AN:I couldn't find a good spot to cram the explanation for the Sleep riddle, so I'll just explain it here. Elsep is an anagram for sleep, hence the knockout gas. This isn't the best of chapters but it will have to do.
I've also decided that Scarecrow no longer needs the funky blue flower to make his toxin.
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Sergeant Harvey Bullock pulled up to the dark building and stepped out of his car, taking a moment to stare at the ominous structure. Arkham Asylum seemed to stare back.
The police had blockaded all exits from the asylum, but Harvey knew it was hopeless. Both Joker and Scarecrow were long gone. It looked like the city was about to be taken on another ride.
Stepping into the lobby, he was immediately greeted by Dr. Elsep. They walked to his office in silence. Elsep was sweating profusely, repeatedly dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
They entered his office, dark and smelly, and after Elsep had opened a window, they both sat down.
"So tell me what happened, doc"
"We don't really know. Almost every member of my staff reports the same thing: a strange smell and loss of consciousness. Every single employee was taken out and some of the cameras were destroyed, so we don't have any footage of the escape"
"Almost everyone?"
"Three of our staff did not fall victim to the gas, as far as we know. Poor Jeff had a syringe in his neck when we found him, along with a broken nose. He hasn't come to yet. And another guard is missing, Kirillov. And we haven't been able to reach Dr. Quinzel"
"This is an inside job, doc. Which one do you think is more likely?"
"I...honestly can't say"
"Ever see this man before?", he held up a picture taken from the news broadcast, showing most of the Riddler's face.
"Yes, that's him, Kirillov"
Earlier that day, Harvey himself had recognized the man on the photo. It was Pierre Mystère, the neighbour whose apartment had gone explodey. Renee had identified him as Edward Nashton, a janitor at the precinct. Stephens knew him as Miguel Cervantes, the man who had verified Mr. Mystère's alibi. They'd looked up on all names, found what they were sure were his fingerprints at the station and checked for them in the database. Mr Nashton Cervantes Kirillov Mystère had apparently erased himself from all records. The man no longer existed. Harvey let out an annoyed grunt.
"I'll need his file", he added. Not that it was likely they'd learn anything from it.
"Of course"
He wouldn't waste time hunting for ghosts, his best bet was to send out a search party to find Dr. Quinzel.
After a short doughnut break, Harvey went on with his investigation. He'd called the hospital as well. The commish was still out, but in no real danger.
Which meant that he was currently the boss. He didn't like it one bit. He was a lot of things, but Bullock was definitely not a people person.
His interrogation techniques did wonders on hardened criminals, but the whole politeness that was required when talking to victims just felt unnatural to him. But he would still do some of them himself, just to make sure there were no over-sights due to rookies or crooked cops.
Most of the interviews were completely pointless, no-one seemed to have much to say about him.
"Nice guy" and "Didn't really know him" were the most common answers. The guy's superiors were said to have gone easy on him, but Bullock couldn't get any answers as to why out of them. Only one person seemed to have really talked to him, apart from the absent Dr. Quinzel, a guard who had gone with Kirillov on the few patrols he actually had to do.
"A really weird guy. He could be the best partner you could imagine, or completely introverted, depending on his mood. On the bad nights he was almost always muttering something under his breath. First it was all in French. I understood some of it, but couldn't understand what he was talking about. When I asked him what he was saying, he just evaded the question and the next time he started muttering it was in some other language, Russian or something. On the good nights he never stopped talking, chatted up nearly everyone, even some of the patients. Flirted with every nurse he encountered and buttered up every superior we came across. Silver-tongued enough to sell paintings to the blind, I tell ya. Creepy smart as well, liked to play chess against everyone during the break. Most of the time it was around twenty matches simultaneously. Won every single one, every single time. Never could understand why he worked here. Guess now we know, huh?"
Why the hell did all these guys have to be geniuses? And why did they always have such a passion for wanton destruction? Probably something in the water.
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Jonathan looked around the empty warehouse he'd used during his shameful drug-dealing days. Those times had mostly been terrible, dealing with slimy brainless mobsters on a regular basis and getting almost no research done, but there were a few bright points to sweeten the memory. Such as this place, which had apparently been left untouched, through some miracle. He'd have to recruit some thugs, acquire some chemicals, get a car and make a new mask, and then he'd be ready to continue his work. The only thing that would be risky was raising funds. An extortion ring perhaps, equip his buffoons with small doses of the toxin and they would be the most intimidating and efficient collectors in the business. He would have to alter the concoction, so that it packed a punch powerful enough to break people's wills, while being short-lasting enough so that they wouldn't be out of it for more than an hour. Things were finally looking up. It would only take a couple of days to set up, hopefully Batman would still have his hands full with the Riddler by that time.
He wasn't sure why the Riddler had broken him out, but it looked as if he had no more interest in him. After sitting in that mansion for the whole night, he had simply driven him back to town. After dropping him off where he wanted to go, he had simply said he should "do his thing", given him a pistol and driven away after giving him his "business card", a small book with riddles, a phone-number and a message written on the cover:
For those times when you need a drink and a friend or cash and a hand.
Your friend,
Mr. Green
From what little he had seen, Riddler's plans were probably as utterly pointless as the Joker's. He wasn't acting out of greed, revenge or a desire for power. But power couldn't be completely ruled out, just because things didn't look that way to him didn't mean it was out of the question.
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Harley looked around the quaint motel room. It wasn't much, but compared to Arkham it was a five star hotel. Mistah J was busy decorating the walls with plans in various colors. She'd tried watching him, but he'd snarled at her that it wasn't ready. Then he'd drawn a picture of her hanging from a noose, just to make himself perfectly clear. So she left him alone and tried jumping on the bed for a while, to uh, check the quality. Then she found a book and made a few paper birds from its pages. When she grew bored of that she started drawing on the wall opposite of Mistah J's plans. She drew two ponies looking at each other with a big heart over their heads. Something was missing, so she added a jesters cap to one and put a handsome grin on the other. Then she made the grinning pony obscenely well-endowed. As soon as she had put her finishing touches on the masterpiece, Mistah J tackled her from behind. He had a playful spark in his eyes.
Meanwhile, at her old apartment, Batman was reading her notebook. She was definitely strange, even before she met the Joker. But describing Arkham as "excitingly dull" and "being in seventh heaven" over the prospect of meeting the Joker wasn't really proof that she had had any part in the break-out, and it seemed highly unlikely that a regular woman would be able to evade the dozens of security cameras at Arkham. And she was almost certainly not in league with the Riddler, so she couldn't have known which cameras had been disabled. Batman was sure he'd find her cold body in a matter of days. What had Elsep been thinking, letting her near the Joker?
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Riddler was having the time of his life. Building his magnificent deathtrap was going slowly but surely. Slowly because he had to make sure everything was perfect and because he was constantly getting new ideas. Sometimes his genius amazed even himself.
He was listening to the radio as he worked, zoning out everything that wasn't about him, people's reactions to him, his "crazy" plan, his reign of terror, his glory, or Batman. Pop-psychologists were brought in and asked for their silly opinions. Apparently he was doing this out of need for recognition, the riddles were simply a compulsion,and his genius madness. He couldn't help smiling. Of course they would see it as madness.
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It was almost noon, but Scarecrow felt no fatigue. The recruitment drive had been fairly successful, he now had fifteen goons in his employ. Some old faces, some new, all but a handful thick as bricks and just as tough. He scheduled their hours, so that there were always at least five baboons in the warehouse with him. He picked the room that had served as a monitor room as his private room and booby-trapped it. It might not stop the Bat but it would at least slow him down.
The room that had served as an office would be used to store his test subjects in. It wasn't sound-proof, but screams wouldn't be heard onto the street. It would also serve as a reminder of who was the boss, preventing dissension among his ruffians.
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Batman sat in his cave, staring at pictures of the people he was looking for. He had no idea where any of them were.
During the night he had found the motel room Joker had stayed in. Joker had torched the place before leaving, but the motel owner's body left no question as to who was behind this. Joker's trail had gone cold.
Riddler and Scarecrow seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, no signs of any activity in the city.
He had no idea what they were doing and what they were planning. Most of the underground had ground to a halt when they heard of the Joker's escape, so there were no pressing matters to distract him from his search.
But someone still had to murder five high-ranking employees of Daggett Industries, just to make the night even more of a failure. All were poisoned at the restaurant they were dining at. The chef had committed suicide, making him a top suspect, but the letter he left didn't say anything about the poisonings. It said something about the most beautiful woman the chef had ever seen, his one true love and how he could not live without her. Batman let out a sigh. His city never ceased to confound him.
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Riddler had just put the finishing touches on his maze. This deathtrap was surely the greatest this world had ever seen. He couldn't wait to see what the Batman thought of it. Dusting imaginary dust off his hands, he stood, a content smile on his face. He checked his watch, still too soon to send the riddle. He could lay the finishing touches on the next riddles in the meantime. Yes, that was sure to amuse him.
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Harley let out a long sigh of satisfaction, sprawled on the bed of the new hideout. What a honeymoon. Well, technically it wasn't a honeymoon since they weren't married, but who really cared?
She would have thought she had died and gone to heaven if not for the bruises. So she'd just have to settle for calling it paradise.
The only thing that disappointed her was not waking up next to him. But he was a busy man, her Mistah J. He marched back into the bedroom, wearing only underwear with smileys on, a scowl fixed on his face.
"Harls, what do you think of this Riddler guy?"
"Who?"
"I know! It's almost like he's trying to steal my thunder. Greatest show this city has ever seen?! Who does he think he is, Groucho?! And breaking Scary out, but not me. Who does that?! What sort of lowlife is this?!"
"Gee, Mistah J, you're right"
"This schmuck needs to be taught a lesson, but how?"
He scratched his chin and his eyes narrowed in concentration.
"I must become a creature of the night, something that strikes fear into the heart of this guy! But what?"
As if in response, a giant bat flew straight at the window with a loud Thunk!, before slowly sliding out of view.
"Been done", he said, without looking in the direction of the window. Harley wondered if he had eyes in the back of his head, or if he could simply see through everything. She'd have to check the next time he fell asleep.
"Never mind, he probably has coulrophobia anyway. Find him, pumpkin, I've got some stuff to do"
Joker picked up a laptop and threw it over to her. It hit her directly in the forehead. He looked disappointed.
"I thought you said you used to be a top basketball player"
"Ouch, ouch, ouch. I was an acrobat, Mistah J"
He shrugged and left the room, whistling a merry tune. Harley rubbed her head for a few moments before opening the laptop. On the screen was a riddle. Oh boy, this was going to be boring.
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Bullock sat at his desk, staring at a computer screen. Dent's body hadn't been found, Gordon was doing better, but still in no shape to return to the job. And now the Riddler had sent a new clue. He had hacked into nineteen websites and left the same riddle in every one:
I am not alive
But I grow
I don't have lungs
But I need air
I don't have a mouth
But water kills me
Bullock hated riddles. After searching on the internet, he found the answer on a riddle website. The answer was Fire. Now he just needed to figure out where the fire would be. Every site had a list of the other sites that showed the riddle, so maybe the websites themselves were a clue?
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Batman, like Bullock, sat and stared at his own screen. He would have to figure this out before evening came, but his sleep deprived mind was having no luck. He heard the door to the mansion opening. When is a door not a door?
This case was starting to mess with his mind. He would have let his head hit the keyboard and let out a frustrated groan if Alfred hadn't been close enough to hear it. Maybe he could allow himself a few hours of sleep. Not like he was making any progress as it was.
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AN: Kirillov is a character from Demons, by Dostoyevsky. Cervantes is the author of Don Quixote. A door is not a door when it's ajar. The giant bat flying at the Joker's window is similar to the Batman origins in comics. Groucho was a comedian.
