Well, he had walked right into that one, hadn't he?
"What about him?" Bruce asked carefully.
"The Iceman has been on the loose for the first time in years. In fact, it would be the legendary Night of Ice since he was out. What do you make of him breaking out? Any thoughts as to what he's up to? Do you think he'll try and destroy the city again?"
While he knew those answers, or at least some of them, Bruce couldn't just blurt those out. Batman knew those answers, not Bruce Wayne. Explaining how an allegedly out-of-touch billionaire knew things he simply shouldn't know was a rabbit hole he had no desire to go down. With the way this interview had been going, he just knew Vesper would pounce on it. "I honestly don't know," he ended up answering. "All I can say is that it complicates the picture. Not only do you have the Arkham inmates causing trouble, but now you've thrown in a man that has a significant body count. The Iceman went after people that were considered untouchable for years and killed them."
"By that you're talking about Gotham's notorious crime families," Vesper said, explaining to her listening audience. "One does have to wonder if his tactics weren't the right ones," she then mused.
"What makes you think that?" he asked warily.
"Well, the presence of organized crime is at an all-time low. While much of the credit should go to our boys in blue at the GCPD, the first significant blow was delivered by the Iceman. He decimated not one, but two crime families before he was arrested."
"You're forgetting about the power vacuum," Bruce pointed out. "Organized crime didn't just die out because the family bosses were killed. You had many lesser families battle it out for position, which led to the arrival of Oswald Cobblepot and his gang war on the rest of the remaining families."
Vesper gave him an amused look. "You seem well versed in the politics at the time, especially considering you were in the height of your playboys days."
Damn, and he had just stepped on that landmine. Time to recover. "I do have eyes and ears, Vesper. I may have had other interests, but I wasn't oblivious. There was a great ripple from all of that violence that affected business then."
"By that you mean Gotham's Big Business was losing money and finally noticed the plight of its less fortunate."
Vesper was on the attack again. Well, this was as good of a time to redirect as any and he had the very topic for the segway. "It was also at this time that Wayne Enterprises started many programs to help the 'less fortunate' as you put it," Bruce pointed out. "We've always had connections to charitable foundations, especially the ones names after the various members of my family going all the way back to Solomon Wayne, but we also began new ones targeting some of the social ills that still affect this city."
"And we would be remiss if we didn't mention some of them." Vesper had taken the hint, though her tone had a slight sarcastic edge. It was almost as if she were trying to point out that the billionaire was trying to score brownie points with the public and that they shouldn't be fooled by the tactic.
"Yes, we would," Bruce said, his tone cool, even. "And for your listeners that are listening, more information on these programs can be found online on the company webpage. You can also search Wayne Enterprises social assistance programs and will find a number of programs that can help."
"Do any of these programs help with frozen homes, or hospital visits from laughing gas exposure?" Vesper joked.
"Yes, they do." Again, he was quite blunt with his tone.
That caused the journalist to blink her eyes owlishly. Clearly she hadn't expected such a response. "Well, you Gothamites certainly do things differently here." A pause. "Is there anything you don't cover?"
"Probably an army of rats marching down Main Street, but we're working on that."
"Well, you heard it here, folks." Vesper's voice suddenly took on a serious tone. "We here at WGKX strongly encourage everyone that is suffering at this time to take Mr. Wayne up on the many programs he has that lend assistance to those in need. If you are having any difficulties, please call the station and we can help assist with getting you in contact with the people that can and will help you. Do not suffer in silence."
"Well said," Bruce said approvingly.
It had started with a tip and now it was in his office. Gordon was giving a hard look at the photos he had been given. The sight of various officers with bleached skin returned his look and the ones that had hints of green hair taunted him.
"What do we know about this?" he demanded as he lowered the photos, turning his gaze on the assembled officers on the other side of his desk. There were familiar faces and others he vaguely recalled, but many had been caught up in the whole incident.
"We know that Harvey Dent and Waylon Jones had broken into Shreck Textiles, and with the presence of plant...creatures, Pamela Isley is believed to have been present, though we still don't have confirmation on it. Based on the damages, they broke into a secure room and Isley was able to seize tanks of a chemical we're still investigating. During the fighting, one of the tanks was used as a projectile and various officers were exposed to the contents. Those who were exposed have been experiencing intense pain along with their skin being bleached. Those whose hair—"
"It turns green, I noticed. What is that stuff and why was it there?" the Commissioner interrupted. It had been Sawyer who was speaking, a sort of informal spokesman, or woman in this case, and while the summary was clear and distinct, it wasn't answering his question.
The combination of white skin and green hair was setting him on edge.
"It's still under investigation," Sawyer answered.
Of course it was. "I want to know everything about it. Its name, its purpose, why it was there, why some of our most wanted are after it, everything. There's going to be another Robinson Park, we just don't know what it's going to look like, and it's going to involve whatever the hell this crap is."
It didn't need to be said that they were on a ticking clock and they didn't know when time would run out.
"Who was the first on the scene? Who took charge first?" he asked after a moment's silence, his tone of voice calm, though it took some effort.
"I was, did, Sir." Ah, Montoya. That was a good choice.
"I'm putting you in charge. Find out everything." Pausing, a thought occurred to the Commissioner. "You might want to bring Bullock with you. You'll need to speak with Max Shreck since his name is plastered all over this. Ruffle some feathers, do what you need to, but get me what I want to know."
Gordon didn't really care who Shreck was, but the man was wealthy, and any time money got involved, you knew you were in for a rough time. There were going to be obstacles, so it was best to find yourself a good bulldozer to flatten them. That's where the suggestion to team up with Bullock came in, because no one had a better experience at bulldozing than the Lieutenant did. It was a bonus, he recalled, that the two had been paired up before. They knew how to work with each other
"Everyone else, I want you to hit pavement and find out where those Arkham folk are holing up. They're already tearing apart the city to get at each other. People are getting caught in the crossfire. They need to know they can walk the streets and not get blown up by whatever toys these crazies are using."
It was the only dismissal he was going to give and the group of officers poured out. Gordon stood up and walked around his desk, following after them. He fully intended to shut the door himself because he needed a minute to calm down from this latest wrinkle.
It didn't help that bleached-white skin and green hair were a combination he wanted to avoid, especially after that disaster of an interrogation. Especially after those words that bastard had said. He needed time to get himself centered as best as he could and…
Following after his officers had brought him into the doorway, something that he could pass off as making sure they were going to do their jobs, some kind of symbolic show of authority. His hand hadn't even reached for the door handle yet, so he was still in the clear about that vague gesture.
Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and looking to his left, he found, well, he supposed you could call it a sight for sore eyes. She came in a wheelchair, but still, there was a face that was completely welcomed to see.
"What are you doing out here?" Gordon wondered out loud, using no effort to make his voice sound gentle. It was Barbara after all, and it almost felt like it was back to those times when his baby girl was scampering all over the department. That really was a lifetime ago.
Barbara gave him a tired smile, but it was a smile all the same. "I just thought I would swing by before clocking in. Is it another all-nighter?"
It was, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. "I'm going to get some rest in a bit. How's the competition in your part of the department?"
Barbara shook her head, her smile not leaving her. "Dad, I'm not on the clock, so I can be your daughter right now and tell you you need to take care of yourself. Everyone is looking to you. I don't want this whole mess to...be the last one."
Oh, that pause was noticeable, and Gordon could guess what Barbara was actually going to say. His eyes flickered downward and noted that the wheels' of Barbara's chair was positioned exactly in the same spot where Sarah had...passed.
He took in a deep breath and felt how tired he was. Exhaustion from so many different things, so many different causes, and it felt like all of it was weighing down on him now. Then he opened his eyes—since when had they closed?—and reassured his daughter.
"If there is anyone here to nag after me, I'm glad it's you." There was no lie in any of that. "I will get a nap in, sometime today. But first, you need to get to your post. We have a busy day, especially if you heard about what happened last night."
"I bet I got more sleep than you. Take care of yourself, Dad," Barbara said.
Gordon smiled wanly and made a promise that he knew he had already broken, but made it anyway. They were the kinds of promises you only made to your children, and typically used two words. "I will."
It was only after watching her wheel herself away that it occurred to him that she had been outside of his office. Not that that was a problem, but if she had only shown up just then, he would have seen her moving, or heard the wheels treading against the floor. He had simply spotted her sitting there, as if she had been there waiting.
Had she heard anything? No, no, it shouldn't be any of his concern if she had chosen to wait for him outside of his office. It was his daughter, and even if he had wanted to protect her from everything the world could throw at her, this precinct was not the place.
Because she was going to hear things. She was going to see what the worst of humanity was capable of and she was going to be doing everything she could to fight it.
His eyes fell to the floor, right where he had spotted Barbara, and right where he had last held Sarah.
Then he turned to go back into his office, closing the door behind him.
This was so boring, she could cry. She wouldn't, of course, but after living life with adrenaline fueling every jump, punch, and kick, there was just no excitement to be had here.
Cassandra picked up a letter, eyeing the name on it, and placed it on a little pile with envelopes destined for the same floor. There were five such piles in front of her, a system she had developed thanks to Terry orintating her. Why pick up a handful of letters and packages, wander to each mail cart, drop them in their respective carts, and then come back to do the same thing when she could organize first, then drop off. It made sense to her.
It had been the same thing for the last few weeks and she was already wishing she were somewhere else. The money was alright, she supposed, but thanks to the billions that were already in her father's various accounts, it didn't excite her like some of the others here.
What was sad though was there were people here for several years and were content. Content! They just wanted to sort mail, collect their pay, and go home. There was no ambition and she found that quite startling.
That described Fran, the rookie-hater as she was known. She had been here since Thomas Wayne had run the company and hadn't advanced. It wasn't for lack of trying. Apparently she had made management, hated it, and had returned to the mailroom about ten years ago. She was gruff and had little tolerance for fun, as if it had been drained out of her over the years. The only ones she seemed to get along with were the older employees. Anyone that had been born around the turn of the century was automatically seen as useless in her eyes.
Cassandra kept her distance. She didn't need that negativity in her life.
Terry seemed alright. He was working his way through school onto bigger and better things. This job was just how he paid his bills and tuition. She rather liked that. She didn't want to be here any longer than she needed to be either.
There were several people like that too. It was these people she gravitated too, though she didn't speak much. She hadn't realized just how removed she was from other people until now. What excited these people were parties and family and sports teams and so many other things she had never really paid attention to. And it wasn't like she could tell them about being Batgirl. That was completely off limits and she didn't need her father's voice in the back of her head telling her that.
So she was...how did Terry put it? Oh yes, a wallflower. Someone that stood at the edge of the group, listening, always there, but never a part of the group. At least the others were nice about it. They didn't hold it against her, chalking up her behavior as shyness.
However, there was a conversation that filled the mailroom that morning, just as it had for the last few mornings. The Arkham inmates were tearing the city apart and their highlights were greatly debated.
"Dude, this city is going to hell in a handbasket," a dark-skinned man said. This was Shawn, a gentle giant of a man, but had no problem letting anyone know his opinion on things. His deep, booming voice had a way of dominating the conversation when he wanted to be heard.
A small girl with glasses snorted. Abby was what the public deemed "a hipster" and she looked the part from her glasses to baggy clothes. She looked like she fit more in at a poetry club than here. "Gotham's been there, done that so many times, it's damn near a cliché."
"This time is different, though," Shawn argued. "You didn't have these crazies trying to kill each other. They're tearing the city apart to do it."
"And how is that any different from what they do by themselves?" Abby pointed out. "Each one of them tries to blow up the city in some allegedly original way, only for Batman to stop them. Rinse and repeat."
"We'd be better off if Batman just killed them off," John, another young guy, added. The term straight-laced described him to a T. Combed hair, glasses, a button-up shirt and khakis were his uniform. He practically screamed ordinary. "Dead people can't hurt other people."
Abby raised a hand so she could adjust her glasses on her face. "Tell that to all those dark age villages that had bodies thrown at them by Ghangis Khan."
"That was tried already," Shawn said. "The Iceman did that, remember? Then he decided the whole city needed to die too, so that won't work."
"So what's the other solution? Sending them to Arkham over and over? That clearly worked," John replied sarcastically.
"You know what needs to be working?" Fran suddenly spoke up, a scowl on her aged face. "You three. Now quit your gabbing and get back to work."
How eloquently put. Seeing she had several large stacks, Cassandra picked up a couple, her fingers stretching as wide as they could so she could grab onto the piles. She did a last check to see which floors they were going and wandered over to the designated carts. Reaching one, she placed the stack in there with the rest of the mail. She then went to the other and found it full.
"Looks like the newbie has a new job," John chuckled as he spotted her next to the filled cart. "You better take that one upstairs and hand them out."
Unlike the neat stack she had, the rest of the envelopes were lazily tossed in, making one pile without any sort of organization. Already she knew she needed to go through it and organize it into stacks for each person. She felt annoyed by this.
"Well, what are ya waiting for?" Fran demanded then. "Get to work."
God, she hated this place.
The worst thing about the Joker was that you never knew what he was going to do next. Oh, you knew he was going to do something, it was the not knowing that was the second lethal part of the equation. There would be relief afterwards and that was because you were still alive and maybe unmaimed.
Too late for me, Two-Face supposed. The former D.A. was maimed for life, so that could only leave a different kind of injury—the fatal kind. As for Croc, well, just look at the guy. Maiming might be an improvement for him.
"We had a bust. Strange's goon snatch that crap right out from under our noses and then the cops busted in before we could do anything about it," Two-Face told the more dangerous than he appeared clown man, and he did so without sugar-coating it. What was the point to lie when you were heading for the gallows anyway?
Joker, for his part, looked up from a newspaper he was reading, looking absolutely confused. The pale white jester then looked away from him, as if seeing if there was someone else being spoken to before it clicked in that crazed brain of his that he was indeed the one spoken to. That was followed up with some confusion, the kind that seemed to ask "why am I being spoken to?" Then another realization that said, "oh, right!" and then the newspaper was casually tossed aside.
Two-Face was incredulous, and he only watched the whole thing happen, including the newspaper as it landed on the floor, ads and articles about upcoming movies and TV shows grabbing his attention for a second.
"Well, that sucks for you guys, doesn't it?" Joker remarked cheerfully. Then, shaking his head like a disappointed parent, "I didn't think a shopping trip was going to be so hard for a couple of guys like you. In and out, grab the stuff, and come back here so I can whip up something nasty with it. How did either of you give Batman so much trouble if this is above your paygrade?"
"Tell that to all the freaks that plant lady keeps making," Croc retorted, crossing his arms as he straightened up. "There must have been an army of them and they weren't gonna let us walk out with the goods. Speaking of, why'd you want that crap anyway? How'd you even know it was there?"
"Oh, Croc, have you not figured out I know everybody's secrets!" Joker gasped melodramatically, a hand pressing up against his chest. Pausing, the clown then added, "And if I don't know, then I stalk and ransack everything in your life until I do, but that's besides the point!"
"Strange wanted that crap too, maybe not for the same reason, but all the same, he has it now," Two-Face interrupted. As much as he felt on edge, he didn't want to stretch this all out too long. Let's see if they couldn't get this over and done with quickly. That way, they'd find out who was getting shot and who wasn't.
"And how would Chromedome know about that little stash? Methinks I have a rival, not a very good one, but a rival all the same." More commentary. Seriously.
"What does that matter? He has the crap now. So what are we gonna do about it?" Croc demanded, practically hissing through his pointed teeth.
"Beats the hell out of me," Joker shrugged, "but you have a point, my scaly musclehead. It's the principle of the matter now! We need to find Chromedome and the Nerd Squad, atomic wedgie their underpants, purple-nurple their nipples to kingdom come, and deck the halls with their brains and blood. You know, the usual. So how about everybody get their knickers out of a twist and find out where the rock they're hiding under is. Capeesh? Capeesh."
Two-Face found himself sharing a look with the larger crocodile man. That was dismissive enough. Shouldn't the clown be angry that Strange had gotten one on him? What was it they were missing, and what did the Joker really know about what was going on?
"What are you keeping us in the dark about?" the former lawyer demanded, turning back to Joker. "I think we deserve to know what your battle plan is, Clown."
"You deserve, do you? After failing to bring me a gift of some very toxic stuff? Noooo, that's not how this works at all, Harvey, my boy! You haven't even brought me a head back! Or a hand! I'll settle for a foot, bonus points if there is still a leg attached to it," Joker chided. "Oh no, you haven't earned the right. So go out there, do that voodoo that you do so well, and give that sorry excuse for a shrink something to be sorry about. Personally, I've been brushing up on some bald jokes, just because."
There was a choice to be made here. They could keep pressing their luck, but how long would it be before Joker became...bored? Bored of the topic and insistent that it be changed. Nothing like getting shot, or whatever else the clown had up his sleeve, would certainly do the trick. However, the lunatic was keeping too much away from them and Two-Face wanted to know what they weren't being told.
So far, it had just been going from point A to point B, cause some damage, go back to home base, then do it all over again. Joker was more determined to go after Strange, and, as odd as it sounded, protect Batman. The vigilante could take care of himself; he had proven that over the years. What was the true end game here was the real question, because that's what Joker was known for.
There was always an endgame and Joker was famed for keeping it under wraps until the last minute. What about them, the rest of this crew that had come under his flag? Didn't they need to know what was up? Where this was all heading? Being in the dark with the Joker involved was not a happy kind of place.
But getting maimed here would do no one any good either.
"We're not done here," is what the former DA said, before taking his leave. Croc gave a growl, but followed after him. There were times to fight and there were times to back off. Two-Face knew this would go nowhere and trying harder was going to get someone hurt needlessly. It was like trying to fight a wall. Yes, you could get in some good hits.
But in the end the wall always won.
