Arkham Asylum.
The office of Dr. Jeremiah Arkham.
This is what its like to be you, Jeremiah. The unfortunate, willing heir of a name and a legacy that…doesn't have much going for it.
Your grandfather, Amadeus: the one who started it all, with a personal administration of justice for killing his wife and child. It set Amadeus on a path your inmates have worn well the past few years.
You're just as bad as Amadeus. Sins of the father and all that. Or grandfather…as the case may be.
And you haven't slept in days. Or months, really. That explains the haggard appearance—and it's not like Batman really notices or cares, anyway, right? You're certainly not looking for a date, are you?
No. Too busy running the nuthouse.
"Arkham."
You let the word hang in the air for a moment, thinking he's just saying the name of the place. Then you figure out he's talking to you.
"Oh, uh, yes?"
He slams an open palm on the desk. For a moment you imagine you can see the veins underneath his glove, and the scarlet liquid flowing through them.
He must be a fascinating character under that mask, you think. You're probably right. Why else would he wear it? Who else would wear it? Stupid question, you correct yourself. Arkham, you fool, you used to think Harvey Dent was the Batman. Up until Maroni threw acid in his face.
"You have information I want," Batman says again. His voice sounds positively grave. And you're still thinking of ways to get inside his head like a surgeon of the conscience. He must be terribly fascinating. "The Penguin didn't use his own men to rip off the jeweler."
"Yes I know."
Liar.
"He used the Riddler's."
"Nigma?" You feign surprise. "Why the hell would he do that?"
"No one knows," Batman says. He withdraws his hand and lets it slide beneath the sleekness of his cape, draped absolutely motionless around his shoulders. "Except you."
Oh Batman, you fool.
"I know what I can, Batman. The inmates are in my charge. If I pick up a thing here or there, that's no business of yours."
"Lives are at stake. Nigma got word to his men from inside your walls. How? Why?"
Another dead stare.
"Let me ask you this, Batman. Have you ever actually listened to anyone's problems?"
"They're criminals. That's problem enough for me."
You recline in your chair and stroke your chin. "And yet you come here asking me for information you should already know. Since when do you ask me for anything, aside from tighter security? Hmm?"
"You don't want me to get difficult, Arkham. Your inmates are planning something huge, in the very near future. I believe you have knowledge of it. More than I do, anyway."
"All you have," you say. "Are names, Batman, and the hope that you'll develop a case. But you don't have anything, and I think you know it. And I think that scares you."
Even through the cowl, you see his eyes narrow.
"It's confidentiality, then." He says it slowly, holding back his anger or playing calm. Not really sure which.
You nod slowly, demurely, and grin like a Cheshire cat.
"The usual suspects," Batman says. "Joker, Nigma, Crane…Dent." He hesitated saying Dent's name. That's odd. You make a note of it. "They're all planning something. You know what it is."
"I might," you say, going suddenly hostile. "And I've said I'll do what is right, Batman. You may think you run this city, but you don't. You're just a…a street-sweeper, wiping up the dirt and the muck to give the illusion of cleanliness. And you certainly don't run my asylum!"
He turns to leave. You've successfully routed him.
"What is it about Harvey Dent, Batman?" you call after him. "Why did you hesitate? Is he close to you? Does he share his secrets?"
Batman doesn't even look back.
And you, Jeremiah, you're far too immersed with me to let go now.
You lean back in your chair and rub your temples. And you tell me to come out.
The walk-in closet a meter away from your desk slides open, and there I am. Watching you openly.
"He knows too much," I say and the burlap rustles.
And you sigh, as you always have. Sigh and overlook the obvious.
The Batmobile.
En route back to Wayne Manor.
"That went well," I say lightly and raise an eyebrow.
"Penguin knows too much to not be involved. He's in prison now, but he won't stay there. They'll bust him out, sooner or later."
"You…didn't bother to tell Gordon that?" I ask. Fair question.
"No," he says. "Believe it or not, I didn't want to scare him. The city can barely handle things as they are now, let alone what would happen if it had a riot on its hands."
I manage a snicker. "You wanted to scare him, you could've pulled a gun on him."
The car slows down. My eyes dart around for a moment, and Bruce stares at me with the empty white eyes of his cowl. His mouth is a minor scowl.
"Oh." I've caught my mistake. I turn away sheepishly. "Sorry…"
Arkham Asylum.
Edward Nigma and Dr. Jonathan Crane.
"How did it go?"
"The benefits of an odorless and invisible gas are myriad, Edward. Arkham was loopy to begin with—he'll get worse. And Batman…"
"You can stop calling him that, Crane," Nigma says irritably. "I don't care what he dresses up like. He's just a man—a rich and particularly foppish man, but a man even so. And that means he's no better than any of us."
"If you're right, Edward," Crane points a skeletal finger, "and he is who you say he is…I won't have any trouble."
Wayne Manor.
Dinner.
"Cold."
Alfred rolls his eyes as Bruce says it. "It's Gazpacho, Master Bruce. Its intended form is cold."
"Not talking about the soup, Alfred," Bruce says and turns his spoon through the soup. Then he looks up at Alfred, hovering someplace over his left shoulder. "Leave us for a minute?"
Alfred raises a quick and puzzled eyebrow, then turns and leaves.
And me, sitting miles away at the far end of the dinner table, I can't really figure out why. When has he ever sent Alfred away?
Something's not right about this…
"How is dinner, Tim?"
"It's good…real good. Even the soup."
"Good," he says, and cuts into the brisket. Five minutes pass. Five particularly awkward minutes.
Finally: "You want to talk about something, Bruce?"
"No." He's almost done with the brisket.
"Well," I pry. "That's interesting. You haven't been this quiet since…well, I'm not quite sure."
"What's your point?" he asks, looking up from what's left of his dinner. He's shooting me a look of death—I can tell by the downturned eyebrows, even from this distance. But form this distance, a look of death doesn't quite work.
I pause and set the fork down.
"Look, I'm sorry about the gun thing in the car. I didn't mean anything by it."
"I know you didn't."
My posture stiffens. Well, gee Bruce, nice of you to be considerate.
"You want to talk about me being cold? Let's talk about you not saying a damn word since we got back from the Asylum, huh? I dunno what the whackos did to you while you told me to wait in the car, but it must've been huge."
"You disapprove of the way I handled Cobblepot's interrogation."
Interesting question. Holy left field, Batman.
"I…suppose that's true."
"Then you can take the case," he says, flashing me another look of death. He stands and picks up his plate. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."
And he's gone. Leaving me to the cavernous dining room, alone with my very puzzled self.
"…Okay…"
February 14.
Arkham Asylum.
The Basement Library
Dent's light is interrupted by a dark shape over his shoulder. A dark shape, accompanied by the rancid smell of too much cologne and the hot stench of a permanent smile.
The Joker. One and only.
"Whatcha readin, Harv? My Pet Goat?"
"The Undiscovered Self," Dent corrects. He's annoyed, as usually happens when the clown comes around. "Carl Jung. Familiar?"
Joker touches a finger to his chin and taps it thrice. Then he channels Elmer Fudd. "Erm…nope nope nope. Can't say I have. Any pictures in this book?"
"Not that kind of book," Dent says. He reclines in his chair. As he does he elbows Joker just above his testicles. The clown, after an unexpected exhalation of air, gets the hint and backs away a foot. "Don't you have a Communist to read?"
"Nah," Joker waves his hand, almost drunkenly. "I'm just not that into him. Now I'm into funky fruit hats. You want one?"
"No." Dent keeps reading. Doesn't even dignify Joker with eye contact.
"Well!" Joker exclaims. "Sor-ry. Be that way, okay? See if I care!"
"Are you done?"
Joker grits his teeth and grumbles under his breath. "Yeah…jerk."
Wayne Manor.
Dr. Crane
Ding-dong.
Three seconds later, almost too good to be clockwork even, the butler answers the door.
He doesn't even get to say "Wayne Manor" before Crane plucks a straw from his hat. The butler goes down instantly, nodding off in mere seconds to dreamland. The benefits of an, ahem, laced fear gas.
Upstairs
After a rather refreshing shower, Bruce Wayne's usual acumen is a brief exercise, followed by an even briefer nap. When 11:30 arrives, he retires to his cave for an evening of quiet surveillance. If a problem arises, he's in the car and already on the way.
Yes, his response time is fast.
Not tonight, though.
That works in my favor.
He steps out the shower and stares at himself in the mirror. It's then that the magic starts to work. Lingering steam in the bathroom has no where to go until he opens the door—and he's far from doing that. He's too busy inspecting himself. Criticizing himself for not being all the Batman he can be.
Look at you, Wayne. You're a wreck. You're 38 years old and you dress up in a Halloween costume every night to beat up bank robbers and vagrants.
You're tired.
Yes, his expression says, and I can even hear him through the mirror. It's not so much lucky for me that he has strange open spaces in his house. It's rather fortunate that there's a crawlspace behind his wall-wide bedroom mirror. Chances are he uses it as a means of entrance to that cave of his.
Tim can take care of things. You haven't heard a peep from the usual suspects since before Christmas. You deserve a night off.
I made a promise…
To hell with promises. They're overrated. Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead? Hardly. Rest now, work later. Live today, fight tomorrow.
His brow furrows. He's starting to piece it together; the fog from the dosage I gave in Arkham's office is wearing off.
Just a little birdie.
The mirror shatters; a fragmented panoply of pieces too small to perceive. Some larger, some smaller, each has its intended effect. They swirl for a millisecond, suspended in weightless apogee, before falling to the floor, slicing through hand and foot and skin as they do.
Wayne recoils, in fear—of all things—and can only manage to stare at me like some terrified child.
Scarecrow.
"I weep for you," I say, and the burlap mask rustles.
Wayne breathes heavy. He supports himself with one arm propped on the floor, the other making a paltry shield.
"I deeply sympathize."
I pluck a straw from my hat and give him another dosage. He goes limp, unconscious from the concentration.
"You have no idea how happy this will make Edward."
Continued...