The Operating Theater.
Are you even listening anymore?
I listen plenty. And you haven't answered the question. Why are you back now? Come to finish the job, come to gloat?
I had to see it for myself, and it's depressing. You've cooked your own brain in the pursuit of Harvey Dent. You sicken yourself. You envy me.
More like despise.
Yes, get angry with me. That's the solution.
Where've I heard that before?
Don't get smart with me. You ask me why I came back and don't stop to think that I never left? I never sleep in here, Harvey. I'm winning, and the only reason you can't succumb and put a bullet in your mouth is because you miss me.
Go to hell.
You miss the old thrill, the excitement of simply…letting go. Beating the shit out of Zsasz, for example.
Things are a little different now.
That's Nybakken talking. But if you despise me so, then kill me, and stop pretending to get better. You think these dice and these Tarot decks are actually helping you? People never fully exorcise their demons, Harvey; they just shove them to the back burner. They come back for you—I come back, and when I'm confident enough you can't pick your nose without thinking of me, perhaps then I'll relent. But if you want to kill me, then kill me. Stop the charade. You owe me at least that much.
No. I can't kill you.
And why is that?
Dent sighs. Runs one hand through his hair. "It would be suicide."
Downtown Gotham City.
City Hall.
It's hard not to make it weird, he thought. Why was a billionaire traipsing into the Mayor's office at one in the morning looking to talk about a riot?
He smiled and went back into character as he pondered the odds of Krol actually thinking it through. A billionaire meeting with the Mayor at one in the morning and not giving or receiving a bribe?
Meh.
Stranger things had happened.
He went up the steps—shallow marble effigies, probably an architect's attempt at channeling some European museum—with quickness. Best not to keep Krol, or his secretary, waiting.
Then he cocked his head minimally and wondered some more. She must be getting some damn good overtime for burning the midnight oil.
From the stairs, he scoped her out: a prim and proper brunette number in what appears to be a grey pantsuit. Black square-rimmed glasses sat loose on her nose and she seemed falsely engaged in writing things down in a planner in front of her. Probably dates for her book club, he thought wryly. He stopped a few feet away and laid one hand flat on the desk. Best to get her attention.
"I'm looking for Mayor Krol," he said warmly.
"Name?" the secretary asked and didn't look up from the planner.
"Ah, Bruce Wayne."
The secretary's eyes traced away slowly from the planner, her hand slacked and rested on the desk, and her head rose to see if it were really true. She'd never seen him before, this Bruce Wayne. In her head she kicked herself for leaving the camera at home.
Arkham Asylum.
The Office of Doctor Jeremiah Arkham.
Jim Gordon paces outside the office, leaving the Boy Wonder inside, to his interrogative devices. As he passes the door and its glass window, he sees Robin seated on the edge of Arkham's own desk, seemingly talking casual with the administrator. He talks with his hands, Gordon notes of the Boy Wonder. Arkham sits a few feet away, gathered into himself, taking whatever Robin's saying with the quiet guilt of a schoolboy.
Gordon hears a crash a few seconds later and thinks Robin's just thrown a chair across the room. Yikes.
Instead he powers on his two-way radio and holds it close to his mouth. In his other hand he grips his sidearm. As he paces, his eyes dart down the hallway and back. The lights are still off—Gotham Edison won't get to the breakers anytime soon, with the bridges blown. The emergency lights don't do much to settle Gordon's nerves.
"Andy," he says quietly into the two-way.
"Commissioner."
"Moor the blimp and get in here." Gordon's eyes flash down the hall and he thinks he sees a shape darting between the Dispensary and the lounge. "And make it quick."
"Boss?"
"It's starting to unravel, Andy. My Maximum Security team hasn't checked in, and Batman's being…spooky. Get Pettit on the horn and tell him—"
"One second," DeFilippis cut in. "I'm getting a call from downtown."
"What is it?"
"It's Krol." Gordon perceives a hint of surprise in DeFilippis' voice. "He says Bruce Wayne was assaulted by the Scarecrow a few hours ago."
"Is he alright?" Gordon asks.
"Apparently," DeFilippis says. "He visited Krol himself and told him to mobilize the QRT."
Gordon rolls his eyes. "Nice."
"Sir?"
Behind Gordon, the office door's glass window shatters. He jumps at the sound, and turns around in time to see a chair flying out and landing noisily on the hallway's tiled floor. He peers around the broken glass and sees Robin—the back of his body—staring out the window, his stance definitely evocative of his mentor. Gordon pushes the door open and walks in. At the other end of the office, Arkham sits stolid in the chair, staring at the floor vacantly.
"Hang on, Andy," he says into the two-way, and pockets it. "Robin?"
The Boy Wonder doesn't answer.
"Is…everything okay?" Gordon asks and scratches the back his head awkwardly.
"Arkham was their inside man," Robin says quietly. "He got them everything they wanted. Unlocked the cells, let Nigma run the show. He even traded in his confidentiality to figure out our secret identities."
Behind his glasses, Gordon's eyes shift nervously. He doesn't know what to think. The Boy Wonder turns around: "That's how they started this, Commissioner. They all promised Arkham something, and he promised them free reign. But he didn't foresee the Joker trying to kill him."
"That was his mistake," Batman cuts in from the doorway. Gordon pivots in place to see him, and Robin turns around fully as the Dark Knight continues.
"Your Minimum Security team is waiting in the Operating Theater. Maximum Security's contained, but your team has seen better days. Montoya and Bullock are groggy but conscious. The other one wasn't so lucky."
"Crosby?" Gordon asks, and his voice is something above a whisper. "What happened?"
"Zsasz happened, Jim." He throws one half of the cape back over his shoulder and holds out Crosby's jaw, wrapped in muslin, for Gordon and the Boy Wonder to see. "I found Nybakken in the Dispensary, carrying this."
Robin's eyes widen and one of his hands covers his mouth, anticipating a resurgence of lunch. Gordon just stares.
"Jesus. How'd that happen?"
"What happened to Crosby?" Robin asks, still holding is hand over his mouth.
"Zsasz took a butcher's knife to his jaw and carved it out. Crosby's sedated enough to dull the pain until he can get proper treatment. He needs to get off this island, Jim."
Gordon stares at the wrapped jaw, at the floor, and back at Batman. "Okay," he says, in a daze. "I agree. Where is he?"
"Just outside."
Gordon starts to leave and Batman sidesteps to let him by. "We can get him to the front doors; Andy can get him to the hospital. I'll go with you."
As they turn to leave, the Boy Wonder speaks up and finally lowers his hand. "What about me?"
Batman stops in midstep and turns around, thinks for a moment.
"Find Dent," he says quickly and leaves. Robin watches him glide down the hallway, with Gordon in tow, and imagines he can see the fire behind the cowl's Star-lite lenses.
The Guard's Desk.
Over a game of Solitaire, Nigma perceives two shapes coming down the hallway, getting ever closer to him. He squints and readjusts his glasses, and puts names to bodies. Batman and Gordon. And they're coming in fast.
And they're pushing a…gurney?
Nigma freezes instinctually. This could be bad.
He sinks in his chair a bit and locks his gaze on the Dark Knight, trailing the gurney, and Gordon pushing it.
His posture straightens and he starts to giggle.
Batman stops. His head snaps to one side, staring dead at Nigma. For a moment, Nigma thinks he sees a scowl working its way into the Dark Knight's composure. Before he can decide, Batman speaks.
"Nigma," he says thickly.
"Batman," Nigma smiles and gives a courteous nod. His eyes glance to the gurney. "Question: what time is it when an elephant sits on a fence?"
"I don't have time for this," Batman prods.
"What time is it," Nigma persists. His voice hardens. "When your police officers are falling apart at the seams?" He chuckles once, and answers his own question. "Time to get new ones."
Batman steps forward and grabs Nigma' by the lapels on his prison greys and pulls him into the air. Shakes him a bit as he speaks. "This is Lieutenant David Crosby. Mutilated beyond recognition. Probably beyond repair because of this prison break you—and that worm of a doctor Arkham started."
Riddler's eyes dart in their sockets, as if something in the darkened Asylum will give him an answer. He starts to sweat. And stammers. And fails to respond.
"I…I…Uh…"
"Speechless," Batman mocks, and throws him to the floor. "I blame you, Nigma. For everything that's happened. For letting Zsasz loose and almost killing this man." Nigma dusts his uniform off and stands.
Batman kicks him in the chest and pins him to the ground instead.
"The next time we meet, Edward, it will be at my pleasure. And you'll see what I do to cop-killers."
Batman pulls Nigma up, does him the favor of straightening his uniform, dusting off the shoulders and arms with care.
And then punches him in the face.
Nigma's head jerks away, the muscles going slack from the impact. His glasses shatter and fall to the floor. A stream of blood follows in a linear fashion and spreads across his face, taking a tooth with it. He falls back to the floor, a huddled mess.
In the process of securing the straps on Crosby's gurney, Gordon sees Nigma fall and turns to Batman.
"Was that necessary?"
Batman cracks his knuckles and replies, "Absolutely."
"So what next?" Gordon asks and places Crosby's jaw in a medical bag and lays it on the Lieutenant's chest.
Batman turns away from Gordon and stares down the hall. "Tell DeFilippis and Krol it's over. They're safe to land now."
"What are you going to do about Dent?"
"I don't know." Batman starts back down the hallway. "I'll think of something."
Gotham Police Airship-1.
Mayor Krol.
So far so good on the charade. The latex mask is working as well as it can. Krol certainly doesn't suspect anything, and I'm inclined to think he wouldn't anyway. I kept details of the 'assault' mum, and rightly so. Last thing we need is some politician claiming he figured out who Batman is.
Still, he couldn't resist it when I told him to mobilize the QRT. Amazing what the say-so of a billionaire does in this town. Amazing that Bruce has this kind of political power just waiting for him, and he doesn't even seem interested in using it.
"So…Bruce." Krol has difficulty saying it; he's trying too hard to be nice. Not trying hard enough to be frank. It's odd, really, for a man who got elected on a He-Man-Batman-Hater ticket.
"Yes, Mayor?" I turn and give him a corny-as-hell smile. It works well with the corny as hell way I'm interpreting Bruce, too: practically laying in the seat opposite Krol, legs crossed calmly, one arm thrown back behind my head. I probably look like I'm on the verge of taking a nap.
"Going back to the, uh, assault."
"Uh huh." I half-turns and give Krol a distant kind of attention.
"You said Scarecrow…jumped you?"
"Yep. Gave me a few scratches and did a number on the old solar plexus. Nothing too serious, or so my butler tells me."
"Butler?"
"Oh yes," I shurg. "He used to work with British intelligence before coming to work for my father. Good in a tight spot, even better in the kitchen."
Krol nods along and pretends to understand. And turns away. I manage another smaller smile, and wonder if the mask plays along.
The Operating Theater.
He presses a hand to his temple, trying to suppress a headache, as he approaches the theater. He takes the long way from the cell-bay corridor, around the guard station to the doctor's entrance. He takes the long way, and he thinks about what he's done.
All the sturm and batarangs, all the pretended rage and mystery, all the stoicism. He's haunted every night by the fact that its still not enough. Haunted by the fact that he cannot convince himself enough times that nothing he did caused their deaths. And nothing he could ever do could atone for their deaths.
He presses a finger to his ear, opening a channel on the communicator. "Robin, I'm heading your way now. There's something that concerns me about Arkham, and I'd like to know what you know." He taps his ear again, and the channel closes.
He's tired of people feeling sorry for him, tired of the blame he shoulders. Tired of problems. Now, he only wants solutions. And as he approaches the swinging doors that are the Doctor's Entrance, he represses. And repeats. And lies to himself.
The Harvey Dent you knew is dead. Replaced by Two-Face. Keep that in mind the next time you start to grieve for the loss of old friends.
He presses the side of his cowl, activates the night-vision in the Star-lite lenses, and pushes the swing doors open. And stops in his tracks.
Gordon's team--all of them; Josie, Hardback, Roder, Bullock and Montoya--are bound in bailing twine, in various stages of consciousness. Jonathan Crane, in his typical Halloween costume, paces around them. He holds a Raggedy-Ann doll in one hand, and steals intermittent gazes at Montoya.
And in the center of the theater, in the lone beam of light streaming down from the ceiling, Two-Face has Robin in a headlock, his Beretta pressed motionlessly against the Boy Wonder's head. Two-Face smiles. The scarred half of his face grows more hideous as he does.
"Go ahead, Bats. Tell us what concerns you."
Continued...