UPDATED as of Jan. 12th.

Alright! Made it in under two weeks. Not the weekly updates you might be used to, but it's the best I can do with all my work, family, sports, and hobby commitments. Oh, and did I mention it's less than two weeks until Christmas. Yeah, that.

Thanks so much to you all that have dropped a review, alerted, or favorited this story. It really wouldn't be what it is without you.

As always, please don't forget to leave a review. It always gets me excited when I see that notification in my email that I've received one..

A/N: I don't own Batman or any other character affiliated with DC Comics.

The young blond face smiled warmly at him from the page in his lap, but Bruce wasn't watching, instead staring numbly at the old portrait above the fireplace.

The study was a comfortable place to go through the case files again, it's warm wood trim glowing in the fire that Alfred had prepared before he'd left to take Selina home. Despite how much easier he found it to lose himself in concentration in the cave he had to admit that it lacked some certain...amenities. This time of year one in particular was especially glaring. Other than the infirmary and the temperature controlled storage vaults none of it was heated. That meant one thing.

The underground lair of the Batman was absolutely frigid during the winter.

Alfred had been pleading with him to start spending more time up in the manor now that it was all but completed. Apparently the old man had an aversion to the cold that Bruce could honestly understand.

He was still letting his mind wander back to his conversation with Selina. She'd been so open with him. Surprisingly so even. Discussing the death of her friend was obviously hard for her. Obviously not something she did easily or lightly. Despite the years he could tell it was still a fresh wound and he'd gotten the distinct sense that she felt at least partially responsible for the young Holly's ultimate fate.

He chalked her openness up to the day she'd had. No matter what her experiences as Catwoman had brought her he was sure she'd never seen something akin to what had happened earlier. A crowd of people being mowed down by machine gun fire was not something one could simply shrug off.

Bruce frowned.

Should he be worried that he hadn't seemed to be affected more by it? At the time he'd snapped straight into his analytical mode, trying to absorb every bit of information he could. Was he really becoming that desensitized? Shouldn't he have experienced something more along the lines of...horror as well?

Selina on the other hand had needed someone. Who knows how long she'd been on her own now? Constantly under the stress of maintaining her cover and keeping what were likely some very dangerous men none the wiser. When was the last time she'd even confided in someone? Did she even have anyone she could trust with it?

He'd never appreciated Alfred's value to him in that regard before. Certainly the man was his closest friend and a father figure. Hell, he was the man who'd raised him. The last family that he had left for all intents and purposes. Even more though he was the one person who knew the complete and absolute truth and who Bruce could talk to about anything. Even Lucius wasn't aware of everything. No one else was.

Bruce had never really stopped to think about what this quest would be like without that. Without someone to confide in. Someone to discuss things with and whose council one could seek. He'd never had to go this road completely alone. Selina had. Who knows how lonely that path had been. Perhaps she was just dying to find someone to talk to. In a weird way it seemed as though both he and the Batman were beginning to serve that purpose. Providing her with some kind of an outlet.

The side of Selina he saw this evening might be unique, a flash in the pan. Her at her lowest. Or maybe she really trusted him and needed someone to listen.

While she'd brutally bared part of her soul to him he'd been rather more...cautious. Granted, he'd allowed a little of his story to bleed through, but even then it only scratched at the surface. He'd only allowed himself to speak figuratively and in generalities. There was no mention of an ancient order of assassins. No mention of a decrepit Chinese prison. Certainly no mention of his training or that he chose to save Gotham by personally fighting its crime rather than through his charitable endeavors and foundations. He couldn't feel guilty though. Not really. She was still somewhat of an unknown commodity and he needed to be cautious. That's what he did, who he was.

Bruce glance back at the file folder in his hands and the glossy photo of Holly Robinson.

Alfred would know some investigators. God knows he'd used enough while trying to find Bruce after he'd disappeared. It would have been quite the stretch for them to have looked for him in most of the places he'd ended up though. Still, they might prove useful and he could possibly get himself further into both Selina and Catwoman's confidence.

For all that he had found out though he still had no idea how her trail had brought her to Gotham or what it was she was looking for in his city. It irked him that this had to be the lowest of his priorities. There was an intriguing mystery here. Unfortunately, murder trumped her search.

Closing the file he tossed it back on the ancient desk that had been brought over from France by his great grandfather. Or rather the costly replica he'd had made of it. The next file on the pile he'd lugged up the elevator from below was the newest batch of test results on the red fibers from the various wigs they'd been purchasing for the past several months. He'd give it a quick scan, confirm that the results weren't matches and move on. He flipped to the second page where he knew the summary was. It'd been months now and still they hadn't...

Likely Match. Probability: 94%

Bruce blinked.

It was the fourth sample down, an all organic model they'd purchased from some small company in British Columbia. The strands were more or less identical to those he'd collected from each of the three crime scenes.

And like that they had a lead on the mysterious Ivy.

Bruce scooped up the remainder of the manila folders and headed for the entrance to the cave, juggling the pile as he input the code sequence in the antique piano's keys. His mind a blur, he barely even registered the characteristically loud, grinding descent into his other office. If he had a make and model he could acquire the company's sales records and cross reference those with who bought that particular wig with known criminal databases and those living in or around Gotham. Hopefully there weren't that many people who felt the need to purchase an all natural, long haired, red wig and the list generated would be short.

The actual effort of getting through the company's firewall and into their electronic records was largely handled by the computers, allowing Bruce to review what he already had on the case. Again. He flipped through the notes detailing the pattern Ramirez had identified, rechecking the history of corruption and under the table dealings each victim had possessed. It was still somewhat thin and circumstantial but it gave him another parameter to search should there be more names than he anticipated. He couldn't help but admire the job the detective had done. If not for her past transgressions she would have been one hell of an asset for Gordon and one determined ally for the Batman.

If only things had been different.

The computer didn't take long. Not when its opponent was some ordinary off the shelf desktop computer on a desk somewhere in Canada. It was less than five minutes before he had the manufacturer's complete sales history and was setting up a search to look through the last five years of records.

Alfred came down five minutes later. He didn't say anything, merely dropped off a cup of fresh coffee next to his employer and headed for the workshop.

"Did she seem alright when you dropped her off?"

Alfred turned back to face the younger man, smiling slightly. "She did seem to be in better spirits, sir. I think tonight was just what the doctor ordered."

Bruce turned back to look at the computer screens, staring absently at the cycling search. "You know, you've never told me what you think of her."

There was a brief hesitation before he spoke. "It's not my place, Master Wayne."

"Yes," Bruce said, still not looking over at his butler, "it is." He smirked and finally glanced over. "It's not like you to feel the need to bite your tongue around me. Especially if it's about me. In fact, I can't remember that ever happening before."

"It does prove difficult when one's decisions include dressing as a bat and jumping off buildings." Alfred grinned back at Bruce for a moment with that his usual sarcastic gleam in his eye before growing serious again. "You know I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do with your life, sir," Alfred started. "Certainly, you've managed to make your own, rather unorthodox way in this world, but I've come to trust you to know what's best." Alfred stopped for a second as he passed the other computer station, frowning as he looked at the screens. Curious, he bent over and entered some commands. "As for Miss Kyle, while I certainly am curious about the woman's intentions there's also something...noble there. I suppose I don't disapproveof her. If that's what you're asking. You could certainly do much worse, Master Bruce."

"And the Batman?"

He paused again, his frown deepening. His response was hesitant, sounding absent and distracted. "Perhaps that's something that will take care of itself...in time."

By now Bruce was watching him carefully. The behavior was slightly odd for the normally alert and attentive Alfred. Warning bells were already going off in Bruce's mind when the older man suddenly sat up straight.

"Sir, I think you should see this," he said, his voice on edge.

"Did you already find something?" His mind was still on the Ivy murders as he rose from his chair, hoping to see some possible suspects. Instead he saw only the cover page of a dossier with a small picture of an older, weathered man with a short, graying beard and a light dusting of hair. His eyes were hard and unfriendly beneath heavy eyebrows.

"Quinzel?" Bruce asked, reading off the name above the picture. He looked at Alfred. "What..."

"Merely being thorough, sir. When no results came back in our search to find out if the good doctor had any registered firearms I decided to run other iterations of her name in the off case there was some kind of error."

"And you came up with her father?"

"Harold Quinzel, Master Bruce. He shares the same initials as his daughter. And look." The older man flicked over to a window on another screen and Bruce hissed when he saw the information.

"Prohibition era Thompson submachine gun, Colt 1911, Browning 30 caliber belt fed, M79 grenade launcher, 22 caliber silenced pist...Jesus, Alfred."

His butler nodded knowingly, bringing up an old background check and license application. "Apparently the man possessed a penchant for weapons as well as a license as both a dealer and collector of rare and specialized firearms. many of which would have otherwise been illegal. He managed to amass quite the arsenal before his death. One that was never transferred over to his daughter's name afterward."

"So, she has a weapon that matches those used in the last Joker killings," he mumbled to himself, still staring from behind his friend at the various pieces of information. "And we'd have never known."

He spun quickly around, heading off down the steel walkway at a jog.

"Master Wayne..."

"Get me her address," he shouted from inside the workshop, cutting off Alfred. "It's about time I had a talk with Doctor Quinzel."

Unheard by either of them, the computer began compiling a list of names slowly, eventually building it up to almost three dozen people that either had criminal records or resided in or around Gotham and that had all purchased a very specific red wig.

The smell was what struck him first. It was a dirty, musty smell that the rest of the small apartment echoed. There were clothes scattered half-hazardly over the furniture and on the floor, discarded where they'd been removed and left. It was the same with food. Crumbs and portions of meals dotted the place, some on plates or other flat serving surfaces while others were simply left and forgotten where they'd been set down once the cheap dishware had been exhausted. Nothing was clean or straightened, speaking to someone that was in a very absent, very careless frame of mind.

It had once been a neat, tidy little home. He could see the leftover vestiges of the former existence under the squalor. The carefully hung, but generic artwork on the walls and the carefully organized and meticulously kept files in the metal cabinets in the small office's corner spoke of an inherently disciplined, composed individual who had undergone some kind of recent...change.

Bruce had put together a surveillance suite on Quinzel's apartment right after the second batch of Joker murders had been committed. Unwilling to actually pay her a visit and risk driving her further under the influence of the lunatic he'd been content to position remote camera's and directional microphones on the adjacent buildings. They hadn't provided much. She kept the blinds in a permanently closed state and the thermal imaging revealed nothing other than that she kept to herself. The microphones weren't much better, turning up little more than her humming and the usual innocuous sounds of apartment living punctuated sporadically by hard rock music that she positively blared for long periods of time. No phone calls, no idle talking to herself, no friends or dates coming over...nothing.

It was for those reasons that the walls of her bedroom came as a surprise to him.

They were frightening in their foreboding, the walls plastered with bits of paper and magazine cutouts with notes and thoughts scrawled messily...almost illegibly...over the top of everything in something that resembled bright red lipstick. Front and center were three poster sized pages containing the floor plan of Arkham Asylum. The guard rotations and security procedures were awkwardly pinned next to them, marked here and there by highlights or angry scribbles. Red twine was pinned to various points, connecting notes and locations to photos surrounding the blueprints in a seemingly orderless mess.

Bruce immediately began taking pictures, cataloging everything in the room for further scrutiny at a later time. For the moment there was just too much to take in and analyze.

The smiling wedding photo of the young Erickson couple that had been killed several months earlier stared out at him from beneath a jumble of other bits of detritus on the wall. A few feet over was the faded and worn driver's license of Kyle Estevez.

After documenting the bedroom he moved on, searching the rest of the small apartment for more evidence or Quinzel herself. It become apparent she wasn't there when he found the large, yawning open gun safe in the hall closet. It was completely empty.

"Alfred," Bruce hastily said into his comm unit. Before the man on the other end even had time to respond he continued on. "We need to notify Gordon. Quietly. I need you to get to work on that. I don't have the time to go find him. I'm going after Quinzel." He didn't bother listening to Alfred's response, confident that the ever capable man would find a way to get it done and that he realized the importance of what was happening from the photos he was wirelessly sending back to the cave..

He returned to the bedroom and looked again at the notes. He was missing something.

There was no way for her to smuggle weapons past the front desk and the metal detectors of Arkham. Not unless she planned to engage six well armed men by herself. Furthermore, she couldn't even access the level the Joker was being kept on. Extremely limited access was one of the security measures. Only a couple key individuals had the key cards necessary and most of those were locked away securely at night. She'd need one of the three master keys, one of the few electronic cards that granted unfettered access to the entire hospital. One of those would also enable her to bypass the main entry.

That meant either William Pitts, the head of security, Josephine Alton, the head of operations and patients' rights representative, or Doctor Hugo Strange, the head of Arkham Asylum.

It would be Strange. Bruce was sure of it. He'd seen the animosity she held for the man first hand. If she could kill innocent strangers in cold blood then she could certainly murder a man she despised. The copy of his professional schedule that was stapled to the other timetables and flow charts did nothing to belay that fear.

Thursday was his day to see patients outside his commitments to the asylum at his home office. That's where Bruce would find him tonight.

He drew back the blinds of the room for the first time in months and dove out into the night.

Doctor Harleen Quinzel had already come and gone by the time Bruce made it across town to Hugo Strange's well appointed townhome. She'd also made sure to leave her mark.

Strange was dead, his throat slit grotesquely and his torso and arms punctured by multiple stab wounds. He lay in the center of the living room where he'd run in a large pool of his own blood, the edges of which were already drying. The rest of the room told the story. The broken front door where she'd likely forced her way in somehow. The overturned furniture where he'd backtracked from answering the doorbell, trying vainly to get away from his crazed employee.

Bruce bent down next to the body and gingerly turned the head towards him. She'd drawn on his face in the same red lipstick-like paint that she'd used on her own walls, coloring a large, feral grin over his mouth that extended up his cheeks where a comical tongue was depicted sticking out. Two 'X's had been crudely scrawled over the man's still open, lifeless eyes as well, giving the entire scene a morbidly comical appearance.

The dark red lettering splattered on the walls spelling out Ha Ha Ha Ha in what was likely Strange's own blood didn't exactly help matters either.

As expected, the lanyard that usually held the doctor's electronic key card and security pass was missing. Quinzel would head straight for Arkham now. If she waited at all it would risk the administrator's body being found, likely resulting in the asylum going into a security emergency. Something that would be prove all but impenetrable. No, she'd be on her way.

He slid out to the balcony and keyed his microphone. Alfred responded instantly.

"I've been unable to get a hold of the Commissioner, sir. I was about to try again."

Bruce growled at the frustrating news. "Strange is dead, Alfred. I'm on my way to Arkham. Quinzel's almost sure to be heading there now."

"Yes sir." He paused for a moment. "I still don't understand how she's planning to bypass all their safeguards though," the older man mused aloud.

A hospital it may be, but Arkham Asylum possessed a fully armed and trained security team now to prevent exactly what had happened under Crane's watch. Everything up to and including deadly force was authorized under extreme circumstances. The diminutive woman was either completely out of her mind or she had a plan in place to deal with them. Based on what he'd seen thus far Bruce figured he knew the answer to that question.

"We've got to presume that she's figured it out." He clambered up on to the thick concrete railing, staring south towards the Narrows. "Alfred, get the Wraith into position above Arkham. I'll be there within ten minutes and..."

The sky to the south flashed without warning, lighting up spectacularly in brilliant yellows and oranges and bathing the surrounding buildings in vivid colors. Seconds later he heard the deep rumble and felt the subtle force of the pressure wave of the distant explosion. The fact that he'd felt it at all at this distance was a testament to its size and power. Something big had just happened. Something right about where Arkham Asylum stood.

This time of night the clack of her hard soled shoes seemed to almost echo down the faded and dingy hallways. Arkham Asylum was always creepy, always seeming to exude a sense of oppressiveness and barely contained threat. Nevermind that the rooms in this section were kept unlocked and nothing dangerous ever seemed to happen in this part of the sprawling complex.

Nancy Wright brushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and kept her pace up, occasionally glancing at the clipboard in her left hand.

She still thanked her lucky stars that she got to deal mostly with the non violent and mostly voluntary inmates of the facility. The other areas of the hospital were almost fortress-like in their safety measures. Being escorted on her rounds by burly men with automatic weapons through a maze of steel safety doors and cages was not exactly what she had in mind when she'd gotten into nursing.

Patient #18115 thanked her sullenly as he always did when she dropped off his medication, his eyes never meeting hers. Despite the late hour, some of those being treated suffered from severe insomnia as part of their psychosis. It sometimes necessitated continuing the prescription rounds well into the night.

Nancy peeked through the small observation window in the next room's door to check on their newest addition. The skinny teenage girl with the stringy hair that was curled up within had been checked in by her parents earlier in the day. Scared and quiet Nancy had been trying to get the girl to calm down for the better part of an hour, sitting with her and attempting to soothe her. For now at least she seemed like she was resting well.

Around the corner at the nurse's station she nodded politely to the other duty nurse that was here at this time of night and the one security guard the administration afforded this section of the asylum. Both of them looked bored, the guard reading an old, beaten paperback.

Continuing on past she turned left at the next intersection before crossing the causeway that connected the eastern wing with the rest of the facility, stopping to take a deep breath and gather her nerve before she was buzzed through the heavy steel and ballistic glass door leading to the more...notorious of Arkham's inhabitants.

Aaron Cash greeted her as he always did, the large black man gracing her with a grim smile and some casual pleasantries while he went to the weapons locker to grab the tools he'd take with him as he escorted Nancy during these portions of her rounds.

She didn't usually work the graveyard shift and she didn't usually work the max and super-max wings. Nancy had put in her time and gained the experience and seniority to work with the patients you didn't actually have to restrain during regular working hours. But, here she was, filling in for a friend and coworker who'd just gotten married and jetted off to the Caribbean for a luxurious honeymoon. All the nurses were taking turns picking up her shift for the next two weeks. Tonight was one of Nancy's turns.

Crane was one of the first. He didn't actually require any medication other than the occasional sedation, but they still looked in on him regularly. Although easily appearing sane, charming, and highly intelligent the ex-doctor still possessed his complete obsession with the fear response and its stimuli, occasionally still trying to find ways to frighten or startle the hospital's employees and fellow inmates. Without his mask and chemicals though they were largely little more than annoying pranks.

Waylon Jones was through another set of hydraulically operated steel safety doors. His cell located directly across from the serial killer Victor Zsasz. Given the moniker Killer Croc by the other inmates Jones was enormous. Standing six feet nine inches tall and close to three hundred pounds he'd been a professional football player before he'd been injured and wound up turning to hiring himself out as muscle to professional killers when he got desperate.

It wasn't long after that that he found out he quite enjoyed his new profession.

Sometime along the way he got the dragon scale tattoos that graced his upper back, shoulders, and forearms, had his teeth filed down, and shaved his head. The results were...frightening to say the least.

Nobody was allowed in Killer Croc's cell. Not unless he was tranquilized to the point of drooling. And even then they were always well armed.

The most famous inhabitant of the facility was through two more pairs of doors and around a corner past a caged guard station. Per Cash's requirements there were four armed guards keeping watch on the man known only as the Joker around the clock.

Somehow that still didn't make Nancy feel safe.

Thankfully all she needed to do was observe and note anything worthwhile rather than enter the cell and converse with the lunatic. That was Doctor Quinzel and Strange's job. There weren't even any medications to administer yet since a consensus still hadn't been built as to what exactly he actually suffered from.

The Joker had long ago learned the routines and rounds of the nurses and so he was where he always was when they came by, sitting bolt upright opposite the observation portal on his bed and staring eerily right back at her. Even without his makeup the penetrating look the man gave her was downright unsettling. And then there was the slight upturned corner of his scarred mouth.

Nancy was still making her usual notes near his door when the building shook.

Cash immediately grabbed her and pulled her against a nearby wall as a small shower of ancient dust cascaded down from the ceiling and pipes of the old sprinkler system. The roar accompanying the jolt was so loud and so nearby that it took Nancy nearly ten seconds before she even realized it was an explosion and not a train barreling down the hallway.

The guards were reacting before Nancy had even broken out of her stupor, grabbing weapons and checking over the camera feeds warily. At least the high priority inmates were still safely locked away. The lights on the status board showed all green on the security and cell doors doors in the immediate vicinity.

That still didn't answer the question about what exactly was going on though.

"You two," Cash barked to two of the younger men. "You're with me, we're checking this out. Baker...Jimenez...watch her and keep her safe." He pointed at Nancy. "Make sure you recognize and authorize anyone that comes through here." The black man paused for a second, mulling something over. "My call. Deadly force is authorized," he finally said. With that he went jogging off back down the corridor with the two other men in tow.

"What the hell, man."

Nancy turned to see the two remaining guards watching the security monitors intently, several of which displayed nothing but static.

"You think we're under attack?" the darker skinned one, Jimenez, asked.

Baker simply shrugged. "Either that or Gotham just got hit by the mother of all earthquakes."

They both turned as one to look at the closed cell door housing the Joker. "Shit," was all Baker said. One of the few reason why the hospital might be attacked lay less than twenty yards away.

It wasn't long after that Cash had left, perhaps only a couple minutes, that they heard the first sporadic popping of gunfire in the distance. Just one or two shots every so often. Once there was even what sounded like a burst of automatic fire.

Ten minutes later, and in the midst of a rather eerie silence the camera just outside Croc's door went out, displaying nothing but snow.

Baker grabbed the nearest shotgun and started running out of the guard station, yelling back over his shoulder. "Keep Nancy in the cage. If Jones is out she's safest back there. And try and get Cash on the line. We need to get reinforcements over here now." And with that he rounded the corner out of sight, the weapon shouldered and at the ready.

Thirty seconds later they heard two blasts echo down the relatively narrow corridor.

Jimenez was on the radio, trying desperately to raise everyone. All they'd been able to make out though besides static and panicked shouts was silence. That certainly did nothing to calm the nerves.

Because he was working the intercom it was Nancy that noticed the small figure stumble into view of the next camera down from Jones' room. It was a woman, very slight, and looking as though she was wounded judging by the smears of red on her lab coat. Nancy grabbed the first aid kit on instinct and moved towards the door.

The lone remaining guard caught her arm suddenly, wrenching her back. "What the fuck! Are you crazy? Where the hell are you going?"

Nancy gestured to the screen and yanked her arm out of his grip. "Relax! Its Doctor Quinzel. She looks like she needs help." The man looked indecisively at the monitor, his thumb nervously sliding over the holstered handle of his pistol. "Come on!" she finally said, making the decision for him. This time he didn't stop her from exiting the cage and when she glanced back he was hurrying after her, trying to draw the revolver from his hip.

When Nancy exited the second pair of steel doors the first thing she noticed was that Waylon Jones' door was securely closed, the small hydraulic indicator light above it still a solid green. The second thing was the slumped and bloody body of Randall Baker on the opposite side of the hallway, his chest a ragged mess. Then the shattering sound of a gun going off nearby broke her out of her shock as Eduardo Jimenez was thrown backwards from the impact as he came skidding around the corner after her. He landed face down, unmoving.

She screamed. It was reactionary, the sudden horror building instantly as well as the realization of exactly what was occurring in front of her. The middle aged nurse collapsed, pressing herself up against the door and cradling her face in her hands while also trying to get as small as possible and avoid seeing any more of the carnage. There was no conscious thought behind it, merely the reality that she was unarmed and that there was a murderer who most definitely wasn't.

It was strange though, despite the terror and the blood pounding in her ears and the alarms and sirens bleating all around her time and noise seemed to stop. She knew she was dead. Somehow she'd already kind of accepted that reality. It was almost like a final peace before the last, inevitable hammer stroke.

And then she heard a short, lighthearted giggle.

It was a sound that should have been coming from a young schoolgirl or an innocent child. A sound completely out of place considering what she'd just witnessed. The strangeness of it prompted her to glance up from behind her fingers, her curiosity somehow getting the better of her.

All she saw was the impossibly large barrel of a shotgun inches from her face and two light colored, but impossibly empty, dull eyes staring back at her.

It was also the final image she would ever see.

It was simply...gone.

The entire eastern wing of Arkham was rubble, twisted and smoking and still glowing with small fires and the sparks of a destroyed but ever active electrical system. From what Bruce could see from his vantage point atop the neighboring apartment block the explosion had originated in either the basement or ground floor near the southeast corner, ripping through the concrete load bearing members in that section. The remnants of the crater that hadn't been filled in with debris was still plainly visible next to the larger piles of what remained of the building. The rest of the old structure must have come down like a house of cards after a good portion of its foundation had been violently blasted away like that.

Fire crews and police were on scene now, lit by powerful lamps and the pulsating glow of their vehicle's emergency beacons as they combed through the wreckage for survivors, trying their best to control the damage. Bruce watched the whole surreal scene below him as the figures scrambled this way and that. There weren't going to be many survivors. That much he knew. Not after something like that.

Arkham housed upwards of three hundred people when it was approaching capacity as it had been earlier this month. Most of them weren't violent or even all that troubled, merely those needing psychological help or counseling. As the least secure part of the hospital the east wing was also where these nearly one hundred and twenty voluntary patients were housed.

That meant that The Joker also wasn't anywhere near the east side of the facility. His secure, solitary cell was deep in the center of the northern portion of Arkham, as far away from windows and outside doors as possible to further prevent escape attempts.

So, it was a diversion then. A diversion that had just slaughtered untold scores in a crazy bid to free a mad man. A bid that had succeeded.

The Joker was free.

In all the confusion and chaos Quinzel had somehow managed to free him and slip quietly away into the night, leaving a trail of blood and murder in her wake. Bruce had tried to track them as best he could, discovering the bodies of several guards and orderlies that had been unfortunate enough to cross their paths along the way. Bodies mangled by machine gun or shotgun fire from extremely close range. Some even after the victim was already dead. Even The Joker had never resorted to killing like this. Not without a purpose...or at least what passed for a purpose in his mind. In the past even escape wasn't enough of a driving force to go to such a level.

Finally being forced to seek refuge as the numbers of police and first responders swelled to a point that made it impossible to continue his search, Bruce merely watched and waited now, too numb to do anything else and unable to tear himself away.

Somewhere far above the Wraith circled, recording everything and silently searching for any sign of the escaped prisoner and his one time psychologist.

Against all odds and despite everything he'd believed Quinzel had done it. She'd marched herself into the maximum security wing of a tightly controlled psychiatric hospital and brought out the most feared and dangerous man in Gotham City, killing possibly one hundred people or more in the process. It was almost too much to contemplate, her fall into madness. How could such a rational, intelligent, professionally trained doctor succumb to something that could transform her into something capable of doing...this?

And that was before he even stopped to begin trying to face the fact that the Joker was once again loose in a city already hanging together by the slimmest of threads. The man that had single-handedly brought it to its knees and kept it captive. The man that had destroyed its White Knight. The man that had destroyed his Rachel.

And he was free to start all over again.

Jim Gordon was here somewhere, probably directing the cleanup and rescue efforts personally. Bruce knew he wouldn't be able to stay away. Not when it was The Joker.Not when it was something this big.

They needed to talk. Subtlety and secrecy be damned, this was more important. A plan needed to be put together. Some way to track and catch the two lunatics before half the city perished in whatever psychotic scheme the man came up with next.

It took another ten minutes of watching, but eventually Bruce spotted his ally. Gordon was next to an official looking utility vehicle with a large schematic spread out on the hood in front of him and a handset to his mouth issuing commands. Subordinates came and went occasionally with either information for him or to receive their next assignment. As usual he was a relative point of calm in an otherwise raging inferno. For the moment he also seemed to be fairly alone.

Jesus Christ what a monumental clusterfuck.

The Commissioner let himself slip out of his leadership role for a second and simply stare at the destruction before him. The concrete was rubble. Chunks large and small heaped upon one another while still more was crushed into a fine dust from the heat and pressure, coating everything and lingering in the air. What was left of the steel reinforcement and portions of the shell were sticking out, tangled and twisted. Like some giant, broken skeleton's pulverized bones. The army of firemen and paramedics scouring the damaged area were somehow still dwarfed by the rubble and the looming edifice of the scorched, but still standing northern and western sections of the massive building.

Gordon sighed as the cell phone attached to his belt began vibrating insistently again. If he didn't have the mayor breathing down his throat then he had the media clamoring for a statement. And all this before the fires were even out or the bodies recovered. He ignored it and went back to work, already far too worn to deal with even more pressure.

That didn't even begin to call what losing The Joker was. That was something far, far worse. Something for which he was sure innocent people would pay if they didn't act quickly. Trouble was, there was little to go on at the moment. It would be hours before the area was safe and the forensics experts could even get in here.

They'd been so close to avoiding it altogether too.

Dispatch had put a call through to his office less than five minutes before Arkham was brought to the ground. The voice on the other end was odd, heavily synthesized and robotic. An obvious attempt by someone trying to hide their identity. He wouldn't have believed the caller's warning at all if not for the dispatcher's assurances that the mysterious person had been trying to get a hold of him for more than fifteen minutes. Even with that warning though they'd been too late. And now they were left with dead bodies, a hole in the ground, and a serial killer on the loose.

That was wrong, he reminded himself. Anotherserial killer on the loose.

Something slammed into the vehicle he was leaning against, rocking the whole truck for a moment and startling him from his studying of the asylum's blueprints.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed when he saw the dark shape crouched on the roof of the still wobbling auto.

"The Joker'sgone."

"Don't you think I know that." Gordon hurriedly looked around, but no one had seemed to notice the masked man's fairly unsubtle entrance. He glanced back at the crouched figure atop the vehicle's roof. "You can't be here though. What if someone sees you?"

"It's a chance we'll have to..."

"Holy shit!" The alarmed female voice came from Gordon's right, causing him to jump and spin to face the new participant. He noted that his dark clad visitor didn't so much as flinch.

Renee Montoya was frantically struggling to retrieve her service pistol, her eyes wide and directed at the Commissioner's visitor. And just like that things went from complicated to damn near impossible.

"Montoya..." Gordon began, holding his hands and turning even further towards her. She wasn't listening.

"Let me see your hands!" she shouted, her weapon finally out and firmly directed at a still unmoving Batman. "Now!" She took a half step forward, her face deadly serious. "Commissioner, slowly...back...away."

"Stand down, Detective." He said it before he'd even really registered what he was doing. Montoya definitely blinked at that, trying not to let her attention waver from her target, but also trying to glance at the Commissioner.

"Sir?"

"I said stand down."

"Sir, he's...he's a fugitive. A cop killer." The gun in her hands was still solidly pointed at the alleged fugitive, but her voice and body language were wavering as she tried to wrap her mind around the order.

Gordon stepped between the two of them, causing her to focus on him and shift her aim. "Tonight he's not," he said quietly. Her shoulders sagged as she seemed to accept defeat and Gordon turned back towards his one time ally.

The Batman watched the female detective impassively as she hesitantly lowered her sidearm. She didn't holster it though. Apparently that was enough for the vigilante whose eyes flicked back to the Commissioner.

"It was Quinzel," he rasped.

Gordon heard Montoya choke at that bit of news from behind him.

"You're sure?" When there was no reaction from the Batman his brow furrowed, but he revised his line of questioning. "How?" he asked instead.

"I was at her apartment earlier tonight. The evidence was conclusive." He tossed a small flash drive to Gordon who caught it clumsily. "She also killed Hugo Strange earlier this evening."

Gordon looked up sharply at that news. "The director of Arkham?" He looked back over at the smoldering scene of destruction, the reason slowly dawning on him. "She needed Strange's access card," he whispered to himself.

"There may have been...personal reasons too."

"Any idea where they might be?"

"Not yet. I missed her at Strange's by a couple hours. Then here by about fifteen minutes. I need to get into the cell block to see what I can find."

"Sir, I don't know..."

Gordon raised his hand to stop Montoya. "Done. I'll evacuate the building. We'll tell everyone it may structurally unstable and that we'll have to wait until the structural engineers can pronounce it safe. Good enough?"

The Batman nodded once.

"Montoya." She jolted at her name suddenly being called, but stepped forward and cocked her head indicating she'd heard him. She never took her eyes off the Batman though. "Find Harvey and get to Doctor Quinzel's place. Let me know what you find. I'll get somebody else to head to Strange's."

The vehicle wobbled a bit as the Batman stood. "I'll be in touch," he said. And then he was gone, zipping up and away into the dust filled sky.

They both just stood there for a moment before Montoya finally spoke up. "Commissioner...listen...I..."

Gordon removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose where he could feel the familiar ache beginning. "I know, Detective. Believe me, I know. Just...do whatever you feel is necessary," he replied.

"And the Batman?"

The Commissioner shrugged, looking back to where his shape had disappeared. "There's a much bigger threat out there right now."

UPDATED A/N: Sorry for not including the scene of the attack on Arkham in the original chapter. I honestly hadn't conceived of it at the time and it wasn't in my outline. Once I thought of it though I couldn't get it out of my head and really thought it would add a lot to the whole saga of the Joker's escape. Let me know if you agree.

A/N: Some of these upcoming chapters are those that I have really been looking forward to since beginning this story. Starting with the escape of the Joker. Yeah, he was always meant to show up. Apparently I just HAD to throw the mother of all monkey wrenches into this thing. Needless to say, the stuff is good and truly about to hit the fan.

Oh, and I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before, but my Harley will be a bit of a departure from canon. For one, she's not going to be in love with the Joker. I didn't like the "feel" of that with regards to Nolanizing things. She will also be a bit of a departure with regards to her normally upbeat, talkative, cheerful personality. I think it'll work though, so I hope you like what's in store.

Reviews por favor!