Downtown Gotham City.
The office of Mayor Armand Krol.
"What a mess," Krol says and sips from a wine goblet. His eyes narrow and he stares out his window across the cityscape. Beyond the glittering lights of a hundred high-rises, despite the encroaching night, Krol sees clouds moving in from the Atlantic, pushing cold air ahead. By midnight, if not by morning, there'll be snow.
"Sir?" Jim Gordon spoke up from the back of the room. Krol turns around, sets the goblet on his desk, and stares at it for a moment.
"Okay," he sighs. "The bridges are gone. Batman's not responding. And the National Guard refuses to go in."
"Can they do that?" DeFilippis cuts in. "I mean…that's not very nice of them."
"Doesn't matter what we do, Andy," Gordon says. "Believe it or not, the inmates would eat them alive. We need to send the QRT in there. They're the only ones who know what to expect."
"Alright, listen," Krol interjects. "Gordon, you take DeFilippis and a squad of six to Arkham."
"Six?" DeFilippis frowns.
"Anything bigger would set them off," Gordon says. "Six will have to do."
"Airlift in," Krol says. "One of your blimps should be quiet enough."
"What if they've got air cover, Mayor?" DeFilippis scratches his head. "Could be fifty of them standing on the front lawn with shotguns, it doesn't matter. We could be in the middle of a hornet's nest."
Gordon strokes his chin thoughtfully.
"What about this," he says. "Last I heard from Bullock, he was on his way to the Asylum. That was twenty minutes ago. Chances are he's inside now. And I'm willing to bet Batman's there too."
"Batman isn't answering the signal," Krol says thickly. "He's not coming."
Gordon frowns. Stands. Turns to leave.
"I think you're wrong, Armand. And I'm going to prove it to you."
As he pushes the door open, DeFilippis falls in step behind him and turns to Krol abruptly.
"We'll uh…we'll be in touch," he says and shrugs.
Arkham Asylum.
The Operating Theater.
Dent rips the burlap mask off Crane's head and tosses it aside. Some of the straws, containing Crane's trademark fear gas, snap and hiss and release trace amounts. Enough to turn Harvey Dent's world on its ear.
He ignores them anyway—lets the disorientation pass after a moment.
Harvey Dent has long since overcome his fear.
He kneels next to Crane's very unconscious body, and pulls the headset from around Crane's head. "Hmm," he grumbles and inspects the unit, and then glances down at Crane.
The man who was the Scarecrow is deep in unconscious slumber, his mouth half-slacked, dripping saliva at one end. He looks almost child-like, except that Harvey Dent knows better.
"Your supplier's a curious man," Dent mumbles to no one in particular. And then puts the communicator in his own ear. He thinks for a moment, and finally speaks. "Nigma."
"Crane? Did you take care of them?"
"No, he didn't," Dent replies thickly. "You have the wrong party."
"Harvey?" Nigma's voice shrinks a bit. After a silence, it picks up. "What the hell's going on?"
"I was thinking you could tell me that. Crane's your lapdog; you think he can take out both me and Batman? Not to mention your little pyrotechnics earlier. This is a hell of a riot, Nigma. You haven't even let out the big guns yet."
"What do you want?" Nigma says, and Dent registers him as getting…irritated.
"To know what you think you're doing, Edward. You're letting the autistic and the brain-damaged run the place while the rest of us are running laps! And now Batman's involved."
"This is not some Sunday picnic, Harvey," Nigma snaps. "There are countless variables."
"Wrong answer," Dent says. "There's one variable, and he's running around Minimum Security in a gray suit. So you need to decide what kind of riot you're running. In about ten minutes, Gordon's going to send the Quick Response Team across that river and ask us very nicely to return to our cells. Do you want to be on the receiving end of their wrath?"
"No."
Dent's lips tighten and his voice drops. "Then open Maximum Security. Let them out. Send the loonies to the armory and give the others a knife or something. For Christ's sake, you let the Joker out!"
At the guard's desk, Nigma frowns and stares at the console for a second. "What makes you think you can just take charge, Harvey?"
"Because all you're doing is sitting there with tented fingers wallowing in your stupid glory, Nigma. I'm taking over because you can't. Okay? That sound good to you?!"
"But—"
"Listen to me, you little shit," Dent yells. "Open the cells, or I'm coming to rip your testicles off and feed them to you, do you hear me? You think Batman's the worst of your problems, you ain't seen nothin' yet. The price of leaving me out of your little riot is more than you can bear, and you know it. I'm involved now, and you should be thankful that I am! Don't mess with me, Nigma, I'm a lawyer!"
Dent pulls the headset off and throws it across the room with a grunt.
At the Guard's Desk, Nigma takes in a quick huff of air and expels it. "God damn you," he says. His finger hovers over the release button for the Maximum Security cells.
And presses it.
Audio speakers in every room of every part of the Asylum are wired into the security system, of which the cell release is part. Blue lights blink rapidly and accompany a monotone alert. Across the ranks and files of Maximum Security, the cell doors slide open.
Garfield Lynns steps out of his cell, cracks his knuckles and starts moving.
Victor Zsasz steps out of his cell and wrings his hands. Then he smiles, and slinks along the walls until he reaches the end of the cell bay.
Harleen Quinzel tiptoes out and stares at the cell next to hers—Poison Ivy's. "Aren't you coming?" Quinzel says. Ivy stares at the potted rose in her lap and says, "No."
In the Operating Theater, Dent hears the alert. He sees the blue light, across the theater, blinking. The guards won't get to it in time, if they see it at all. He sinks to the floor and sets the revolver down and runs his hands through what's left of his hair.
Harvey. You're having a difficult day. You should relax.
The office of Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.
Bullock stands by the door, his gun held high and tight against his torso. If someone was to come around the corner, Bullock would hear them and jump out and try to shoot. 'Course, his blubber would get in the way of good police work.
Story of my life.
"You done yet?" he asks and sounds a little worried.
"No," I say.
I'm perched on top of a filing cabinet, currently about halfway through the top drawer. Tax bills, receipts, some of the private notes of Arkham—as well as those of Asylum's ranking psychologist, Scott Nybakken.
The notes concern themselves with Joker and…Harvey Dent. Interesting.
Altering probability exercises with Dent. The Joker's recent penchant for Marx. The resurfacing of Harvey Dent as the dominant personality.
"Hmm."
"What?" Bullock's still nervous.
"I may have something," I say, staring at Nybakken's notes. I look up at Bullock. "Tell me what you think caused this riot."
"Joker's got ants in his pants, what do you think, birdie?" Bullock says, laying on the sarcasm. "What other explanation y'got?"
"Maybe another. But I need time and thought—see if I can make anything of it."
"Yeah yeah. C'n we go now?"
Bullock lowers and holsters his gun and I leap down from the filing cabinet, landing in a low crouch.
As I stand I see a shape—tall and skinny—leaning against the doorjamb, holding Bullock in a tight chokehold, angling his gun against Bullock's temple.
Joker.
Wearing very unflattering prison greys. Wearing a hideous smile. With a thin continuous stream of blood oozing out of the corner of that grin.
Damnit.
"Well," he says, and presses the pistol against Bullock's fat head. "Looks like you hit the jackpot, tiger. Care to press your luck?"
The Guard's Desk.
Edward Nigma.
The computer console in front of him finally links on to the wireless network.
"Finally," Nigma says and cracks his knuckles. He hacks into the Asylum security mainframe and powers down the perimeter guard towers. Generators too. The corridor around him winks as the power surges a final time and then dies.
The Asylum is completely offline now. Lights, phones, security systems. Even the antique electric chair in the basement. All of it gone. The only light in the hallway comes from two emergency lights situated every three feet down the corridor. All the cells are open--the inmates free roaming. The guard towers are powerless. And from the city, Nigma guesses, the Asylum must look like a rotting monolith.
"Ball's in their court now."
"Is that so?"
Nigma lets out a guttural shriek and turns around in his chair. And when he sees Batman step out of the shadows, he sits back and crosses his arms and scowls.
"Had to be spooky, didn't you?"
"I could say the same thing," Batman says, and his jaw barely moves. "A riot instigated almost solely by you. Blowing the bridges to keep me out."
"And yet here you are. It is a riddle, isn't it?" Nigma smiles and touches his chin demurely. "Question: when do the nuts take over the nuthouse, Batman?"
"I wouldn't know."
"When the going gets tough, Mr. Wayne, the tough get going. You think we were going to subject ourselves any longer to Nybakken or Arkham's meaningless therapies? I hate being proven wrong, Batman—worse, I hate being told that I'm somehow a blemish on society because of the lifestyle I choose. Wouldn't you agree?"
Behind the cowl, Batman's eyes narrow.
"So you figured it out."
Nigma nods and smiles like a child.
"You must feel happy."
"It's a little flat, I'll admit," Nigma waves a passive hand. "I didn't even have to try. Let's just say Arkham knows a guy who knows a guy—who knows you. The real you."
"And you're content to keep this to yourself? What happens when Bill Pettit and the QRT bust in here and beat it out of your head?"
"You can threaten all you want, Wayne. It won't give you back your anonymity."
In a flash, Batman backhands Nigma, sending him backwards in his chair. One of Nigma's feet flies in the air and Batman grabs it, pulls him down to the floor. Kicks him square in the ribs and swears he hears a rib crack. Then, Batman grabs Nigma in a chokehold and pulls him up above his own height.
"A riddle for you, Edward. What keeps a man from crossing the line? You've got every cop in Gotham gunning for you. Plus some inmates. How long do you think you're safe? How long do you think you have left?"
Nigma chokes and stutters and spits. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets and roll back to stare at the ceiling.
"It was…Joker…and Arkham. He…he bought off Arkham…"
Batman hears gunshots from up the hall. Then laughter. The maniacal laugh, all too familiar, of a man deeply immersed in the heat of battle, and the glee of his own dementia.
He drops Nigma and runs.
Continued...