AN: I considered having some kind of Batman/Zombie-Crane kiss, but it really didn't fit too well. Oh, well. This was all mildly inspired by some Batman-novel-thing called Fear Itself, by the way. Not great, but I got it at Goodwill for like, a dollar, so big deal. The polish names, by the way, are real.

Christineoftheopera-What would you have done? Tell me you wouldn't have blown Arkham to Kingdom Come...

Johanna Crane-I can't take all the credit for that, I'm afraid.

"Well, that didn't work out, did it?"

Alfred's body is still lying on the floor, bathed in shadow. He's grateful-he doesn't want to see the blood.

"Shut up, Crane."

"Ah, Arkham. Never could hold us, not really…"

He pulls at his bindings, but they hold fast. Crane shuffles over, leaning heavily on a scythe that's taller than he is.

"That's always the way, you know. We kill people, you put us back, we break out."

"I'm sorry."

"I keep hearing that, but sorry isn't bringing me back from the dead." A burned hand, hot to the touch and very brittle-feeling, lands on his head. "Who else, who else? Dear little Rachel is no more-probably looks like me now." He laughs and Batman shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the hand. Fingers grip his hair tight enough to hurt. "There is no one else, is there, Bruce?"

"Go to Hell."

"No such thing." The warped mouth twists in some semblance of a grin. "But you're already there, aren't you?"

He woke, the feeling of burnt fingers lingering. His heart was pounding and he was having trouble breathing.

He got up off the cot and went to the computer again to review the tapes. There had to be something, there was always something, some tiny clue…

"Girl's gotta make time for things…"

Manicured nail tapping on the table…

Women victims, and that salon…

A bitter smirk of victory spread across his face.

Gotcha.

Oh, aren't you special! Think you can find her?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the clock. He had time to go by evidence and get everything he needed. Tracking her down would be a problem, but that could wait.

Leap Flog

Bitches Brew

Red Eye

Who was in charge of naming these things? Really?

Never mind. He'd chalk it up to Women's Mysteries and try not to think about it too much.

The nail polishes-all one hundred and nine-of them came up clear. He'd been banking on Bitches Brew, personally, and was almost disappointed that she'd neglected that opportunity.

He picked up the bottle of acetone, noting the word 'FLAMMABLE' in bright red letters.

The other bottles had spilled in the to-dos, their contents evaporating long before anyone else got there. But this one had been in the back, unopened.

He made sure the mask one on before cracking the seal and pouring a generous amount into the tube.

Bingo.

The tests came up bright red, announcing the presence of something that was not acetone.

He bared his teeth in what could technically be termed a grin and reached for the phone.

"Bullock. It's the acetone. Onyx Professional brand. That's right."

Now, to track her down and put her back where she belonged.

THE END