Hey guys, I know it's been a while but I've got what I think is my longest chapter so far out, though now I'm slowing down because of college. I'll try to bring a chapter every week or two, but I can't make any guarantee's, especially as I try and flesh out the next few chapters and try and not make them absolutely noncanon in every sense of the word. Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Gotham City, GCPD Headquarters, 0630 hours

"Listen Croc, we know you were at the scene of the crime, so just 'fess up that you blew up those trucks!" Detective Harvey Bullock snapped at him from across the table, a look of definite anger displayed on his features.

"I already told you Fatso, I didn't blow those trucks up." Croc shot back irritably, trying to keep his voice down at a reasonable level. "Like I said before, Scarface and some of his goon's ambushed us and decided to shoot the place up before chucking a grenade in one of our trucks, setting them ablaze."

"Well we certainly know you were in a shootout, seeing as we have at least six bodies that weren't burnt to a crisp, all of them with .45-caliber holes in them."

Bullock gave an evil smile as he leaned towards Croc, a grin starting to set in as he said "And we currently have a Colt 1911 in .45 ACP that we know you have used, fingerprints and all."

Snorting, Croc responded, "Scarface and his group all had Thompson submachine guns, and all of them shoot .45 ACP as well. And judging from the number of bullet casings at the scene of the crime, I doubt I could have shot all of them."

Pointing outside the interrogation room, Croc continued "I know for a fact my pistol had two seven rounds magazines at the scene. With one in the chamber, that's a total of fifteen rounds of ammunition I could have possibly used, but I definitely know you'll find a helluva lot more than fifteen .45 casings at that crime scene."

His grin fading to a snarl, Bullock still snapped at him. "Even with only fifteen rounds, that can still trace you to the scene of the crime, and we can convict you on first degree murder charges!"

"It was in self-defense."

"Like hell it was!"

"You expect me to cower in a corner while I'm getting shot at by experienced criminals with automatic weapons and grenades?!" Croc finally roared out, glaring at the arrogant bastard across from him. "I'm sure you sure as hell would be returning fire in that same situation, cochon!"

They had been going at it for hours, Bullock stubbornly saying he was guilty while he had stubbornly denied the charges, continuing with his alibi that he fired in self-defense.

The interrogation was suddenly interrupted by two police officers walking to escort Croc out of the room.

"Get Lizard Face into a cell." Bullock snapped out authoritatively, a smirk on his face as it looked like he had won this battle.

Shooting him daggers Croc let himself out, walking past the cops and forcing them to run after him to keep up a presence of control.

Turning down the hall and ignoring the police officers giving him looks he went down towards the cell block, not even bothering considering to try and escape, both due to a combination of knowing he was innocent and that he would most likely come out like Swiss cheese in the morgue if he decided to fight them all. His hide may stop pistol rounds but he knew his soft underbelly and face would be easy targets to shoot at.

Reaching an empty cell he tapped his foot impatiently while a cop opened the cell with a key before walking in, slamming the barred door behind him as he took a seat on the bench, leaning against the wall.

From the other people in their cells he counted three hired hands sitting in cells, but he didn't give a damn about them. They were lucky to get out of that shit, sure, but he was more concerned about getting his own hide out.

A few minutes passed and he sighed, closing his eyes, resigning himself to the fact that he would most likely be sitting around for quite some time.

He never expected to be wrong.

"What do you mean he hasn't committed any crime?!" he heard an older, masculine voice yell down the hall, and he opened an eye.

"I'm sorry Commissioner, but from the evidence we've collected so far, the weapons recovered at the scene, the testimony of the other three individuals, and finally the video footage I've found, he's not able to be convicted of any crime." The voice was younger, more feminine, and he opened his other eye.

"What about the stuff inside the trucks? Can't we get something to stick on that, seeing as chances are whatever is in there is illegal?" The voices were coming closer, and he sat up on the bench, beginning to wonder if they were talking about him or not.

"From what we've recovered, all the stuff we've found has been high-grade pepper spray, collapsible batons made in Germany, and surplus handcuff's we sold to the public right out of our department. To top it off, it looks like a legitimate transaction, seeing as the shipments were paid for by Gothcorp under their Security Director."

A pause, before the feminine voice's owner added "And I was able to catch some video footage from a camera that the Lounge had running. From the looks of it his story holds up; Scarface brings three cars worth of gunmen to the back loading area, one car crashes, the other two get their passengers out, Scarface's men shoot first and his guys shoot back, a grenade gets thrown into a truck, and the rest is history."

"Goddamnit!" he heard before the two people came into view.

Looking past the bars he saw two people, one man and one woman, staring back at him. The man, the Commissioner, seemed to be nearing the far edge of middle age at around his late fifties, with white hair with some grey still in it, with a moustache to match. He had square glasses that accentuated his light blue eyes and wore a light brown trench coat. Combined with the air of authority about him and the bulge under his coat suggesting a handgun, he guessed he was in charge. And if he was anything like the other world he came from, it was no doubt Commissioner James Gordon.

The woman seemed much younger, about her mid-twenties, with light blue eyes and bright red hair. Wearing rather plain attire in a black shirt and a grey skirt, he expected her to be a young secretary or someone who worked in the office.

The Commissioner than broke his observation with a sigh as he said "Fine, I'll let him go, though I'm telling you he'll be doing something that'll deserve him in Arkham sooner or later."

The woman said nothing as the bars were opened and he walked out of the cell.

Having to look up at him, the older man said "Your free to go, Mr. Jones, though I'm afraid you will not be able to retrieve your firearm until the investigation is complete. We will also have to see if you have registered your weapon with the department as well."

Nodding, he responded in a quiet but firm voice "I have a copy of the registration papers at the Lounge, sir." Truth be told, it was a well-made forged copy that he filled out and someone was able to put an authentic signature and stamping on it a few weeks ago. But he certainly didn't need to know that.

"Very well. If we can't find a copy in our records we'll communicate with you in order to get that copy and verify it before your property is returned."

Croc outwardly complied with the information the man was giving him, but internally he was astounded that he could be so…civil, with him. He had absolutely no idea why, though he knew there had to be some kind of reason for it, especially if he had gone so formal as to use his actual name.

Pivoting to point at the elevator, Gordon instructed him on how to get down to the front entrance, something definitely worth noting since most of the time whenever arrests were made he was brought in through a back entrance. "Take the elevator to the second floor. Unfortunately the first floor entrance for the elevator broke down so you'll have to take the service stairs. Then you…"

But the young lady next to him cut him off. "I'll just escort him to the front door." She interjected.

Giving a sigh of defeat, the Commissioner retorted, "Fine. Your stubborn as your mother, you know that?" Pulling out his service revolver, he handed it to the lady and said "If he does anything tricky, pull the trigger until it clicks empty."

Chuckling, the woman replied "I doubt that'll be necessary, but I'll keep it anyways," before slipping the weapon into the purse she was carrying.

Turning towards Croc, she said, "Follow me, Mr. Jones."

Again he heard it and he felt bewildered by their…civility. He certainly hadn't expected kindness from police, especially if his other universe version of him was similar in criminal acts.

Giving a polite, "Yes, ma'am," he followed the young lady towards the elevator, his mind all over the place, partly feeling thankful he was technically free to go, but also having a nagging feeling that something was not right.

Reaching the elevator, the doors closed behind them, and he read the floor lights above them and knew it would be a little while to get down from the thirtieth floor.

Turning to look at her, he said "Thank you, Miss…"

"Gordon, Barbara Gordon." She replied, sticking her hand out for a handshake.

His arm wouldn't comply as his mind went numb, and he was able to choke out "Wait a minute. You're the Commissioner's daughter?"

Looking up at him, she said gave a small smile and said, "Well yes, I am Gordon's daughter. Why do you ask?"

Taking a moment to compose himself and get over the shock of it all, he finally responded. "But I'm a criminal, one of the Arkham loonies, you know, the kind of people Batman keeps beating the shit out of whenever they come up with some criminal plan ranging from something mild to something that can take out the city in one swoop?"

Shrugging her shoulders, she shot back "Well, from the evidence we obtained we did not have anything to prosecute you with. The footage we obtained backed up your claim of self-defense because Scarface's men shot first, and as far as we are concerned we don't have a reason to take you to trial. It's simply how the justice system works."

Pausing, she added, "Unless you want to stay in a cell of course…"

But before she could even finish he had cut her off "No, definitely not."

Smirking at him, Barbara replied cheerfully "Of course you wouldn't."

Now he was starting to get confused by her cheerful attitude. Looking at her strangely, he got a good look at her bright red hair, and for a moment it seemed familiar, like he had seen it before…

…But he ignored it, knowing that he had never seen her before in his life.

After a few moments of an awkward silence, he said "Well then, thank you Ms. Gordon for helping me avoid getting thrown in jail."

Giving a light chuckle, she said "Please, Mr. Jones, just call me Barbara. Ms. Gordon makes me feel like my mother."

The comment made him resist the urge to smile, knowing it would not fit into his personality if he did.

"Well then, Barbara, please stop calling me Mr. Jones. I feel way too damn old being called that. Waylon or Croc would be fine enough."

His mind was shouting at him something was out of place. First off, Commissioner Gordon and his daughter let him free, the two of them are actually polite and called him by his actual name, and now he was talking to the Commissioner's daughter on a first-name basis. What the hell was this world coming to? Had the Mad Hatter taken over the city and shoved a mind control device onto everyone's head or something?

"Okay then, Waylon." She replied, shaking him out of his thoughts. Looking at her, he was just in time to receive a question.

"You seemed very…formal, to the Commissioner, even considering the fact he was in charge of the group meant to arrest you, I'm wondering why."

Staring at the elevator door, he said "I could tell by his posture he used to be in the military. Back straight, legs shoulder width apart, hands behind his back. The heir of authority about him made me recognize chances were he used to be either an officer or an NCO. As such I gave him the proper customs and courtesies."

Bringing up the subject brought bad memories for him. But of course they had to have been brought even closer to him when she asked "So you used to be in the military?"

Concentrating on the elevator door, he responded to her levelly "Yes, I used to be in the military. I was a Corporal in the United States Marine Corps, served five years as a rifleman and two of them as a fireteam leader."

His memories were brought to the forefront, his mind on the far side of the world as he remembered in bitter detail his worst experiences. The room-to-room street fighting in Afghanistan, the grenades and rifle fire being exchanged, the explosion as an RPG hits your Humvee. Then Rodriguez…

He shut his eyes tight, shaking his head violently as he refused to recall the memory. He refused to remember it, or else he would most likely fall into that chasm that he would never be able to crawl out of.

"Are you alright?" he heard Barbara ask him kindly.

"Yes, I'm fine." He snapped back, unused to the concern she was displaying to him.

Then the elevator doors opened and he stepped out of the elevator, ignoring the fact that the floor was entirely empty and headed for the stairs.

Hearing the sounds of flats from behind him, he was surprised when she cut him off at the stairs.

"You seem to have something on your mind, Waylon." She said bluntly, her eyes seeming to stare a hole through his head.

"Yes, so what does it matter to you?" he said, avoiding putting anger into his words, though inside he was irritated at her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, though the way she phrased it seemed less of a question and more of an order.

"I don't think I want to burden you with it." He said quietly, brushing past her as he went down the steps.

Then he felt a hand grab his arm and he stopped.

Touch, something that he did not get the chance to receive much of outside of fighting others. Something, that for some reason brought him to a halt.

Looking over his shoulder, Barbara was glaring down at him, before replying, "I think I can handle whatever is on your mind." Letting go of his arm and stepping down enough steps to be below him she looked him in the eye. "Whatever you seem to have on your mind obviously seems to have a large effect on your behavior. I can see it in your eyes. I've seen it before, when something eats at someone so much it causes them to change."

"So what, you're going to be my psychologist now?" he said sarcastically, though internally he was shocked at how observant she was.

"No, just someone who is willing to lend an ear, if you're willing to take it." She stated, her foot starting to tap, most likely from a lack of patience.

Sighing, he had to agree with her father; she was as stubborn as a Cajun mule, if not worse.

"Seeing as I doubt your going to back down on it, I'll agree." He said finally, surprised he hadn't resorted to violence after dealing with all that shit. However, he threw her a warning as he added, "I'm warning you though, it isn't pretty. And I doubt you'll find it pleasing in any sense of the word."

Giving a smirk she immediately replied "I think I can handle it," before turning around and throwing over her shoulder "Meet me at the coffee shop down the street, corner of 42nd and Gotham Boulevard. Coffee's on me."

Croc just stood there bewildered, shaking his head out of confusion. What the hell was this world coming to?

Then his mind took another, more emotional avenue and his head shot up faster than the Roadrunner on steroids. Did she just…invite him for a cup of coffee?

He scratched his head and started to grumble as he reached the lobby, where an officer called him over to the main desk.

"Here you go, Mr. Jones. Apparently it came in from the Lounge." The female officer said before pulling out a folded trench coat and a fedora out. He accepted the clothes and managed to give her a thank you, which was surprising unto itself, considering how little he had done that since the accident so long ago.
Putting on the coat and slapping the hat onto his head, he walked out of the Gotham City Police Department Headquarters to be introduced to the rain, which fell down in a light drizzle onto the streets.

Turning to the left he headed for the corner of 42nd and Gotham, his mind still trying to catch up with the past ten minutes and how the hell he had even gotten himself in such a situation to begin with. First the Commissioner had been polite to him, and now his daughter was acquainted well enough with him that they were speaking on a first name basis? Either his plan on coming clean from the criminal life was going extremely well, or something was not what it seemed and it was most likely for the worse.