Author's Note: this is me making lemons out of lemonade--or, attempting to use a discrepancy, brought up by a scurrilous reviewer, in-story. Convicted felons being who they are, allegiances are not as delineated as they seem to be. Nor do they come without a price. You'll see why, in this chapter and beyond.

Harvey Bullock.

En route to Arkham Asylum.

"Bullock? Bullock, come in."

His hand wraps around the CB receiver and he brings it up to his mouth. As he speaks, the cigar screwed between his lips twitches and teeters. Never falls out.

"What is it, Commish?"

"You left in a hurry. Mind telling me how you plan to get on the island?"

"I dunno," Bullock rasps and tamps the cigar. "Figured I'd get Batman to give me a lift."

"He's not answering."

Bullock rolls his eyes and runs a red light, turning on a dime onto Moldoff Avenue. "Surprise," he grumbles.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I'll think of somethin, Jim. No worries. Bullock out."

The Operating Theater.

I can't trust him.

Despite everything he's done for me in the past thirty minutes, I can't trust him. Mainly because the Harvey Dent I knew and respected is gone. His life destroyed, his career nonexistent, his wife…disappeared.

The doctors may say otherwise.

Harvey Dent is dead. And though I loathe admitting it, I don't think he's coming back.

"Bats?"

He draws my attention. "What?"

"You said we were splitting up. Change your mind much?"

"No," I say after a pause. "Let's go."

He pushes open the swing-doors of the operating theater and steps out, level his gun ahead of him. If it weren't for the pinstripe suit and disfigurement I'd almost say he was on the Quick Response Team.

Speaking of…

"I'll take East Wing," he says, half-turning to me. "That's Minimum Security. You're okay with the loonies?"

I glance away from him. Back. "I've been there before. You do what you need to do, and so will I."

His eyebrows flash upward in surprise. "Okay then."

We part at a T-junction. His footsteps echo behind me and eventually die.

The Batcave.

Underneath stately Wayne Manor.

The Batcave—a title given by Dick Grayson, the first Robin—was carved out of granite by millennia of erosion. When the current tenant occupied it, he tailored the space to fit his needs.

Particularly, the needs of transportation and information gathering.

To this end, there are garages for his many automobiles, hangars for at least two planes converted from WayneTech and LexCorp designs, and a massive Cray XMP computer—situated at the pinnacle of the cave atop several levels of man-made supports and sub-levels.

Tim Drake—to date, the third boy to call himself Robin—is sitting at that computer; more precisely, perched on the edge of the platform, staring precipitously at a rather precipitous drop.

And behind the domino mask, behind the plates of his skull, the gears are turning.

"Master Timothy, where do you think you're going?"

"Someone breaks into Bruce's room while he's in the shower and makes off with him, Alfred. It doesn't feel right."

"And you presume to have culprits?"

Robin feels momentarily confused.

"No," he says. "It doesn't make sense. None of the usual suspects know who he is, much less the unusual ones. And even if it were someone who knew—"

"Bane, perhaps? Doctor Strange?"

"Nah," Robin says and shakes his head irritably. "Bane would've just beaten the shit out of him, and Strange would've glowered at him all night."

"It's possible," Alfred says and taps his chin thoughtfully. "That it was one of your usual suspects. Dr. Crane perhaps."

Tim fits the green gloves on his hands and turns to Alfred slowly.

"What?"

"There was…a caller," Alfred admits. His posture slouches a bit and he looks away from Tim. "Being as I am, Master Timothy, I answered. It was then that I realized my mistake, and scant moments later Dr. Crane had already worked his dastardly charms. I do apologise, Master Timothy. It is…my way, you know."

Tim inhales. Holds it. Lets go. And fits the domino mask over his eyes. "I'm going."

"Where?"

"We threw Crane in the Asylum months ago. Looks like he's figured out a point of easy access."

"But how are you to get there? The news reports that the bridges off the island have been blown."

Behind the domino mask, Tim's eyes narrow.

"Then I'll fly the unfriendly skies, Alfred. Stay alert."

And Robin launches off the platform, downward to the bowels of the cave. Down to the only kind of transportation that will get him to Arkham Asylum.

Arkham Asylum.

The front desk.

The Joker, despite leaking blood on pretty much everything, is sitting with his feet up at the front desk. In another life, the pretty little blonde number named Sidney would have sat there collecting papers and police reports and catching grief from the local pigs.

Times change.

There are new tenants now.

For the last twenty minutes or so, Joker's been occupying himself by opening and closing the massive front doors by remote. He even found a rat and trapped him right at the intersection point. You see, when the doors close, cross-hatched wires within the hollow metal electrify. Crispy baked rat.

This gave Joker cause to laugh. But that was only ten or so minutes ago. Now he's just bored, except for the fact that he made a necklace out of Sidney's ears.

One of the red lights on a console next to him blinks to life.

"Eh?"

He presses the call button. It gets the guards desk, further back in the complex.

"This is Nigma," the guard's desk answers back. "Talk to me."

"Roger ten-four, good buddy, we got a chicken in the soup, Smokey. Repeat, chicken in the soup. Come back."

"Cut the Burt Reynolds. What is it?"

Joker pulls his feet down and hunches forward at the desk. He traces the red light's corresponding number on the adjoining ledger. "I want you to go to camera…three outside. Tell me what you see."

Nigma complies.

The image is hazy. But it's certainly what it looks like. Nigma rolls his eyes and talks into the receiver again.

"At the risk of a stupid question—"

"It's one of the piggies, isn't it?"

"Bullock." As soon as Nigma says it, the other end explodes in laughter. "And he's soaked--looks like he just tried to ford the river."

"Let him in, and after a while maybe I'll jump out from behind a pillar and jam an axe in his stomach."

"No," Nigma replies without delay. "I might have known."

"Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to, Eddie."

"Fine," Nigma says and waves his free hand. "Let him in, and make yourself scarce. We'll let Crane have him."

"Jeez, what is it with you and Crane?" Joker questions and cocks an unseen eyebrow. "People will say you're in love."

Nigma sighs. "Good-bye, Joker."

"Wait! Don't I get a Christmas card from you two?!"

Nigma hangs the receiver back on the hook and switches it off.

The Batplane.

High over Gotham's East End.

"How's air traffic at Goodwin, Alfred?"

"Frozen solid, my dear sir, and all because of an unidentified bogey flying inside this 'safe radius' of theirs."

"Good. I'm setting her down on the front lawn. Think that'll get their attention?"

"Indubitably."

The Operating Theater.

This is Dr. Jonathan Crane having a tantrum.

"Listen, Nigma," he growls into a two-way radio. "You send me to do a job, and they're not here. So tell me, Mister Answer Man. Where are they?"

"Why don't you sing a nursery rhyme? That usually brings one out."

"Funny," Crane snorts. "Open up your damn security monitors and find them."

Nigma sighs and opens all channels.

Maximum Security. Minimum Security.

Victor Fries. Victor Zsasz. Garfield Lynns. Pamela Isley. Harleen Quinzel.

"Nowhere," Nigma says and frowns. He slumps a bit in his seat and scratches his head. "I have no sign of them. They may not be on the island anymore."

"Don't put too much stock in that theory, Edward. Find them. Or I come gunning for you."

"You can try, you—"

Click. Crane's already turned off the two-way.

"You'd better calm down, Crane."

Crane pivots in place. Behind the burlap mask, he's momentarily frightened. But only momentarily. It stops being scary when Harvey Dent steps out of the shadows, holding a gun at waist length.

Aiming that gun straight at Crane's stomach.

"Harvey? What the hell's going on?"

"You let out the rank and file inmates to deal with the guards. The only people left in the Asylum itself are the four of us, and one dead administrator. And because Penguin got himself thrown in jail, Batman's involved now."

"But you wanted in on this! You told me to leave Batman to you."

"And so you shall," Dent says sharply. His grip on the gun tightens. "You can cast aside whatever notion you think you have that he's Bruce Wayne."

"Nigma knows."

"Nigma thinks he knows. You leave Batman to me, and the rest of you can have Gotham."

Crane frowns quizzically behind the burlap mask. "Fine," he says after a pause. "That's fine. Just…put the gun down."

"No," Dent says. "I keep this on you until you tell me what I want to know." When Crane slides a finger up to his hat and tries to pluck out a straw filled with his trademark gas, Dent shoots him in the hand.

Crane falls to his knees, moaning and massaging the wound.

Dent approaches and angles the gun at Crane's forehead.

"Where did you find out Batman's secret identity?"

"Where did you get that extra costume you had me put him in?"

Dent shoots him in the shoulder. The pain and the point-blank force throw Crane prostrate.

"Where did you find out Batman's secret identity?"

"Hrmm….nn...Nigma…"

"And where did he find it?"

"I don't know."

Dent's thumb pulls the hammer back. Another bullet enters the chamber.

"Arkham," Crane whispers and coughs up blood. "Arkham told him."

Dent puts the gun to Crane's temple, pressing against the burlap.

"Is that so?"

The Front Lawn.

By the time I get out of the plane and actually anywhere near the Asylum front doors, I see Harvey Bullock sitting on one of the concrete pediments, busying himself with a cigar.

He looks bored as hell.

"Well, this is new," I say and approach him. Drape the cape over the shoulder. It makes me look spooky. 'When did the nut take over the nuthouse, Detective?"

He gives me a courtesy smile—one of those 'funny-ha-ha and by the way you're full of it' smiles.

"Funny kid. I was actually waitin on one of you to show up."

"Really?" I say. "We really mean that much to you?" He shrugs. "Thanks, Bullock. Stand back."

I pull two batarangs from my belt—one a standard issue, the other explosive. Throw back the cape theatrically. That's right, Tim, inflate the ego. Make Bullock green with envy.

"What are those?"

"The first one will tell me if the door's electrified."

I let it fly. It makes a small arch and makes contact just above the handle on the right-side door. And it disappears for a moment behind a puff of smoke and sparks.

"Definitely electrified," I say. Bullock says something as I throw the explosive 'rang, and I tune him out.

When the second batarangs hits, its blows a small hole in the left-side door. And when I walk up to judge its size—

"Bullock."

"Yeah?" He says it so awkwardly.

"I'm going in. If you think you can suck it in enough to fit, you're welcome to follow."

"Not really," he says and reaches into his pocket. He comes back with a small plastic rectangle—an Arkham credit card maybe?—and slides it across a slit at the top of the keypad. A small vox reads his name back and says he can enter.

The doors drone for a second as the electricity kicks off, and then open outward.

"You couldn't have done that before?" I ask.

"Cops all get one. Figure we come here enough as is, why should we have to get buzzed in, y'know?"

I shrug. "Fair enough."

The foyer before us is lit-up. Too much so to make me think it's harmless. I take a deep breath and make my hands into fists. They're still shaking a bit. I've never gotten used to coming here.

And this isn't about to make it any better.

Bullock pulls his gun from his shoulder holster and follows me in.

Continued...