5. These Old Players

It had been a long night; now, it was edging on 7am. Gordon, now out of his suit, was pushing papers, trying to get warrants, and handling other desk-oriented jobs. The mayor, sporting light bruising and a three-year shorter lifespan, had insisted that all evidence be collected as immediately as possible. It didn't help that the Coast Guard and the National Guard were now posted on the edge of the city; the mere mention of "No Man's Land" on public television was enough to rally an army. He received multiple calls every hour from a general, each time he would assure him that there was no credible threat to be seen that anything like No Man's Land would happen again. Honestly, he wished he was with Harvey raiding the old warehouse Anarky used as a base of operation, but someone had to deal with the bureaucrats.

At some point, the exhaustion of the night caught up to him and he unwittingly took a small nap in the middle of filling out a form. He was only startled awake after a few minutes when Bullock walked in with a progress report and some much-needed coffee.

"So, would you like all that we have on the kid or the vigilante?" Bullock asked pointedly as he sat down in the chair.

Gordon bobbed his head for a moment to wake himself entirely and insisted, "Vigilante first, he's still on the run."

"So, it seems that the vigilante had an unprecedented response time," Bullock said starting off the report. "Harper suggested we go through the guest list, considering we know the vigilante is a very wealthy guy."

"Find anything?" Gordon questioned now that they might have a lead.

"There were a few missing but they have alibies: female, too old, went home with someone, etcetera. If he was a guest, he was uninvited. A second story window was busted in, probably point of entry. A couple minutes after Anarky was incapacitated, officers witnessed a black vehicle emerge from the woods on the Wayne property and speed off towards the city. They lost it around the Diamond District."

Gordon thought for a moment, "That would seem to fit his M.O. He might have caught wind of Anarky's plan and camped out in the woods."

Bullock pulled out a plastic bag with the blood coated bat knife in it. "Also, we couldn't pull DNA off of the ninja gear except for Anarky. Guy's a ghost. Hey, that's a good name for him, 'the Ghost'—like the old serials, 'The Grey Ghost'."

"Leave it to the media to name him," Gordon waved it off. "So basically, we're the same as we were before."

"Not exactly," Bullock scratched his beard. "The only guy that was killed was by one of the snipers. Everyone else was simply knocked unconscious, a few broken bones and blunt trauma but alive."

"Strange," Gordon thought. "It was already weird that he didn't kill of the single hits but, to take down an armed unit without killing anyone even on accident, that's a concrete pattern. He must be doing it on purpose."

"So, what, he's got some code of conduct?"

"It's probable," Gordon nodded. "He might run on some kind of rules."

"Why?"

"Who knows," Gordon shrugged. "He might do it to keep people off his back. If he doesn't kill, there's not an immediate urgency to track him down and catch him."

"Playing it safe," Bullock nodded. "But he wasn't the only one there. Found one of the militants in the second story hallway strangled to unconsciousness with rope burns around his neck."

"Doesn't seem like him, sounds like—" Gordon thought for a moment.

"Kat?" Bullock nodded as he finished the sentence. "Yeah, the rope marks match those of a guard from the Gotham Museum two years ago. It's probably her. I'm surprised she came back. I thought she was done with Gotham."

"Wouldn't surprise me. Bruce and Selina were always close."

"Yeah, those crazy kids are all grown up and headed in totally different directions," Bullock shrugged. "Want me to start the lookout for her? I could go around and hit her old hideouts."

"Leave it for now, if she took out one of the gunmen, then she deserves a little leeway. Pick her up when you get wind of her actually planning to rob something."

"Gotcha. Now to the guy in red," Bullock shook his head as he opened the small file. "He's barely seventeen: Lonnie Machin—officially labeled as missing three months ago. For as much as he spoke about returning to the good old days, he wasn't even in Gotham during No Man's Land; he was in Metropolis. Family lived here though, had a business that got destroyed. The government was supposed to compensate, but, things happened, and it didn't come through. Some corrupt bureaucrat pocketed it, but no one knew until years later. His parents lost everything. Dad took a dive off of a building, and his mother is currently in rehab. He's been antigovernment ever since."

"But if he lost everything to No Man's Land, why try and reinstate it?"

"Who knows? I've heard some of the crazies on the street moan constantly about how much they miss the glory and freedom of No Man's Land. Harper's main theory was that, since he wasn't there, he must have taken their word as gospel before any 'government owned' newspaper. He's not talking at all; so, it's just a theory. If you ask me, he's just another nut in a long line of nuts. Probably felt like he missed out on the whole incident or something.

"He had a weird ass plan too; we found the details at his hideout," Bullock shook his head. "Apparently, he wasn't even after the people, just wanted the building to burn; damn near obsessed with taking it down as a 'symbol'. There were plans for an escape route. After a bit of showboating and negotiation, his plan was to release all of the guests then escape among the crowd; under all of the armor and jackets we found bowties and suits."

"That's why he didn't blow everything to smithereens when the vigilante started taking them down," Gordon nodded, now understanding the anarchist's hesitation. "He only decided to blow everything when there was no feasible escape. Anything else?"

"A good thing came out of this," Bullock gestured towards the door.

Detective Harper and Alvarez came in carrying giant stacks of documents. They gave short greetings and placed the documents onto Gordon's desk. Gordon looked at Bullock with a bit of confusion as the detectives took their leave.

Bullock shook his head, "The kid's been busy, and I mean really busy. He wanted to tear down everything, not just from a structural point, but from the inside too." Gordon picked up the file and Bullock continued. "That has documents, emails, transcripts, all the dirt you could ever want on any Gotham official. The kid was thorough," Bullock tapped the stack. "It's a political nuclear bomb."

"He made it look like the targets were the people to get attention, then he would blow up the manor, and release the documents to enrage the citizens; the perfect start to a revolution leading to the secession of the Gotham Islands," Gordon mumbled to himself.

"Tear down everything," Bullock nodded. "The kid meant it."

"Even me," Gordon muttered as he went through the different files. His was thinner than most, but when he flipped through it, old mistakes stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Hey, I've got a file too," Bullock snorted. "He's pegged most of the cops in the precinct, about eighty percent of our elected officials, and almost everyone with a bank account over seven digits. He's got affairs, extortion, bribes, probably even every time they've stiffed a waiter."

Gordon looked through the names and realized that there was a file on Bruce. He opened it for a moment and found it empty with a sticky note lamenting that there was a super encrypted computer blocking his hacking attempts.

"Who knows about this?" Gordon asked. "Something like this in the wrong hands could lead to disaster."

"Only Alvarez and Harper," Bullock shook his head. "I didn't trust anyone else. I came to you immediately."

"Good," Gordon muttered as he looked over the names. He sat back in his chair a little winded. He put a finger to his mustache.

"No," Bullock said suddenly. "Don't you start."

"What?" Gordon asked defensively.

"You got that look on your face; you're getting all righteous." Bullock continued quickly. "No one needs to know this exists."

"I know, Bullock," Gordon said softly. "But we're sitting on top of a mountain of corruption."

"It's not like we haven't before. We've always known that most of the people we rub shoulders with are crooked; it comes with the job."

"Yeah, but we've never had the evidence to prove it."

"Evidence? We won't be able to verify it without trampling everyone's toes; by then, they'd bury it all." Bullock made a flippant gesture. "For all we know the kid wrote it himself."

"It's enough for a warrant," Gordon shook his head.

"If we release these documents then Anarky gets his wish; it'll only put gas on the smoldering fire if almost every Gotham official got outed."

"I just know that if I do nothing and submit it to evidence it's going to disappear."

"Fine, then don't submit it," Bullock nodded. "Alvarez and Harper won't say a thing; I certainly won't."

"So, what? Store it in my filing cabinet and save it for a rainy day?"

"That's what I would do," Bullock shrugged. "Gotham has always had its crooked politicians. If you want to use it, we need to use it strategically."

"So only attack the ones who get in our way?" Gordon shook his head. It didn't sit well with him; the notion made him feel icky.

"I know it's not a perfect answer," Bullock admitted. "But we have a no-win situation. Release it all and Gotham loses faith in the people that run it. Don't release it and we're sitting on something major. The only way we could do it right is to piecemeal it out."

"Yeah, but now we're just using it to our advantage," Gordon shook his head.

"Better our judgement than anyone else's," Bullock replied.

They were spared from further conversation when a bit of shouting came from down stairs. Gordon and Bullock were on their feet immediately. Gordon looked out the window overseeing the precinct and saw officers verbally clashing with what looked to be federal agents.

"Great the feds are here now acting like the own the place," Gordon sighed. "We won't get anything else out of him before they pull him away from us."

"Maybe not," Bullock pointed to the holding cells. In the corner, they caught sight of Anarky as he glared at them and mouthed Gordon's name repeatedly. "I think he wants to talk to you." Bullock huffed. "I'll deal with these government jackasses, you go see what the pissant wants," Bullock exited the office spoke loudly to dispel the arguments. "Well, well, if it isn't the agents of Uncle Sam! Gentlemen, I've got some paperwork for you to fill out before the transfer can happen." He reached over and grabbed a random form from a desk and handed it to them. "I hope you guys have your Social Security Number memorized!"

Meanwhile, Gordon made his way down into the holding cell to meet with the dissident youth.

"Gordon, you're certainly glad that your dog came to the rescue," Lonnie sneered. "What is he CIA, FBI, some sort of Black Op?"

"If you want to talk, make it quick, no speeches," Gordon said sternly.

"You have the documents I assume," Lonnie muttered.

"Yeah, so?"

Lonnie leaned in, "You're at least one of the half decent cops in Gotham. You want to make a difference? Publish the documents, give them to the news—and not one of those government papers. Let the People decide who leads them!"

"And then what? Watch as the whole of Gotham's government is torn down? The fires of anarchy start?"

"We both know what's going to happen if you go through the system," Lonnie said quickly. "How long do you think it's going to be until they figure that maybe you looked into all of the documents? How long until they decide to silence you?"

"If you're trying to scare me, it isn't working," Gordon looked unimpressed.

"Gordon, you're a man of honor—whatever that means in the world today," Lonnie said knowingly. "I know it's going to eat you up inside to know that you have the evidence you've been yearning for splayed out for you on a silver platter. You want to get it out there, and you know I'm right." Lonnie leaned past the bars so that he was closer to Gordon, "So, what are you going to do, hero?"

Jay paced outside of the apartment. He wasn't going to give up that easily. He had slept on the stairs the night before after waring himself out yelling at the woman threw him out. Now refreshed, he decided it was time for round two. He pounded on the door.

"You up yet?" He called. "I want my stuff!"

He put his ear to the door to see if there was anything like footsteps. There wasn't a sound from inside. He pulled up his fist and started to pound again. He wasn't going to lose all of his stuff just because the owner came home. He stopped again and listened: still nothing.

"Scram kid," the woman suddenly spoke from the other side, it made him jump a little at the sudden noise. He didn't even hear her approach the door.

"I need my stuff," Jay demanded quickly.

"Your stuff?" she scoffed. "Considering I found you on my couch watching my TV and squatting in my apartment, I assume that you probably don't even own the shirt on your back."

"So?"

"So, get out of here. If you work hard, maybe you can steal some better stuff."

Jay rolled his eyes, "Just give me my lockpick; I just got this one."

There was a bit of silence and then some ruffling, "This thing? You can pick with it? It's so rusty I'm surprised it didn't snap in half on your first try."

"It's a temporary replacement." Jay shoved his hands into his pockets. "Just give it to me."

There was a pause and then she spoke again, "No, I think I'll keep it. A little kid with a lockpick will just get into a lot of trouble. Being a responsible adult, I'll keep an eye on it."

Jay muttered some choice curses under his breath, "Fine, I'll come back later. It's not like you're always going to be here."

"Word of advice: don't tell people you're going to break into their place later," She laughed a little. She paused for a moment and thought, "How'd you get in anyway?"

"The window," Jay said it with a hint of annoyance.

"The window?" She questioned with disbelief. "That's shimmying on a five-inch ledge over a fourth floor drop to get into a room."

"I'm agile like that; it was easy." That was a boldfaced lie. He had almost fallen three or four times. It took a good thirty minutes of tense shuffling to get over to the nearest window.

"Why? Hear I had something valuable?"

"Heard the lock was a bitch; I thought I'd give it a go. When I couldn't get in, I got curious."

"So, just a curious kid," She sounded amused as Jay went on; he couldn't decide if he was winning her over or if she was just toying with him.

"Yep."

"Fancy yourself a burglar?"

Jay shrugged, "When it suits me; I don't like smash and grabs or pickpocketing, brings too much conflict. I'd rather go in quiet." Jay huffed as his patience ran thin. "Whatever, keep it. I'll find something else."

"Wait," A call came from behind the door.

"What?" Jay called annoyed.

On the other side of the door, Selina was chastising herself. She suddenly had a twinge of empath for the kid. Several years ago, and on multiple occasions, she had experienced being abruptly evicted from her place. Usually, she only managed to keep a place for six months at the most; then it was sleeping in a pitched tent on some rooftop until the next place was found. Evicting the kid after he spent a while trying to get in didn't seem right. It didn't help that he had impressed her with his agility; it would be hard for even the best cat burglar to break in to the place. She sighed. It wasn't like she was staying for very long; she had only come for Bruce. If that didn't pan out, then she'd just steal something and leave.

She sighed, "Look kid, I'm not going to be sticking around for much longer, I'll probably skip town by next month."

"So," Jay tried to read what she was saying, "come back in a month?"

There was the sound of the door unlocking and the door slammed open. The woman was standing there in short pajamas, arms folded; she gestured for him to come inside. Confused but a little optimistic, Jay stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

"Ok, first," she looked at the wall. "Explain the wall of crazy."

Jay glanced at her sideways then back at the wall. His hobby had, admittedly, turned into a sort of obsession: different newspaper clippings and pictures were taped on the wall in a pattern-less formation. He had spent a couple of days on it. Time he usually spent loitering, spying marks, or just watching TV was now spent finding newspaper articles talking about the vigilante to form the "wall of crazy."

Jay shrugged, "Everyone has a hobby."

"Yeah, sure, you head of his fan club or something?"

"No!" Jay didn't meet her eye. "I just saw him take someone down a while back. Thought he was cool." Jay felt a little embarrassed, so he turned the question on her. "Why do you care? Just give me my stuff."

"Look kid, I'm interviewing you to see if you can stay here," the woman explained. "Got to make sure you're not crazy or something. I've never had luck with red heads in that department."

"What?" Jay was a little off guard. He'd never had someone offer him a place to stay before. He immediately got suspicious. "What do you want?"

She chuckled a bit, "A partner; someone to look after the place when I'm gone, a renter of sorts."

"Renter?" Jay mocked. "Lady, do you think I would be here if I had the money to rent a place?"

"Oh, that's funny," She said with a mockingly confused look on her face. "Because you've been costing me a lot of money just by squatting. I've been getting a lot of bills despite not staying here: electric bills, water bills, the telephone bill has been extraordinarily high—who have you been calling? I hope it's not a 1-800 number you're a little young for that." She counted the numbers on her fingers. "That's about a grand and a half that you owe me for your time spent here. Not to mention you trashed the place," She gestured to a pile of potato chip bags. "The gist is you owe me. If you want to stay here, you're going to pay me. You can either do it your way, or you can work for me and get a years' worth what you usually get in a single score."

Jay gritted his teeth and hissed a reply; she wasn't as altruistic as he had hoped, "What kind of work?"

She shrugged, "I might require some help stealing in the future, alright? I'm setting up something big, a finale of sorts before I skip town again. I need a little assistant to help me out. Think you can handle that?"

Jay thought for a moment. At least she wasn't a part of a gang; she seemed to work solo. Her proposal was also appealing. Then again, he knew he couldn't sign up with her. She was being intentionally vague. What if she asked him to do something he couldn't do? Hell, what if he got caught?

"I can't," He shrugged. "I just do what I have to do to survive."

The woman cocked her head to the side and examined him for a moment, "I thought the same thing once: survive, keep your head down, don't get involved. Let me tell you: you can do so much more than just survive. You can," she gestured around, "have something like this; I don't know. It beats eating cereal for three meals. I'm not the worst person to join up with; I won't sell you down the river. I know where you're coming from, and, if you don't want to end up working for the Street Demons or something, it's better to break out now and make a name for yourself."

Jay thought about it for a moment. He didn't have anywhere to go. It couldn't hurt him to start getting more money. It just felt too good to be true. He needed to know more.

"We're not killing people, right?" Jay asked pointedly.

"No," The woman shook her head. "Not unless they shoot first, which is really unlikely. We go in silent, fast before anyone knows we were there. If it does come to that, you won't have to kill anyone."

"Do you steal from poor people or small businesses?"

"No, those people are bleeding enough," She said. "Just rich jackasses with too much money on their hands. I was thinking more of an artifact this time, but I'll have to keep planning before it's solid."

Jay was quiet for a moment. He couldn't think of anything else to ask her.

"So, you in?" The woman asked. "Are we partners?"

Jay nodded slowly, for once, he was in contemplative silence.

"You got a name, or do I call you 'squatter'?"

"Jay," Jay introduced himself.

"Full name kid," the lady said. "I don't deal in street names; I need your real one."

"Right," Jay nodded. "No secrets between us."

"No, no secrets from you. I own the place; if you're going to bum off of my rent like you have, you need to tell me everything I ask. Don't even think about lying. I'll know; I always do."

He huffed a laugh, "Sure," he stuck out his hand for her to take, "Jason, Jason Todd. My friends call me Jay."

"Yeah, we're not friends," she took it, "Selina Kyle, nice to meet you, Jason." She looked around, "You can start making it up to me by cleaning the place. Oh, and you're sleeping on the couch."

"In latest news, the Wayne Manor takeover a week ago is still sending shock waves through the city. Many are still debating the existence of the proposed hero of the night. The Batm—"

"I just want to say that it is an honor to play with you gentlemen," Victor Zsasz spoke over the radio that played in to corner of the asylum rec room. "After four years, it is good to deserve a seat at the table."

"Don't thank us, I was tired of playing the same people every time."

The third member at the table nodded with a look of concentration as he looked over his hand.

The forth was silent and motionless as always.

"I mean you guys have always been so exclusive," Zsasz went on. "It felt like I was barging in on the VIP of the place."

At the table sat the four most notorious inmates at the asylum. Victor Zsasz sat back in his wooden chair as he surveyed the other players. Jonathan Crane's expression was unreadable; that was partially because he wore an old potato sack or pillowcase over his head constantly. He had gotten to the point in his therapy where he didn't always need to wear it, but the Scarecrow would haunt him if he didn't bond with it after so many hours. Zsasz always thought it was a stupid excuse to hide his face during cards. The third player was not as capable at hiding his emotions. Jervis Tetch had been unable to express himself verbally to the rest of the inmates for ten years. He had a gag order on him when he was outside of his cell; this was enforced by a shock collar, which he gladly accepted in leu of having his jaw wired shut. The only form of communication he was able to give was a written note on the small chalkboard he carried around or a wayward expression. The fourth was not a player per say. He had a hand of cards, but he was more or less a pool from which the other three could pull cards. If they didn't see the card they wanted, they would simply look at his hand and take it. It was cheating of course, but mutual cheating, so no one cared.

The decks at the asylum were notoriously uneven and old. It wouldn't be surprising if someone got a handful of chewed baseball cards. Zsasz had yet to figure out if the men at the table took the games seriously or not; sometimes they, namely Tetch, would get violently angry when they lost. Other times, they simply shrugged off defeat and started again. Zsasz attributed the change to the various medications all of them were on, which sometimes promoted weird mood swings. Either way, he was having a delightful time; he just wished everyone talked more.

"So," Zsasz muttered as he tried to make conversation with the only person at the table who could. "Heard you have been busy writing a thesis, Bagman, very highbrow."

"Scarecrow," Crane corrected, he would have stopped there but the interest sparked a conversation. "Yes, I have written over seven-hundred pages worth of a thesis: 'Fear, the Mind, and How to Embrace It'—it's a working title. I have attempted to receive feedback to get it published in a journal, but nothing has come of it."

"Why would that be?" Zsasz knew the reason why, he was just making conversation.

Tetch finished scribbling a thought and showed it to Zsasz, "Please don't get him started."

"Well the experiments I use as examples are hardly perfect or sanctified," Crane seemed a little miffed at the thought. "I've been having trouble keeping the formula straight having to use the janitor's supplies in order to create the gas. The experiments are rarely of sane mind, so there is no base to start at; usually I get outliers in my experiments at worst. I can also never see the long-term effects as they've usually put me in solitary confinement after each one, and the patient usually dies shortly afterwards."

"Oh yeah," Zsasz cocked his head to the side. "I remember. Gregory jumped screaming out a window when I tapped him on the shoulder."

"I have only received one response from an academic journal."

"What did it say?"

"One word: 'Disturbing,'" Crane shrugged. "The academic world is a hogwash of uninspired drudges who don't dare push the boundary for the betterment of mankind."

"Truth to that." Zsasz nodded coolly. "Top hat, you have any fours?"

Tetch shot a glare as Zsasz and tossed one at him.

"Thank you very much, buddy," Zsasz smiled. There was a moment of pause; then he looked around for orderlies before speaking, "You guys working on an escapeyay anplay?"

Crane paused in what Zsasz interpreted as confusion, but Tetch jotted down something on his board and showed it to Crane, "Pig Latin: 'Escape plan'."

Crane shook his head and spoke with dry sarcasm, "No, why would I ever be thinking of that. It's so wonderful. I've spent practically half my life in here; why would I ever want to leave?"

"Well," Zsasz shrugged. "I heard while I was in solitary confinement that the last man who was in my place kinda booked a flight out of the country before anyone realized he was missing in his cell. Maybe you know how he did it?"

"I could not care less about Nygma," There was a deadly, frightful tone in Crane's voice.

To the side, Tetch held up his chalk board, "Crane's sore because he beat us in cards every time."

Crane grabbed the chalkboard and casually tossed it across the room while Zsasz pondered how in the world anyone could win any of the games they played consistently.

"Hey—" Tetch pounded his fist on the table like a thumping rabbit's foot as an electrical current shot through his body.

"Oh, is the dog barking again?" Crane slighted as he returned to his cards. "Go fetch."

Tetch made many gestures at Crane, slitting his throat and mouthing the words, "I'm going to kill you," again, and again. Crane paid the threats no mind. Finally, Tetch threw his arms in the air and went to go retrieve the chalkboard; already, someone had started to gnaw on the board.

"Aw," Zsasz cooed as Tetch fought with the patient over the board. "You guys are like an old married couple."

"Yes, and it is a reason we do not escape," Crane sighed. "Admittedly, working alone to escape seems to have been something of Nygma's expertise. After the riddle man got away, they have increased security to the point that it is impossible to escape on our lonesome."

"So, we form a team," Zsasz said simply as Tetch returned to his seat. "A fellowship of compatriots like Dorthey in that story you like Tetch. We've got a Scarecrow, Tetch can be the munchkin or something, I could be the professor guy, and silent guy over here could be the aunt we leave behind."

Tetch was busy furiously scribbling out a thesis on how Zsasz was wrong in every feasible way, but Scarecrow responded.

"It wouldn't work," Scarecrow shook his head. "We've tried before and every time we've decided to betray each other before we got out. We can't trust each other or even you. You might get a ping to murder us and decide to knife us right there."

"There is truth in that, Bagman," Zsasz shrugged. "Was there anything that made you not want to kill each other while you were escaping?" Zsasz asked casually.

There was a moment of pause, both of them thought for a moment then Tetch scribbled something quickly and showed it the same time as Crane spoke, "Jerome."

Crane continued, "He instilled enough fear to make sure we didn't mess up his plan by killing each other."

"Oh, well," Zsasz cocked his head to the side, "that's going to be quite the problem'o. Jerome was kaput a long time ago. Unless—"

All three of them looked at the fourth player. Zsasz scrunched up his face as he examined the lifeless eyes of the fourth man. He tapped his chin while thinking.

"Maybe. . ."

"He won't do," Crane mumbled as he took the opportunity to steal one of the fourth man's cards. He huffed as he saw the front, "A joker card: useless."

Tetch showed his chalkboard: "Gone, gone, gone that one is."

Zsasz didn't pay attention as he poked the man's skin.

"Hey," Zsasz said as he examined the fourth, motionless man at the table. "Does he seem a bit pale, like paler than usual?"

Lonnie sat seething in his cell in Blackgate. He was to be tried as an adult. Tried: that was a complete misnomer. He would be publicly humiliated and "mysteriously" shanked six months into his prison sentence or, worse, carted off to some black site and tortured into mind numbing acceptance. Worst of all, whatever shred of hope he had put in Gordon had failed. There was no document release at all; his revolution was dying. He wasn't going to let that happen. He knew he had to get out somehow. He just needed time to make an escape.

Suddenly, the door to the cell opened. He stood at attention; he didn't want to be in a sitting position when they came to interrogate him. To his surprise, there were two burly inmates standing in the door. He put up his fists; he wasn't going down without a fight.

One of them gestured for him to stand down, "No fighting, the boss wants to see you."

"Boss?" He sneered. He put his hand down. He knew he would have a hard time fighting off the two; their hands were bigger than his skull. The beckoned him to follow; he shuffled between them as they escorted him through the cell block. Eventually, they came to a barred door. One of them made a gesture, the door buzzed, and they moved their way through to the other cellblock. Lonnie decided whoever wanted to see him held immense power in the prison.

Finally, they reached a cell and the door was pushed open, and Lonnie was shoved inside. The cell was lavishly furnished. There were throw pillows, a carpet, a TV in the corner, extra bedding; it smelled of lavender too. The centerpiece of the room was a small clothed table with a large lunch; prime rib was being served. All of the niceties and lavishes centered around one man; Lonnie didn't need to know him to know who he was.

"Cobblepot," Lonnie growled as the man finally looked up over his long nose.

"Our resident revolutionary," He greeted back. He simply gestured to the chair opposite of him, "By all means, have a seat, grab a bite; it's better than cafeteria gruel."

"I'll stand," The next thing Lonnie knew, two massive hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him down into the seat hard.

"Listen," the Penguin said as he shoved a chunk of steak into his mouth. "When I offer something it's just a really nice way of telling you to do something."

"What do you want Cobblepot?" Lonnie sneered at the crime lord.

"Straight to business I see. So, I need a bit of a favor," Penguin continued to eat. "See, I get out on good behavior in a couple of days, and I've heard there has been a lot of activity going on out there especially concerning this 'bat' as they've been calling him. He's been making my business hard to run—even harder than running it in prison. He's been taking out my stashes and—" he waved it off suddenly, "never mind the minutiae. What I need is details about this guy, a little firsthand experience. Everyone who has run into him has been drinking out of a straw or too stupid to explain it coherently. The GCPD's been tight on the evidence as well, they say he doesn't exist." Penguin scoffed. "Like my stashes are being taken out and reported by a figment of someone's imagination. I heard you had a bit of a run in with him and—" Penguin flippantly pointed with the knife at Lonnie's bandaged hand, "there is the proof, so to speak. So, what does this 'Batman' actually do?"

Lonnie thought for a moment then shook his head with a laugh, "You think we're in this together, that there is some sort of comradery between us because we happen to be sharing a prison. See it's people like yo—"

Cobblepot held up his hand to stop him, "Let me stop you before you go into one of your entertaining speeches. You're new to this whole Gotham criminal process. You bought a costume, chose a name for yourself, took a judo class, and believed you could change the world. I get it. You're young! You're invincible! That kind of attitude is why you're going to end up dead before your trial date," He patted Lonnie's hand. "You need to know who's in charge, figure them out and find out a way to appease them—at least for now. Then you can start your campaign or whatever. So," the Penguin sat back in his chair, "appease me."

Lonnie scoffed. "You think that you can intimidate me with your lackies and your wealth?" He leaned over the table and rattled the china. "You are just another problem in Gotham that I am going to root out. If the vigilante takes you out before I do, that's less work for me. Scum like yo—"

Penguin snapped his fingers and pointed to Lonnie's injured hand. Suddenly, Lonnie's arm was grabbed by one of the prisoners and another wrapped his arm around his neck; they held his hand against the table.

"What are you—" He barely got any words out before the tip of the steak knife grazed the stitches on his hand. He held back a cry of pain.

"See, I was trying to be polite," Penguin sighed as he slowly inched the knife into the wound. "My therapist said that I can't solve all of my problems with violence." He shrugged. "Just goes to show how dumb he is." He jabbed the knife through the hand until it hit hard wood.

Anarky gritted his teeth as a hushed yelp escaped his throat.

"Now," Penguin started to twist the knife and the sound of cracking bones could be heard. "About the Bat."

A couple new bruises, a knife wound on the left arm, and a sprained wrist were the recent rewards for his nightly crime fighting. Now, at nearly three in the morning, Bruce took one of his first rests from the nightly job in several weeks. Even though he had been initially reluctant to return, Bruce knew that he couldn't beat the feeling of resting in his own home with a crackling fire blazing in the fireplace that doubled as the entrance to the cave. He still had the urge to be down in the cave working, but, he had already uncovered yet another weapons stash two hours earlier. So, it made him feel like the night wasn't a total waste.

Alfred had long since retired to his room, leaving Bruce some tea which he gladly sipped. Bruce's propensity for work didn't completely subside, and he quickly found himself over by the desk in the parlor sorting through mail from the previous week. Most of them were letters of welcome from people who had not been able to attend the party at the manor. Among the names, he found the likes of Tomas Eliot, a couple of his other friends from his younger years, one from Barbara Kean, whom he had chatted with at the Wayne Tower opening, and of course Lee Tompkins. Bruce was especially impressed with Lee; she had established a charity-based clinic in the Narrows and was supporting the community down there.

Finally, Bruce came upon a more official letter. He stood up from the desk as he read the address, Arkham Asylum. There could only be one reason they would be sending him a letter. He swiftly opened up the letter and examined the hurriedly typed print.

Mr. Wayne,

We would like to inform you that Jeremiah Valeska has passed while under our care.

The Arkham Staff

Bruce took a long look at the message. A wave of different emotions passed over him. Finally, he was gone. Bruce, for some reason, didn't know how to feel. He shoved the conflicting emotions away and tossed the letter into the fire.

Thank you for your comments, they help! Thank you for reading!