Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.
Lying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, clutching his throat. Trying desperately to keep the blood in. Failing to stay alive.
His fingers grasp at the cold tile almost spastically. His nervous system is already going. Very soon, his eyesight and his brain functions will follow suit.
He grasps his throat again. It's hot and it stings. And…
And there's something in there. Something just as hot, just as painful. Between gasps he plucks it out. He attempts to wipe away some blood, but only smears it across the playing card's face.
A laminated Joker stares back at him and mocks him.
And then a shadow falls over Arkham's convulsing body. He manages to push his glasses up on his nose. The shadow belongs to the real Joker.
"Wrong card, Doc. Looks like you don't get to black the jack."
And Joker pulls a gun out of that garish purple jacket. Aims it.
And Joker kneels. Whispers in his ear.
"You're not your name, Jerry. You're not your family."
Presses the barrel against the top of Arkham's skull. Arkham's dying eyes roll back in their sockets, staring upside-down at Joker. Arkham's desperate for air now. The invading smell of the cordite doesn't help.
"Don't hurt him, clown," someone says.
The gun barrel atop Arkham's skull is suddenly nothing. His light starts to fade and all he can see is a man in a two-tone suit aiming a gun of his own at the Joker.
Arkham's dying ears hear the riot sirens go off, terrible and purposefully sonorous. Feel the floor he's laying on rumble with the compounded footsteps of unionized guards and unstable rioters.
The guards, Arkham tries to choke out, they don't get paid enough to deal with this. State…cutbacks.
Too bad, he imagines the Joker saying and shooting him anyway.
Arkham loses control of his bowels, a curtain call as it were, and then dreams that Harvey Dent is beating the Joker to his knees. Arkham wraps a hand over the bloody furrow in his neck, and closes his eyes.
The pain dies when he closes his eyes.
By the time Tim Drake discovers that Wayne is on his way back into Gotham city in the trunk of his very own Rolls Royce, it will be far too late.
Crane taps his ear, through the burlap mask.
"Nigma?"
"The hoi polloi are occupying the administration. You have three minutes until detonation. I suggest you run a few red lights."
"Not necessary," Crane says. He amps the Rolls into fourth gear.
"Why is that?"
"I'm already on the island." Crane looms out the driver's window, and Arkham Asylum curls and reaches into the sky. Architecture's middle finger to God. "You can blow the bridges--"
The explosions are visible from the coast. Tremors travel along the earth, and as far away as City Hall and Central, people feel them.
Armand Krol sees the explosion from his office and immediately calls Jim Gordon.
Jim Gordon sees the explosion from his office, and immediately calls Harvey Bullock.
And Jonathan Crane is on the tail-end of a shockwave. Nigma didn't waste any time pressing the button after he gave the confirmation. The Rolls was barely on terra firma before the Trigate Bridge exploded behind him.
And it's nothing short of a true explosion. The pillars at either end of the Trigate Bridge rumble and fade behind flashes of light and clouds of dust as the charges go off. A second later, the brick facades crumble. The suspension cables go limp and the center of the bridge sags and lists to one side. Automobiles on the bridge follow its worsening sag; some breaking through its guardrails and tumbling into the water, others merely hang precariously from an edge.
The bridge's integrity is too far gone. No through-traffic on either end—even the cars already on there, the ones not dangling or dead in the water, can't go anywhere. Like a house of cards, the bridge is already locked in its death throes. No one gets on, no one gets off.
The Wein and Nolan bridges—really just arms of Trigate—explode and sink into the river like clockwork. Five minutes later, the Schwartz bypass blows unceremoniously and follows suit.
The lights on Trigate wink off. On. Finally die.
The echo from the detonations echoes through the island and, Crane surmises, the streets. A million waspy shits in downtown Gotham just clutched their fur coats in fake outrage and said 'oh dear Christ.'
From Arkham Island and the city surrounding it, there's absolute silence.
From his cell window, Edward Nigma smiles. They'll listen to us now.
From the front doors to the Asylum, gaping wide open, Harvey Dent rubs the Joker's blood from his face with the back of one hand, and reloads his pistol.
He's going to need it.
Arkham Asylum.
The Operating Theater.
The first thing Batman feels when he wakes is Harvey Dent's breath on his cheek. And then, the raspy voice of the former District Attorney.
He imagines he can still smell the rotting flesh in Dent's mouth, the scar tissue at the roof and tonsils, brought on by Maroni's acid. But it's just an illusion.
And the room is suddenly very cold to Batman's skin.
He feels a slow exhalation of air over his face. Dent is leaning over Batman, scant inches from his body, examining--or just staring--at the unmasked man strapped to the table.
"Is it really true?" he hears Dent say. "Can you really…be you? My great and worthy opponent?"
The room is cold, because Batman is not accustomed to feeling a chill air on his face. His face is usually covered by a Kevlar-reinforced cowl, a surprisingly lightweight affair that binds to the skin and denies it oxygenation.
"This is what you are," Dent whispers again. He's leaning close over Batman's body, as if he needs to be close enough to touch it. Close enough to see it, to believe it.
The body of a bat, and the head of a millionaire.
Dent's human eyebrow angles sharply. "Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to."
And the body of Bruce Wayne, in the shell of a bat-man, begins to stir. His lips open and round and try pointlessly to speak. He licks his lips, and his eyes flutter open—they adjust to the surgical lamps overlooking him, and they perceive the bifurcated shape of Harvey Dent.
Staring down at the face of Bruce Wayne with an expression between scientific curiosity and media snobbery.
"Bruce Wayne. Flesh and blood."
Batman groans, barely audible. "Hu…Harvey…?"
"Yes, Bats, it's me." As he speaks, Dent unties the leather straps holding Batman to the table.
"What…what am I doing here?"
"You were attacked by the Scarecrow in your home. He gassed you and brought you here, to the Asylum."
"Where's Robin?"
"You're asking the wrong guy," Dent says. He tucks one hand in one pocket and starts pacing. "All I can tell you is that every bridge off this island no longer exists. Anyone who wants to get in has to do it with a helicopter."
Batman's head falls back to the table. He's exasperated—still feeling the effects of Crane's gas. "The inmates…rioted?"
Dent nods, knowing even so that Batman's barely conscious enough to see it. "Courtesy of Nigma and about five of his best friends. The names Cobblepot gave you were a perfect match."
Bruce Wayne's eyes narrow. "How would you know that?"
"I might be a few years removed from the DA's office, Bats, but I still have friends in all the right places."
Batman sits up on the table and runs a hand through his hair. His hand stops at his temple. He's figured out he doesn't have his mask. And he has a small and sudden tantrum.
"Harvey, where is my mask? What did you do with it? Where is it!"
"Calm down," Dent says flatly. "Crane brought you in, I removed it."
"Then…you know," Batman says and fakes cryptic.
"Present tense," Dent says and smiles. "I had my ideas, especially when you first decided to scare the shit out of Falcone. And to think…"
"What?"
"I used to think it was Maroni in that costume. Maybe a Juris Doctor isn't all its cracked up to be."
"I wouldn't know," Batman concedes.
Dent scoffs. "Bruce Wayne," he says, still bordering on incredulity. "In the flesh."
"So to speak."
"You disagree?" Dent flashes an eyebrow again.
"Enough," Batman says and puts an end to it. "If you're right about this riot—"
"That's not in question."
"—If you're right, we have to stop it."
Dent smiles. Fully. What's left of the scarred part of his face forms into a bastard grin.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Dent said. He reaches one hand into his jacket and pulls out the cowl. Hands it to Wayne. "Secret's safe with me…Bruce. You can live with the risk, so can I."
"Agreed," Wayne says and fits the cowl over his head once more. "You understand what we have to do?"
"Take back the night," Dent says. "Channeling Eastwood much?"
"Actually," says Batman's voice, tinny and barely audible, "I was thinking of Zorro."
And Edward Nigma, listening in on a pirated HAM line, growls under his breath. He rips the headset from his ears and launches out of his seat.
"Crane!"
Down the hall from the Dispensary, Jonathan Crane's spindly form pivots and sees Nigma barreling toward him in a strange sort of power walk. Nigma's prison-grays flap in the wind resistance.
"What? What is it?"
"This is not good, Jonathan!" Nigma waves a finger in Crane's face, like a doddering grandmother. "Batman is awake, and he's got Dent helping him. You were supposed to stop that from happening!"
Crane scowls and bats Nigma's finger from his face. "Don't. Do that."
"Explain yourself, you clod!"
"I did what you told me, you supercilious bastard!" Crane protests and throws his arms in the air. "Delivered him to the theater. You didn't tell me Dent was supposed to be there—"
"He wasn't!"
"—Much less that giving Batman to him wasn't in the plan."
"It's not!" Nigma screamed. "Dent does not figure into this plan, Jonathan. Get down there. Fix it! Now!"
Continued...