Midnight was cold at Arkham Asylum, and it was cold on purpose. There were many ways to keep inmates in their beds - drugs, threats, or even straps - but nothing worked quite so cheaply and effectively as merely making the inmates want to cuddle up under their nice thin standard-issue blankets.
A lone guard padded down the rogues' hallway, glancing into each cell as he passed. Every one of them was tucked snugly into bed, breathing quietly as they presumably dreamed happy dreams of total destruction. The guard's footsteps sped up as he reached the door, thudding audibly through the halls as he hustled downstairs to steal a little time at the Christmas party.
The Riddler flung himself out of bed as if he'd discovered a family of hedgehogs nesting in the mattress and rushed to the wall. Falling to his knees, he pawed blindly in the dark until he found the oh-so-convenient crack in the mortar. With his tongue held thoughtfully between his front teeth, he eased a bedspring lockpick from its hiding spot. He raided his other hiding spots just as quickly, ending up with a fistful of metal picks that jingled slightly as he moved. It was the work of a moment to twiddle the door lock into the open position.
Thunk. The door swung freely open. He stepped outside, stopping himself at the last second from whistling a cheery tune, and sauntered to Sorrow's cell. In no time at all, he'd sprung both her and her henchman from their confinement. The dim lights of the hallway reflected dully from the lock picks as the trio crept down the hallway.
Sorrow's original plan had been simple. Instead of taking their chances with only one or two others, why not break everyone out? Surely a group of ten or so was far more likely to make it than a group of four. However, that still left the issue of sabotage. A hallway full of powered and high-security rogues meant a hallway full of people that would be willing to sacrifice them to the guards without a moment's thought. Just as they had been about to dismiss the idea entirely, the Riddler had come up with his most wonderful escape plan yet.
If a group of ten could get out, why not a group of twenty? Or thirty? After all, there were other rogues in Arkham besides the A-listers. True, some of them couldn't be trusted to stay with the pack, which is why they'd be firmly ignored, but a good portion of B and C-listers could be trusted to keep up and not do anything too stupid.
So down the halls they went, freeing rogue after rogue, explaining the situation in whispered hisses as the escape party grew larger and larger. One by one, as fast as they could, they freed one another, ignoring past feuds in the spirit of temporary companionship.
Of course, not everyone could be let out. The Joker and Harley Quinn, for example, were securely tucked away in the basement. Clayface, Mr. Freeze, and Killer Croc were housed in specially designed cells on the other side of Arkham. And, of course, some of them were just not welcome at the party.
"Maybe next time, Lyle," grinned the Riddler, waving coquettishly at Lock-Up as he scowled murderously from behind the reinforced plexiglass window of his cell.
"Or not," Poison Ivy drawled, blowing him a kiss.
"You won't get away with this," Lock-Up snarled, slamming his fists against the window. "GUARD! GUARD!" he bellowed, punctuating his shouts with blows from his meaty fists.
"He's off-duty," Doctor Destiny intoned with a raised eyebrow.
The horde of rogues trotted past, gathering together as the final ones were released. "Later, Lock-Up," grinned Killer Moth. "Gotta fly!"
They crept to the main stairway, treading as quietly as they could down the ancient steps. Whispering to one another like the world's most badly behaved schoolchildren out for a field trip, they crept toward their homes, their plans, and sweet, sweet freedom.
Batman allowed himself to lean back in his chair as the computer saved that night's notes. It had been a quiet night, if any night could be said to be quiet in Gotham. Half a dozen petty criminals were nursing various bumps and bruises in the various holding cells tucked inside a few chosen police stations. Half a dozen more would join them whenever the police got around to cutting them down from the streetlights.
And true, twelve criminals off the streets meant twelve criminals that wouldn't be bothering anyone tomorrow - but thanks to the overcrowded prisons, they probably would be back to their old tricks by next week at the latest. At times, his task seemed to be as meaningful as Sisyphus', with about the same success rate.
A small red light blinked urgently in the gloom of the cave. His eyes narrowed. That light meant that someone had set off the red alert at Arkham.
He stabbed an equally flashing red button with a forefinger, activating the tap into Arkham's radio system. With the ease of years of practice, he let dozens of radio signals stream past him, picking out the pertinent information. Near the trophy displays, Alfred cocked an ear and listened quietly. "...escape..." "...don't know how, but..." "...only ones left are Lock-Up and the level 10s..." "...even Captain Stingaree is gone, for god's sake..."
Batman was not an emotional being. Rather, his emotional spectrum included many subtle variations on a theme - aggravation, anger, fury, annoyance, ire, exasperation, and good old reliable rage - but never anything so useless as piddly little things like happiness or confusion. So he pointedly did not flop back in his chair and wail in frustration, nor did he drop his head into his hands and bawl like a two-year-old denied a second bedtime story.
Instead, his gloved fist slammed down into the metal desktop, adding another dent to the thousands peppering the once-shiny surface.
Someone had let Arkham's rogues loose. Oh, Lock-Up was still inside, and Mr. Freeze, Killer Croc, Clayface, and anyone else requiring personalized security measures had been abandoned...but that meant that there were still approximately fifty other villains of all shapes, sizes, and levels of insanity in his city wreaking havoc.
With a grim look in his eyes, Batman rose to his feet and stalked back to his car, ignoring Alfred's watchful gaze. The Batmobile roared into the darkness, leaving nothing behind but a faint stench of exhaust and the chittering of startled bats.
Alfred resumed polishing the trophy cases. Whoever was responsible for the breakout was due for one legendary beating. He almost felt sorry for whoever it was.
Author's Note: This story is going on hiatus so that I can post Beach House.
