There are simply too many of you to thank. Thank you to everyone who has left a review, including the guests and anonymous readers to whom I cannot send individual notes of thanks. To know that this story is something that you look forward to is honestly one of the accomplishments of which I am most proud and humbled.

A54321, Lamai, Lindsay, Kichi, PantherKing, sparklewhite, Sugary Snicket, Taluliaka, to name a few, and to everyone else who is reading – your reviews truly fuel me. I feel such gratitude to each of you reading, and thank you, Lauralot, for your unending support. :)

Happy New Year to everyone!


* DETONATION *

Chapter 52

. . . . . . .

Mayor Anthony Garcia had been pacing for over an hour, his mind a maelstrom of tormented thoughts. His mother, God rest her soul, would be gloating to no end, if she were still alive and in his office now. She had wanted him to go into the ministry, to fulfill the aspirations she had for her son of becoming a priest. With his personal magnetism and intelligence, she knew that he would be one of the most influential men of the cloth that she could hope to come across in her lifetime.

Anthony, however, knew from a young age that it was not meant to be. Though dynamic and gifted with a keen mind, his was a spirit driven by ambition instead of compassion, seeking power more than leadership. His mother had tried to appeal to this vanity, by reminding him that he would hold influence over his flock as a priest, imbuing the parishioners with hope every Sunday morning. Garcia had little use for religion. Though it was a channel through which to communicate to the masses and hold sway, to be sure, there was no personal reward in it. Priests didn't get to drive Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolets.

Aside from a lack of true empathy for his fellow man, there was also the issue of his libido. It wasn't conducive to anything that approached celibacy, or even monogamy. It certainly didn't lead him to chaste thoughts. The life of a spiritual leader was not in the cards for him.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help but long for the simplicity of a monk's life right now. He had always known that politics was an ugly game, but the stresses that he was currently under were more than anyone could have anticipated.

His city was in complete chaos. Everyone in Gotham was at the mercy of a deranged psychopath, with bombs having been detonated in countless locations and casualties growing steadily. The governor was inaccessible on a public plane, so there was no one to declare a state of emergency and to call in the National Guard. Garcia himself was unable to flee the city even if he'd wanted to, relegated instead to being holed up in his office like a hermit. His police commissioner couldn't be reached because of a heart attack, a point that Garcia conceded was just as well for the both of them. After having been told thereafter by Detective Joe Murdock that the Batman had tried calling Gordon on his private phone, Garcia had realized that the very civil servant who had publicly decried the dark vigilante was, in fact, aiding and abetting the Batman ever since he had disappeared a year earlier following the death of their vaunted district attorney.

Harvey Dent's death had rocked the city to its core, his absence sorely felt and the memory of his accomplishments one of the few inspirational points in the minds of Gotham's citizens. How Gotham needed Dent now.

How Gotham needed anyone right now, anyone with power enough to stop the Joker. With the latest update that city councilman Frank Capelli brought him about the breach at Gotham's maximum security prison, allowing for 23 death row inmates to escape, Garcia was taxed to his limit. His mind reeled and he didn't know where to begin to strategize a way out of this mess.

His phone chimed at him as a text message notification came in. He opened the message, then saw red as rage overtook him. The one night stand that he'd had with the trollop named Sheila had crescendoed to its inevitable ugly breaking point.

The text message was a single sentence: "I told you I'd do it!" Following the message were photos she had uploaded on her Facebook page, photos of the mayor naked and passed out, with the exception of his role-play Batman cowl, cape and belt on. Photos posted as retaliation for not providing her with private passage out of Gotham as it burned.

That fucking whore! God damn her to hell! I will cut that bitch's throat! Now?! Of all the days she picks, she chooses now to do this to me?! He genuinely didn't believe she'd make good on her blackmail threat. The timing was borderline comic.

Garcia slammed his phone down on the desk, then picked up his chair and threw it as far as he could, until it came crashing into a credenza. He stormed over to a small wooden box he'd bought as a souvenir on a trip to Kenya several years earlier, opened the top and swiped the contents out quickly. He made his way over to his private bathroom, locking the door behind him, and unrolled the cloth satchel. Unscrewing the top of a small vile, he tapped out enough cocaine for a solid hit onto the countertop, scraping it into a narrow line.

He looked at himself in the mirror, at a frazzled, confused and angry man. For barely a moment, he thought of his mother's original dreams for him. Then he bent over, bringing a rolled up dollar bill down to the counter top. Pressing one nostril tightly closed, he inhaled the line through the other with angry intention, standing up and throwing his head back quickly to process the fix. He exhaled in exhilaration, blinking several times as he swiped a finger over the powder residue on the counter, opening his mouth to rub his gums with the trace elements. The mirror's reflection was now projecting a man with a renewed sense of confidence and ambition.

As he came out of the bathroom, Frank had come into his office, checking on the mayor after having heard the commotion. "Is everything all right in here?" He looked over at the chair that was lying on its side on the floor, next to the credenza with a damaged cabinet door hanging from its hinges.

"Of course. Just… just letting off a little steam." Garcia sniffed a few times and straightened his tie, then removed his suit jacket. The room had suddenly gotten warmer. "It's one hell of a night out there, isn't it, Frank?"

Frank's eyes narrowed as he focused on the mayor's face. "Anthony… you, um…" Frank was fumbling for words. He gestured up at his own nose. "You seem to have something on your face." Frank curled his lips in a show of disdain at recognizing that it was white powder.

Garcia reactively swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "Oh." He tried to sound dismissive, but Frank knew what was on Garcia's face. And Garcia knew that Frank knew.

Garcia changed the course of conversation quickly. "I was able to reach Lieutenant Brumfield. He can spare a few men to look into the prison break, but it's still low on the radar. The Joker is the top priority."

Frank's brow creased. "Why are you in contact with Brumfield? Where's Gordon?"

Garcia scoffed. "I got a call from Joe Murdock, a detective with GPD. Gordon had a heart attack. He's in the hospital."

"Oh my God!"

Garcia rolled his eyes and shook his head, holding up a hand in a defensive gesture. "Hold the pity. It turns out that it's not the tragedy that I thought it was, either." He crossed his arms in disgruntlement. "Guess who's been aiding and abetting the Batman for the last year?"

Frank blinked. "That can't be true."

"It is true, Frank. Batman actually called Gordon tonight, but Murdock picked up the call because Gordon was on his way to the hospital."

Frank didn't have a reply. He knew Gordon was a straight shooter, and if this allegation had any merit, then Gordon clearly had a good motive for maintaining contact with the vigilante. "Why was the Batman calling Gordon?"

Garcia threw his head back and scoffed, an angry grin broadening across his face. "Get this – that prison break? You were right. The Joker didn't break those men out of prison. Vincent Maroni has issued a bounty on the Joker's head. Ten million dollars, for the Joker alive."

Frank's mouth hung open.

Garcia continued, "Apparently, the prison break was orchestrated by someone or several people on the inside, with the intention of hunting down the Joker."

Frank could hear his own heart beat thrumming. He slowly looked toward the windows, to the orange glow of fires in the distance. "This is complete madness. Madness!"

Garcia spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the world of politics! Ain't it a fun ride?" Now his eyes were open to show the full whites, and his smile was manic.

Frank regarded him with trepidation, wondering how high the mayor was. "Anthony, listen—"

"No, wait!" Anthony bolted toward him with enthusiasm, enough to make the older man take a step back. He just had a brilliant idea, one that he needed the councilman's help to bring to fruition. "I've got a question for you. I've got a problem, and the way this night is going, I figure it's as good a night as any to tackle it. I mean, what have I got to lose, right?" Sweat was beading on his forehead as the cocaine was taking over, compromising judgment and clarity.

"Go on." Frank didn't like how this conversation was starting out.

Garcia rubbed the area under his nose manically. "I need to make someone go away. You know? I just… I just need them to disappear. Permanently. I figure, with all that's going on tonight, what better night to pick? People would chock it up to all the chaos out there."

Frank was horrified. "What—"

"You know that twat who won't stop phoning my office? She's really gone and crossed a line, Frank. The bitch just needs to vanish. My career is counting on it." He ran a hand through his hair nervously, twitching with energy. "Who do you know?"

Frank stared in disbelief. "Anthony, I'm going to pretend that you didn't just ask me that. "You're under tremen—"

"I need to get rid of her, damn it!" Garcia's pupils were dilated.

"You're under tremendous STRESS, Anthony," Frank repeated at top pitch, trying to reign in the wayward mayor. "You're going to sit down and take a breather." He tried to take Garcia's arm, to lead him to a sofa, but the younger man snatched it away in angry dismay. He was seething with rage.

"You don't understand." Now he was visibly shaking. "She just posted photos of me online. Photos in very compromising positions, if you know what I mean." He started to crack his knuckles from nervous energy.

Oh, Christ. Not this again. Frank couldn't count the number sex scandals he'd been privy to in the offices of Gotham over the years if he'd tried. It was such a worn-out cliché, yet one that seemed inextricably linked to people in power. "We'll deal with that in due time."

"Frank—"

"In due time, Anthony. You need to get a grip on yourself." He walked over to leave Garcia's office, then turned to look over his shoulder once more. "We need to find Gordon. God willing, he's still alive. Your personal crisis can wait. There are more pressing issues than covering up the consequences of you not being able to keep your dick in your pants."

Garcia winced as the brutal honesty stung him. His mind hadn't been changed, though. He still wanted Sheila dead.

Frank narrowed his eyes. "Look outside, Anthony. Gotham will never be the same again. The Joker is tearing this city apart, and there's a good chance that he's not finished yet."

Frank hoped that his last assumption was wrong.

It wasn't.


Lucas tossed the empty gas can onto the back of the stolen airport baggage truck, then picked up another full can. He walked under the belly of the Boeing 747-400, unscrewed the cap and slalomed in a snakelike pattern underneath the aircraft, letting the gasoline trail out of the nozzle behind him. He noted that some of the gasoline had splashed onto his clothes and shoes. It was no matter, because they would be far enough away when the first plane ignited that he wouldn't have to worry that he'd light up like a Roman candle himself.

With the last gasoline can now light and empty in his hands, he hopped onto the baggage cart and picked up a radio. Lucas looked up into the windows of the illuminated airport gate above him, seeing would-be travelers looking out of the windows in boredom, pacing with nervous anxiety over the airline delays, or using the windows as makeshift pillows as they tried to catch up on their sleep.

There was a crackle of static, as Lundgren came through on the other end of the radio. "Yeah?"

"It's done. I'm on my way back to the tower now." As he tossed the radio onto the seat next to him, he smiled with malicious satisfaction. He drove off, thinking to himself that none of the people in the airport had any idea what was about to hit them.

Lucas was wrong.


Sergei Kruzynski grabbed the arm of the younger bodyguard. "Come with me. Now." As he was pulled to his feet, the young man looked over with confusion to the older bodyguard. The other man's face was stern, registering alarm. He knew Kruzynski's moves well. Something was wrong, and it was serious.

The Belarusian lead them to a corner without many passengers. When the three men were out of earshot of the bystanders, Kruzynski motioned for them to lean in to share a confidence. "There's a man outside trying to blow up the airplane."

The older looked at him in disbelief. "That can't be true!"

Sergei nodded. "I just saw a man splashing gasoline under the plane. There was no mistaking what he was doing. There is only one reason to do that."

The younger bodyguard's eyes grew wide. "Maroni! Maroni found us, and this is payback for his kid! Somehow he found us!" He considered this channel of retributive justice an oddly poetic one; trying to blow up Kruzynski's airplane as retaliation for having killed Maroni's daughter earlier in the evening with a Molotov cocktail.

Kruzynski brushed the suggestion aside. "No, this isn't Maroni's work. He will come after me, that is certain. But he wouldn't murder so many innocent people to do so. There's also no way he could coordinate something of this magnitude so quickly if he found me. This is something else."

A young college student had taken off her earphones, and was listening to the three men from behind a support pillar that shielded her from their sight.

The younger bodyguard motioned to the windows. "Could it be the Joker?" His concern left the decibel level of his voice unchecked. Kruzynski motioned to him to lower his voice, but incipient panic had started to set in. "If there's a man spreading gasoline under the plane to blow it up right now, we need to get out of here fast."

The student stepped out from behind the pillar, mouth agape and eyes wide. "Someone's going to blow up the plane outside?" Her voice was high pitched, and caused several people to turn their heads in her direction.

Kruzynski stiffened. Oh, shit.

She backed away, then turned and ran toward the ticket counter, pointing back at Kruzynski and his men. "Those men over there said someone is going to blow up the plane outside! They said someone's spread gasoline underneath it!"

Several people stood up in alarm. A cacophony of "What?" and "What's happening?" piped up in different voices as the din waxed. One man heard her charge, and verified for himself, as he was standing by the window. After looking outside, he turned back to the masses and started yelling: "Yeah, the cement is completely wet below the plane! There are standing puddles that are fresh!"

The ticket agents looked at each other in alarm, one of them picking up the receiver of a phone at the desk to call airport security. An airport guard raised a radio to his mouth and ran toward the gate. The student was still pointing at Kruzynski. "Those are the men that were talking about it! I heard them!" More people from other gates had turned their attention to the waiting area for the Lufthansa Frankfurt-bound flight, straining to hear what the commotion was about.

Another random voice in the crowd piped up. "They're terrorists! They're trying to kill us all!"

The airport guard drew his gun and aimed it at the Belarusians. "Don't move! Hands in the air, now! Get down on your knees!" Throngs of passengers jumped back and started moving toward the periphery of the gate area. Some crouched down and lay themselves on the floor. A couple even pulled out cell phones to document the exchange on video.

You have got to be kidding me. Kruzynski slowly raised his arms in an attempt to ameliorate the situation that was escalating quickly. "This is a misunderstanding. We haven't done anything! We were just talking about what we saw outside—"

Then a woman who has been roused from her sleep in a distant chair woke up to see the guard aiming a gun at the three men. She screamed in a panic, jumped up and ran. A few other people followed suit by running after her. More people started screaming in confusion, when they saw groups of people running with terrified expressions.

The guard was fighting to stay focused, sights trained on the three men in front of him. He shouted another warning: "I said, get down on your knees, now!" Kruzynski and his men kept their hands up in the air, determined not to let the situation get worse. As one of the panicked passengers ran out of the gate area, his roller bag struck the side of a rope stanchion that was cordoning off the entrance the Lufthansa lounge. The stanchion tipped over and struck the hard terrazzo floor of the airport terminal, and a loud crack sounded out, magnified significantly in decibel level by the acoustics of the cement walls and high ceiling. It sounded like a gunshot.

Reflexively, the airport guard fired his gun, hitting the younger bodyguard in the neck. Kruzynski flinched from the impact so close to him. "Artem!" He reached for the younger man, whose head had lolled backward as the life drained from him, carotid artery severed and spewing blood in arcing bursts, covering Sergei's face. When the older bodyguard looked over, his mistook Artem's blood for Sergei's, then turned toward the terrified airport guard, who was still shocked by his own actions. The bodyguard scrambled to his feet and began to lunge forward to run at the security guard, but the guard wheeled on him and took him down with two shots to the chest.

Complete pandemonium overtook the terminal. Over half of the passengers were screaming and nearly all of them started running. Kruzynski looked back and forth between his dead bodyguards, shouting with rage at the airport guard. "What have you done? You had no right to do this! You killed them!"

The guard was physically shaking, looking down the terminal for any sign of backup. There were several security guards trying to reach him, but they were being pushed back by the throngs of passengers bolting down the terminal away from the gunshots. It was an impossible battle to fight, trying to drive forward against the masses. Kruzynski stood up and pointed at the guard. "You are a killer!" He then stormed off quickly, catching up to a crowd of people, infiltrating them skillfully so as to make any attempt at a shot at him from behind impossible, for the likelihood of hitting an innocent person.

Kruzynski's head was spinning. What the hell was happening tonight? Everything about this night seemed positively surreal. He looked around and saw some passengers trying to exit through emergency doors, only to be pushed back by hysterical gate agents, in a futile attempt to return order to the scene.

As he passed by the open alcove to a men's bathroom, two men grabbed him and pulled him inside. The bathroom was nearly empty, as men rushed out in hysteria, some of them with their pants not even fastened. The two men threw Kruzynski hard against the tile wall. They were unconcerned that any passenger would even give the scene a second thought, being too concerned with their own safe evacuation. Kruzynski yelled at the men. "I already told you people! I had nothing to do with the man outside the airplane! I am not involved!" His heart was racing and he was teeming with frenzied energy.

"We're not airport security, motherfucker."

Kruzynski looked the men up and down. Indeed, they were not wearing the uniforms of security officers. He shook his head in confusion. "What is going—"

One of the men spoke with a timbre of menace, though his face was expressionless, like stone. "Did you think you stood a chance of getting out of Gotham alive? Are you stupid enough to think that Maroni would ever let you live after what you did to his daughter? You're going to answer to him, Kruzynski. Face to face."

As the horrifying understanding crystallized in Sergei's mind, a taser was brought up underneath his chin and discharged, sending him into a black unconsciousness.


Edward Tritt and Detective Joe Murdock were standing near the front door on the first floor of the row house, listening to excited shouts waft up from the basement. Two of the convicts let in from the laundry truck were downstairs loading their arms with stolen assault rifles and machine guns. A third proudly walked toward them from the kitchen. "Look what I got here!" He brought the rocket launcher into the harsh light cast by the single naked bulb in the foyer's ceiling.

Edward let out a celebratory, "All right!" while Murdock swallowed hard. This was going to get out of control very, very quickly. Any ragtag posse out for blood was, by definition, unmanageable, but for Edward Tritt and Jonas Hodge to have assembled a band of death row inmates, who were now armed… well, Murdock didn't see how this could possibly end in anything but disaster.

He was taking a mighty gamble, bartering the Joker's whereabouts for his life, but if he hadn't… he'd be back upstairs, left to endure whatever consequences the Batman was facing. The remaining five convicts from the back of the van had marched upstairs, when they learned the Batman was captive there. Hodge came down the stairs followed by Smitty, who had grown impatient. "C'mon man, let's go!"

Murdock nodded. "As I said, I don't know how long the Joker is going to be in his current location. The longer we wait, the less likely it is that he'll be there, and it will take us at least 15 minutes to get there."

This caught the attention of War and Conquest. Cradling his fingerless left hand under his right armpit, War sought clarification: "Where is the Joker?"

Murdock shook his head. "If I tell you that, you'll have no use for me."

War countered, "We won't let anyone hurt—"

There was a heavy thump that came from The Room upstairs on the third floor. All men turned their faces upward toward the noise. Conquest and War eyed each other with concern. There was supposed to be an understanding that all the convicts who had traveled to this row house were to follow the lead of the Four Horsemen, without insurrection. That was supposed to be the understanding.

Another thump, and yelling.

Apparently, the presentation of the Batman held captive was too savory a temptation for those hell-bent on revenge, undermining the original compliance with the Horsemen. War jerked his head in an upward motion toward the ceiling, while making eye contact with Conquest. Conquest nodded his understanding, then ascended the stairs with haste two at a time.

Five men had gone up to The Room, but none had come back out, including Death. Something had gone wrong.


He felt a punch to the jaw, hard, like someone was hitting him with metal. Teeth shattered and pain filled his mouth, as the cupreous taste of his own blood gushed from his gums. There was a sharp jerk to the side, then the convict's head slammed hard into the wall, rendering him useless with a grade two concussion.

The other convict felt the uppercut of an iron fist to his diaphragm, winding him and leaving him gasping for air. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, tipping his head upward both to draw in more air and plead with his eyes for mercy. His eyes met the stare of the Batman, who delivered a one-two punch to the man's face, before knocking him unconscious with a sharp blow to the temple. As his body crumpled forward, another man's body crash-landed on top of it, having just been airborne as Death kicked him across the length of The Room.

Two men were still on top of Death, beating him without pause with the weapons they'd brought up from the basement. The Batman grabbed one of the men's automatic rifles from his hands, broke the one window to The Room and threw it outside. The man came at him with a punch, which the Batman deftly countered, before grabbing the convict by the front of his orange jumpsuit and throwing him down to the ground, backhanding him hard across the face. Stepping forward, Batman forcefully kicked the last convict off of Death. As he tumbled to the side, Death found his bearings and snatched the rifle from the convict's hands, tossing it to the Batman, who threw it out the window after the first. Death then grabbed the front of the man's throat and delivered a solid punch to his face, shattering his nose and cheekbone. The man shrieked in agony. Death threw him backward onto the floor.

The Batman held out his hand to help Death to his feet. As he did so, the sound of a hydraulic-fueled gun rang out. Death winced as a series of nails fired in rapid succession into his right forearm. Batman spun around to find the first man whom Death had kicked off armed with the nail gun that had been in The Room since he arrived. Batman charged the man who continued to fire the gun, but the nails were not able to pierce his armor. In a fluid motion, he spun deftly on his back foot, kicking the nail gun to the left out of the convict's hands, then changing his momentum and keeping his leg in the air, he arced it back through its original trajectory to hit the side of the man's head with the bottom of his boot.

Conquest burst through the doorway to assess the damage. As he made his way over to Death, one downed convict found his wits and grabbed another tool on the floor that the Joker had planted, in his original design he had intended before Steven Curtis' show of insurrection derailed the game the clown had planned for Lois. A high-pitched metallic whirling sound filled the room, and Conquest shrieked in pain as the convict drove the dull, blood-stained bit of the power drill through his Achilles tendon.

Death stepped forward and grabbed the man by the hair, yanking him clean off the ground. The drill clattered to the ground while the man's legs thrashed to find the support of the floor. Keeping one hand gripping a fist full of the man's hair, Death moved his other hand down to grab the man's balls. With a vice grip, he clenched his fist until a scream filled the room that was louder than the Batman had ever heard from a man. Death hoisted the convict over his head and threw him at a wall, his body hitting hard about six feet off the ground and then dropping solidly down to the floor on top of Steven Curtis' corpse.

As the Batman spun to assess the readiness of the convicts to engage again, Death took one of Conquest's arms around his shoulder, and helped the hobbled man out into the hallway to make the descent down the stairs. Batman scanned the room and concluded that none of the five convicts would be going anywhere anytime soon. They were gravely injured, but not in life-threatening peril. He stepped over Barker's body, and walked out, black cape catching wind as he picked up speed.


"What the hell? Where is everyone else?" Tritt was watching Death help Conquest down the stairs. The other five men who'd entered the room were nowhere to be seen. Death's face was resolute. "They isn't coming. It's just us."

Tritt was incredulous. "Are you kidding me?!" Hours earlier he and Jonas had broken 23 men out of Death Row. He was trying to do the math to see what their numbers had been reduced to. He couldn't even recall all the carnage or who had been hurt, he could only count those in front of him. Smitty, Death, War, Conquest, and now these three random fucks with the guns. Panic started to well in him, until he realized that smaller numbers were to his advantage, now that Murdock could lead them right to the Joker. Smaller numbers meant fewer people to share in Maroni's reward.

Batman came down the stairs, and the two convicts holding guns instinctively drew them on the Batman. The one with the rocket launcher cradled it, as if he feared it would be taken away like a toy from a child. Batman issued a stern warning to Murdock. "Don't go through with this. If you try to hunt the Joker down for the bounty money, it's likely you'll end up dead. The Joker is unpredictable, and is almost impossible to contain."

Tritt raised his gun and aimed it at the Batman as well. "That's a chance we're willing to take." Jonas Hodge looked down at his feet, seemingly embarrassed to be associated with any of this.

Conquest hopped on one foot over to War, who looked around for something with which to bind the wound. Death looked down and started digging at the nails that had been fired at him, pulling them out of his forearm one by one. The Batman stood his ground, unfazed by the guns drawn on him. "You need to leave containment of the Joker to the GPD."

Tritt scoffed. "And give up that reward money? No, I don't think so, Batman. That's too tasty of a prospect to pass up on."

Death took a step forward, looking at the armed convicts. "We has an understanding. We find the Joker and makes sure he gets justice from the Almighty."

One of the convicts cocked his head to the side. "Sorry, man. This is a better deal. I'm not into all this Bible end-of-the-world shit like you guys are. I don't give a fuck what happens to the Joker. I want reward money so I can disappear."

Death was resolute. "Then we stay here. We's not taking money for this. This is a mission for us."

Murdock was starting to panic. If the Joker were no longer where he said he'd be when they arrived to apprehend him, word would eventually reach the clown that Murdock had lead a group seeking a bounty to apprehend him. The Joker would not let such insurrection go unanswered. At least if Murdock and these convicts were able to apprehend the madman, there was a fair chance that Maroni's men could do their work and finish him off, before a retaliatory action could be taken against Murdock. "We need to go now!"

Tritt nodded, keeping his gun drawn. "Okay then. Batman, don't think you can stop us. You and these," he scoffed, "these horsemen, can come up with your own plan to get out of here, but for the rest of us, we have a bounty to collect."

Smitty grabbed a couple of weapons that had been brought up from the basement, and went out the front door, stepping over the remains of Famine as he did so. The two convicts armed with guns followed him out, and the convict with the rocket launcher left, finding it difficult to maintain his balance while trying to step over the body parts on the front stoop. Hodge looked back at Batman one more time sheepishly, wishing he could back out of this nightmare and stay, but he was in too deep at this point. Murdock wouldn't look back as he hurried out, grabbing a gun from the floor for good measure.

As a security guard, Tritt hadn't had the opportunity to use his weapon much at all before tonight, like a GPD officer would. But now that he'd had the chance to feel the rush of power from discharging it several times tonight, he was getting a taste for it. Tritt backed out of the house, keeping his gun drawn, stepping out over Famine's corpse. He wanted to ensure that any pursuit by the Horsemen was significantly hampered. In one final display of dominance, he swung his gun toward War, who instinctively held up his fingerless left hand in a show of defense. Tritt fired, striking War in the chest in his right lung. Then, he kicked the front door closed and bounded down the steps.

Murdock climbed in the driver's seat of his police car, with Hodge next to him in the front. Two convicts sat in the back seat. Smitty was in the passenger seat of the stolen black-and-white, as Edward made his way to the driver's door. The last convict stood holding the rocket launcher. He kicked the back bumper of the police car for emphasis, and called over to Tritt, "Hey man, pop the trunk so I can put this in."

As the trunk opened, Murdock drove off in the first police cruiser. Tritt watched the car go, ensuring that it was far enough down the road, not to catch Hodge's attention for the move he planned next, which was another discharge of his weapon.

The gunshot that he fired entered the convict's head immediately after he closed the rocket launcher in the trunk. The back of the man's skull exploded and his body dropped to the ground. Edward dropped into the driver's seat feeling the rush of adrenaline, and looked at Smitty. Smitty wasn't shaken. "One less person to split the reward with?" His assessment was sardonic, but on the mark.

Tritt nodded. "Yeah." He glanced down at the gun that Smitty held on his lap.

As if reading his mind, Smitty issued a warning: "Don't go thinking that I'm dispensable, man. I'm the only one who's dealt with the Joker before. You need me to draw him out."

Tritt narrowed his eyes and considered the statement. "Fair enough." He kept the gun balanced in one hand on the steering wheel as he pulled a few blocks down the street, alongside the laundry truck, where the third guard had been lying in wait since letting the extra prisoners out. He lowered the window to shout over to Tritt.

"Where are we off to now?" He turned the ignition key and started the truck's engine.

Tritt raised the gun and shot the guard in the face. "You're not going anywhere." The guard's body slumped over to the side as he bled outward. Tritt smiled as he turned to Smitty. "Each cut of that reward just keeps getting bigger and bigger, doesn't it?"

He peeled off down the road, in pursuit of Murdock as the detective led them all to the Joker's current whereabouts.


Back in the row house, Death crouched down and said a silent prayer over War's body. Conquest was leaning against the wall, in agony as his foot had been rendered useless from the cut Achilles tendon. The Batman furrowed his brow. Tritt had left Conquest untouched specifically because he was so gravely injured that he couldn't help with any pursuit anyhow. He stepped forward and addressed Death. "You need to get him to a hospital immediately," motioning to Conquest.

Death stood up to his full height. "If we does that, the men upstairs can get away. They's wounded, but they's not dead." He looked at Conquest. "Can you hold them off when they wake up?"

Conquest gritted his teeth as he scanned Death's face. The two men shared an unspoken exchange just through their glances. Conquest understood what Death wanted of him. "Yeah. Yeah, man. You go. You go, and you bring the Joker to justice."

Death turned to the Batman. "Let's go."

Batman shook his head. "I can't take you with me. I can't have you slowing me down."

Death tilted his head to the side, then walked into the kitchen. Both Batman and Conquest exchanged glances, wondering what the giant's intentions were. He came back, as stoic as ever. "Batman, you needs me. The Joker is a monster, and you need help. I's strong, and I have no intent to hurt you. I's offering my help. Take it."

The prospect of putting the man's life in danger was too risky. "There's too great a chance you'll get hurt."

Death shook his head. "Pain is something I can push through, Batman. You need my strength. I was once a bad man, too. I did horrible things. Now I have my penance to do, to make it up to the Almighty. I won't kill, lest I be judged. Besides," the man actually broke out into a smile, as he held out an object in his hand. "I has the keys to the only vehicle out of here." He held out the keys to DJ's black pick up truck.

The Batman looked at Death with resolution. There was no other option.

His voice was gravelly. "I'm driving."


A few miles away, on the top floor of a dilapidated row house filled with drug-addled squatters in the Narrows, a young man lay spread out on a couch, enjoying the hallucinations of his LSD trip. The windows were open, letting the frigid October chill into the room, but he was oblivious to the physical sensation, unaware of hypothermia setting in. There were colors and shapes alternately consuming and birthing each other right in front of his eyes. He beheld kaleidoscope images, transitory and derivative, founded on very tangible objects around him.

The unconscious addict across from him had morphed into a talking beanbag chair. He smiled at the prospect. The broken, filthy table in front of him became a gondola, floating in a sea of pink and orange fiberglass insulation. Mushrooms and clarinets rose out of the sea and sprouted mouths, singing him the chorus of the Doobie Brothers' "Black Water" in choral unison.

It was madness and fractured logic and tricks of the mind. It was delightful.

Then, a new image caught his eye. It was a man floating outside of the window. He was adorned in brushstrokes of bold blue, and his legs bled heavily below the knees. There was a crimson snake on his chest, and a red, undulating diaphanous air appeared to swirl around him. He hovered and regarded the boy, then he flew away.

The young man smiled broadly. It was the most nonsensical and pleasurable LSD trip he'd ever taken.

Outside the window, Superman flew to the next house over, scanning with his x-ray vision through the denizens of forgotten social cast-offs and hopeless addicts. So many countless souls, too far beyond help, the tragedy of it surely to go unnoted and ignored by society. He, himself, knew there was nothing that he could do for any of them, and he couldn't afford the luxury of being deterred by an existential indulgence wondering if they'd ever find hope.

For all the suffering that Gotham was enduring, it was the suffering of one person that mattered the most. He continued house by house, mile by mile, on what he feared was a futile search for a missing woman, known only to be somewhere in the darkest corners of this crumbling city, the pawn of a madman's wicked game of revenge.


It was happening. They had arrived. In nervous anticipation, Lois began reciting the numbers that the Joker had coached her to recall for him on cue. 2003… 1… 403… 3300…

The sound of a helicopter's blades whirred overhead. The Joker dropped down in the cockpit of the tumbler, balancing on the balls of his feet as he rested his forearms on his lap.

"Sweet tart-ah." His faced hitched up on the right side in a mischievous grin. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and terrified. He took her chin in his right hand and wagged his left index finger at her, as if scolding a small child. "Now's not the time for stage fright. Now's when our game really begins."

The game. Lois sat up straight. "We're playing our game, aren't we?"

"Yes, Lois. This is all a part of our game. Only you and I know what it is." He licked his lips, making a resounding smacking noise. "Our little secret" (smack) "right, doll?"

Lois was a hollow shell. The physical and psychological trauma she'd endured was just about to push her into a state of catatonia. All thoughts receded from her mind, with only the most recent indoctrinations accessible. She nodded her concurrence.

The clown tilted his head. "Who was Harvey Dent, Lois?"

She blinked slowly. "He was the DA." She waited a beat until the conditioning kicked in. "The memory of Harvey Dent is Gotham's only hope."

"And who am I, Lois?"

She took in a deep breath, and felt her eyes start to well with tears. "You're the only one I have."

The Joker affectionately stroked the top of her head. "Yes, Lois. I'm the only one you have. No one else is ever going to come for you. The Batman didn't save you. No one in Metropolis is coming to save you. I'm all that you have."

Lois nodded mutely.

The Joker dropped his chin. "And who are you, Lois?"

Her eyes scanned his face for an answer. She wasn't sure.

He supplied her with one. "You're my Sweet Tart. You're a news anchor from Metropolis who tarted herself up, to dish out a news story that mocked me. You insulted me, Lois. I had no choice but to set the record straight." He gestured to outside of the vehicle. "See what you made me do? You're the one that caused everything tonight. This is all your fault, dear."

Lois felt her stomach churn. Her voice was small. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. I forgave you, and now you and I are going to expose the truth, Lois. That's how you're going to make it up to me. What a fine reporter you will make." The Joker's pulse hastened. The damage he had inflicted on Harvey Dent was just the start. He had broken Lois just as badly, but he wasn't done with her yet.

"One last question, Lois." He leaned in close, his face mere inches from hers. "Who is the Batman?"

She blinked, face blank. "He was the one who we left back inside the house."

He nodded. "Yes, Lois. He is the one who didn't rescue you. Even though you are his do-over after he failed to save Rachel, he's not going to succeed in saving you, either. You're mine, Lois. Mine to play with, and mine to break as I see fit. And you're going to help me break the Batman." His smile dripped with venom. "It's all a part of the game."

She was silent. The game.

"Now!" A renewed dramatic enthusiasm took over. He reached down to her lap and picked up the police hat, setting it on her head. "You have to look presentable. We have a very, very important meeting, Lois. Let's go out to plaaaaaaaaaay."

The Joker hoisted himself out of the tumbler, reaching back down in to pull Lois out.

Lex Luthor stood next to his plane several yards away, watching with keen interest, trying to ignore the bothersome helicopter overhead. While he stood in anticipation of the exchange, he couldn't help but notice how fragile Lois looked as she was pulled out of the vehicle. He narrowed his eyes as he assessed her, shaking his head with confusion in seeing Lois wearing a policewoman's uniform. What the hell is that about?

He watched her gingerly clamber down to the ground. She looked haunted and frail. Nothing at all like the raging bitch of an investigative reporter that had broken an expose about LexCorp. She looked like a shell of herself. Broken. Lex could only try to imagine what hell she'd endured at the clown's hands for the last several hours. He laughed to himself. My God, I think I almost pity her.

Almost. Pity served no purpose. He didn't waste time on things that didn't serve him.

Lois Lane, however, would serve a purpose.

As the Joker led Lois gruffly by the hand toward Lex, she followed compliantly, completely unaware that she was the key element to a chain of events about to be set into motion, which would forever change the landscape of Gotham.

And of Metropolis.

Not only was she a vital pawn in the Joker's game, she was also the key to Lex Luthor's.

The games were about to begin.


. . . . . . .

Author's Notes for "Detonation"

. . . . . . .

Back in chapter 27, "Blunt and Sharp", the Joker had set deadly tools around the room, in anticipation of a game he had been planning for Lois. Those tools were left behind when he left with Lois to meet Lex. They were easily within reach of the convicts who attacked Death and Batman while inside the Room.

There are remarkable parallels between Death and the Batman, as different as they are from each other. Death insists on not using weapons to defend himself, and also avoids killing whenever he can. Fortunately so for the Batman because, quite frankly, he needs every ally he can possibly get at this point.

Superman still doesn't know where Lois is, only that she's in Gotham, so he's searching house-by-house (for now), drawing on what little information he has about Lois' whereabouts from the video that Johann showed him in the station at Amundsen Scott in the South Pole.

The Joker's anticipation of the Batman's ultimate failure is about at its peak. Before letting her out of the tumbler, he reminds Lois of the lesson (in chapter 42) that he'd worked methodically to construct, for the purpose of controlling her. He's carefully crafted the evening around the events that are about to unfold to break Batman, as has Lex Luthor, for the exact same purpose – to break Superman.

It's finally all coming together. Stay tuned…

-4ofCups, 2016.01.01