Chapter Seven

Fog blanketed Gotham harbour, a still wind and a low tide keeping many ships still in their moorings. Groups of out of work fishermen and sailors clustered around their radios, waiting for shipping forecasts to tell them what winter weather was coming. The Oil disaster with the Prospero Rig had seriously damaged the fishing industry for the time being, but now the prospect of a coming storm looked set to keep all but the largest ships in harbour. The fog wasn't much of an impediment in the age of GPS, of course, but there was grim talk of a series of later winter storms sweeping the Atlantic, and the possibility of a cold weather front bringing with it ice and driving snow.

Only a madman would travel in such weather, which made it ideal cover for the Riddler's operations. He stood proudly on the deck of his latest ship, the fog and dew seemingly repelled from his bright, crisp green suit. In his hands were a clipboard, feverish meteorology calculations and reports. He was utterly confident of his plans, of his months of research and analysis. It was critical in the early stages that there be plenty of bad weather. A physical storm to hide the metaphysical one he hoped to create in Gotham.

He looked ahead, peering through the fog, imagining the outline of their destination, the contours of the coast, his photographic memory perfectly recalling every detail of the landing site they were headed to.

The ship glided silently through the waves, the only sound the thrum of the engine and the occasional tolling bell of buoys as they bobbed on the surf.

As their mooring site came into view, the Riddler grinned widely to himself, seeing his two favourite henchwomen waiting for him in matching green outfits. Query and Echo. As the hijacked boat bumped against the moorings; the crew quickly leapt forward to tie up, eyeing their employer nervously. He had already killed one of their number, stuffing a message in his mouth. Edward idly wondered if anyone in Gotham had even looked at the message by now, let alone solved its ingenious riddle.

"Have my instructions been carried out?" He asked immediately, stepping out onto the dock confidently, his leather shoes squelching across the wet decking.

"To the letter, sir." Query grinned saucily. Echo lent down, unzipping a bag she had been carrying, full of non-descript civilian clothes.

"Excellent. We proceed to Phase two." Query and Echo immediately began to unzip their uniforms, un-self-consciously changing into the new outfits they'd brought, handing Edward his.

The crew stopped in their work, watching amazed as the two women stripped to their underwear before changing. Riddler simply grinned. He was human, after all. Probably the only real human, in his estimation. Everyone else was far too much like a herd animal to be truly worthy of the title Homo Sapiens.

"Hey, Mr. Riddler. We did what you asked. Are we gonna get paid now?" said one of the henchman, partly angry, partly nervous. They'd all seen what Nygma had done. But after seeing that he only had two women with him, their fear of betrayal had seeped a little.

"Oh, you have been wonderfully helpful indeed. I do suppose it is time for your payment." He said, turning to face the crew and the ship he had just left.

"Query, Echo, give these men their...just desserts."

"Gladly, boss."

They sauntered sexily towards the crew, who stood their grinning, hardly able to believe their luck. They'd been promised money, but this...

Their eyes were so fixated on the women; they barely noticed that thin, silvery blades had emerged from their sleeves. At least, until it was too late.

They did not make much of a mess, and the screaming didn't last long. The blades were precision weapons, needles for striking swiftly and directly at nerve-clusters and weak-points.

Once the crew had been disposed of, their bodies were methodically and quickly wrapped in weighted clothes smeared with whale-oil and chum, and rolled off the dock into the water. Sharkfood.

The Riddler changed effortlessly into his new outfit and checked his new identity.

He strolled off into the mists, confident Query and Echo could look after themselves, and would rendezvous with him later.

As he looked up at the grey, frowning building above him, he couldn't help but feel a slight pang of nostalgia. Arkham Asylum.

He was Home.

Detective Wills had thoroughly enjoyed his enforced week away, though he had spent much time brooding on ghosts. Without work to crowd his mind, he had been forced to spend more time than he was comfortable admitting to anyone dealing with his anxiety and guilt.

Perhaps that was why he had tried so hard to be a father to Barbara. He remembered that Night with clarity. He remembered leading the way, barely behind the SWAT teams. The chaos, the horror, the realisation that someone had set the building on fire, the smoke... It had been the stuff of nightmares.

And through it all, there was niggling doubt in his mind. A needle of thought jammed into his brain. You could have saved them. If you'd been quicker. If you'd worked harder...

Finding the dead girls in the basement had been hard enough. Finding those still alive had been worse. Finding Barbara and Jim... he had suppressed bile at the memories. Jim had made him promise to look after her with his last breath.

He had wondered often how much she remembered. What she remembered. As far as he could tell, even though she was now recovering, she'd said or done nothing to indicate memory or grief. She'd simply locked away all the darkness, all the horror, into a great cage within her soul, never to be opened or examined ever again.

Knowing the truth, he supposed he couldn't blame her. He'd only arrived after the fact. In time to pull them from the flames. Too late to truly save them. Too late for the most important event.

And he'd been late for the stupidest reason ever. He'd not gotten Jim's message, not realised that Jim was going –then-, alone, without backup, to save his daughter. He'd had his phone turned off, because he had been asleep.

He had been caught napping on the most important day of his life.

And so for a year he had punished himself, visiting Barbara as often as possible, burying himself in case after case. Afraid to sleep. Afraid to let himself dream, and see the faces again.

So for a week, he had distracted himself in another way. He had watched most of his collection of Lex-disc movies. He had played a bunch of video-games Montoya had lent him. He had even gone out for a stroll along the misty promenade, enjoying the cool feel of moist air against his haggard skin.

He'd left some messages on Barbara's house-phone, tried to arrange some sort of outing to a restaurant, as friends. She'd eagerly accepted, though she'd regretted that she was currently busy. Apparently she was resuming her physical therapy, and was going to see Dr Whistler in Arkham Asylum again. He had been glad to hear the news, though sad that he was going to spend an evening alone. He could hang out with Montoya or Bullock at the bar, but he had taken Renee's advice to heart, and was trying to spend the entire week away from work, away from anything relating to the cases he'd been involved in.

The sad truth was, he didn't really have any other friends. He'd been a cop for twenty-one years. Almost everyone else he had graduated with; had either moved on or was dead. The Joker had sent death threats to everyone in the MCU, of course. But the one he'd sent to Wills...well, that had been the most awful thing of all.

The Joker had said he wasn't going to kill Ray, because Ray had nothing whatsoever worth taking from him in his life. The biggest Joke would be to let the sad, work-obsessed man to keep living his boring, meaningless life.

They'd all laughed at the time, of course, seeing it as an admission of weakness, that the Joker couldn't kill anyone and everyone in the MCU at will. They'd wanted to see it that way.

But now, sitting in his apartment, some mindless movie about a fictitious group of WW2 heroes called the All-Star squadron playing in the background, he realised how accurate the Joker had been. Ray was a good cop, and nothing else. He'd always thought himself smarter, avoiding the drama and entanglements of his friends, commiserating with them on their divorces and heartbreaks, but never suffering any himself.

He played it safe. He always kept his gun close to hand. He never stirred up too much trouble. He did the work, all of it, and got results. Every so often, he'd make use of discreet and high-class prostitutes, working off some steam. He'd never worked Vice, but he'd always been careful to keep good relations with them. He had no desire to be caught in a random bust with his pants down. But he hadn't done anything like that lately. He'd not had a serious relationship in nearly seventeen years.

He felt a pang of pain. Sarah Essen. Jim's first partner. A rising cop. They'd dated, but she'd been captivated by Jim. Ray had never felt jealousy. Jim had been a true friend, and he couldn't fault Sarah for choosing him over her. Even if it had led to her losing her life, gunned down as a warning by an enforcer of the Falcones.

He'd never really moved on after that. Perhaps that was where it had begun, he reflected, his face bathed in the glow of his laptop, mindless action streaming across its screen. He'd retreated into his work, and stayed there, and then retreated even further when the one man he had ever looked up to had been killed too.

He'd had thoughts on this subject before. He'd never seen any reason to change then, or at least never felt a strong impulse to do so. But he was becoming conscious of his age. His capacity to pull all-nighters was diminishing. He was starting to get serious coffee withdrawal if he didn't drink twenty cups a day. His body was a wreck. He'd been content to slide into oblivion, running his life on automatic, working case after case till he finally collapsed or was retired.

But seeing Barbara...seeing her youthful impatience, her struggles with burdens far too heavy for one so young...maybe it was just that he saw some of Sarah in her. Whatever it was, it gave him a real reason to live. If he could just help her, somehow...he sighed.

Or maybe he'd just go back to work tomorrow, his vacation time over, and find something interesting to do there. He'd been part of the machine so long, he wasn't sure what he could do for someone like Barbara. All he knew was police work. Did she really need more of that in her life?

He watched the movie late into the night, his mind swirling with thoughts. Whenever Harvey wanted to forget something, he'd go see one of his street-walker friends. Whenever Renee wanted to forget, she hit the bottle hard. For him, all he had was the work, and that was no way to forget.

After the movie ended, he considered both of these options, but neither particularly appealed. He was tired and old, and he'd never been able to hold his liquor. His thoughts returned to Barbara. Maybe...it was a crazy idea, but maybe he could help her out another way. Try and heal the rift between her and her family, or act as family for her. What she needed was stability and care, and Patricia and the occasional relative visit were simply not enough.

He yawned, feeling the night's fatigue wear on him, and he picked up a random book. The Tempest. He'd borrowed it from the library to work on the case. He was bored, and still reluctant to sleep. He read it with difficulty, finding the old English hard to parse.

No, he decided. He still had a job to do. So long as there was the work, he'd do it. So long as Barbara or anyone needed help, that's what he'd do. "Rest when you're dead." he murmured to himself.

Tomorrow he'd get right back into it. He was going to crack these murders, solve the Prospero Rig case, and bring in that damn "Judge" vigilante.

And, he was going to make time for the girl who had, by fate or by chance, become a sort of adopted daughter to him.

Arkham. Therapy. Bored doctors, listless patients, and the grinning faces of nightmare.

Barbara sat, bored out of her mind, as the doctor struggled to get coherent answers from the rest of the therapy group.

"I really like...cupcakes." Harley said, after a long pause, blinking to herself. She fidgeted nervously, her pale hands and bright-red and black fingernails digging into the hem of her hospital outfit.

"That's very good, Miss Quinzel. Is there anything else you can think of that you like that isn't the Joker?"

"I...I like ponies. No wait, was it horses? I like..I like..." Harley grunted, her brow creased in concentration. She looked like a child trying to solve a difficult math equation.

Dr. Whistler sighed, and Barbara rolled her eyes. They were both thinking the same thing, most likely. Dr Harleen Quinzel had once been a brilliant mind, with diverse interests, both pop cultural and classical. Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, it was possible to see a pattern in them, which helped explain why her...indoctrination had been so much more effective.

Shifting her focus, Barbara looked around at the rest of the group. Alll young women, like herself. All chosen, one way or another, to receive the Joker's twisted brand of treatment. All, save her it seemed, rendered permanently insane or even catatonic. She couldn't help but swallow a knot of nervousness in her throat.

That could have been me.

Even now, she wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't. Her sanity felt provisional, a cruel piece of flotsam keeping her afloat from the blissful waves of ignorance and madness. For all that she felt she'd recovered, all that she'd clawed back in these last few weeks, it was still hard to believe that any of this could last.

Next to Harley, a young girl named Emily Barret sat. Emily had been on the school-bus with Barbara, and she had vague memories of being a school-girl. The trouble was, despite being now the same age as Barbara, her memories were all of when she had been nine years old. She insisted on doing her hair up in pigtails, a style that Harley had quickly copied. Emily had then taken to threading her hair with blue ribbons, which had in turn made Harley beg the staff to thread hers with red and black ones.

Barbara sighed. The other group therapy Survivors were, as Harley had said at the Anniversary gala, mostly catatonic, or sharing in similar blackly humorous delusions. What they all lacked, Barbara felt, was anything that could truly help them pull away from the Joker and his lingering poisons, both physical and mental.

"Well that's definitely progress, Harley." Dr Whistler's stern voice brought Barbara out of her reverie. Whatever it was that Harley had been saying, had apparently mollified Whistler enough to move on.

"Barbara, since you are a returning guest, why don't you go next?"

Barbara snorted at that. Even Whistler had seemed to realise the futility of trying to coax the other girls into talking much sense, and Emily's problem was getting her to –stop- talking about all the things she liked, which included everything from the colour pink to the latest boy bands. Also, she really enjoyed playing crochet on the lawn. Efforts to prevent her doing this had met with extraordinary and sudden violence.

And so Emily stayed. She seemed to quite enjoy it in the Asylum anyway.

"Um, sure. What should I say?" she asked, uncertainly.

"Just tell us and the group about things you like or enjoy, happy memories that aren't connected to what happened." Whistler reminded her.

"Well, I like a lot of things. Curry. Detective novels. The smell of freshly baked bread. Uh..." she racked her brain. Now that the spotlight was on her, she felt gripped by panic. A sudden blankness where good things should be.

An idea floated up from the sea, a sudden, bright feeling. She was startled, and immediately spoke it.

"I like...no, admire, the Dark Knight. What he did for all of us. What he did for Gotham. What he and my father did. We'd all be dead if not for him." she said, with sudden certainty, her cheeks flushing. Where had such conviction come from? Yet, as she questioned it, she realised she'd felt this way all along.

Her father had been the Dark Knight, she remembered.

Harley frowned at the mention of the Dark Knight, but a stern look from the Doctor kept her quiet.

"An interesting answer, Miss Gordon. Not what I expected. I'm told you have ambitions to be physically and mentally fit enough to go to University, yet you don't even have a GED. How do you hope to accomplish this?"

Barbara rankled at the supercilious woman's sudden, querulous tone. "Easily. I'm Jim Gordon's daughter. And I have Thomas Wayne as a friend and patron."

"So you'll be relying on the privilege of others, rather than your own merit?"

"Hey! That's unfair! ...That's not what I meant. I mean, well...I've got what it takes. I want...I want to help people, all right? I wanted to be a Detective like my dad, and to save people like the Dark Knight!" Barbara realised she was raising her voice, getting heated. She was surprised by her own fervour, yet knew that somehow she was reaching into a true part of her, a part that hadn't been consumed by darkness. As cringe-worthy as it seemed, she meant every word.

"Miss Gordon, Anger is a useful tool, but a poor master. I commend you for having purpose when you seemed so listless last time we spoke, but if you have simply replaced denial with anger, then I cannot say you have truly moved into the recovery stage." Whistler responded sternly.

"Ah, Miss Barret, please don't cry.." Whistler sighed. At the sound of raised voices, the child-minded Emily had begun to sniffle and cry.

"No! You don't understand! She's right! The Batman saved me! He saved us all!" Emily said fiercely, and there was stirring from the rest of the group.

Harley slammed her fists down onto her legs.

"No! It's not true! He started the fire! He hurt Mister Jay! He's a monster!" She yelled, and Whistler quickly stood up, moving to cow the agitated women.

Quinzel could act quite childish at times, similar to Emily, but this was easily off-set by her often barely checked sexual and romantic obsession with the Joker, whom she insisted was still alive, somewhere. She also seemed quite determined to try and maintain her pale, clown-like appearance, whereas the other patients received skin treatments and makeup to help them adjust.

Yet the sudden passion that seemed to sweep through her and the others seemed to open the flood-gates on something quite remarkable.

It had never occurred to Barbara before that people- even the survivors- could have such strong opinions on what happened. That the Dark Knight was someone real to them, who'd influenced their lives.

"Everyone please settle down." Dr Whistler commanded firmly, gesturing for orderlies to come forward with sedatives at the ready. "All right, this group session is over for now. We'll resume another time. Barbara, I'll speak with you in private later. "

The patients began rising, some angry, some agitated, some drooling, all looking more animated than they had in months. Barbara looked into their pale faces, their slack eyes, and saw a glimmer of something.

Yet, as the orderlies came forward, she saw it dying away again, a spark of resistance crushed as firm hands pushed them back into their chairs, and calming sedatives were administered to them, one by one.

Barbara left, shamefacedly, while Whistler struggled with Harley, who had begun arguing fiercely with Emily about whether the "Batman", as Emily called the Dark Knight(she wondered at that. He had never seemed overly bat-like to her, but perhaps in her mind, his dark cowl and grey armour reminded her of the Night, and the wings of a bat...) was really a hero or not, whether he had saved them or damned them.

Barbara had wandered out into the corridor, deciding to get some fresh air. The place smelt of sickness and anaesthetic. She fished around in her coat pocket, producing her bottle of painkillers, and took a small handful, swallowing them effortlessly. She was supposed to take them in moderation, but lately she'd realised that she could get a lot more done in a day if she took them periodically, like her other medicines. So far, it seemed to be working, and she no longer felt quite as prone to exhaustion as she had done.

As she paced around, she was surprised to see a man she recognised more by reputation than personal acquaintance.

"Ah, Mr Wayne! I'm sorry to bother you, I'm-"

"Barbara Gordon, I know. My father told me all about you. Actually, I was here on unrelated business, but I thought I'd take a moment to talk to you." Bruce gestured for her to sit beside him on one of the benches. She reluctantly did so, still a bit agitated from what had happened in the therapy room, and its implications.

"I understand from my father that you have ambitions to...go to a certain University." He said, lowering his tone. His hands folded over a thick brief-case he rested on his lap.

Barbara sighed. "I haven't...well, I haven't given it much thought." She admitted. "I guess I assumed I'd go to Gotham Uni or something, I'm not sure."

"I'm not talking about that, Miss Gordon. I'm talking about the...other offer he made you." Bruce said quietly, leaning in slightly.

She flushed at that, and wondered if she should feign ignorance. But his eyes, cold, piercing, calculating, seemed to bore right through her.

"All right...he did say something about...continuing the family business."

"You know, as he must, how impossible that is."

Something about the dismissive way he said it really put her back up.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Miss Gordon, that even if you found a way out of these walls, you simply don't have what it takes to be the Dark Knight." he spoke boldly, and Barbara looked around nervously, as if someone might hear.

He chuckled at that, and she felt her skin crawl. So dismissive. "I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't sure. How would you last three seconds on the street against a mugger, let alone the sort of threats someone like that would face?"

She lashed out angrily. "Your dad thinks you couldn't hack it, either."

Bruce barely flinched, looking at her coldly. "I know. He always had high regard for your father. But consider how much further you are from that position, whatever blood you may share with him."

He rose. "I recommend you lower your sights, Miss Gordon. Consider what is actually in your ability to do, and do not be ashamed to do it. Dark dreams such as this are unsuited for one so young. I...know." he said, his tone icy, his eyes far-away.

She looked across the neatly-tended lawns, her agitation and fury now boiling. How...dare he! If he had any idea of what she was capable of, of what she had already done as Oracle...

"Still..." he continued, seemingly ignoring her.

"If you are set on this path, there might be a way. To make you healthier, at least. Wayne Enterprises owes your father that much, and I know my father would be unhappy if you continued to wallow in your pain and misery."

Barbara was shaking now, her fists clenched, speechless with anger, determined to channel it, to say or do something to penetrate this, this smug and condescending attitude-

"Wayne Enterprises is arranging for an experimental drug to be tested here at Arkham Asylum, a combination physical and mental performance enhancement drug. Your name could be on the list." he said, as if talking to the air.

"Get bent, you-" Barbara began, before choking herself off, her heart-pounding.

"It would of course be at the final discretion of the supervising doctor, a good friend of mine, a Dr Leslie Thompkins, whether you were suited for the trials, of course." Bruce added, turning to face her again. She could see that, now that he was trying to smile, part of his face was still limp, muscles forever damaged. She remembered that he too had been shot, all those years ago.

Scars that would never heal, she thought. And yet...

And yet, the Dark Knight had risen from it.

"Think about my offer, Miss Gordon. It's the best you're going to get. My father has high hopes, but frankly you're only going to disappoint them."

She gritted her teeth. He pressed a piece of paper into her hand, before getting up and walking away.

"You don't have to answer now. Here, Dr Thompkin's number. I'll let her know you might be calling in a few days. I think this might be a real opportunity for the both of us. Please do consider it."

Barbara stared fixedly at the phone number she had been given. Experimental drugs? Trials? She wasn't quite sure what he had been thinking, making an offer like that. Was this legal? Would this not only make her life even more difficult?

How could she even be considering this? So smug, so arrogant. It made her furious, the way he had so callously trampled over her thoughts, her feelings, feelings she had only begun to realise were hers.

She would show him, one way or the other. And, she remembered the therapy room. The passion in those eyes. Young women, like her. Broken? Maybe. But they had a chance. However long it would take, she knew, they'd keep fighting. A chance they'd not have had, if the Dark Knight hadn't been there.

She felt her face, felt the all too familiar trace scars, scars that might never fade.

She looked at the paper again, and scrunched it into a ball. She thought about throwing it away but...she stuffed it in her pocket instead, and kept it.

She was angry. But she was going to get better. Maybe not for her sake, but for theirs. She could do it, and to hell with what Bruce Wayne thought.