Wayne Manor.
In the process of laying out Bruce Wayne's wardrobe for the next day—he'll be lucky to be in by dawn anyway—Alfred Pennyworth's attention is distracted by the news.
Vicki Vale smiles at him from beyond the cathode rays and despite the smile, says that something serious has happened on Arkham Island.
"How quick of you to notice," he derides quietly and flattens the crease in Wayne's trousers. 'And here I thought mere kidnapping wasn't enough."
"At this hour," Vale says—midnight according to Alfred's pocket watch—"authorities have begun an emergency airlift onto the island. Commissioner James Gordon could not be reached for comment, and Mayor Krol's office is maintaining a veritable vow of silence in the wake of Arkham's prison riot. More on this story as it develops through the night."
Alfred touches his chin thoughtfully for a moment and turns to gaze out the multi-paned window that makes up the fourth wall of Wayne's bedroom.
"Do come home safely, sir."
In the midnight darkness, Alfred pulls the blinds on the window and stares out at the glitter of Gotham's North End.
"You wouldn't want my life to get boring would you?"
Arkham Asylum.
The Guard's Desk.
Nigma sits hunched over the console. Nursing a broken nose, nursing a broken ego—though that's happened far more commonly than he's willing to admit—and probably nursing a broken rib.
Everything aches.
And all he can muster is a series of repeated grunts and greedy inhalations. It hurts to breath. But at least he still can.
Doesn't change much, though. Doesn't change the fact that this riot was entirely his idea, and so far it's proving to be an unstable beast. Even the best-laid plans somehow fail. Variables add up too quickly.
Nigma rubs his neck slowly and sighs.
The Penguin should have kept his fat mouth shut. That's the last time anyone tells him anything.
It's here that Nigma feels a small and cold sensation circling a spot at the base of his skull. A gun barrel. He raises an eyebrow and stares straight ahead.
".22 caliber is it?"
"Smarter than the average bear," the voice from behind says. It lifts the gun from Nigma's skull as Nigma turns his chair around.
Harvey Dent, in all his bifurcated glory.
"Come to gloat some more?" Nigma wheezes.
"No," Dent says and slides his hands into his pockets. "You have something I need."
Nigma's eyes dart back and forth in their sockets as he ponders. "Such as?"
"A name."
"What's in it for me?"
Dent's eyes narrow. "Spoken like a true crook, you know that?"
"Yes, yes," Nigma says and waves a dismissive hand. "Though I must protest, Harvey. I'm the only one of us that isn't terribly homicidal."
"Everything's relative."
"What's this name of yours?" Nigma asks. His fingers dance across a small keyboard as he opens up the Asylum's online mainframe.
"Scott Nybakken, Ph.D."
Nigma stops typing and half-turns. "Are we talking the same Scott Nybakken here?"
Dent's hand runs over the protrusion under his jacket, gently caressing and reminding Nigma of the .22's presence.
"Indeed," Nigma says. "Ask and you shall receive." He types Nybakken's name into the staff search engine. A moment later he turns back to Dent, "Not that you've ever been there, but his office is on the third floor. If he's smart he's hiding under his desk. If the escapees haven't gotten to him yet, you may have a chance."
"Fine."
Dent slides one hand back in his pockets, pivots in place and walks away, strolling down the darkened hallway. Strangely assured, Nigma notes. Awfully convinced of himself.
Nigma rolls his eyes and switches on the security monitors. Visual only, front gates only. And—
"Huh." He leans forward and rests his chin on a curled hand, staring with narrow eyes at the screens. Two of them show a GCPD blimp from different angles, descending on the eastern extremity of the island. Another two screens show the Batman standing motionless in front of the Joker near the exploded front gates.
Nigma smiles. And keeps watching.
The Front Gates.
"Well, well," Joker says and presses the gun tighter on Robin's temple. "Now the gang's all here. What the heck do we care?" He lowers his head and smiles as big and disgusting as he knows he can.
Moments before Batman's arrival, Joker had issued some not-so-veiled threats to Harvey Bullock and fired randomly at the ceiling. Naturally to put a little spring in the pig's step. It worked. The first shot jarred Bullock enough that Joker let him free of his grip. Bullock stumbled for a moment—forward and then backward—and then Joker fired again.
Then Robin tried to work some karate magic and failed. Then Bullock turned around and found himself on the receiving end of a pistol whip.
As a matter of fact, that's him there on the floor. The beached whale with blood trickling out of pretty much every hole God put in his head. Bullock's fat and nearly dead body is the only thing standing between a hostage-taking Joker and a barely moving shadow.
"Well?" Joker says, slightly irritated at Batman's stoicism. "I'm doing my part. This is where you're supposed to do yours!"
"Not quite," Batman says. "You can start by releasing the boy, and telling me what you think you're doing here."
"Mmm," Joker says and licks his lips he leans in close to Robin and blows on the exposed part of his neck. The Boy Wonder shudders at the act and behind his own domino mask, rolls his eyes and feels his flesh crawl. "No," the clown responds. "This one I think I'll keep. He's got good resale value."
Batman's hands, at this point, are shaking blocks of anger, compounded and held that way…because restraint is the only way he's going to get anything out of the Joker. Beat the everlasting piss out of him and he just giggles until time runs out. Don't laugh at his jokes…and he gets desperate.
"Stop me if you've heard it, Joker. Nigma gets word to Cobblepot that he wants to throw a riot and invite 500 of his closest friends. Knowing he can get information disseminated inside a given timeframe, and with relative ease, Cobblepot becomes Nigma's window on the world, trafficking intel and getting him anything he needs for the riot and the bridge demolition. You—being who you are—find out about the rumored riot surprisingly quickly, and play into it to the extent your freedom is assured. After that Nigma's useless to you, as is anyone else involved in the plot. Stop me if this sounds familiar."
Joker nods and smiles, silently imploring Batman to go on.
"And so Nigma enlists Crane to paralyze the people while he runs the systems. Including me."
Joker starts to giggle; guttural and barely audible.
"Something went wrong. Didn't it?" Batman asks. His cape is draped around his shoulders, giving him the illusion of being simply a head attached to moving shadow. Underneath the cape, one of his hands pulls pepper spray out of his belt. The other pulls a razor batarangs. He keeps talking. "You involved everyone you thought was a major player and left the others to rot while you took control. You forgot Harvey Dent."
"Dent's a nutjob, Batsy. And that's straight from the horse's mouth! He's a disgrace to depression."
"And yet you never counted him as useful, did you? Too unbalanced, even by your standards."
With his limited range of motion, Joker taps his nose. "Exactly, Batusi. Plus, he doesn't like playing with others. He's a…bully."
"And he's looking for you now."
"He can try," Joker says, frowning and suddenly getting serious. "He knows who I am. And sometimes—" Joker starts rubbing Robin's neck again "—I wonder if you do."
"All too well," Batman says.
And releases the razorang.
Robin ducks early enough. The razorang catches Joker in the neck and he jerks back with a small grunt. Sinks to the floor a moment later, clutching a growing wound.
"You…you bastard," he rasps. Batman towers over him. The light from the emergency lights down the hall seems to bend around him.
"Not quite," Batman says, his voice deathly flat. He kneels and slaps handcuffs around the Joker's wrists. Stands him up, and pulls him close. "We go through this every week, it seems. Don't we?"
Joker laughs and coughs up blood.
"Hrmm….heh…the price of failure…"
"Not failure," Batman says and takes Joker out with a nerve strike. "Freedom."
Later.
The Operating Theater.
Robin looks around with a scientist's curiosity. And a germophobe's disgust.
"They couldn't afford electricity?"
"Nigma cut the power," Batman calls back to him. "The only thing keeping Arkham running is the service utilities."
"So…"
"The special units are down. Victor Fries's refrigerated cell, Alex Sartorius' containment fields, for example. All of them gone."
Robin stops, mid-step and ponders for a moment. "Then why haven't we heard anything that could go bump in the night? No explosions, except for the bridges?"
Batman leads Robin to the center of the Operating Theater and a wide circle of dim emergency lights. They bathe the theater in a sort of warm glow. Warm if disconcerting. In the center of that circle of dim stands a man divided between light and dark.
Harvey Dent, flipping a coin. Unusual, Batman notes and cocks his head ever so slightly.
"Because they're not interested in rioting, Boy Wonder. Sartorius has got plans of his own and Freeze can't be bothered by the usual loonies. In their own heads, they're inmates on a far higher plane of existence."
"Elitists," Robin translates quizzically.
"Partially," Batman interrupts. "The other part is live and let live."
Robin shrugs. "It's a little weird, boss. They're getting smart."
"We can dance around the issues all night, Bats," Dent cuts in. His voice is slow and grave. The voice of a man on a mission. "I've said it before—I think, with the exception of junior here, we all know under what circumstances. You know what needs to be done."
Robin shifts his stance nervously. "Justice," he says evenly.
"Nigma," Robin says. "He's camped out at the guard's desk."
"He's not the worst of our troubles," Batman interrupts and starts pacing. "Gordon can claim him when he makes contact." Batman stops and locks his gaze on Dent for a moment.
Dent's eyes are…hopeful. But only by half.
"We have a job to do. We're going to retake this Asylum. For that to happen, three things need to happen."
"Justice," Dent interjects quickly. "War down the proud."
Batman turns slowly to look at Dent. His eyes, covered by lidless Star-lite lenses, are nonetheless cold and harsh. "Not vengeance." We've…had that problem before."
"Fine," Dent says and waves a passive hand. "You two take care of the crazies. Me, I've got a different problem." Dent nods at Batman, barely glances at Robin and then leaves the theater in a swift gait. Batman doesn't bother to stop him.
"Um" Robin says, cutting the silence. "What was that?"
"He knows what he's doing," Batman says. Refocusing his attention, he looks back at Robin. "You can navigate the Asylum well enough, Tim." Batman still stares after Dent. "I need you to find Dr. Arkham and meet up with Gordon. Get Arkham to a medic—and then interrogate him. Don't let Bullock or anyone else do it. He knows things only we can get from him. If Nigma gives you trouble, reciprocate."
"Got it," Robin says dutifully. Following the same exit as Dent, he's a little more theatrical about it. The kind of theatricality and fancy that only he can pull off.
Leaving Batman alone to his thoughts.
His eyes dance across the room, casting an invisible arc from one end of the theater to the other, and tracing the latticework pattern on the floor tiles. It's here that he notices something missing.
A rather important something.
The last time he heard, Harvey Dent was beating Scarecrow within an inch of his life. Dent had left him here in an unconscious pile on the floor. That was barely thirty minutes ago.
Where is Crane now?
Behind the cowl and its Star-lite lenses, Batman puts his mind to other things. He taps his ear, opening a communication channel back to the cave.
"Alfred?"
Static. Then dead air. Then: "Yes, sir."
'Are you all right?"
"Yes, sir. I have cleaned up Dr. Crane's mess."
"Good," Batman says. "Call Dick. Tell him to get here as fast as he can. Once he does, call me—I'll have met up with the QRT by then."
"Sir?"
Batman smiles, only minimally, and says. "He's going to be me. And he's going to be on the island when we take back the Asylum. Only four of the inmates know I'm here—the rest don't know who they're messing with."
"Oh?" Alfred replies, in a patriarchal tone. Rather like a curious parent.
"…Harvey Dent."
"An interesting twist, if I do say so myself."
"The inmates double-crossed him."
"How droll."
Batman cocks his head and refocuses. "They don't know what I know, old friend."
"And what is that?" Alfred says. Batman imagines the butler smiling playfully.
"That would be telling. I'll be in touch."
He taps his ear again, and the line closes.
The office of Scott Nybakken, Ph.D.
"Hiding under the desk is no place for someone like you, doctor."
"Dent?" Nybakken's voice is shattered glass—weak and fearful. "You've come to finish the job, haven't you? Just like the others."
Nybakken pulls himself up to stand with his free hand. His other hand is held tightly against his waist, and Dent perceives a stream of blood seeping through Nybakken's labcoat.
Dent's human eye narrows. His human mouth frowns. "What did they do?"
"I was on my way from the Dispensary when the doors in Maximum opened. I hid in a vacant cell for a bit, but…when they found the armory and put its wares to good use I made a run for it. I think it was Zsasz who caught me in the kidney."
"And you seem fine," Dent says evenly. Starts flipping the coin again.
"I will," Nybakken replies. "But what about you?"
"I'm trying to restore order, doc. Believe it or not."
Nybakken smiles weakly. "I do."
"Come on," Dent says and ushers Nybakken out of the office. Once in the hallway he pulls the gun from his jacket, cocks it. Ready for anything, or so he tells himself. "Stay close."
"Where are we going?"
Dent keeps walking, silently thinking. After a moment:
"The armory."
Continued...