I'm not sure what I was expecting while driving to the address Oracle gave me. When I'm dealing with the Joker, it's best not to make any assumptions. But when I reached my destination, a decrepit comedy club, I made a few guesses.
For one thing, the Joker was using this place as a base of operations. It's exactly the type of thing that would appeal to him.
For another thing, he was probably inside. As was whatever he'd amassed in order to carry out whatever his sick plan was.
These suspicions were confirmed when I snuck inside and heard the maniacal laughter of the Joker. As I made my way through the club, hearing the laughter get louder, I also made out a whine that sounded like some sort of power tool.
I hesitated a little. I had no idea what that could mean, but it couldn't be good.
I pushed onwards, and the sound led me to a room backstage. The room was obviously well lit, but the doorway was covered by a translucent plastic tarp, and I couldn't make out anything through it besides some vague shapes. I steeled myself and pushed through.
It took less time for my body to react to the sight than my brain took to process it, and before I understood what was happening, I flung my fist forward to strike the man standing near the door, but hit only air as he ducked and quickly moved out of reach, before picking up a deadly looking knife and putting it to the Joker's neck.
"Don't move," he says, and I stop my own unconscious instinct to move forward, "Or the Joker dies."
We both freeze, and I finally have time to process the scene in front of me. The Joker, the pallor of his skin highlighted by the powerful overhead light, is lying on a table. He, like every surface in the room, is covered in clear plastic, with enough layers wrapped tight around him to prevent any movement.
Even as part of me reels in disgust, another part of me realizes that the plastic explains why so many have vanished without a trace. Even the crime scenes would have been spotless. It occurs to me that I've probably even been in some of these crime scenes without noticing.
In contrast to the colourlessness of the room and the Joker's white skin, two bloody red wounds glare at me. The first is little more than a scratch on the Joker's cheek, although several thick rivulets stream down his face. The second is to his leg, where his foot has been severed. A puddle is already growing on the floor from the torrent flowing from his ankle.
In the second it took me to take in the details in front of me, the man holding the knife hasn't moved a muscle. He doesn't have the air of a man backed into a corner, and seems unnaturally calm, although I don't doubt his mind is going as fast as mine.
He's also familiar. I saw him two nights ago, at the Scarecrow's lair. He's working for the GCPD, one of the crime scene analysts brought in from outside. I know I saw his ID card. I think back, trying to recall the name.
Finally, the silence between us is broken.
"Look out," the Joker exclaims, "He's got a hostage!"
"Be quiet," the man with the knife answers, his voice steady and composed, "You really don't want to piss me off right now."
"Ooh, what'll happen then?" the Joker giggles, "You'll tie me up and dismember me? Oh wait."
My grip tightens on the knife. I'm desperately trying to think of a plan, and the Joker's sense of humour isn't helping me.
At this point, it's fairly obvious I don't have many options. The Batman is blocking my only exit, and any attempt to flee means going through him. Unless I can cause a distraction. The fact that he stopped when I threatened the Joker gives me an idea.
With my knife directly on the Joker's throat, the Batman can't do much to stop me from killing the Joker. By the time I've decided to go through with it, it will already be too late. But people can survive wounds to the neck; they just require immediate medical attention. If the Batman is as devoted to preventing any deaths, including the Joker's, a serious wound might make him more likely to stay here to try to save the Joker, giving me the chance to get as far away as possible.
Of course, that only helps me if the Batman doesn't remember seeing me.
"You don't have to do this," the Batman says authoritatively. "Put the knife down."
This elicits another giggle from the Joker. "You know things are going well when the man dressed as a flying rodent is the voice of reason."
I realize he's right. "Bats aren't rodents," I point out.
Well, mostly right. The Batman can't be all that well balanced. A severe mental illness is likely to prevent him from being able to recognize me.
"Anyways," I continue, making up my mind on my course of action, "I don't see how putting the knife down helps my situation in any way, so no thanks."
Suddenly my memory of the crime scene clicks into place and I remember the man's name. Dexter Morgan.
"This ends here," I tell him. "Look around you Morgan. You have nowhere to go."
He starts a little at the use of his name. He's beginning to realize how trapped he is.
Scratch that plan.
Now that the Batman has made it obvious he knows who I am, that leaves me with very few options. Clearly I can't just run out of here anymore, since the Batman will just tell his friend Commissioner Gordon what I've been doing. Even if I had time to get rid of every shred of evidence and I'm not arrested on the accusations of the guy dressed as a small nocturnal mammal, his word will mean that I'll have to deal with people's suspicions for the rest of my life.
I can't put Harrison through that.
A few years ago, when Doakes found out what I am, I couldn't bring myself to kill him, but the situation has changed. I have my son to think about. I realize that, to protect Harrison from the truth, I would kill someone, even if they don't match the code, in a heartbeat.
I'm not sure if I would be a match for the Batman though, even with the array of weapons behind me. On the other hand, the Batman is a vigilante himself, and even with the tacit approval of the GCPD, he does technically operate outside the law. Maybe he'll listen to reason.
Hey, I can dream, can't I?
Really, my only option is to kill the Batman, but there's no way I'm going to try anything unless I get the element of surprise. If I can keep him talking, maybe I can give him a false sense of security.
Besides, now that he's standing in front of me, I have to admit I'm curious about what he has to say.
"You don't kill, right?" I finally ask, my decision made.
I narrow my eyes at the question. I don't know what Morgan's planning. I don't know if he even has a plan. I'm not sure what to expect from him. Despite being caught literally red-handed and backed into a corner, he's still unsettlingly calm.
And now this question. What's he getting at?
"That's right!" the Joker answers, apparently getting bored at my lack of a response. "Batsy here is a paragon of virtue, a beacon to all us common criminals."
Morgan doesn't even glance at the Joker, ignoring his response. He's apparently decided, as I have, to completely ignore the Joker's additions to the conversation. At least he's learned the best way to deal with the clown quickly.
"No, I don't," I reply.
A corner of Morgan's mouth twitches up, signifying his first display of emotion I've seen. I'm not sure where he's going with this, but I don't like that he's amused by it.
"So no matter what I do, the worst case scenario for me is you arrest me," he points out.
I can't think of a response. I'm too distracted by the implications of that sentence.
By the way the Batman swallows and sets his jaw, I can tell he's not planning on dignifying that with a response. He shows about as much emotion as I do, but I can tell from his posture that he's furious. I can't possibly be the first person to exploit his aversion to killing, can I?
"So tell me why I shouldn't perform just one more good deed?" I continue, since the Batman won't take the initiative. And I thought I was bad at small talk.
"It's not a good deed," the Batman says, answering quickly, evidently provoked by my question. "It's wrong."
Morgan flashes another half-smile, infuriatingly amused by the situation.
"How so?" he asks, feigning innocent curiosity.
I grit my teeth. Does he really think there's nothing wrong with this? More importantly, does he think he can convince me of that opinion?
A low chuckle issues from the Joker. "This outta be good."
"Because it's murder," I say, low enough that Morgan would almost have to strain to hear me.
The Batman doesn't sound angry so much as he sounds disappointed. Does this 'exasperated-father-dealing-with-bratty-kids' thing normally intimidate the criminals he deals with?
"It's justifiable homicide," I counter, using the same low tone.
There are situations where violence against someone like the Joker is called for. Looking at Morgan's set up, I don't see how anyone could think this was one of those situations.
"There's no justification when your victim is at your mercy," I tell him.
"There is," Morgan says flippantly, "If they'll kill again if you don't."
"He won't kill again," I growl. "I'll make sure of it."
Keeping calm when you don't have feelings isn't that difficult, but sometimes it's not a possibility. The Batman's comment surprises me, and I give a short, derisive laugh.
"Really?" I ask in disbelief. "Do you say that every time you bring the Joker to Arkham, or did you just decide that now?"
The Batman's eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond. It doesn't matter. I know the answer. He's been dragging the Joker kicking and screaming back to Arkham for years, telling himself that this time they'll finally have gotten their act together just enough to prevent raving lunatics from wandering off, knowing that it's only a matter of time until another break-out.
"Are you really going to tell me the world won't be a better place without the Joker?" I finally continue. "Dozens? Hundreds? How many more deaths does it take for you to admit he needs to be stopped permanently?"
I haven't been this angry in a long time. Many of the criminals I've fought were victims of circumstances, forced into a life of crime. Others, like Joker, were just pure evil. Somehow, even that was less infuriating than someone performing the most evil acts while playing innocent. I'm about to say something to that effect when the Joker interrupts me.
"I'm right here ya know," he pipes up, rolling his eyes. "Sheesh, talk about me like I'm not in the room why don't ya."
The Joker is also often infuriating, but right now the brief distraction he's provided diffused some of my fury. I'm not going to talk Morgan out of killing the Joker if I insult him.
"I can understand your anger, but this is not the way to do things," I tell him. "Even one more death is too many."
"Yeah?" he says, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "It's too bad that's not an option then. Right now the choice is between the Joker's life and the lives of everyone else he'll eventually kill."
"I refuse to accept that," I snap back in a deep growl. "There's always a better way."
Morgan doesn't flinch. If anything, he looks bored.
Not having morals, it's hard for me to judge whether people are correct when they tell me something is or isn't moral. So many of them insist that actions can be categorized as good or bad despite the real-world results.
Not that I'd call what I do 'good', but the outcome should count as a mitigating factor.
"I'm sure the people who've lost their lives would have been very comforted that you took the high road," I say, suppressing a smile.
I grit my teeth, but Morgan's comment makes me angrier at myself than him.
I know the Joker, as well as Cobblepot, Crane, Croc, Zsasz and so many others, have caused an incalculable amount of suffering. I know that killing the Joker years ago would have prevented deaths. But that doesn't change anything.
I could never kill to preserve life, even if the life I took was the Joker's. The fact that some good might come of an act doesn't change the fact that it's wrong. Besides, if I made the decision that there were some circumstances that allowed the most vile actions, where would I draw the line? How many steps would it take before I justified taking innocent lives in order to prevent deaths that may not even happen?
The Batman hasn't responded yet. It's getting harder not to smile, but watching him try to think of the words to justify his actions, or lack thereof, to me, while he's clearly struggling to rationalize them to himself is sort of amusing.
"Aw, don't get so down on yourself Bats," the Joker says, derailing Batman's undoubtedly demoralizing train of thought, much to my disappointment. "This guy may act all high and mighty, but deep down he's just enjoying himself. A man after my own heart," the Joker finishes with a twisted grin.
"I thought I told you to shut up," I warn him darkly.
"Hell," the Joker continues blithely, ignoring me, "Check out that neat little souvenir he's taking on the table behind you."
I step back, turning my body but keeping my eyes on Morgan. After searching his face for a moment, I decide he won't try anything stupid in the next few seconds. My eyes flick to the table behind me and back before he has a chance to react.
The table was clear with the exception of a small object. I didn't look long enough to make it out, but it was obvious in even a cursory glance. The bright red stood out from the counter, whitened by the clear plastic tarp.
Without looking again, I pick up the object to get a better look. Even examining it closely, it takes me some time to realize what it is.
The item is clear and rectangular, with a red circle in the middle. I hold it up, letting the powerful overhead light stream through it, making the red spot seem to glow.
And then it all makes sense. Morgan's a blood spatter analyst. This red spot is blood, the Joker's blood, squeezed between two microscope slides.
The Joker was wrong when he called this a souvenir. It's more than that. This is a trophy. People who believe they're doing evil acts for the greater good feel guilty about those acts. Someone who takes trophies is doing it purely for the thrill.
I look back at Morgan. If he's realised that I know what the slide represents, his face doesn't show it. I move the slide into the palm of my hand and crush it, breaking it into pieces.
Finally I get a reaction. Morgan winces when he hears the glass break, and I take my opportunity. I fling a batarang at his chest.
I ignore the reflex to dodge whatever the Batman just threw at me, using the knife in my hand to deflect it. The blade is only away from the Joker's neck for a second. Apparently that was all the Batman needed.
As the odd, bat-shaped projectile clatters to the floor halfway across the room, the Batman vaults over the table between us, launching himself at me. I just barely manage to sidestep out of the way before he lands on the other side of the Joker, knocking the small table I've been using to hold my knives to the ground. I back away as sharp, silver instruments fall to the floor, sliding away from me.
At least I held on to the one I was threatening the Joker with.
Without even slowing down, the Batman turns, following my retreat. He's fast, and closes the distance between us nearly instantly. I lash forward at him with the knife, getting him to back up a step.
I don't have a choice anymore. It's come down to this, and I'm not staying on the defensive.
Morgan slashes at me with the knife and I move back. He follows me as I step back, continuing to hack at the air. It's not that his aim is off. He keeps hitting the space my neck was inhabiting a fraction of a second ago.
He knows what he's doing, and he's fast. He's just not fast enough. Morgan stabs forward, and I grab his hand as I evade it. I've barely touched him when I realize his grip is like steel, and I immediately decide not to try to disarm him just yet. Instead I pull his arm, forcing him to lean far more forward than he intended to. He's jerked off balance and falls forward, catching himself with his free hand. I realize a second too late that I've thrown him to the ground where his knives landed.
From his kneeling position, Morgan looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes containing nothing but bloodlust. He picks up a huge stainless steel butcher knife near his hand and flings it at me, jumping to his feet as he throws it and following the blade. I knock the knife out of the way with my hand, but its blade is facing my hand when I hit it, and its weight allows the edge to slice through my glove. A small drop of my blood falls to the floor.
The pain barely registers before Morgan reaches me. He swings the carving knife down, and I bring my bleeding hand up to deflect him again. My reaction isn't quite fast enough this time. I push Morgan's knife to the side a few inches before it hits me.
Fortunately the blade hits my upper arm, which is heavily armoured, but it's sharp and is slowed, but not quite stopped by the Kevlar. The knife pierces through the black armour, and Morgan buries it into my arm.
Ignoring the pain screaming at me from just under my shoulder, I bring my arm up and shove Morgan's head into the table the Joker is still tied to and throw him to the ground in front of me. He rolls onto his front, getting ready to get up again despite the injury to his head.
I don't let him stand. I step onto his back, pushing him down. He struggles, but there's nothing he can do with my weight bearing down directly on his back. He's finished.
I shake my head as I pull the knife from my arm and toss it away. "All this effort," I murmur, "For no real reason."
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Wait, is calling this a cliffhanger giving away that this isn't over yet? Oops...