Author's Note: A bit longer chapter this time, partly because I was feeling an egregious attack from the devil of expository writing. Hopefully, though, that won't hamper your reading. Enjoy--and in the company of Gotham's Rogues, trust no one...
Arkham Asylum.
Harvey Dent.
They're on their way to the armory, Dent says, a nice—if disappointingly small—little pantry of a room located at the rear of Maximum Security. It's there for a number of reasons, the chief being that in case of an, ahem, emergency, the guards have easy access to weapons of death. Despite the unsettling fact that even assault rifles have no effect on, for instance, Poison Ivy.
But Dent and Nybakken are headed there anyway, and they're not interested in actually killing people—though Two-Face says it's the only way to Get Things Done.
Two-Face says a lot of things...
Maximum Security--Third Floor.
Batman.
In between breaking Garfield Lynns' ribs, Batman opens a channel to Jim Gordon and his six-man squad. They're about to storm the front gates, Gordon says, and Bullock's met up with them.
"That makes seven," Batman notes and moves on to Lynns' forearm, snapping only the tibia. "Krol wouldn't approve any more?"
"I can manage six. I didn't want to overwhelm the damn place. It's already crazy enough without cops wasting bullets."
"Agreed." Lynns squirms away while Batman's still speaking. He's halfway down the cellblock—surprisingly fast, even at his peak—before three razorangs—at the neck, lumbar, and gluteus, put him down. Batman approaches slowly, body tense and ripe with anticipation, and tunes into the unconscious mumble of Lynns' breathing.
"That was too easy," he mutters—despite the speed.
"What?" Gordon asks.
"Nothing." The Dark Knight kneels next to Lynns and pats him down for concealed weaponry. Lynns isn't the particular type to hide a knife in his waistband. Batman checks anyway. "I'm running clean-up in Maximum Security. Where are you?"
"Almost to the Guard's Desk—"
"You can ignore Nigma, then. Leave him to me."
"You want me to just leave him there?"
"Putting him back in his cell does us no good for the time being. There's still chaos in here—let him think he's king. We on the other hand have jobs to do."
Silence as Gordon ponders. Probably leaning to Montoya or Bullock and asking what's going on that he should know about. Behind the Star-lite lenses of his cowl, Batman rolls his eyes, partly out of amusement.
"You're sure?"
"Quite," Batman reassures. "He'll give you a dirty look as you walk by. Don't give him the dignity of a response. Once you get to the cell bays, split up your teams. Three in maximum, three in minimum."
"What about me?" On the other end, Gordon starts to sweat and wring his hands. This is Jim Gordon agitated. And getting worse.
"Find Robin in Minimum Security. Once you do, come to the Medical Wing. We'll regroup there—" Batman stops speaking…and thinks for a moment. His gloved hand rises and strokes his chin. Again, agitated. He thinks. And frets. And finally says it. "...And then go after Dent."
At the other end of the line, on mention of the name Harvey Dent, Gordon cocks his head in confusion.
"Fine," he says, dismissing it. "Gordon out."
He holsters the two-way radio and stops. The men and woman in uniform behind him follow suit. All are dressed in identical SWAT gear, sans helmets, with assault rifles angled at the ready. 9mm standard sidearms all around.
Gordon inhales sharply. Holds. Lets go. An old habit from his smoking days.
"Alright, listen. Bullock and Montoya take Maximum Security—you've had experience with it before, and take Crosby along. Hardback, Kitsch, Josie—you're in Minimum. All of you: keep it quiet. You encounter trouble, radio back to confirm and then deal with it. I don't care if Zsasz is crucifying some orderly on an upturned lab table. Prejudice when needed—restraint at all times. Got it?"
They all nod in unison. And form teams.
And split.
Gordon readies his gun and tightens the Kevlar vest. And starts moving.
He imagines he feels his heart desperately pressing against the Kevlar, trying and failing to escape.
The Armory.
Harvey Dent and Scott Nybakken.
"What are we looking for?"
You know, he sounds like Gilda almost—especially Christmas shopping, when all she could do is sit. And stare. Never buys anything, just fawns over How Nice That Would Look in the Dining Room and You're Overworking Yourself, Harvey.
Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. That's all she ever did, all she was ever good for. Even at the end all she was…was trouble. And not worth the amount she put you through.
Go off it. We've got more important things to deal with.
Out of the frying pan, Harvey. This riot of yours has gone loco. Now matters are worse—and with your kind of luck you'll both be dead before they get better,
Dent stands not a foot from a large metal bureau with two large doors and stares at it quizzically for a moment. Locked, evidenced by a small silver circle above the left-side handle. Damn.
"We're looking for weapons," Dent answers and tries to make it sound pleasant. "This .22 isn't going to last very long. I need something with a little more kick. Something that'll scare these assholes back into their cells."
"And what about your cell?" Nybakken asks timidly and starts wringing his hands.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Dent says, and extends a hand. "Give me your keys."
"No."
Dent's face—both sides—darken. He pulls the .22 out of his jacket and fires at the ceiling abruptly. "I don't have time for this shit!" he yells. "Give me the keys, Nybakken."
"No."
Dent's free hand grabs Nybakken's labcoat by the lapel. With not much force at all, he shoves Nybakken against the cabinet. With his other hand, Dent presses the .22 to Nybakken's forehead. His finger quivers, a millimeter above squeezing the trigger.
"Give me the keys."
"This isn't what you want, Harvey," Nybakken says with a kind of stuttering certainty. "Remember what we worked on in session."
"People are dying," Dent seethes. "Open the cabinet so I can get a gun, or I'll blow your goddamn head off. Do it! Now!"
Dent releases him, and Nybakken fumbles in the labcoat pocket and pulls out a large keyring. In another life it was probably the janitor's keyring, Dent guesses by the diameter and the number of keys on it. There's no end; every inch of the ring occupied by a key. Nybakken pulls one up from the assortment, a brass one with red tape covering the core number, and slides it hesitantly into the cabinet lock.
Dent pushes him aside and throws the doors open.
A row of rifles, one on each side of the bisected cabinet, with two shelves above: one holding handguns in plastic holsters, the higher one holding handheld tasers and what Dent only assumes to be cattle prods. His human mouth frowns momentarily, and his eyes dart to the pull-out drawers below the rifle racks. Three drawers on each side and each holds small tranquilizer guns and deceptively decorative feathers, plungers and needles.
He grabs a handful, assembling five darts in all, and slides them in his inside jacket pocket.
Grabs a rifle and hands it back to Nybakken.
"This is a real gun, Doctor. Remington Wingmaster—the kind rednecks use to kill deer. Makes me wonder why you have it in the first place, but I'm not one to argue taste. You pull that trigger and someone's gonna be in a world of pain. I'd advise you to tread lightly."
"What about you?"
Dent lays the .22 in an open spot on the shelf, grabs two handguns from the shelves, whirls them around in each hand.
"I prefer the lightweight approach. Let's go."
Maximum Security--Ground Floor.
Detective Harvey Bullock. Lieutenant First Class Renee Montoya. Lieutenant Second Class David Crosby.
Bullock munches on the toothpick in his mouth as he waddles down the hallway. He crooks his neck to look behind himself.
"Christ, Lieutenant, keep up will ya?" he mutters. "Gonna get shot."
"Sorry, Harv," Crosby says. He smiles a toothy grin and shrugs as much as the rifle in his hands allows. "I got distracted. It's the architecture, y'know."
"Take in the sights some other time," Montoya cuts in, from the head of the line.
"Yeah yeah," Bullock says and spits out the toothpick. "Goddamn rookies. Got no business in here. You shoulda stayed at college, Crosby."
Montoya stops and turns around fully, giving Bullock quite the look of death.
"Give it a rest, Detective. He's doing all he can."
Bullock scowls and shies away from Montoya. Keeps walking and keeps his distance from Crosby. The cell block is deceptively quiet. The cell bay's about thirty yards long, with cells flanking both sides. Some are padded with wall-sized observation windows acting as a fourth wall, others were standard prison cells with drab grey doors and a small grated window at eye-level for observation. Montoya is aware of the very few prisoners still in their cells, among them Victor Freeze--apparently in possession of his ray gun, and using it to climatize in the absence of electricity--and Clayface, though Montoya can't be sure which one. Karlo, Hagen, Payne...it's all bad news.
Montoya pulls a Maglite from a pocket on her vest and flicks it on, illuminating a long oval directly in front of her team.
"Stay close," she says, and imagines that a nonintervening Clayface could still have his fun with them. "This could get messy."
Halfway down the cell bay, Bullock stops at the cell of Harleen Quinzel. She's sitting quietly on her bed, busy with a coloring book and having quite a good time from the looks of it. She only glances up once to smile at Bullock—as if to say 'look at me, look at what a good citizen I am'—and then returns to her coloring.
Bullock glances at an equally confused Crosby, shakes his head and keeps walking.
All three of them stop when they hear a metallic clang echo down the cell bay from somewhere behind them.
Crosby pivots around in place hastily and doesn't lift his weapon to ready fire. For his speed and his recklessness, he gets a shot in the knee and falls to the ground, clutching his knee and rolling back and forth rather like a six-year-old, groaning at the obvious pain.
Montoya raises her gun to eye-level and pockets the Maglite. "Follow me," she whispers to Bullock. They trace their steps backward, to a flickering light coming from the cell neighboring Quinzel's. The cell that would ordinarily hold one Victor Zsasz.
"Don't do to have a lady get shot. Hang back." Bullock readies his gun and steps into the cell.
His gun skids across the floor a second later, out of teh cell, across to the other end of the cell bay. Montoya steps into the cell and aims her gun at a dark shape, hunched against the back wall. The emergency lights in the cell don't give much light, but they do give enough to identify the man about to slit Harvey Bullock's throat.
Victor Zsasz. A serial killer whose particular peculiarity is to score his body with tally marks for every kill he gets. Bullock perceives the entirety of the man's chest is covered in five-slash tallies. Zsasz is a gaunt man, muscular too. Muscular enough to pin Bullock to the floor with a well-placed knee on the chest and not even budge.
He's got a gun in one hand and a knife clutched between his teeth—butcher's by the looks of it, probably stolen from the kitchen. Probably used on people in the kitchen, Bullock thinks and feels bile rising in his throat.
"Freeze," Montoya says evenly. Her gun is leveled on Zsasz's forehead, unflinching, just as much as she is. This is Renee Montoya determined.
Bullock's eyes dart around in their sockets. This is him nervous.
Lieutenant Crosby has gotten up and has stumbled to Zsasz's cell, supporting himself on the cinderblock wall with one hand, holding his weapon lazily in the other, and trying his damndest to keep weight off his injured leg.
Zsasz's eyes narrow and he locks his gaze on Montoya.
"Freeze? I believe you have the wrong cell, Renee." His voice is obscured by the knife between his teeth. He spits the knife into his free hand, and when he hears Montoya's thumb slide over the hammer on her gun, he scowls. "You do anything and I'll snap his xiphoid, Renee. It'll puncture his heart and he'll be dead in minutes. And your little lieutenant there hasn't got much longer. I suspect with the dank conditions of the cell block"—Zsasz begins to chuckle, and his dark eyes light up—"his wound is in medias res of becoming septic."
"You shot Lieutenant Crosby, and now you're holding my partner at knifepoint. Tell me where you got the gun and I'll make your physical therapy brief."
Zsasz smiles again and waves a disapproving finger.
"Tut-tut, Renee." As Zsasz speaks, he takes on a mellow tone. Almost soothing, except that Montoya knows better. "Where else, my dear niña, but where Arkham keeps all the guns in this burned out little Sanitarium?"
"You're wasting my time."
"I have a knack for that," Zsasz grins.
Silence—Montoya doesn't respond, and hopes that will quiet him down. Or agitate him. In any case, she's the one with a gun on his forehead. He's just a serial killer with about forty flesh wounds too many.
In the middle of a plan of action, all four of them hear machine gun fire from…elsewhere in the cell bay. Montoya turns her head instinctively to ascertain the origin.
That's all Zsasz needs.
All he needs to raise his gun and shoot Crosby again, this time—at a weak point in the Kevlar vest—the shoulder. The force of impact takes him off his feet. Montoya's head turns back too late, and she catches a shot in the chest, above what Zsasz perceives to be her left breast. She stumbles back a bit, just far enough for Zsasz to pull an ace out.
Zsasz stands and releases Bullock. Allows him to stand and then kicks him square in the back, pushing him into the cell bay.
In the haze and confusion, in perfect control of the situation, Zsasz grabs Crosby by the sleeve and pulls him in. Pulls the cell door closed, separating the two of them from Bullock and Montoya.
Punches Crosby in the mouth and sends him to the floor. Throws his gun across the room and crouches over Crosby's prone—and depressingly helpless—form and strips off the flak jacket.
"Now," Zsasz rasps and spits on Crosby's face a little. He presses the knife against the left side of Crosby's face and applies pressure. A thin stream of blood trails a centimeter behind the blade. Crosby groans and starts to weep. And Zsasz smiles.
Keeps cutting.
"Tell me, Lieutenant. How much do you treasure that wonderfully breakable jaw of yours?"
Continued...