Cop cars surrounded Gotham's water treatment plant. The transport vehicle for SWAT was right at the front of the crowd of vehicles. Barricades had been hastily erected, more to keep out a non-existent crowd of onlookers. Considering the treatment plant wasn't exactly where there was a lot of foot traffic, it seemed an act out of habit than actual need.
Batman perched on top of the plant, looking over the sight of the police force, their red and blue lights coloring everything. He had been searching for where the Joker and Strange had taken their respective forces, hoping to remove one of them from this murderous game of theirs when the call came in. The Joker had been spotted at the waste treatment plant and all police forces were being mobilized.
By the time he had gotten there, it was over, or so the dispatch reports said. Something about that didn't sit well with the Dark Knight. After all of his encounters with the madman, him surrendering just as the heat arrived was unexpected, if not unprecedented.
A couple of stretchers rolled out then. Glancing down, the vigilante saw two members of SWAT strap down to gurneys, their faces split with wide smiles, eyes bulging. They had yet to turn white, so hopefully they were in the early stages of Joker Venom exposure and a sedative had been administered. The EMTs hurried the gurneys to a couple of parked ambulances, loading up the poisoned men, and then speeding off for the closest hospital.
A constant stream of voices filled his ears all the while, the radio transmissions from the cops keeping him informed of what was going on. It was several minutes before a few more gurneys were wheeled out, more sedated SWAT members strapped onto them.
Unlike the first two obvious ones, according to reports these men had been sedated due to an extreme panic attack. It sounded like the Scarecrow's handiwork, meaning he was here as well. Strange that hadn't been mentioned before, but it was possible the Joker's higher profile was used to marshal the police force.
Then came the words he had been waiting for. "We're coming out. Target is restrained; all points be ready."
Staring straight down, Batman waited, his cape draping down his body and hanging down the face of the plant. Many officers took up cover behind their vehicles, pointing their handguns at the plant's entrance. No one was taking a chance with this. It seemed to take forever before tonight's star arrived.
Even from his perch, Batman could hear the Joker's voice carry all the way to him. "Now isn't this a welcome committee! Do you do it for every homicidal maniac, or is it just me?"
"Keep walking!" a SWAT officer demanded, shoving the purple-suited man forward. The Joker stumbled a couple of steps, but resumed his pace, walking over to a large truck, his hands handcuffed behind him. It was a transport vehicle for high profile targets and the clown was most certainly that. He willingly walked up the ramp and disappeared inside, several SWAT officers following behind him. Protocol was to restrain the perpetrator, though that usually only took three men. Six had gone in, quadrupling the number of guards to keep a trained gun on the clown.
Batman waited until he saw three of the men exit, closing the boarding ramp behind them. That was one down. Now about the rest.
Looking down, he waited for the Scarecrow to appear, or even one of the other Arkham inmates that had joined the Joker's side. It was a wait that dragged on, a sinking feeling starting to fill the Dark Knight's gut. Were there no others? Was it just the Joker that was captured?
Something about this wasn't right.
He needed to get inside.
The tunnel was dank and musky. There was a layer of grime that hadn't been cleaned off in ages. The acoustics allowed the sound of footsteps to echo up and down the tunnel, a cacophony of sound.
Cold air blew on Victor Fries as he stared out of the small window the door provided him. He was in Blackgate's mobile cooling unit, something the prison used to house him when maintenance needed to be done on his cell and removed him as a danger to the maintenance worker. It was very much like standing in a coffin, only without the cushioned bedding and it kept the internal environment at subzero conditions. Now it served as a lifeline to keep him alive as he was pushed towards his destination.
Two prison guards assisted with that. They were guards Garza and Jenkins, still clad in their prison uniforms unless he was mistaken. It was their footsteps he could hear.
As surprising it sounded, there were still supporters of his original work: the extermination of Gotham's criminal underbelly. These were two such men that had vocalized their support of him during his stay in Blackgate, treating him with a level of respect he had not expected to receive. Fries knew he could rely on them to assist a prison escape should he ever needed one and they had come through.
In fact, there was a silent group of his supporters in the criminal justice system. Fries had heard the louder voices of law enforcement condemn his actions and he believed that they were all appalled at his methods. He had not been expecting such people to greet him in Blackgate following his trial and he had. The kind words of "I'm glad you killed those bastards," and "Not everyone was against what you were doing," had been a great comfort at the time.
But then Fries had grown immune to the praise, numb as one would say. He had accepted that he had gone too far at the end, readily accepting his punishment as was just. He never forgot those words, however.
"How much further?" he faintly heard Garza ask. The thickness of the mobile cooling unit muffled all sound, so Fries had to focus on hearing just to get perhaps half, or even a third of what was said.
There was an intercom system, though, one that allowed him to speak to the outside world should he need it. Tonight would be the second time he used it. Hitting the button, he said, "We are almost there. There is a chamber up ahead."
It was only a few more minutes before his words came true. The tunnel opened out into a room, one with chains that hung from the ceiling. Electrical boxes lined the walls, along with meters that reported the meters' readings. On the far wall was a steel door, rust slowly crawling across it from the bottom left corner.
"Is this it?" Jenkins questioned.
"It is," the cold man responded.
"Behind the door?"
"Yes."
"Where is this place exactly?" Garza then inquired.
"It is a maintenance tunnel that runs beneath Wayne Tower," Fries told them. "The subzero environment I constructed requires large amounts of power to operate and I have many such places throughout the city. Anyone looking for them will notice their location should they follow the consumption of power."
"But why Wayne Enterprises? Surely someone would have noticed you pulling power from them."
"Wayne Enterprises is one of the largest consumers of power in the city. No one notices the variance in power consumption as they use it. My subzero refrigeration units are constantly running, so the longer they are allowed to run, the chances anyone suspects their existence is reduced. They were at most risk of discovery when I activated them."
"Pretty ballsy to put this one right beneath Wayne, though," Jenkins continued. "Wasn't he the guy that made you this way?"
"He bears responsibility, but that is ancient history. Now comes the most pivotal moment. I have a very short period to transfer from this unit and into the refrigeration unit. Any misstep may end in my death."
"What do you need us to do?" Garza asked.
"There is a panel next to the door. Open it and you will see a keypad. Do not touch the keys as they are temperature sensitive. Anything higher than room temperature will lock the room permanently."
"So how do we get in if we can't put in the code?"
"I will have to do it. After all, my touch is much lower than room temperature."
Garza and Jenkins shared a nod before they went into action. Garza went up to the panel and opened it, revealing the keypad as Fries had mentioned. Meanwhile, Jenkins positioned the mobile refrigeration unit close to the panel so that it was a mere footstep away.
Now came the most crucial moment.
"You ready?" Garza spoke.
"I am," Fries answered him.
"Alright, we're opening in three...two…"
There was a loud hiss as the unit pressure was released. The door swung open then and Fries was on the move. Because the door swung open, the mobile refrigeration unit was a couple steps away from the key panel. The moment he stepped out of the cold air, he could feel this skin begin to sting and burn. The warmth of the room was already affecting him, but it would not for long. Quickly, he entered the code 8-1-3-0-4.
"Eight, one, three, zero, four," Jenkins read off. "Any significance?"
"Yes." The door to his refrigeration unit unlocked. "It is the date my Nora passed."
"Then allow us to send you to meet her."
The three men whipped around, Fries having to look around the side of the mobile unit. At the entrance to the room were a number of men in plain clothes, a few of which were in suits. All of them had firearms visible, murderous gleams of in the eyes.
Fries knew when he was looking at a mobster. These were mobsters.
One of them emerged from the crowd, a smirk on his face beneath his pencil-thin mustache. His dark hair was beginning to grey, combed back and held there with hair gel. Clearly he was the leader. "You thought you could escape Blackgate without receiving some kind of retribution, did ya Iceman?"
"I have no quarrel...with you," Fries responded, feeling his lung beginning to burn, leaving him breathless. He did not have time for this.
"Sure ya do. Don't you remember that you personally put some of us on ice? Perhaps you remember Falcone, or Moxon? Surely you remember them."
Garza was pulling reaching to his handgun, trying to be subtle about it, the same with Jenkins. Fries knew it was a worthless gesture as there were too many trained guns on them. They were dead men. "And I...repeat...I have no...quarrel...with you."
"And I repeat, the Calabrese are going to do to you what you did to the Roman: we're gonna kill ya nice and slow."
It happened in an instant. These Calabrese thugs raised their guns up and opened fire. Garza was taken down in the first wave of bullets, the guard crying out as he fell to the floor, his blood splattering over the wall and door to Fries' refrigeration unit. Jenkins managed to get his gun out and fired a single shot before he too was torn apart by the onslaught of bullets. Fries immediately took cover behind the mobile refrigeration unit. There was some coldness still in it, and it blew over him, soothing his stinging flesh.
"Hide all ya want!" he heard the Calabrese man shout. "We're gonna get ya sooner or later!"
He was right. If he did not act now and get inside his base, he would be killed. The initial barrage of gunfire was beginning to die down and he could not wait for the next lull.
Immediately, Fries darted out of his cover, grabbing the handle to the door. Almost instantly, bullets began to pelt the area around him, miraculously missing him. With his draining strength, he pulled as hard as he could on the door and it creakily swung open. Clearly rust had gotten into the hinges and were acting as an obstacle.
Fortunately, he was able to make enough space and he forced his way. Cold air blasted him even as he spun around to pull the door back close. The moment he did and the locks clicked back into place, Fries collapsed to the floor, legs and arms spread out as he gasped over and over, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He couldn't help but close his eyes as the fluorescent lighting was just a little too much for his eyes after exiting the dimmer lighting of the maintenance tunnel.
He had made it. He had made it.
As his breathing began to slow, his eyes snapped open. Now was not the time to rest. There were men thirsty for his blood on the other side of the door. They would not patiently wait for him to reemerge. No, they would force their way in.
He needed to be ready for them when they did.
Her Beloved was on the case. There was no need to further probe, so for the moment, they would pull back.
The clown was being secured in that armored transport. Talia fought to keep herself collected. Her Beloved's nemesis was too crafty an opponent to underestimate, but to eliminate him was not the purpose of this night.
Training was.
Her gaze lowered to her son, the boy crouched at the rooftops' ledge, his cloak still against his body. There was some pride she felt, her son committing himself to his recent training. There were improvements, but training was no substitute for application. A field test was needed to gauge his progress. Her network had been alerted to the sudden activity of law enforcement, and at the last minute did she chose to act.
"What do you see?" she asked calmly, not taking her eyes off of Damian.
His hood was pulled over his head, shadowing his face. There was no wind to rustle the cloth, and since there was no shift in the fabric, he was keeping still. No nodding of the head, no useless gestures, no needless exertion that would use energy.
"This is not right." Stated. No doubt. Good.
However, this was training, and his word was not absolute yet. "Explain," she ordered, turning her gaze to the flashing reds and blues below.
"Why did he give himself up? He doesn't do that," Damian stated once more, a proclamation of reality that was currently being defied. "He's crazy, but he isn't stupid. What is he planning?"
"You believe this is deliberate? A part of his plan?" Talia inquired. Her eyes did not remove themselves from that transport.
"Everything has to be a part of his plan." Another statement. "We've studied him too long; we can't dismiss any action he takes. He's already proven that he shouldn't be underestimated. He must be up to something."
That was a painful lesson to learn. The first time she had laid eyes on the clown, that...creature had been mockingly dressed as Gotham's protector. Her anger had prevented her from regarding the Joker as the danger he truly was. The loss of Wonder Tower still rankled.
This was why the training also included study on all of her Beloved's enemies. Every one of them, alive and dead. Each was their own class. Each was a field of study. None had as much time devoted to them as this one did and maybe that was also because Damian himself had his own encounter. That he had been overpowered and used as a human shield by someone the child could have easily killed, should have been able to easily kill, was a long remembered humiliation.
"They are not bringing anyone else out," Damian remarked. "You told me that he had aligned himself with my father's other enemies. Where are they?"
The question took Talia away from her remembrance. Yes, that was an interesting detail. She had been keeping tabs on any updates in the current situation and shared those details with her son.
"What were they doing here? What were they trying to accomplish?" the boy wondered.
Excellent questions, and right now there was only one man who could answer them that they had access to. The vehicle that the Joker was held in was beginning its transport, taking the madman to a preferably secure location.
Damian then stood up. Watching him, Talia pointedly asked, "What are you doing?"
"Following the transport. The Joker has a plan. He must. He'll either execute it in route, or at his destination. We need to know what he's up to."
The fruits of hard labors was certainly sweet. Before, her impatient and brash child would have suggested attacking, or hijacking the transport, and killing the so-called Clown Prince of Crime. The caution was a good sign, and could it be he was exercising patience?
Still, this was training, and she couldn't let pride hold back on instruction. "Why not strike now and kill him? He is most vulnerable in route."
"I want to kill him." Now there was the slightest of rustle from the cloak, but that was coming from the tension the boy was putting on his own body, the stress causing slight tremors. They were going to have to do something about that. "But I know he's not helpless. I learned that the hard way. Assassins wait for the best moment and not what is most convenient."
It didn't need to be said, though, that his father would disapprove of the action. No, the Joker was safe from fatal injuries, or those caused by them. Ensuring his capture, on the other hand, that was still acceptable.
"Time runs short. We can still follow," Talia said, making a suggestion and waiting for what Damian would choose to do.
Batman's son and true heir did not answer immediately. There were times when waiting to answer was preferable, and then there were times when swift decision was necessary. Telling the difference between the two needed some work.
"Follow. Let's follow. Let's make sure his capture continues," Damian decided. "Father must know I am capable of supporting him. No matter what."
A worthy answer. "Then we shall pursue," the daughter of the Demon declared.
The treatment plant's contamination room had been cordoned off, police tape restricting the area. Men in hazmat suits were crawling over the area, though not all of them were there for the investigation into the contamination room. Several were busy cleaning an area where Joker Venom had been unleashed. Their primary objective was to remove the poison so others weren't exposed.
Batman found his way into the contamination room, seeing a room filled with biohazard containers. The only alarming thing about that was the sheer number of them. He really hoped not all of these biohazard materials were filtered out of Gotham's sewers, otherwise he needed to turn his attention to more mundane, corporate perpetrators. This wasn't right and they were the ones with the reputation for dumping toxic substances into the sewer.
Weaving his way through the makeshift pathways, he searched for what could have drawn the Joker here. That he had chosen here instead of, say, a chemical plant indicated he was after something specifically here. He needed to find out what that was.
So he searched the whole room, looking for something out of place. Mentally, he made the note to get a list of everything kept here, assuming the plant kept accurate records. Plants that had unwanted materials had a tendency to be lax on their recording practices. They simply wanted to forget it was even here, especially stuff they couldn't get rid of easily.
That's when he came to a stop. In the back corner of the room was a large hole, its outer edges jagged from where they had broken off. Part of the wall was gone as well. The surrounding canisters were lying haphazardly on the floor, on their sides, some propped against each other. It was a mess hidden behind the organization of the canisters in the front.
Something had happened here, something powerful. What was strong enough to blow a hole through the floor? An explosion? Super-strength? Why had that not been reported over the police radio frequency? Batman walked right up to the hole, looking down into it. Faintly, he could hear the sound of water trickling.
Immediately, he dropped into the hole, falling into a tunnel. Water splashed up from where his feet landed. Batman looked down one direction of the tunnel before spinning around to check the other side. It was just him, no one else. No signs of booby traps, or an ambush.
So this was an escape tunnel.
The Joker hadn't been alone here. If the presence of Scarecrow's fear toxin hadn't been enough evidence to prove that, this tunnel did. The Scarecrow and whomever was with him had used this tunnel to escape while the Joker willingly gave himself up. It was a perfect cover to buy as much time as possible for his cronies to escape.
Why though? The Joker wasn't that magnanimous. He had left behind henchmen as a distraction for his own getaway multiple times. Why change tactics now? None of this was adding up.
Why had the Joker come here? What was he trying to protect by surrendering himself over to the police? Was he even surrendering? There were too many questions and not enough answers.
Searching the sewers would take time and there were a lot of tunnels to check. Enough time would have passed for the Joker's men to escape safely, but perhaps a clue had been dropped in their rush to get away from here. He had to at least try and find it.
Taking a deep breath, he released it and squared his shoulders. It was time to get to work.
"Blast the door down."
Vincent Callo watched impatiently as his boys set up the charges on the metal door. It looked just like one of them walk-in fridges at one of the many restaurants he ran. It probably was a fridge knowing the Iceman.
They had found the truck Victor Fries had stolen. It was pretty damn obvious since it was clearly a Blackgate transport van. One of his boys had spotted it and called it in, tracking it to an underground garage. They had entered the maintenance tunnel, armed to the teeth and ready to kick some ass.
And that was what they did. Those two prison guards were bleeding out right now and Fries had scrambled into that walk-in fridge. If only one of their shots had actually hit him, he'd be lying on the floor like those dead pigs. That was alright though. They just had to blast their way in and finish the job.
Vincent looked at his handgun, gripping it tightly as he held it at his side. He had a special bullet he wanted to use, one that he had engraved the walking popsicle's name into. It was buried in the clip somewhere, so he fully planned on unloading the whole magazine into the bastard's head.
"How long is this gonna take?" he demanded after a few minutes. This was taking too damn long. It shouldn't take this long to kill a man.
"Almost ready," one of his boys reported. He was fiddling with a detonator, a green light turning on. "We're ready!"
"Blow it," Vincent ordered. All of his boys raised their hands to protect their ears, the mob boss doing the same. He licked his lips in anticipation. Just wait until those tools back home got a load of this.
That Kyle woman, she didn't know what the hell she was doing. She was trying to play in the big leagues and she was ill-prepared. He'd show the entire Calabrese family just what he was capable of. They could then kick the bastard broad to the curb and then they could go back to business.
The trigger was pressed. An explosion erupted all over the fridge door, blasting it into the room behind it. The thunderous boom echoed throughout the room and tunnel. Cold air immediately became visible as it flowed out of the cooler, making a mist that crawled over the ground.
"Alright! Let's get this asshole!" Vincent called out. Guns were hefted up, a few of his boys approaching the door.
BRRRRRRAAAAAAANG!
A blue beam raced through the doorway. Vincent's boys immediately tried to jump out of the way, him included. However, not everyone was so lucky. A couple of his boys close to the open doorway were caught up in the blast, their arms and legs were encased with ice. The men cried out as they fell to the floor, one gripping their frozen left arm, the other their legs as the ice had crawled up to their knees.
Why that son of a—!
That's when he heard a heavy footstep, causing Vincent to dart his eyes back to the open doorway. Appearing into the light was the Iceman in his infamous Freeze suit. Everything from the glass doom, robot suit, and that damn Ice Gun were visible.
"You're gonna pay for that!" Vincent shouted as he jerked his gun back up, his boys following suit as they took aim at the bastard.
"I gave you the opportunity to leave with your lives," Fries said then, his voice sounding like a damn robot, no longer that soft, wimpy voice he had used earlier. "Now, you can't leave."
Leave? Who ever said anything about leaving! Vincent growled as he was ready to tell this guy off, only to be interrupted when one of his boys cried out, "Boss!"
Many heads were turned, which caused the aging mob boss to notice that his boys were looking towards the exit. Giving into curiosity, he was soon gaping at the sight of a wall of ice sealing off the exit.
That blast, it hadn't been to get his boys. It had been to ice them off from the rest of the world, effectively cutting them off.
"Ice this bastard!" Vincent roared as his fury returned. So what if they were stuck here. They had some more explosive left to blast their way out. Hell, as long as they had a signal, they could call for help if need be. Just as long as they killed this asshole.
His boys did as he ordered too. Immediately, they fired their guns, filling the entire room with gunfire. The Iceman just stood there, bullets pelting his suit, bouncing off of him harmlessly. Vincent kept firing his gun, each shot aimed right of that glass helmet. That was the weak point of the suit, it had to be. He just had to break it.
And then he was out of bullets. In fact, the rest of his boys ran out at roughly the same time.
Much to Vincent's dismay, not a single shot had broken through. The wall behind the Iceman was littered with bullet holes, but not one had damaged his suit or even his helmet. The man just stood here stoically, just waiting for them to finish.
"Your resistance to the inevitable is pointless," the Iceman spoke in that dead voice of his. "Now accept your fate."
He took a step forward and raised his Ice Gun. And then he fired.
BRRRRRRAAAAAAANG!
With a sweep of his gun, Fries launched his counterattack. Back and forth, he swept his ice beam until he felt he had done enough. Stopping, he surveyed his handiwork.
Ice covered the floor and walls in patches, places he hadn't hit his targets. Quite a few of the mobsters were frozen solid, silently screaming ice sculptures as they were caught in mid-turn, pitifully shielding themselves.
They were the lucky ones.
Lying all over the floor were other mobsters, partially frozen. Once upon a time, Fries would have ensured they were encased in ice from head to toe, but he found he had no such desire. No, these men were left a fighting chance for survival. Many had legs frozen, others with parts of their chests and abdomens swallowed in ice. A couple actually had half of their heads frozen, their unfrozen eyes darting back and forth with fright, their mouths unable to move due to a layer of ice on them, or half of their mouth being frozen shut.
There was no need for sympathy or pity. These men had the chance to leave. They had chosen poorly. Now they were at the mercy of whenever they were found.
That could be well into the morning and not many of them had that much time.
Though there had been an explosive device used to open his refrigeration unit, the blast had only opened the door, breaking the lock. Closing the door to his refrigeration unit behind him, Fries began walking towards the frozen exit. He came to a stop in front of the ice wall, staring at it intently.
"W-where do you think y-y-your going?" a chattering voice demanded.
Turning around, Fries found the mobstes' boss lying on his stomach, one arm in front of him as if he had been using it to drag himself across the floor. His right arm was encased in ice as well as part of his right foot. All in all, he had managed to avoid the worst of the ice.
"I am leaving," Fries told him.
"O-oh yeah? Forget that you trapped us a-all in here?" He smirked at him.
No, he had not, but if this man thought they were all trapped here, then he was sorely mistaken. It was simply a matter of finding the weak spot in the wall and he knew where it was. "I m-may have failed to kill you, b-b-but at least I know I-I'll die with you."
"You think too highly of your circumstance," he said in a deadpanned tone.
"I can say the same...about you," the mobster retorted. "C-Consider this payback for the Roman."
A Falcone follower? Fries studied the man, a name coming to him soon enough. "Vincent Callo, if I am not mistaken?"
That actually caused a smirk to appear on the man's face. "That's right, a-asshole. D-d-didn't think you'd s-see me again, did ya?"
"I did not," Fries admitted, "but considering you were a glorified babysitter, I had thought you would have come to the conclusion that you needed to seek better employment elsewhere."
Rage appeared on the man's face. "How dare you!"
"Do I not speak the truth?" Fries countered. "You were not the second-in-command. I killed him that night as well. The bodyguards as well were felled by me. None of his lieutenants were present as Falcone never allowed them to meet at his home. If you were there, that means you only performed menial tasks. Your role was to get Falcone his coffee, hardly a well-regarded position."
"I did not get him his coffee!" Callo shrieked.
Clearly he had touched a sore area, but Fries hardly cared. He had enough of this man. Raising up his ice gun, he fired a short burst, one that hit his leg, finishing freezing his right leg and then his left. Callo screamed as the sensation of a thousand needles worked its way through his nervous system.
"You better kill me! You hear me?!" Callo bellowed. "You kill me now, or I'll never stop trying to kill you!"
"I have more important matters that require my attention than to debate your past position in a criminal organization," Fries responded. Turning away, he stared at the ice wall once more before he shifted towards the edge of the ice, right where it crawled onto the wall and sealed the doorway. Raising a foot up, he kicked the ice, causing it to crack and splinter. Over and over, he kicked the same spot. It took three more kicks to break through.
A few more kicks and he had cleared an opening that he could pass through. Standing there for a moment, Fries then looked over his shoulder at the ice-covered goon. "You would do well to call for help. Your life and the lives of your men depend on it. Or you can allow the cold embrace of hypothermia finish you off. I do not care which you choose."
He then passed through the opening, Callo screaming after him the whole while. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll kill you!"
