Hello, All. I'm back with another chapter. Now, if you are aware of the story of Arkham Asylum and its sequels, then you know that there is still one major player that still hasn't been introduced as of yet. And, while he has still yet to be introduced into this story, there is a hint of who he might be in this chapter. I know it will probably be obvious to some people, but it's not like the games did much better with the symbolism of this character, anyway. So, forgive me if I don't make this character's hint as archaic as you might like.

I have also attempted to dabble a bit in writing Batman. For me, Batman is a hard man to write for and understand at some level. Like most of the villains in DC comics, his personality is largely based on who the writing team is behind him, which tends to vary wildly in different directions aside from a few obvious rules i.e. he doesn't kill, he dresses in black, dark and brooding, etc.

My problem is that I don't really understand or write stoic people very well. For me, the variety of emotions encountered is what helps me write a character, whether they be weird, angry, sad, or anything else. So writing a stoic person, where I only have a limited amount of emotions that can be shown, is something that is hard for me to do. So, forgive me if my Batman is a little more expressive than is normal for the brooding and scowling Dark Knight that everyone is used to. This is only my take of the character, and as such, this is how I choose to write him.

If you have a problem with this, then you can send me a review telling me how best to correct my characterization. I am always trying to be a better person than who I've been before, and the sooner I get a message stating what I need to work on, the sooner I can address those problems in the future.

Anyway, enjoy.

P.S. I'm probably going to break up my breaks with the chapter name, just to make things a little easier. These are not meant as a code or anything, they are only breaks. Thank you.

Edit: I'm sorry if the format might be a little off. I submitted this chapter a second before I thought to go back and check it. If the format is wonky, please let me know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~G-H-O-S-T-~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ra's al Ghul looked up as the massive doors to the inner sanctum creaked open, shutting with a resounding boom. He glared at the feminine figure entering, a scowl on his face as he watched her approach him. "You're late," he hissed, the acoustics in the room causing his voice to echo across the stone masonry. His eyes narrowed as he noted her bodyguard was nowhere to be found, and had been for nearly a week now. And while he was used to his employees being gone for a few days at a time, but a week with no report was something else entirely. "Where is Petra?"

Friitawa just shrugged. "How should I know? Am I honestly supposed to care about the comings and goings of your little minions? I thought that was your daughter's job, not mine."

"Answer the question, Linda," he snarled, his right-hand inches away from his scimitar, the blade making a tinging sound as he brought it halfway out of its scabbard. "Where is your keeper?"

Friitawa's eyes narrowed, before rolling them at his display of his power. "Honestly, Ra's, your little sword was somewhat threatening the first time around, but bringing it out every other encounter with me is just becoming sad. But I digress. I had to trade your little ninja in a deal with the Penguin. Your little souvenir wasn't enough for him to take the bite, so I had to up the ante for him to take the bait."

Ra's scowled, letting out a curse in Farsi as he drummed his fingers on his arm. He couldn't afford to have any one of his people go without an incredibly good reason. "This had better be worth it, Friitawa. If Cobblepot is given too much power…"

"I know. I know," she replied in the tone of a bored kid getting lectured by his parents. "'He'll have a chance to upset the balance of power that we have worked so hard to establish.' Yadda yadda yadda," she repeated, her hand miming a talking mouth. But her eyes glittered with anticipation as she came closer to him, looking him in the eye as she started to grin.

"But this will be worth it. Cobblepot is the main supplier of the black market's stock of weapons in Gotham. With him under our sway, we will not only get the necessary tools we need to enact this little Arkham gamble of yours, but as the Iceberg Lounge is a gathering spot for most of the Rogues in Gotham, you will have your eyes and ears in all those pathetic little criminals' plans, to manipulate as you wish. Wouldn't you say the cost of one henchwomen was worth it in the end for your plan to succeed?"

Ra's considered this for a moment, before nodding his head, his expression loosening somewhat. "A foothold in Cobblepot's connections will be beneficial in the long run for the plan." His features hardened. "But that still doesn't excuse the fact that you didn't run it past me first, and incapacitated one of my best assassins for a simple favor to boot."

Friitawa scowled, throwing her hands out in exasperation. "What does it matter? I got you the contact we needed and a spy on the inside! Doesn't the results matter more than just losing one man?"

"Don't forget your place, Linda!" he snarled, his voice echoing off the cathedral-like structures of the outer façade. "I am the mastermind of this operation, not you! And while one assassin might not seem like much, our numbers are too thinly spread as to be needlessly sacrificing them just to gain a favor or two. As it is, we need every man we have to make sure the pieces are perfectly in place for Project Arkham to succeed." He paused, letting out a huff, taking a moment to regain his composure. "But, be that as it may, you did give me an opening. This time, I will let you off with a warning. But next time, I will not be so merciful."

She smiled, before giving a mocking bow. "I'll keep that in mind. Now, if you don't require anything else…"

He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, watching her slither into the shadows as the doors closed behind her. As the echo of the sound faded into the background, Ra's looked up towards the shadows. "Did you get all that, my dear?"

Talia jumped from her perch on a demon's head statuette to his left, landing silently onto the floor as she looked up at her father. "Every word."

Ra's grinned savagely. "Good. Then you know what you must do."

Talia nodded. With a leap, she scaled the statue's head and into the upper rafters, disappearing without a trace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~G-H-O-S-T~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today was not a good day for Wyatt Collins.

Firstly, he had woken up from his hangover with a dead fish head lying on his coffee table. It apparently had been there for a few hours as flies had started to swarm it in a frenzy, leaving his already aching head filled with the annoying buzzing of all those insects. He hurriedly shooed them away to get a good look at what gift had been left for him, only to discover it was his boss, the Penguin, that had left him a calling card in the form of a dead fish, which meant that he had been given the delightful job of ferrying equipment into Arkham, a task only reserved for those workers who had displeased the boss, but were still not disruptive enough to require them being fed to his shark.

Secondly, once he had made his way down to the docks, he found his buddy, Irwin, had also been roped into this endeavor, and had no choice but to accompany him on his mission.

Thirdly, once they had set off towards the island, the fog had rolled in, blinding them and causing them to miss the docks, requiring them to turn back around and find it.

Now, as he pulled into the creaky, old dock at the pier off the western side of Arkham Asylum, he couldn't help the sense of dread that was creeping up his spine. It was one thing to be at Arkham in the dark, but Arkham in the dark in the fog? That was just begging for something to go terribly wrong.

"You see anything, Wy?" Irwin asked, straining to see past the dense layer of clouds obscuring his vision.

"No," he replied, taking a step out onto the dock as his buddy tied off the boat. "Do you?"

Irwin shook his head, stepping onto the docks as his buddy pulled him up from the boat, helping him drag the bag of supplies out of the boat and onto the docks. He shuddered, having a bad feeling about this place.

"So, you know where we're supposed to drop this off?" Wyatt asked, rubbing his head at the headache that was forming between his temples.

Irwin nodded. "Yeah. The boss said that I'm supposed to put it at the edge of the dock on the grass."

"Well, what are you waiting for, dummy? Do what the boss wants!" Wyatt snapped, his hair on the back of his neck standing on edge, but from fear or the cold, he did not know.

Irwin glanced into the fog, before shaking his head. "I don't know, man. This place is creepy on a normal night, but the fog is very heavy here. What if I break my neck just walking out there?"

Wyatt let out a sigh. "Look, it's a straight line from here to the edge of the grass. You'll be there and back before anything can happen to you."

Irwin looked down at his supplies, then back to his friend, before sighing. "Fine. But if I die, it's on you."

With a heave, he dragged the supplies from the dock to the edge of the grass. As he did so, he felt a strange huff of breath near his ear. He tensed, looking around and behind him, but found no once.

Shrugging, he walked back to Wyatt.

"See, now was that so hard?" Wyatt queried, a relieved smile on his face as he saw Irwin step towards him, only to suddenly go pale.

"Irwin?" he called, wondering why his friend had stopped.

The thug let out a strangled gurgle as his neck was wrenched harshly to the side, breaking his neck, his limp body falling to the ground, before being dragged into the fog, seemingly disappearing without a trace.

Wyatt, witnessing the sudden execution of his buddy, backed away in horror, his eyes wide and his hands shaking as he pointed the gun towards where his buddy had disappeared. "I-I know you're out there. Show yourself, freak!" he cried, feeling the cold wood of the dock's outside wall pressing against his back, his breath coming out in short gasps of hyperventilation as his heart beat rapidly within his chest, his eyes looking everywhere for anything to move.

Despite his threat, all was silent.

Unfortunately for the thug, the silence was broken by his own frightened screams as he felt himself being lifted into the air, his gun falling from his hands as his feet dangled in the air as he was pulled face to face with a blue and black metallic helmet.

The figure was outfitted all in black, armored from his head down to his waist, with red and black camouflage pants covering his legs. Combined with his black combat boots, steel-reinforced gauntlets, and his dome-shaped blue-black helmet, led to an intimidating and sinister appearance that rivaled the Dark Knight himself.

He heard tales about this being, but he never had thought that those stories would be true. The man he was now facing was supposed to be a ghost, a dark knight of vengeance and malice that stalked the grounds of Arkham Asylum, leaving devastation and destruction in his wake, only to disappear without a trace once morning came.

"Now, what do we have here?" the mysterious man inquired, holding the trembling criminal up to his face, his voice artificially deepened by the voice modulator in his helmet.

Wyatt gulped, his mouth suddenly very dry as he stared at the man. He couldn't discern any features or details about the man, his face obscured by the domed helmet he wore and voice modulator disguising his real voice. Details which did nothing to relieve the ever-growing feeling of dread burying itself deep into his stomach.

The man titled his head. "What's a 'matter? Cat got your tongue?" the figure joked, his voice switching from interest to a sneer, letting out a little chuckle at the man's terrified expression, watching with amusement as Wyatt curled into himself like a terrified kitten.

After a few minutes of silence, the man seemed to get bored of this. "Well, if you're not going to talk," he said, carrying the man until he was dangling over the choppy water, his grip loosening just slightly as he held the man by the hoodie of his coat. "Then I might as well just drop you."

"No! Wait! I'll talk! I'll talk! Just don't drop me!" the man pleaded with the ghost, scrambling to grab something to keep from falling into the freezing dark water below.

Underneath the helmet, the figure grinned. "Good choice," he replied, angling his arm away from the water and onto the rickety wood of the shack. "Now, what brings a crook like you to place like this? I don't get many people trying to break into Arkham."

"I-I was s-sent here by P-P-Penguin. H-He said that my partner and I were to drop off the supplies at the Arkham Asylum dock by 5:00 am today," he stammered, fumbling over his words as he tried to control his trembling body, not that the man above him and the dark, icy depths below helped his nerves.

"That so?" the figure confirmed, looking down at the supplies below him, then back to the man. "Well, I guess the old codger kept his side of the bargain, then. Luckily for you, punk, that means you get to live."

Wyatt let out a sigh of relief. "S-So you'll let me go?"

The man let out a gruff laugh. "Only on two conditions," he hissed, before dragging the man along by one hand, the other scooping up the bag of supplies. "First, you're going to navigate us back to the mainland. Second, you're not to breath a word about any of this, you understand. If I hear one word come out of you…"

"You won't! You won't, man! I swear on my mother's grave!"

The figure smiled, his hand finally letting go of the man's hoodie as he started the engine, before pulling out of there.

After their departure, the sky started to clear, revealing the black symbol of the Bat for all to see.

pThe figure, noticing the signal, smiled beneath his mask, his eyes alight in anticipation. I'm coming for you, old man. And this time, I will not be forgotten so easily.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~G-H-O-S-T~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Batman let out a tired sigh as he pulled into Wayne Manor, his shoulders finally relaxing as he entered the privacy of his home. Entering the elevator going up to his office, he looked outside the windows zooming past him. He could see the last of the night chased away by the day, the sun's rays just barely visible over the crest of the skyscrapers dotting the city line. It was looking to be a clear day, a rarity in the gloom and doom of Gotham, and a potential sign of good things to come.

But, as with his brooding nature, Batman wasn't interested in this change in weather or its potential omens. What he was interested in, however, was the events occurring during his encounter with Scarecrow and Scream. While he wasn't surprised that the girl had leaped after the man, considering her remarkable loyalty to him, he was surprised that she had survived with very little injuries, despite taking the force of impact for both herself and for Scarecrow.

"Coffee, Master Wayne?" Alfred inquired, placing a pitcher of coffee and a mug next to Bruce's desk as the weary man sank into the chair, undoing the clasps of his cowl as he set it on the edge of his desk.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce sighed, sipping the coffee slowly as he nursed the headache caused by the waning effects of the fear toxin. He let out a grateful smile as Alfred returned shortly after with some Advil for his head.

His smile slipped away, however, as he pulled out the file he had recently pulled from the Arkham Asylum servers, with the name Albright, Becky printed on the flap. Alfred, noticing this, placed a hand on his charge's shoulder. "You know that this is not your fault, Master Bruce. You did all you could to make sure that poor woman was safe and away from the influences of Gotham's criminal elite. The choice to associate with them was hers and hers alone to make."

"I know," he said softly, his eyes not glancing upwards towards his butler/father-figure. He eyed the newspaper article laminated next to her name, showing her picture with the caption PLUCKY UNDERGRAD CRITICAL IN CASE VERSES THE SCARECROW headlined above her. "Alfred, can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," Alfred replied, a small smile on his face.

Bruce leaned back into his chair, looking out onto the skyline above him, contemplating how he wanted to ask this question. "Do you ever get tired of this?"

"Tired of what, Master Bruce?" he asked, concern written on his face.

Bruce turned around, elbows against the desk as he rubbed his forehead. "This endless cycle. The criminals break out, terrorize Gotham. I put them back in their cage, only for them to break out hours later going back to the same old thing."

"Is this about being Batman, Master Bruce? Because I remember having this same discussion with you quite a few times before."

He shook his head. "No, I'm not talking about that, Alfred," he said, getting up from his desk as he pulled out drawer with the Rogues' files, leafing through them absentmindedly. "Every time I put someone back into Arkham, whether it be Joker or Scarecrow or Croc, they seem to take something close to me with them. For Falcone, it was Harvey. For Joker, it was Jason. And now, it's her."

Alfred, taking an empty chair from the front of the desk, scooted it closer until he was facing the desk. "Sir, I know you weren't as close to Becky as you were with Harvey or Jason. So why are you taking this so hard now?"

Bruce shook his head. "It's not about that, Alfred. It was what she potentially could be." He glanced over at the open window in front of him, looking out as the sleeping city slowly coming to life. "I've dealt with many victims over the years I've been Batman. Most of them are glad to be rid of someone like Joker or Scarecrow. Some would even be clamoring for them to be given the death penalty. But when I peered into her eyes that night six years ago, Alfred, I saw no hint of hate in her heart as she watched Scarecrow being hauled into the police car, nor did she seem glad that he was being carried away. If anything, she looked sad, sad for the man that had killed her pet, threatened her life, and caused her unspeakable terror, all in the name of studying her fear." He paused once again, before pushing the drawer closed.

"I thought perhaps she could see the same potential in them that I could see; that perhaps she could make a difference for good without resorting to cruelty that so many others would in her position in the name of reformation," he said, his scowl returning as he handed the file over to Alfred. "Only for her to turn around five years later and join him in his terrorizing Gotham."

"Is it perhaps that you didn't know her as well as you thought you did, sir?" Alfred asked, pouring another cup of coffee for Bruce.

The younger man shook his head, looking down at his gloved hands. "No, it's not that. Despite the people she's joined, she's kept her morals and her conscience, even if those are being put to the test constantly. And I've noticed she's been a good influence on Crane as well. His attacks have become fewer in the past couple of months, and in those attacks, none of them have been civilian casualties."

"Then if Becky is doing well, and has even had a positive impact on Scarecrow, why are you upset?" the elderly man asked as he read over the report.

Bruce looked up to meet the eyes of his father-figure and friend. "Because so often, things seem to be getting better when in reality they are getting worse. Harvey was getting over his anger when he had acid thrown in his face. Jason was finally starting to listen to me when he was killed by Joker. What's to say this won't be the same? What's to say she won't snap and become more of a threat than Scarecrow or Fright?" he huffed softly, his tired, bloodshot eyes betraying the hidden emotions he was feeling as he looked away and out towards the city, his hands starting to relax from their harsh grip on the armrests. "I know that there would be this type of risk involved when I took up the mantle of the Bat, but…"

"But it still doesn't make the wounds any less painful," Alfred finished, turning the chair so that the man faced him again, setting the report to the side. "Master Bruce, it's okay to have doubt. Any lesser man would have given up on those people long ago. You're one of the few people in Gotham that believe that there is still good in every person, regardless of who they are. And, although they do everything in their power to prove that they are irredeemable, you still believe that anybody, even someone as loathsome as the Joker, can change. That's why you don't believe in killing. Because deep down, you know that they can be more than what they are now. Have faith, Master Wayne, and don't give up. Things will get better."

Bruce's lips curved into a tiny, hopeful smile. "Thank you, Alfred. Sometimes, I need someone to remind me of that fact."

Alfred returned his smile. "You're welcome, Master Bruce. Some days, we all need reminders that there is hope in this world."

He pulled his chair back into place, and with a bow, left the room, leaving his master to his work, happy knowing that his charge was in a better mood.