You guys know the drill right now, right? I mean, seriously, if I owned the stuff, would I be writing this for free? Probably, because I could live off of the game royalties alone. Anyway, tangent over. Onward and forward.

Chapter 3. Sleeping demons

"Where the hell is he? How long has it been, anyway?" the dark skinned man grumbled as he moved in closer to the burning barrel. Hector checked his watch. "It's been 45 minutes, Ron, quit bellyaching." Truth be told, Hector had been thinking the same thing. Charlie meant well, and it wasn't like he and Ron would sell the guy out if they ever got caught, but his timing left something to be desired. He also had a habit of hawking off any of the watches he got for his birthday. After pawning off the Rolex last year, Ron made Hector swear off fighting what was obviously fated to be a losing battle.

Charlie eventually stumbled into the alleyway. He attempted to apologize, but Ron just told him to stuff it. The scrawny little man wasn't as big as his two other compatriots, but he did possess certain talents and savvy Hector and Ron were delighted to have. Besides, if he had been a liability, they wouldn't have stuck with him after high school. "Anyways, I hear that Falcone thinks there's a rat the family, so nothing new there, but what's interesting is how he's goin' through this. He's looking to bring in someone outside, y'know, and tryin'a set em up, see if he can knock out the rat." Charlie reported.

For three petty criminals, one thing they all agreed on was keeping informed of the internal politics of Gotham's most venerable crime family. Hector, especially, considering his old man had been one of Falcone's leg breakers. Hector had been brought up to believe that The Roman, Carmine Falcone, was the most powerful man in the world, and it was clear to his old man that he deserved every respect afforded to him. There weren't many jobs where men like Rodrigo Silva, a single father and formerly convicted felon, could work just enough to live comfortably and spend time with his kid.

"Anyway, funny thing is, it looks like this is another one of those yuppies from downtown, goes by the name Sionis," Charlie laughed "and don't ask me what they would want with a guy like that." Sionis? Didn't they go bankrupt a couple months back? Hector also remembered hearing about a fire at one of those mansions outside of Gotham. Wasn't that their manor? This was starting to sound like someone who got in over his head, probably out of desperation. Still, whatever money he had left, it was bound to be green, and he really needed people with "experience" in his new venture. Hector looked at Ron and Charlie, they were both thinking the same thing. With friends like these…

"Wake up, prisoner! Time for your one on one!" Cash bellowed as he rustled Silva from his cell. It was funny, actually. Despite being the severe hardass inmates had come to expect, Silva had a hard time really hating security chief Aaron Cash. He didn't take the man lightly, or course, but the man had a good head on his shoulders, and didn't go out of his way to prove to the inmates about what a badass he was. He could think of a few people at Blackgate who really could have used such a lesson. Oh well, no use crying over spilled milk and punctured piggies.

Cash had set down a wheelchair in front of him, this one modified with a series of locks and restraints. "Courtesy of the Asylum, your highness," sneered Cash. His leg had mended reasonably well, and the cast would be off in due time. Of course, how much time he had was something never far from his mind. The Joker didn't like it when people deviated from the script, and Silva's interference thwarted what could have turned into a "few extra hours of fun" with the staff survivors, in case his game with Batman went into overtime. Or maybe they were just pissed that he blew Riley's head off. He couldn't hear what the other inmates were saying about his maneuver, but considering he had been completely separated from the rest of the Blackgate gang, and was under a twenty-four hour security watch, he could make a reasonable guess. All the more reason to get this one right, Silva thought.

Cash wheeled Silva through what seemed like an especially quiet corner of the asylum. He couldn't hear the hollering of the other inmates so he decided to strike up some banter of his own. "So, how's the job hunting, Cash?" quipped Silva. "Nothing that concerns you." grunted Cash. "Oh, lighten up. Isn't Gotham Zoo hiring? I hear they're looking for someone to feed the cro-*ACK*" Electricity coursed through his body. Cash must be in a particularly crappy mood. It usually took longer before he reached that point. The man must be terrified that he'll be unemployed in a manner of weeks. Wife must be pregnant again. Congratulations.

Eventually, they reached the darkened holding cell. Now, who is going to nut up and talk to the big, scary felon? He heard the door slam behind him, and the lights flickered on. He looked out towards the window to get a good look at his interrogator, and couldn't believe the treat they'd sent him. The woman wasn't exactly a bombshell, but she had this sweet girl-next-door quality that was all the rage on television. Glasses, freckles, brown hair tied in a ponytail; she had just discarded the coat she was wearing. Business casual attire, Silva thought to himself. What does she think this is, a job interview? Everything about the girl, her clothes, the way she carried herself, the way she wouldn't look him in the eye, told him that she hadn't been in the "big, scary world" for a long time. Silva smirked. You're lucky you aren't my type, he thought to himself.

"Mr.…. um… Mr. Silva, my name is Ms. Andrews, and I'm here to talk about…" "Oh, shut the hell up." Ms. Andrews balked at the immediate rudeness of the convict. However she had planned this night to go, this clearly wasn't it. The more Silva thought about it, the more he was interested in seeing how fast he could make "Ms. Andrews" leave the asylum in tears. No, focus, that wouldn't do you any good. "Listen, we both know what you're here to talk about, so cut the whole "professional" shtick." drawled Hector. "This is Arkham Asylum, not some… whatever you were wanting to cover." The girl looked at him, then smiled. "You're right. O.k. then, how about this, my name is Kelly, and I need you to help me kill the Joker." Where did that come from? Looks like Ms. Kelly Andrews had some surprises, after all.

Kelly took a moment to flip through the folder, his "biography," as it were, but Hector had other things in mind. On the surface, it looked like he had gotten his wish. She clearly wasn't a cop or a doctor; he had a pretty good sense of character, and could tell when someone was trying to put up some kind of bumbling façade. Kelly seemed to be the real deal. Still, couldn't hurt to check. "You wearing a wire?" Silva asked. Kelly looked up at him. Was he really doing this? "You agreed to make a confession, so naturally you would be recorded now. Although, odds are the recording equipment is already installed in the room."

"I didn't hear a no."

"…If I was wearing a wire, I would risk creating a feedback loop with the recording equipment already in the room."

"Prove to me that you are not wearing a wire."

"…Mr. Silva, there are two things that I can assure you will not be happening in this session; you hurting me, and me removing my clothing." And there it was. Brains, brass, and common sense. This was the person he wanted to talk to.

"Alright then, sorry. But before we start, can I ask a few questions?" asked Hector. "As far as I am concerned, you already did." stated Kelly, still flipping through the file. "I mean seriously, nothing sleazy. I just want to know who I'm talking to." appealed Silva, trying his best to look innocent. Kelly didn't bother pretending she bought it, but relented, figuring some established trust would make the session go easier. "Shoot."

"You aren't from here, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

" You're from out west. The accent gave you away."

"…Yes, that's correct."

"So, what are you doing out here?"

"I came looking for a job."

"Does that job involve interviewing murderers?"

"Not for too much longer, hopefully."

"By then, you want to get the hell out of Gotham, don't you?"

"…Yes."

Silva smugly leaned back, or at least tried to. So this was her motive. Just one more then. "So, who asked you to do the interview?" Kelly looked down, gnawed on her lip for a moment, and then replied "I was asked to interview you by Vicki Vale." He was wondering why she hadn't jumped on the opportunity herself. Was she still mad about the zeppelin incident? He didn't mean to kidnap her, and the whole deal with the ransom was just him trying to make the best out of a bad situation. So, she was sending minions now? Well, time break the news to the kid about what she was getting herself into.

"Alright, kiddo, so tell me, you here cuz you wanna be…"

The trio had arrived at the address Charlie provided, which led them to the old steel mill that had just been closed down. They found an entrance to the side, with a slot on the door. Charlie approached the door, knocked, and waited for the slot to open. "Business?" the voice on the other end asked. "Visigoth," replied Charlie. Apparently, Charlie had done some kind of "favor" for Carmine Falcone's youngest daughter, Sofia, in order to get the password. Whatever it was, Charlie didn't seem to complain. The slot closed, the door opened, and the three were rushed into the building, where they were then led to a truck dock, where a bunch of men were already loading up some trucks with crates.

"Boss, three more just showed up." their escort called out. A man, dressed in a white suit, who had been supervising the loading process, wheeled towards the three. We was young, he couldn't older then thirty, but he had this strange "aura" around him. Apparently, the man wasn't some dumb yuppie as Hector had previously thought. "Give me you're arm." said the man. Hector reached out, and the man took his hand, feeling up and down his arm. "Hmph, you're on security duty. Grab a gun, and pick a truck." He proceeded down to Ron, told him the same thing, and then moved to Charlie. "You, no, you go head down to the lab and see how you can make yourself useful." It was an awfully cold night to ride in the back of a truck, Charlie seemed to think, and so he went down the elevator without a second thought.

"Gentlemen, if I may have your attention please." the man barked, later standing on top of a skid loader. "A lot of you new guys are probably asking yourselves a few questions. Questions like "Who's this rich prick, and why am I working for him?" Well, my name is Roman Sionis, and, to put it bluntly, I'm here to corner Gotham's drug trade." He surveyed the room. "I suspect I'm here for the same reason a lot of you are here. You are all trying to get in tight with the Falcones. Well, we've got a lot of work to do before that happens, so get it done." With that, he dropped himself from the loader, and went up to his office above the loading dock. Hector went over to the gun rack, grabbed himself an Uzi, and parked himself in the back of one of the trucks, with the words "Janus Cosmetics," written on the sides. He made himself comfortable between the boxes. His friends had hired themselves out as "security" before. It wasn't that hard, just glare and threaten away any of the junkies that started to overstay their welcome, and only pull out the gun if they were incredibly thick.

The back door of the truck eventually slammed shut, leaving Hector in almost total darkness. It was times like this that he was glad he always carried a flashlight. An hour passed, and he felt the boredom sneaking in. Bracing himself against the bumps of the truck drive, he looked over to one of the boxes next to him. Surely a little peek wasn't going to spoil the quality, Hector thought to himself. He pried open on of the corners of he box, looking inside. Well, this seemed different. In all his years as a drug runner, he had never seen something that looked like it was actually glowing. Hector took a moment to thank his old man, may he rest in peace, for keeping him on the straight and narrow. Well, kind of.

Eventually, he heard sirens from outside the truck. Feeling the truck slow down, Hector decided to hide the weapon in the crate he'd just slightly opened. The gun was for junkies, and no one wanted to get into a shootout with the cops, particularly on his first day. He heard someone talking to the driver, followed by the door opening in front of him. It was a heavyset guy, wearing a GCPD jacket. "So, what you haulin', anchovies?"

"It says "cosmetics" on the side of the damn truck."

"I have no idea what you guys put in the stuff, all I care is about you going 40 in a 25 mile zone. Out of the truck." Silva begrudgingly obliged with the officers request, standing next to the driver. Looking around him, he could notice two things that stuck out to him. One was that they were outside of Gotham, in the woods, and the other was the road sign that read "40." Oh, wonderful. The man eventually jumped out from the truck, eyeballed both of them, then started to smirk. "Looks like I'll have to write both you up, this being a "school zone" and all. Unless you two make it worth my while." The driver; a tall, skinny, older fellow, gave a resigned sign, then reached into his coat pocket, taking out a wad of hundred dollar bills. The cop looked delighted, and happily sauntered back to his cruiser. "Pleasure doing business with you again, and remember to watch that speed." and with that, he drove off. It was times like this that Hector was reminded that in this city, the cops were basically just another mafia. Maybe he should have opened up on the guy. Oh well, a little bribe like that wasn't going to set them back, so the truck continued on its journey to Bludhaven.

Hector had heard people describe Gotham as a "cesspit," and he would know immediately that those people had never been to Bludhaven. If the Narrows had been the first thing built in Gotham, and the planners had come to the agreement that the city should look more like that, that would give people an idea about what Bludhaven looked like. An old whaling city that stopped whaling, an industrial center without any industry, it was a place where those with the option never stopped for long.

The truck pulled up to a long-closed supermarket, backing into the loading dock. Hector took that as his cue to open up the door, revealing a mass of junkies, dealers, and other assorted thugs waiting inside. Hector leveled the Uzi at the crowd. "Alright people, Christmas has come early. Line up and wait your turn. You all know the rules, you boys better have cash on hand and up front." The driver had just cut his way through the crowd, and started to divvy up the merchandise amongst the buyers. He had clearly been doing this for a while, and in a few short hours, the truck had been cleared out. When the crowd was getting antsy, Hector fired a warning burst into the ceiling, causing the crowd to disperse. They then spent the next hour tallying the money.

"You've done this stuff before?" the old timer asked. Hector looked up at the geezer. This was the first time he heard the man speak. "Well, I ran some stuff for the Sullivan's right out of high school." he answered honestly. "Wait, you graduated high school?" the old man wheezed. "That's something you don't run into everyday in this line of work."

"Yeah, well my old man insisted I get a diploma before I "take up the family business"."

"Hm, sounds like someone who worked for the old families."

"He did, my father was Rodrigo Silva."

The old man balked, knocking over a pile of hundreds he had just neatly sorted.

"Your old man was the Crippler?!"

"The one and only." It surprised him how many people in his line of work still remembered his old man. One of the Falcone's most dreaded attack dogs, Rodrigo "The Crippler" Silva had worked to ensure that the criminal element of Gotham would toe the Falcone line. He was good at his job, and the other gangs and families had learned to afford the Falcones every respect when the threat of the Crippler was imminent. Since a young age, Rodrigo instilled in Hector a belief system dedicated to pledging service towards someone he considered deserving respect. For Rodrigo, it was senor Carmine Falcone. For Hector, he was going to have to find his own.

"I remember your old man. That guy was crazy. I mean, no offense."

"None taken." In all honesty, he had to take other peoples words on what his father was like in his profession. Whatever he did on the clock, he was a very sweet, passive individual when he returned home. Every now and then, he would came home with some bandages, but other then that, the only reason he knew his father was a criminal was because he told him. His father was blunt, honest, and loyal to a fault, the latter of which was born out of some debt he owed Falcone over an incident that happened before Hector was born.

When they were done, the old man gave Hector $5000 for all the help, and offered him a seat in the cabin on the drive home. It was almost sunrise, and Hector was a sucker for a good view, so he accepted. As they drove off, Hector smiled contentedly. This was something he could get used to, and there was no way he was going to give his up. Not for anything in the world.

Twelve years later, he found himself strapped to an electrified wheelchair, in a madhouse that he had helped turn into a slaughterhouse a few weeks ago. There was no mistake about it; he had demons to exorcise, and this woman on the other side of the glass was is best chance to do some of the good he should have had the balls to do earlier. His interviewer had fallen silent while he tore into her. None of it was personal, nor was he trying to scare her, he just wanted to make sure that she had her head exactly where it needed to be. After finishing his little speech, the girl, Kelly, finally spoke up.

"So, where do you want us to start?"

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