? I know it's the weekend but we need all the help we can get. Even if he just looks online for any information relating to the escape, or calls up the police and news stations for information." Dick uncrossed his arms and looked at Bruce for an answer.

Tim Drake was a young schoolboy who was doing work experience at the Wayne Detective Agency. His usefulness far exceeded any expectations for a normal schoolboy. Armed with a crafty mind and skills of deduction rivalling those of Bruce and Dick, he himself had solved many cases at the Agency. His role was somewhat unofficial but Bruce had taken him under his wing like he had Dick, passing on his knowledge. After all, Bruce did see retirement somewhere in his future, and he planned to have a solid foundation following him.

"No Dick, we don't need him. It would be too dangerous to bring him into this anyway. We don't want him to be targeted as a result." Bruce scratched his beard slowly. Usually he kept himself clean-shaven but he now realised he had neglected to shave for a few days. The result was not pretty.

"If you two would please, come and eat some food," asked Alfred. Alfred's eyes suggested anything but a polite request. Bruce rolled his eyes and turned the television off. He followed Dick into the kitchen. Beholding them was the most delicious food Bruce had ever laid his eyes upon. He began salivating. Smiling at Alfred, he sat down and poured a glass of orange juice. Alfred handed the paper to Bruce.

"Front page may be of interest to you Master Bruce," Alfred informed Bruce with a subdued tone. Bruce unfurled the paper and looked at the front page. Spanning the entire front was a single image. Jim Gordon's flaming car.

Bruce breathed in deeply.

He couldn't believe it. Jim Gordon couldn't be dead. He was the down to earth, gritty man not afraid to get his hands a little dirty. Most of all, he was Bruce's friend. Dick peered over Bruce's shoulder, and he too opened his eyes wide with bewilderment. He mouthed "no" silently. Even though the breakfast was still hot, the entire room went cold to Bruce Wayne.

A thump echoed through the room as orange juice went everywhere. The table cloth stained orange, shards of glass embedded in Bruce's hand. He gritted his teeth and and pulled a shard out. Scarlet blood poured out of his hand. He grabbed a tissue and placed it on the gash. In a matter of seconds the tissue was completely soaked. The room was silent except for the steady breathing of the three occupants in it.

Alfred muttered, "I better go get the first aid kit," and left the room. Bruce set about pulling the shards of glass out of his hand. He bit his lip in pain. Even more blood poured out, from multiple gashes this time. Red waterfalls of liquid cascaded down his hand and onto the table cloth. The orange juice had mixed with Bruce's blood. Dick attempted to break the tension in the room.

"I guess that's that the difference between normal oranges and blood oranges," he said awkwardly.

Bruce furrowed his brow.

"I should not have done that," he apologised.

"Whatever has happened Bruce, you can't blame yourself. Do you hear me?" said a concerned Dick.

"Master Dick is right Master Wayne, if you are ever going to catch this man, you need to work with a clear mind. If Jim Gordon is dead, he would want you to do the same thing. Now show me your hand." Alfred had returned with the first aid kit. He scanned Bruce's hand and sighed.

"You're going to have to go the hospital, I'm afraid. There's glass too deep for me to get and we can't leave it in there, that's for sure." Both Alfred and Dick looked at Bruce. He had spaced out and was looking out the window. Slowly his eyes focused on the room around him once more. His chair screeched along the floor as he stood up. He fumbled in his pockets for his keys and threw them to Dick. Bruce trudged out of the door.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Master Dick, I have not seen him this affected by someone's death since….since the death of Thomas and Martha. I am concerned for his health. You need to talk to him, he's less likely to shut you out. Now you go drive him to Gotham General and I'll clean up this godawful mess. Be safe."

Dick nodded in understanding. He quickly put on a pair of shoes and slipped a shirt over his chest before walking out of the door. He descended the stairs to the garage two steps at a time, taking care not to trip on the way down. Bruce was already leaning against the bonnet of the car, cradling his right hand against his chest. Dick did not like what he saw in Bruce's eyes; uncertainty, guilt and shame. All quite unlike the Bruce Wayne he knew. Dick opened the car door and got in the driver's seat. Bruce slid in next to him. Dick gave Bruce one more concerned look before he started the engine. The only sound in the car was their seatbelts clicking.

The automatic doors closed behind Bruce and Dick as they walked back to the car. They had waited for over an hour before a doctor had attended to Bruce. It hadn't taken him long before he had removed all of the glass and bandaged Bruce's hand. Bruce was happy that the doctor hadn't asked how the injury came about. Bruce was still furious that he had let his emotions get the better of him. He was better than that, he knew it. Jim gone though, how could he move on from that? Stop that maniac from killing anyone else, a voice somewhere in his mind said. Bruce sighed and steeled his resolve. He would not let anything get to him. He had to keep his mind on the job.

"You getting in?" Dick asked Bruce. Bruce looked up and got in the car silently.

"Let's go to Arkham," Bruce suggested.

"Why?"

"Dick, if there is any evidence visible, it is there for my eyes. He wants to play games. He is trying to drag me into this again, so he can hurt me, make me pay for putting him away."

Bruce pulled his notebook out of the glove compartment. In it was contained all of his past case notes and detailed information on all of the criminals he had caught and put away. It was originally an elegant bound brown leather, but over time it had disintegrated, the cover was partially torn and the leather had become cracked. To Bruce though, it was one of his most prized possessions. It helped remind him where he came from. He looked up from the notebook peered out the window.

"To him, this is all just a killing joke."