CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The telephone rang. It was an unusual noise. Something that broke the routine, the mind-numbing reverie that Barbara had begun to feel increasing anxiety about. The frantic routine she had been pushing herself through, to keep herself distracted, had not been producing the results she wanted. Her online friend, "Spoiler", was missing. It wasn't unusual for anonymous people to drop in and out of the community, she had done much the same herself, but she was worried nonetheless. Spoiler had always seemed someone much...deeper into it than Barbara had ever been.

And without Spoiler, the other avenues to what she sought were so much more frustrating.

The ringing of the telephone was an odd noise. An anachronistic intrusion into her thought bubble, usually impervious to outside and inside distractions. Yet it could not be ignored. It could be Ray. Yet as she stood up to go answer it, she heard a click. Patricia had already answered it.

She blinked, half way out of her chair, wondering when her carer had returned. Had she simply noticed her letting herself back into the house? She felt a momentary blur of panic, her eyes darting to the neon glare of her alarm clock. It wasn't that late. Yet how many hours had she been sat here? Had she lost track of her usual routine?

"That was the Wayne Residence, Barbara." Patricia yelled from downstairs. Barbara went out to the landing, her stiff and scrawny limbs giving a sigh of protest as she hurried to see. "Apparently Thomas is throwing a little Christmas party this weekend. He would be honoured if you would join him."

Barbara blinked. This was certainly unexpected. She remembered what had been said at Thanksgiving. Of course.

She had been determined to get answers from him. She'd sworn that in the morning she would call and get the truth. But Renee's disappearance, and all of this... She hadn't wanted to think about Thanksgiving, or Wayne, or her family. It had been another tragedy, and also an excellent excuse.

But some things could not be delayed, it would seem. Wayne had given her hope, and the truth threatened to tear that away from her. Yet she refused to hide from the truth either. She'd come too far from where she'd been to let herself sink back there now.

The corners of her mouth twitched. She felt laughter coming on, but not the bad kind. It was funny how things worked out sometimes.

"We should go." Barbara and Patricia both spoke at once, surprising each other. Patricia recovered first. "I'm glad you agree. I think being shut up in here hasn't done you any good. And..." Patricia paused. "I know Thanksgiving was rough for you. I know better than you think." the woman smiled bitterly.

"Besides, I rather liked that wine Alf- I mean, the Butler gave me as a gift while we were there last time."

Babs snorted. Despite her middle-age and professional demeanour, Patricia seemed quite a shameless flirt sometimes. It was almost amusing, seeing her shamelessly play to the attentions of slightly older men like the Butler and Ray.

Thinking about Ray caused her head to throb. A bad idea. He was busy. She couldn't blame him. He was a cop after all, and hadn't he spent months at a time dropping in and out erratically? Still, he'd never gone quite this long without checking in on her at least for a short while. As irrational as she knew it to be, it still hurt, knowing that he'd finally found something- or perhaps someone- to keep him this busy and away from her.

No, she had to admit that was unworthy of her. Ray was working tirelessly on solving Montoya's disappearance, of that she was sure. She couldn't begrudge him for doing his job, and for someone who she had felt was a friend too, in her own way.

The anxiety was still nagging at her, but she ruthlessly set her mind to ignoring it as best she could.

"Can we stay overnight? Spend the whole weekend there?" she asked, on impulse. Patricia frowned, but nodded grudging acceptance.

"All right. Since it will be Christmas soon, and the roads will probably be bad at night anyway. The TV's even said it's probably going to be one of the worst winters in living memory." she shivered at that, rubbing her arms. "Not that I'm not used to the cold in Montreal, but it's never pleasant."

Barbara felt something nagging at her, but she put it out of her mind. Focusing entirely on this had helped her before, and it would help her again. She even managed to force a smile that didn't seem entirely fake. "Can I borrow one of your jerseys then? I don't have much of a winter wardrobe." she admits. It had been some time since she'd gone shopping for clothes for herself, though she had been out and about more with Patricia.

Patricia chuckled. "Well, I am pleased to hear it. We'll make a Habs fan of you yet."

Barbara simply smiled back. She would need to be strong to confront the Waynes, she knew. If that dream, that ephemeral future of being a hero, was ever to come true, she would need to be strong enough, even to lie and deceive a friend like Patricia.

"Oh, that reminds me. Do you want to put up the Christmas decorations? I know that last time you were in the Hospital still, but..." Patricia spread her arms wide. "This place has become rather gloomy, you know, Barbara. I think we both know you were getting lost in it again."

She winced. She had thought for a moment that Patricia's more jolly mood meant her suspicions had passed. It seemed she wasn't nearly as good at hiding her true moods as she had thought.

"Maybe." she grunted non-committally. "Christmas at the Wayne Residence though..." she sighed, remembering that grandiose, if Gothic place. How frightful a place to live alone in, she thought. And what a place for a dramatic show-down. She would get the truth from them, and...well, she didn't know what would happen next. She didn't even know how involved they might be in everything that had been happening lately. It was an unsettling possibility.

"Its not Christmas, just a weekend, Barbara." Patricia reminded gently. "But I can certainly sympathise with that thought. Ah..." she sighed. "I have Christmas off, but...well, screw it. You want to spend it at my place? I'd invite you to meet my family but..." she grimaced. "It would be a jollier Christmas without them. And I promise Ill shake some sense into Ray, get him to come too."

Barbara was floored by this casual offer. She couldn't help but regard her carer suspiciously. After being stern and grouchy for so long, why was she being so nice suddenly? Aware of her own insincerity in trying to be friendlier, she couldn't help but suspect Patricia of the same.

"Thanks..." she said, uncertain how to react. Patricia was usually such an open book, or at least, someone who seemed very uncomplicated. Was she reading too much into this? Or was she being paranoid again?

"I mean it Barbara. You seem to be getting healthier, but I don't think those cranks up at Arkham know anything about how to heal the mind." she grimaced. "You need time. But you also need to fill that time. It's a little unprofessional of me but..." she shrugs. "You made a promise to me, Barbara. My first duty to you may be as a carer, but I am willing to build on that and be your friend too. I think you need that more right now, anyway."

"Okay. Wayne Residence this weekend, right? You sure it will be okay to drive?"

"Of course. And Babs... you won't regret this, I promise you."

"I'm already regretting this." Patricia said between clenched teeth, her car struggling on the icy roads that led out of Gotham. The radio was fuzzy, weather forecasters warning of a gathering storm, using frightening words like "Polar Vortex" and "white-out".

"It'll be fine." she'd said earlier. "It's only affecting the south-eastern United States. We're nearer Canada than Oklahoma."

Now, stuck on the slush-laden roads, wipers on automatic and with heating on full blast, it was hard not to regret those words.

"It looks kinda dreamlike." Barbara said absently, watching as motes of cotton-like snow were descending from the sky, foreboding grey clouds gathering overhead. "You'd think being closer to Canada would make things worse."

The carer gritted her teeth, sweat pouring down her brow as she focused on the road. "I'm not a weatherwoman."

"We should have taken that last left."

"Damnit-" she swerved, the tires sending slurry spraying everywhere.

Barbara sighed. Her earlier resolve and drive seemed to have ebbed away in the traffic and the cold. She wasn't depressed, she was just bored. It was funny, when at home she would have given anything to be free of her usual emotions and barrage of thoughts, but out here, in the cold, she found it difficult to think on anything much.

"We should be there soon."

"You said that an hour ago."

Barbara settled back, trying not to fidget. Having set her mind to something, it was difficult to sit still. She wanted to be there already. What was taking so long?

What was taking so long? Detective Kovaleski thought. The usually dim windows of the GCPD's main station seemed brighter, cleaner even, now that they were coated in snow. The cold outside had seeped into the leaky, poorly heated building, and Kovaleski sat at her desk, wearing an old trench-coat and a scarf to keep warm, a scalding hot coffee steaming away merrily on the desk beside her.

Her fingers felt numb, and were slow to work, but that wasn't what was bothering her. It was this damn piece of cryptography software. She'd run it multiple times, and every time it took forever. Most of the MCU investigating the Attack on the Art Gallery were looking for physical clues, Forensics was having to pull double overtime just to keep up, let alone get to their backlog.

It was amazing, she thought, what could be accomplished when you had the Mayor and the entire City Council screaming for results. More than any other crime since the Joker's reign, Gotham seemed to be rallying once more against the rot in its midst. Trouble was, Kovaleski didn't think this crime was related to the Black Mask or the other crime lords of Gotham.

A place where even you can't sneak,
They'll see you on your way.
A bat can't get past these watchers,
Eyes open night and day.

Oil and water side by side,
Working like you cannot.
And unlike you, darkened night,
These people won't be forgot.

The riddle stared back at her, and she compared it again to the one that Detective Wills had left in his case files relating to Prospero. This...Riddler was consistent in his obfuscation, she had to hand him that.

It seemed obvious in retrospect. The original Riddle had spoken of a "hall of a million faces", and this new riddle seemed to relate a little to that. Paintings as watchers, Oil and water colours. But she was convinced there was more to it.

The cryptography software pinged, completed its analysis for the third time. Nothing. It wasn't just that there was no real similarity between the two riddles, it was like they'd been composed by different people, or on different themes entirely. Clearly the Riddler wasn't working alone.

She checked her phone again. It seemed Bullock was still tied down in bureaucracy with the ongoing turf wars over rolling up the Black Mask's crime network. With the weather the way it was, she doubted he was going to be free to do anything else for a while to come.

She puffed out air, shivering. Sitting at a desk was doing her no good. She was going to crack this case. She smiled thinly to herself at the thought. Detective Alya Kovaleski, Hero of Gotham.

There was another connection people were neglecting, or at least not chasing hard enough. Arkham Asylum. She turned the computer off, not bothering to save her findings.

She drew the coat around her tightly.

She looked around the station. For a city gripped by a law enforcement crisis, the station seemed remarkably empty for once. Even the overflow cells were empty for once. They were clearing Blackgate, from what she'd heard, sending hundreds of inmates up-state to house all the new intake.

She looked out the window, at the gathering grey clouds. Something else from the Riddler's original riddle bothered her.

"I will be the storm of winter shrouding all". She mumbled to herself. Had he seen this coming? It was possible. Meteorologists had suspected that the storm season of 2013 would be particularly severe. But how could he have known it would be this bad? And, knowing that, what did he intend to do with that knowledge?

Whatever the answers were, she was sure her next destination was Arkham.

She donned a fedora, borrowed from Bullock's locker. His lucky hat, she didn't doubt. She smiled thinly. Well, if she was borrowing his work, why not his hat too?

She was MCU's new rising star, of that she was sure. And even if there wasn't much future for MCU, well... she smiled. She remembered Montoya and Bullock's words. The work, she knew, if done right, would bring down some serious bad guys, and maybe net herself some much deserved attention from the Commissioner too.

Alya Kovaleski stepped out into the rising blizzard. Gotham's storm would break, and she would find and destroy its latest Nemesis. Let the Old Guard have its grief and its turf wars. Gotham needed a better class of detective, and she was going to give it to them.

The Riddler watched the convoy of yellow buses and armoured vans as they bulldozed along the slick roads. He grinned to himself. Despite some set-backs and upsets, the plan was continuing as foreseen.

"Want me to blow the charges?" Echo asked, still recovering from her injuries fighting the Wrath. She wore a thick all-white furred outfit, just like him. They both looked somewhat like Inuit from a distance.

He looked away from the convoy irritably. "Wait till they are in amongst the trees. Is everyone in place?"

"Of course, sir." She said, hurt he would even question her readiness. He softened a little. She was fervently loyal to him, of that he was sure, and it wasn't her fault that she had been too weak to effectively fight that monster. Still, now that her use as a combat agent was diminished, he would have to find other areas that she could compensate in. And if she wasn't effective in those...he sighed with regret. Well, those of no use would be disposed of, of course.

"Good. Are the Black Mask's men integrating with the others nicely?"

"They will, sir. Offering them the Venom was a stroke of genius-"

He cut her praise off bluntly. "I know. Now do your job." he said coldly, returning his attention to the convoy, adjusting his binoculars for the increasing gale and snow.

She withdrew silently, though it was clear she was hurt.

Moments later, there were several flashes among the tree-lines, and a dull rumble reached even where Nygma was stood. Trees came crashing down amidst the convoy, vans careening off the road entirely to avoid the heavy firs as they fell, aided by the treacherous conditions.

Raising a thick, Lexcorp-branded walkie talkie to his lips, Edward barked out his orders. "We have five minutes before their back-up arrives. Get as many of the inmates amongst the tree-line as possible."

He doubted they would be able to keep all of them out of police hands, of course, and he simply didn't have the logistics to hide, clothe, feed and arm dozens of Blackgate's most unwanted. But the purpose of this wasn't to build an army, but to sow chaos. The panic of knowing there might be murderous scum loose in the coming storm would spread fear far more effectively than any actual armed force, he knew.

Ignoring the cold, Edward Nygma withdrew from the hill-top, and headed back down to where they'd set up base-camp. Gotham's reckoning was coming, and he wasn't going to leave anything to chance. The Wrath, for all his brutishness, had made it clear. He felt a little regret that his adversary was absolutely no one of great intelligence, or at least elegance or style. But the plan was too advanced now. He would demonstrate his superiority to Gotham, to the common mass of the savages and fools that made up its herd.

Adversary or no Adversary, he would bring Gotham its Tempest, a storm they would not soon forget.