HAS ANYONE NOTICED THE ACROSTIC POEM IN THE CHAPTER DROP-DOWN BAR

ANYONE AT ALL

BECAUSE PERSONALLY I THINK IT'S CLEVER

BUT YOU KNOW, THAT'S JUST ME

This one is super short, but the bulk of this fic has already been dealt with, and now the final plot points are simply slotting into place. It has been a lovely ride, and I look forward to building something grand and exciting out of the next instalment. Arkham City is going to be a wild ride. Two chapters left of this one!

I love you all! Please review!

Chapter Ten: Hard Against Your Skin

28 September 2009, Monday

Countdown to breakout: three days

Jim Gordon stood bundled against the bone deep chill of the pre-dawn breeze, observing the catastrophe before him with grim solemnity.

At about a quarter after five, a small tank truck had collided with a taxi at the intersection of Main and Stevensburg, resulting in an explosion just small enough to spare the unstable foundations of the buildings on the nearest corner. Every window within a fifteen yard radius had blown and dozens of car alarms had erupted into an uproarious cacophony. But for all the wreckage, only one fatal casualty had been reported: the taxi driver, who had reportedly ran the intersection's red light and caused the crash to begin with.

To make matters worse, the collision had shoved the taxi up onto the curb, where it had uprooted a fire hydrant. Gallons and gallons of near-freezing water now rained down upon the scene, soaking the firefighters and policemen attempting to neutralize the oil fires burning on chunks of mangled tanker and peppered across the pavement. Only the fires seemed unaffected by the downpour, steadily churning thick black smoke towards the heavens.

A few injured bystanders were being treated by EMTs at the periphery of the scene; residents of the neighbourhood were being solicited for statements to the police and the local news; the tank driver had already been escorted to Gotham General via ambulance, to be treated for moderate lacerations and patches of third-degree burns. How the man had managed to escape the vehicle before it had blown, Gordon could only guess. Perhaps it had been a miracle, a small glimpse of light in what was shaping up to be a very dark day, indeed.

Jim rubbed his freezing hands together, frowning at the curling mist of his breath in the morning air. Since when was it this goddamn cold in September?

The sun was beginning to rise in the east. With it, Jim knew, would flock the hordes of rush-hour traffic that would hit the intersection like a cork in the neck of a wine bottle.

...He was going to need his own wine bottle when this morning was over.

"I think we have it covered." One of Gordon's lieutenants had picked his way through the wreckage, raised his voice over the crackling of nearby flames. "It's a mess, though. It's going to be difficult to get a statement when the only real witness of the crash is the survivor. So far it's looking like we'll have to charge the tank driver with vehicular manslaughter."

Jim's gut contracted. He hated to press jail time on accidents like this, but it was the law. There would be pain on all sides of the issue, bereaved and survivor – not to mention the city paying for the damage to the entire block.

But he nodded, all the same. "Thanks, Georges." Jim sighed, dragged a hand down his face, wiping what felt suspiciously like frost from his moustache. "Stay in contact, leave messages on my cell if you have to, but don't spare me any details. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Georges paused. "Good luck today, sir."

Jim couldn't help but scoff, if more to himself than to his lieutenant. "Starting to think that luck isn't going to be enough for this one, son. If I'm not back at my office by noon... talk to Cash. He'll know where to find me."

Georges expression dimmed disappointedly at the Commissioner's tone, but he replied, "Of course, Gordon."

Finding that the words for a proper farewell failed him, Jim could only articulate a gruff,. "Stay in touch, son," before turning to exit the scene. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets as he trekked back to his car, shoulders hunched up around his ears to keep the breeze off his neck.

It was now nearly seven in the morning, and he was headed to an appointment with Quincy Sharp – the man who was, for all intents and purposes, Gotham's next mayor. The officials had started tallying Saturday's votes hardly twenty-four hours ago, and already the balance was stacked mightily in the Warden's favour.

Quincy Sharp, the Hero-Warden. That was the term the GCPD had been throwing around lately, with no small amount of condescension attached. Sharp had been put on a pedestal since the last Rogue breakout, now revered as a hero because of his rumoured involvement in bringing Arkham back under control. But Jim had been at Arkham the night of the Joker Rebellion, witnessing each and every gritty, grimy detail of the battle to establish order. He'd lost good men, to that chaos – he'd lost friends. Hell, Jim himself had been taken hostage by Harley Quinn and the Joker, and would likely have been killed without Batman's timely interference. But even so, Jim had ultimately been the one to escort the pathetic, snivelling excuse for a hero to safety – and only after the Batman had successfully dragged both men from the hellish depths of the Asylum.

Everyone who was there that night knew who the real hero had been. And yet, that hero was being vilified, even blamed for the Rebellion itself. And it was Sharp, a victim turned hero, that had done the finger-pointing that led to such an audacious claim.

It made Jim nauseaus, just thinking about it.

Jim climbed into his car and cranked up the heat, cupping his breath in his hands in an effort to bring feeling back into his fingers. If this was autumn, he was ready to put off the coming winter for the rest of his goddamn life.

"I could put off this meeting for the rest of my goddamn life," he found himself growling.

The sentiment was ironic, seeing as how Jim had made this appointment of his own volition. Granted, it had been a decision made amidst a fit of unbridled anger, but it was a bed he had made and would lie in. Even if he couldn't help but feel, in the grim sobriety of Gotham at sunrise, that the whole endeavour was doomed to fail.

It was this business with 'New Arkham' that had him riled. The whole idea stank to high heaven, in Jim's mind, and it made his gut twist in a way that generally warned of an oncoming shitstorm. Trusting his gut hadn't failed him once in over thirty years of police work, and he wasn't about to doubt it now. The public be damned, in that regard. Since when did a city ever really know what it wanted, anyway?

So here he was. Driving to a meeting with a man he rightly wanted to beat to a pulp.

It was lucky Jim had a strong sense of self-control. Without it, he would have ended up in his own jail years ago.

Arkham Island was more dreary and sullen than usual.

Car tires grinding on the gravel path, Jim pulled up in front of the hulking mass of the Intensive Treatment building, noting that the Titan plant that had blocked the entrance had been removed, albeit crudely. The Commissioner found a place to park, then made his way to the nearest pair of guards. The Arkham security recognised and greeted him immediately,although they looked confused.

"Good morning, Commissioner," one tipped his head in respect, lowering his weapon. "What brings you here, sir?"

"Got an appointment with the Warden." Jim did his best not to sound too grumpy about it. He must have done a crap job, given the expressions he was met with.

"Haven't seen him, but we only just started our shift," the other guard spoke up. "Word is that he's around, though. You could try his office in Intensive. Need an escort?"

"Nah, boys, I'll be fine." Jim waved the suggestion away. He was no rookie, and he didn't need coddling. He'd made his way through Arkham countless times before, with and without loose Rogues. "Take care of yourselves." And then he was off again, sliding through the heavy double doors of Intensive Treatment.

The premises was no better off than it had been during the Rebellion, it seemed. Normally the floors and ceilings would have been refurbished and much of the earthquake damage repaired, but not this time. It was still ridiculously cold, too, like the heating was out."You guys weren't kidding about budget cuts," he'd commented to one of the checkpoint guards. All he'd received in return was a dark chuckle.

Seeing Arkham in this state – seeing for himself, rather than on a TV screen – was a little jarring. For a few moments he began to consider that Quincy was right about selling the Island and starting over. Surely, getting out and replacing this deathtrap would do everyone some good? But the hopeful optimism of the thought was crushed by the sudden knotting in his gut, and he banished the thought as quickly as it had come. New Arkham was bad news, no matter how you twisted it.

It seemed ages before Jim finally reached Quincy's hideaway in the core of the building, where the narrow hallways opened up into a two-story room. The Commissioner quickly descended the steel staircase, eager to reach the cagelike office before the resident Rogue noticed him.

No such luck.

"Hey! Let me out of here!" A rumpled Quincy Sharp beat his fists against the glass wall separating the Rogue's prison from the rest of the room, voice severely muted by the solid barrier. Clayface never tired of that act, it seemed. "This is a mistake, I'm the real Quincy Sharp!"

"Shut the hell up, Karlo," Jim shouted to be heard on the other side of the glass. "I wasn't born yesterday."

Luckily the shouting had announced his arrival, and the real Warden had rushed down the curving stairwell to the electric gate of his office. It had at least saved Jim from needing to form a proper greeting. Maybe he should have thanked Basil Karlo instead.

"I see you made it to my little haven safely," Quincy 's voice commented. As the barrier fizzled out, Jim was confronted with a pale, sickly-looking Warden. Despite his weak health, however, his demeanour was cocky and distinctly pompous. That over-bred English accent didn't help, either. He glared at Quincy's head all the way up the stairs.

"Yeah," Jim replied shortly. He didn't understand how an office situated in the epicentre of a building full of Rogues was a haven, but he didn't question it. Out loud.

"So what," Quincy paused to cough, "what did you come to-"

"I want to know," Jim suddenly burst, letting the words flow freely as his anger bubbled to the surface. "I want to know what the hell you were thinking when you started building an entire penitentiary without consulting me!"

There was a brief pause as Quincy regarded the police Commissioner, blinking. "Ah," the Warden spoke gravely, "yes, I remember now. We discussed this on the phone."

"That was no discussion," Jim spat. "You didn't tell me anything. I want answers, Sharp."

"I'm afraid the decision is out of your hands, Commissioner Gordon." Quincy sounded less than apologetic. If anything, his tone was intensely patronising. "As the present owner of the Asylum and mayor of-"

"You're not mayor yet." The words were deadly, but a thin grin had spread across the Warden's face, creeping into his puffy eyes like venom.

"I have it on good authority that the people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly." The small man chuckled, though it degenerated into a cough. "We will know for sure by this evening, but I expect to be leaving Arkham within the week to relocate to my new offices."

Jim was running out of steam, resolve crumbling in the face of the Warden's horrible smile and viscous words. "I won't let you open the new penitentiary," he ground out wilfully. "If I have to take it to the courts, I will."

"Commissioner, I'm quite sure your heart is in the right place on the matter. I understand that you are unhappy that I did not speak to you first, but surely you can put your own interests aside for the sake of Gotham City?" The patronising voice had strengthened, acquiring a mocking undertone that suddenly sent off alarm bells in Jim's head. "I promise you my judgement can be trusted. It wouldn't do, of course, to have a Commissioner that cannot trust his own mayor."

"I cannot allow this precinct to be built," Jim tried again, nearly shaking with the effort it took to keep his fist from connecting with Quincy's temple. "Not while I'm responsible for the safety of this city!"

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Then perhaps it is time to hand over your responsibility to another," Quincy replied serenely. "Hand in your resignation tomorrow, and you will no longer be burdened with this weighty decision. Obviously you cannot handle the stress it has put upon you, Commissioner Gordon, elsewise you would not be experiencing such a violent reaction to the pressure... Perhaps, you would like to discuss your anger with one of our psychiatrists?"

Hand in his...

Discuss his anger with...

Jim couldn't stop himself from taking an abrupt step back, shocked. I've played right into his hands. Dammit... Dammit! Blackmail. This is goddamn blackmail!

Quincy had the balls to laugh aloud at his reaction. "No? I thought perhaps you would decline. That's quite alright, Commissioner..." The Warden relaxed into his desk chair, and past the sickly sheen of sweat on his forehead, he looked rather pleased. The fat cat had lured the canary right into its gaping mouth, and the weathered policeman could feel its teeth closing down around him like a steel trap, eliminating all chance for escape.

Merciless, Quincy delivered the final blow.

"Think it over, Gordon. You must consider that it really is time for you to retire... If you are going to fight me at every turn, it may seem to the public that you aren't prepared to do what is necessary to help the city heal...

"Gotham needs peace, now, Gordon – and you, after all, are a battle hero."