The three vans bounced unevenly across the pothole-studded pavement as they wound their way through the narrow streets of Gotham's warehouse district. Overhead, a baleful crescent moon stared down at them, throwing the numerous alleys and crooked doorways into deep shadow and dropping cold silver into the puddles. The streets were never completely deserted; here and there, a homeless drifter sat huddled in the shadows, or a man with a bulgy pocket walked carelessly up and in front of a door, cigar smoke leaving a warm smudge on the icy winter air. Few windows here had lights; it was a sign of life, and that inevitably attracted the city's predators.

The narrow streets twisted in and around the warehouses like the pathways of a derelict maze. No doubt that was what had attracted him, the Puzzle Master, the genius behind a similarly twisted labyrinth, to this particular warehouse. It was hedged in on all sides by crooked little buildings, offshoots and additions of other warehouses and narrow, broken-windowed structures where junkies retreated to find Wonderland. To the casual observer, Warehouse 32 was inaccessible from any road. It took a patient and sharp-eyed driver to spot the narrow entrance in a neighboring warehouse's loading zone, drive around the rotting Dumpsters, and finally take a seemingly dead end into a shadowy alley to emerge in front of the abandoned warehouse.

But the Riddler's thugs knew exactly where to go. They maneuvered their way through the labyrinthine alleys with relative ease, the van headlights dimmed to avoid suspicion. Inside the first van, Edward Nygma smirked to himself as he rehearsed his puzzle in his mind.

"You know, Clarence—you are Clarence, aren't you?" he said to the burly man sitting next to him.

"Joe," the thug grunted.

"Oh, well, it's all the same," Riddler said with a wave of his hand. "This time, it's really going to work. I can feel it."

"Uh, no hard feelings, boss," the man said, "but didn't you already try the death trap maze thing? I mean, I just think—"

"You think?" scoffed the Riddler. "That's a good one! That useless lump of grey matter you call a brain hasn't had a thought in the last ten years, and if it did, it would light up like downtown Vegas! No," he sighed, "you can't presume to think. But it's true, Batman did get lucky and solve my Labyrinth last time we met. This time, however…" he chuckled darkly. "Well, this time it will be a game of foresight. As I told that arrogant nitwit the Scarecrow, true genius lies in predicting what is to come, and adjusting accordingly."

"Uh… what?"

The Riddler heaved a long sigh of exasperation.

"Never mind."

About ten feet behind him, the driver of the second van was sweating profusely and earnestly wishing that Riddler would tell his driver to hurry up so they could get there already and get out already. The Riddler's three bodyguards were riding with their boss, leaving the second driver alone in the van with his lanky passenger.

Jonathan Crane leaned against the passenger's door, his arms crossed, and stared at the driver. It was hard to tell the mad professor's expression under the burlap mask, but the thug got the distinct feeling the Scarecrow was smirking at him. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the road. Jonathan Crane began humming quietly; it did nothing to soothe the driver's nerves.

"You're afraid," the Scarecrow rasped suddenly.

The driver jumped in his seat, causing the van to hit an enormous pothole and send them both almost through the roof. He glanced at Scarecrow, shuddered, and decided against answering. The straw man's eyes roved lazily across the driver's body, taking in every subtle cue, every change in body language.

"Let's play a game," Scarecrow suggested. "We'll make a little bet. If you can make it to the warehouse without screaming, I'll give you half of my take in last week's bank robbery."

The thug's eyes lit up with greed. Half the Scarecrow's share! Then his eyes flicked to the gaunt figure beside him, and he stiffened.

"And, uh, if I do scream?" he asked.

The Scarecrow's face twisted into a savage grin.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye," he sang quietly. "Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie…"

"What… what d'you mean?"

Scarecrow only cackled.

"Game on."

"…and that's when I knew it," the Mad Hatter sighed. "She was so beautiful. So perfect. So... Alice. It couldn't be anyone else, or it would have. You see?"

"Err… sure, buddy," the driver of the third van shrugged. Ever since the short Englishman had entered his vehicle, there hadn't been a moment's silence. Tetch had chatted away happily, first to the owner of the tea house and the carded thug, then to Bruce Wayne, now transformed into the White Rabbit, and finally to the driver.

"They all said it wasn't so," Jervis Tetch sniffed, borrowing a handkerchief from the White Rabbit's vest. "They said she wasn't Alice! That she didn't want to see me! They said…" his brow darkened. "They said I stalked her! But it's not true. It's all lies. Lies, lies, lies, LIES!" he shrieked. "It was Batman's fault! I had to do it, don't you see, all because of that interfering Bat! Off with his head!"

"Off… with his head," the tea house owner echoed dully from the back of the van, and the driver glanced back nervously to make sure she wasn't referring to him. Fortunately, she remained motionless and stiff, empty eyes staring at some point in the horizon.

"… but that is my history," Tetch sighed. "Mine is a long and sad tale."

"Uhh… yeah, sure," the driver said. "Whatever you say."

"And yet," the Hatter said, with a wide, knowing smile, "I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal."

"Oh?" the driver said. "Um… who's Bill?"

"That's what I said," Jervis Tetch said, with another long sigh. "She had so many, you see, and his was such a small part! But she's far too kind-hearted to turn anyone down, even a Lizard."

"I… see," the driver said. "Hey, you wanna listen to the radio?"

"I can repeat poetry as well as other folks, if it comes to that," the Mad Hatter said reproachfully.

"Oh… yeah… okay," the driver said, giving up. "Whatever floats your boat."

The Mad Hatter beamed.

"In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight…"

He got no further; a long scream of terror suddenly rang out through the deserted streets.

"Holy #$!" the driver exclaimed, slamming on the brakes. The Mad Hatter was jerked back into his seat by the restraining belt; however, the carded puppets in the back were not so lucky. Bruce Wayne's muscular form flew forward and hit the back of the driver's seat, sending Tetch into spasms of raucous laughter.