Bruce's eyes scanned the room, washed with blue from his enhanced vision. It was very clearly a boy's bedroom, though the condition was abominable. Rain was pouring in through the window he'd crashed through. He looked at the damage, before dismissing it. This was a terrible neighborhood. If Batman was wrong, then Arnold would assume it was a normal break-in. If he was correct… then it was a suitable warning for a man like Scarface. Nowhere is safe; not even his home.

The falling sheet of rain drew his attention to the desk he'd crashed in over. He'd missed it entirely, with it positioned directly below the window, but it looked important. Arnold had no electronic devices in this place, from the looks of it; a few faded posters to old movies lined the walls, seemingly more to take up space than anything else. The raggedy bed was to the left of the door, and took up almost half the room. He leaned down and examined the pillow closely, and pinched something on the sheet between his thumb and forefinger. He lifted it up closely, enough for the software in his cowl to begin analyzing it. It zoomed in on one tiny strand, displaying a window with a brief bit of information.

Human hair. Blonde. Batman parroted in his mind. At least Alfred was right; this is the right house… wait.

Adjusting the positioning of the strands he'd plucked, his cowl settled in on another target. The text box came up, explaining its details.

And this one's felt. Likely a fedora, or something similar. But I've never seen Arnold with a hat… Could be coincidence, I'll need more evidence than hat fibers.

He opened up a small pouch on the front left of his belt, tossing in the hair and felt strands before turning his attention towards the desk. A simple, tattered lamp was the only appliance present, and the only thing sitting on it was a small book. A journal, most likely. Batman approached it, picking the book up to take a closer look. A lock was clasped over the right side of the book, with a small hole for a key that the boy likely kept on his person. Batman couldn't help but smirk as he yanked the Redkey off of his belt. A bit of "borrowed tech" from Star Labs, as Alfred had put it, using lasers, hard light, and other things that Bruce was fairly confident no human could ever produce in a device the size of a keychain.

Still, it got the job done. The light projected from the little device fit snugly into the lock, and solidified enough for him to turn it and remove the clasp. The covers of the journal parted, allowing him full access.

He sat down in the chair, flipping off the "Detective Mode" vision, as he referred to it, and squeezed a small trigger on the left side of his Adam's apple. A beam of light was projected from a small bulb located on top of the blank white contacts placed over his eyes. With the journal illuminated, he gave a quick flip-through of the pages, trying to gauge how much he'd have time to look at.

As it happened, it was a fairly new journal. Not more than a week of entries. Likely when Arnold moved here.

Batman flipped back to the first entry, and read it through completely.

Dear Diary,

October 3rd

Well, the move is done. I was really nervous the whole way down. It's lonely, sitting in the back of a moving truck, but at least Scarface was with me. Everything's going to be better here, just like he said. No more fights, no more violence, no more names, and taunting, and hurting. I wanted to share the happiness I was feeling with my parents, but they were in the other truck. Sleeping. Just like always.

Scarface says I don't need them anyways. He and his pals are the only friends I need. To tell the truth, I think he's right. They all helped us move the furniture in. This place I'm sitting in now's different from my old room. A lot smaller. But Scarface says we'll be moving up soon; he just has to call in some old friends to do some favors. I've seen them before, and frankly they don't look like very trustworthy people. Big, and scary, and muscly. I guess as long as Scarface trusts them, it's ok, right? He's always been smarter than me, so he's probably better at judging people too.

Batman flipped to the next page, an entry that came two days later.

October 4th

Scarface's friends came back again. I tried to leave them alone, but Scarface made me stay. He says that he needs me there, for "moral support".

I don't really know what kind of support I give him. He's the one that does all the talking; I just sit there, silent, and hope that everybody's watching him and not me. Whoever these people are, Scarface must be really good to them. They're way bigger than him. Bigger than me, even. But they listen, and they do whatever he tells them too.

I'm starting to get a little worried about what he's telling them. I don't really understand most of it, he uses lots of code and things, but I'm starting to think that whatever his friends are doing might not be… nice. I tried talking to him about it, but he just brushed me off, said that I should let him handle his own business. I try, but… if he's doing something dangerous, then I should be a good pal and help him, right? And if he's doing something bad… I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

Batman frowned as he reached the end of that last entry. He hasn't mentioned his parents at all since they moved in. It's all been about this Scarface. At first I thought he'd named his puppet after whoever the real mob boss was. But all the signs are saying…

He put his speculation aside and flipped the page. A few days had passed, in the world of Arnold's writings.

October 7th

I'm starting to get worried now. When I got home, Scarface told me to sit with him and wait in the living room. I did, and two of his friends brought in some stranger. I don't think I'd have recognized him even if we'd met. He was hurt. Badly. Someone had been taking a bike chain to his face, and I could see welts from a wrench on his hands and neck. His left eye was swollen, and there so blood. So much blood. He was crying, and begging for mercy, and I tried to help. But Scarface stopped me. He said this was a lesson, of what happens to people who threatened us.

He said that he'd been caught working with rival gangs, trying to pull a hit on him. And on me, too. But he'd been caught. Scarface said he wanted to show me what happened to people who threatened me, so that I would feel safe.

I don't feel very safe. This is starting to feel like Bludhaven all over again. Only, I think this time might be worse. I tried to talk and mom and dad about it. They seemed like the only ones left who might be able to help. But they were sleeping again. Always sleeping… always…

Batman snapped the book shut and placed it back on the table, replacing the clasp and locking it. He stood from the chair.

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce? Did you find something?"

"Arnold's journal." Bruce explained. "He's craz—" he stopped there. An image flashed in his mind of Barbara, angry. Shouting.

Bruce tried again, and the butler did not fail to notice the concern in his voice. "He's scared, Alfred. He needs help, and he's in way over his head."

"So, he's not the culprit then."

"He is." Bruce affirmed. "But it's not his fault; he's not in control of his circumstances, or his actions. I don't think he has been for a long time."

"What are you going to do now, then?"

"I'm going to find Arnold's parents. Then, I think I'll have this puzzle solved."

Batman strode to the door, yanking it open and stepping out into a dull, gray hallway. The muted pattering of rain could be heard as he looked to either side. He was at the end of his hallway, and only one door remained in the upstairs. He took a few steps down, using his eye-mounted light to examine the halls. No decorations. It's more like a glorified storage room than a home.

He reached the last remaining door, and opened it just a tad to peek inside. It was completely barren, at first glance. Then, sensing that this was misleading, he stepped inside. Indeed, the door had been blocking the view he'd needed: an entire wall had been made into a weapons rack. Rifles, pistols, shotguns, grenades. An entire arsenal had been gathered. The Bat's mouth went agape for a moment as he took it all in. He lifted up his right hand, fiddling with a small control on his gauntlet to activate his camera.

A few flashes from the center of the bat on his chest illuminated the room as the evidence was catalogued. A few spare shots were taken, just to be on the safe side.

"Alfred," he said. "I'm sending you the evidence from the house. When I'm done here, print the pictures and deliver them anonymously to Commissioner Gordon."

"Of course, sir. Any luck on the parents?"

"Not yet. But I have a floor left to investigate."

He left the arsenal behind, stepping into the hallway and facing the stairway to his left. The Bat descended; his steps were eerily silent in the dead house. His only company was the rain. He came down at the bottom of the spiraling stairwell to see that to his left was the door out. To his right was the kitchen, utterly dark. But something caught his attention as he looked through the open arch too the room beyond.

A living room, by what his flashlight was illuminating. He could see a few musty paintings on the walls, of old cottages. The walls were a dim green, and two armchairs were huddled around a cruddy television set. Batman immediately shut off his light, however, when he saw the last thing he wanted to: a hand resting on the arm of the chair, whose back was thankfully turned to him. Batman switched to his Detective Vision, noting to himself that it was far more useful than the flashlight; in fact, he decided, the next Suit would drop the light entirely. Taking care not to make a single sound, he began to creep down the rest of the stairs and to the floor. Nothing stirred from the chair, which relieved him; just wished he had some way to see through solid objects. His vision was as easy to obscure as it always was with anything but darkness in this mode.

He reached the arch, still crouched, before standing. Whoever was there, they'd be too late to stop him. He loomed over the chair as he approached, prepping a canister of knockout gas in his left gauntlet. The little servings of spray were fed through a tube on the underside of his glove, which then was directly tapped to deliver a single dose of the gas through a series of tubes connecting to his palm. Each canister held enough to take down three grown men in seconds each. More than enough to deal with this one.

He counted down to himself as he approached. One… two…

With a swift and silent swipe, Batman clamped his hand over the victim's mouth, letting the knockout spray perform its guileful deed. But he hadn't been touching the man for a second before it was very apparent something was wrong. The skin wasn't relenting to any pressure, like it should. It was firmer, almost like…

"Wood?"

Batman immediately swept his body around the side of the chair, coming around to the front to look the man in the eye.

There before him sat what looked like a man. It was dressed in khakis and a green sweater vest, with a white undershirt. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and bore the same color of hair as Arnold did. But his eyes were dull, and glazed over. That was because they were painted. He looked over at the other chair, which was as he suspected it was: containing Arnold's "mother", in a red blouse and black skirt, with long brown hair and a sharp nose. But the eyes were the same.

Batman took a step back, his mind at once freezing up as the new information and circumstances this brought to the case reeled in his head. He backed up into the television, knocking it straight over to the ground. Sparks and a few shards of glass shot off in every direction.

"Master Bruce, what's wrong?" Alfred asked, hearing the disturbance. "Have you found something?"

"I found… Arnold's parents." Batman replied, sounding just a bit too distraught for the butler's tastes. Alfred almost felt sick hearing any emotion but stoic confidence in Bruce's voice, which prompted a somewhat hurried response.

"What is the matter, Master Bruce? Are they all right?"

Batman hung his head, eyes fixed on the floor. "…They're puppets, Alfred. Arnold's parents are life-size puppets."

"W-what?" the Bat's helper stammered, the shock in his voice apparent. "B-but… how is that possible?"

"It's simple, actually." Batman stated; but there was no satisfaction in his voice. "Arnold's parents died while he was still in Bludhaven. That's why Scarface moved to Gotham, with a whole new world of opportunities. He's a splinter of Arnold's psyche, the boy's mentally ill. All of his hatred, his cunning, his violence, it got placed into this "Scarface" persona at some point. And if I'm right, it's represented by his puppet."

Batman looked at the scene before him, shaking his head as he began to walk back the way he had come in. He was still talking, explaining, as he went.

"Scarface is relatively new, I'd guess. Before him, all of Arnold's outbursts would have been carried out personally, likely against his peers instead of the mob. He'd have been feared, hated, and viewed with suspicion by authority. An aspiring crime lord like Scarface couldn't help but chafe under that sort of restriction, so he sought out a new playground."

He stopped to look back inside the arsenal room one last time. His thoughts turned to Gotham High, and the students within. One in particular. They were in danger as long as this boy was on the streets. He'd have to be stopped, and soon.

"So," Alfred queried. "the death of Arnold's parents was the perfect opportunity to pull a few strings, and transfer the boy back "home" to Gotham, yes? No one would ever have to know he was really all alone."

"Close." Batman said as he finally stepped back into Arnold's room. He placed a boot on the boy's desk, accidentally nicking the side of the journal, and knocking it to the floor. Its covers were knocked open, and the rain began to pour in on the unprotected pages. The Bat paid it no heed, stepping out onto the sill and crouched. He stared out at the streets below.

"But," Batman concluded. "it's a little too convenient that Arnold's parents died just as he needed an out to Gotham."

He said nothing more, and back home Alfred could only sit at his chair, mulling these new thoughts over as the Bat dove back into the shadows. Tomorrow would be the talent show. Arnold would be there, and he would be doomed.

Far from his home, Arnold sat in a new safehouse. Warm, with comfortable lighting and furniture, all decorated meticulously by Scarface's men. Arnold had begun to put the pieces together. This was a gang. Not just any gang, but a serious mob. Well-trained men, with powerful stolen weaponry.

He supposed that he'd known for a very long time, but he'd never had a reason to point it out, or stand up to it. But he'd been forced into that position because of the favor he'd paid to one Barbara Gordon. Scarface was letting him know the full gravity of this situation.

"Do you got ANY idea what kind of trouble you just landed me an' my boys in, kid?" the puppet bellowed at him, sitting in a chair across from him. They were both in the dining room, Arnold with a small plate of beans and a cut of Salisbury steak. Scarface had a helping of caviar, with some anchovies on top; his tastes were… bizarre.

The boy gulped, barely able to keep himself composed. But there was no backing down now, he could feel it. "I-I had to help her! She might have died!"

"And it'd be her own damned fault for it!" The puppet insisted. Arnold could see him smashing his fists into the table for emphasis. "Yours too, kid! I told ya ya weren't s'posed to go anywhere near that place today! And what did ya do? YA WENT TO THAT PRECISE PLACE!"

"W-w-well, if I declined, she might've gotten upset… and… and…"

"And what, pal?" Scarface asked, the bite in his tone quite noticeable. "Spit it out!"

Arnold's face turned bright red, before bursting out with the mixed-in sounds of a sob. "You were the one that told me to make friends! And I DID!"

Scarface sat silently. Something welled up in Arnold; a powerful feeling in his gut. That was it: it was power. HE was in control. He stood out of his chair a bit. "I made a friend, just like you said to! So you don't get to tell me I messed up, because I did exactly what I was supposed to!"

"No, ya didn't." Scarface snarled back. A startled squeak from Arnold's mouth leaked out as he felt compelled back into his seat. "I didn't tell ya to get some DAME involved and muck up a hit! If you hadn't forced me to get involved and save your sorry hides, I'd be free of one more Sionis in this world! But NOW I've got the Commissioner's slaggerin' daughter involved, and she knows you're involved with me."

Arnold's face dropped, and his eyes went wide. He felt numb. "Y-you don't mean…"

"I do." Scarface told him. "She knows now, you could tell as easy as I could, pal. She's gonna spill her guts to Gordon. Then you'n'I're BOTH gonna be rottin' in the big house."

"S-she wouldn't!" Arnold insisted, feeling his voice crack as desperation boiled beneath his skin. "She's m-my friend, she would never…!"

"Never what? Obey the law? She's a good kid, Arnold, and goodie two-shoes brown-nosers like her'll go tattlin' to the law every time."

Arnold's face was broken, crestfallen. His quivering lip warbled endlessly as his face dropped, eyes focused on the meager meal before him.

"I-I… I don't wanna go to jail. I don't want…"

"You don't want things to be like in Bludhaven again… right, pal?"

Arnold snorted, and he watched a tear drip down into the gravy of his steak. "I don't ever want that again…"

"Then it's simple." Scarface explained. Arnold looked up, curious. But a heavy feeling in his heart weighed him down; he already knew what his pal was going to say. He mouthed the words along with Scarface in perfect time. "We've gotta put a hit on Barbara Gordon."

Neither said anything for the longest time after that. Scarface watched the timid little boy sulking with his food, growing full of pity and disgust as the minutes passed. Ultimately, he could take it no more, and tried to say something, anything to cheer him up.

"C'mon, kid. I know it ain't everythin' you expected. This new life's harder'n either of us knew it'd be. But you'll make new friends! And, hey, you've still got me, right? Y'know, I ain't ever gonna leave ya, kid!"

That got enough of Arnold's attention to at least make him look at his friend. "Y-you really… mean that?"

The puppet smiled as warmly as it could. "A'course kid. Best pals, foreva and eva. That's a promise."

Arnold smiled. That was a comforting thought, knowing that Scarface would always be by his side.

But when he went to sleep that night, all he could think about was Barbara, the friend he had gained, and would lose, so quickly.