Pleased to meet you

Hope you guess my name

But what's puzzling you

Is the nature of my—KRZZH

The radio dial clicked four ways to the right.

And I'm talking to myself at night

Because I can't forget

Back and forth through my mind

Behind a cigarette

Jim Gordon leered sideways at Detective Sage, who had just changed the radio channel. In his cruiser. He could swear, Scout's honor, that he'd never heard the drivel on the airwaves right then in his life. Victor, however, seemed to be enjoying himself, humming along to the lyrics as if they were coming right out of his own head.

"Don't tell me you actually like all this new crap they're playing?" the Commissioner asked.

Victor looked at him as if he were insane. He shrugged and said, "It's catchy. You don't think it's catchy?"

"I don't think it's anything!" Jim retorted, nearly throwing his hands in the air before he remembered that there was a car he needed to be driving. He promptly slammed his hands back on the wheel, heart pounding as he checked the road for oncoming vehicles he might be swerving towards. There weren't any; he'd already known that, but he'd hoped to play it safe. They were on the road to Arkham Island, a place few dared to visit. Gordon and his "partner", however, had special justification.

A prime informant was staying in these walls, and it was time to see what he knew about this "Wilson" character. A new face probably wouldn't be something his informant knew a lot about. But it was worth a shot; better than the steaming pile of nothing his case had built up over the last month.

Jim's cruiser had been the only car on the road for a while now, silently adding trees on either side draping the path in a brilliant array of colored leaves. Earthy hues gave the frigid Gotham air a deceptive look of warmth as they reached a bridge, crossing over something like a cross between a moat and a river. On the other side, some four hundred meters into what qualified as a piece of the Atlantic Ocean, was the Island itself. Arkham Asylum, as the populace knew it, was less the singular old madhouse that the citizens imagined in their minds, and more of a complex that happened to grow out from a singular old madhouse.

In fact, by technicality there were two islands. Gordon reached the first at the far end of the bridge, parking his cruiser in the parking lot that this little patch of dirt and rock served as. He and Victor stepped out wordless, Gordon personally thankful for that blasted music to be off. The Detective was quite the card, and it was a constant test of the Commissioner's patience to work with him. The entire car ride had been an insightful peek into the mind of conspiracy theorists, though he'd managed to block out most of the details. Memory repression: the only superpower Jim Gordon ever needed.

Victor reached into one of his coat pockets and fished out a cigarette, taking a grummy old lighter to set off the tip. He offered a light to his fellow officer, but Gordon refused. A sour recollection of the verbal lashing his wife and daughter had given him on the subject of tobacco was fresh in his mind, and more out of self-preservation than anything else he intended to honor their wishes.

A wrought iron gate met the policemen at the far end of the lot, luckily enough wide open during the working hours. It was impressive, to say the least, at least fifteen feet in height and decorated with gothic and ornate patterns from the earliest days of the city. It was said that Amadeus Arkham, one of the first citizens of Gotham, had created the Asylum by renovating his own home here on the island. Of course, that same story went on to say he became some sort of crazed sadist, and had to be locked up in his own loony bin, so Jim didn't lend much thought to the old tale.

Something like a thousand stair steps carried them across a second moat, to the main island. The main building of the complex was waiting for them as soon as they crossed, with a young woman in a tan skirt and blue blouse was waiting for them. She gave a polite, company-mandated wave and bow as they approached.

"Ah, Commissioner Gordon!" she said happily, recognizing him. "It's always a pleasure to see you here at Arkham!" she turned towards Sage and added with a smile, "And I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting, Mr…?"

"Victor Sage." The Detective responded, nodding curtly. "A pleasure, Ms. Parker."

Jim gave a discreet glare at Victor, about to question what weird stalker-y things he'd been getting up to; he stopped when he noted the prominent nametag on the greeter. He gave himself a mental smack, and tried to get his head back on track.

He nodded to Ms. Parker, and told her "We're here to speak to our usual host. Is he available?"

"Of course, Commisioner!" the young lady said with a smile. "If you'll follow me, we'll have him brought up. I'm sure he'll be happy to speak with you."

She led the pair inside, and they were met with a very ornate building. The phrase was used with only a hint of irony, as while the interior was a bit crummier than it likely should have been, there was some very beautiful architecture in the old facilities. Gordon silently expressed the idea that working in a place like this would be a nice change of pace. A building like this, he corrected. He had enough problems with Gotham's kooks while they were on the outside of these walls, he couldn't bear dealing with them on such a permanent basis. He glanced over at a computer terminal as they passed through an area where a few techs were compiling data of some sort. A name caught his eye as they passed: Garfield Lynns. Or, as he'd insisted to be called in court, "Firefly". The man was a pyromaniac at first glance—but that wasn't really a dangerous condition on its own. A man with a fixation to fire drew up unsavory images for those tuned into pop culture, but your average sane individual could find safe, non-damaging ways to burn things when the "urge" arose.

No, what Garfield was was a bona fide sociopath, with a bit of a god complex to boot. Just a punk with some fancy toys who got some fancy ideas and a half-baked plan to spread chaos. He'd gotten his in the end.

No thanks to me…

He shut that though out. A dangerous path laid down that road. He'd considered the implications of that day more than once. Batman had saved the day, faster and more effectively than the police ever could have; if he hadn't, then the whole school might have burned down.

His little angel might have…

He shut his whole mind down, forcing himself not to think any further on it. The past was the past, and considering possible outcomes to things he could no longer change would do him no good. He'd told himself that more than once. But it never seemed to change the truth of the matter. His thoughts led him back to the same conclusion as they always did: he owed Batman; the whole city id. And although he hated to admit it, the Bat had to come back. And soon.

But that could wait until the end of one little interview. A door was opened, and Jim finally realized they'd reached their destination. The room inside was dark, and terribly simple. White walls, and only a single overhanging lamp to illuminate the place. A bare-bones table and three chairs, two on the opposite side from the third. This was where he always met his contact. Their receiver sat them down, and offered them drinks; Gordon declined, but Victor requested lemon juice.

"Of course, one lemonade coming right up." Their host replied, but Sage held up a hand, stopping her.

"You misunderstood." He informed her brusquely. "I asked for lemon juice."

Her eyebrows went up and her face soured as she realized what he meant, but the young woman caught herself quickly and adjusted back into that diplomatic smile. "O-of course!" she stammered, disbelieving. "Lemon juice, coming… right up. Your friend should be up soon!"

She shut the door behind her, leaving Gordon and Detective Sage sitting in deep silence. Jim just looked to his side at his subordinate and leered for a minute.

"…Lemon juice?"

"Two glasses a day." Victor informed him, holding up a pair of fingers to illustrate, as if it helped his case somehow. "Keeps the mind sharp, and resistant to probes."

"…Probes." Jim repeated, just to make sure Victor had really said that.

"Mental probes. ESP." Vic replied. "Common extraterrestrial information-gathering technique; but their sense of taste is heavily amplified while probing. Sour food and drinks leaves your mind with an unpleasant taste; they'll leave you alone."

Jim just looked away. Yet another path he knew not to follow.

Several minutes passed, in which time Victor received his lemon juice. He downed it in a gulp and a half, ending the only distraction they had while Gordon's contact as retrieved from deep within Arkham.

Sometime later, the door opened at last. Jim and Vic met the eyes of the young boy standing in the frame of light from outside. Skinny, blond, bespectacled and in the Arkham standard uniform. He took his seat in the chair, and gave a polite if timid smile.

"G-good morning, Commissioner." Arnold Wesker began with a slight bow of his head.

"Hello, Arnold." Jim spoke back, smiling warmly. A quick glance confirmed that Victor did not share his expression, staring down at the informant with a rather steely glare. Jim could already see the young boy fidgeting under the stare, but not entirely out of fear. Jim was no psychologist, but he'd heard the story of this boy. As best as he figured, all of Arnold's rage was going into that dummy he carried with him. The one called Scarface. But that puppet was long gone; and as far as Jim knew, all the rage that used to be funneled into it had to be going somewhere. Arnold was dealing with it all on his own now, and it was frankly surprising he'd been doing so well. No need to make it harder on him.

Jim reached, under the table, and gave a disguised jab to Victor's side, letting him know to back off. Almost to the Commissioner's surprise, Vic seemed to relent as ordered. He still took the lead in discussion, though.

"My name is Detective Sage." Victor began, reaching into his heavy cat and pulled out a small folder, throwing it down on the table. Pictures of places hit, and a few shots of victims were sprinkled through the various photographs within. Arnold gave a glance over the pictures, obviously confused as he tried to "recall" the people and places.

Barbara had given her father the details on the boy, and he seemed remarkably apt at genuinely considering Scarface a separate person. It took considerable effort to recall the thoughts and experiences of the dummy.

"What… is this about?" Arnold asked.

"Newest case." Victor replied, cutting in before Jim could. "Man that goes by the name of 'Wilson', he's been robbing high tech targets and toying with us for a month. We need everything you've got on him."

Arnold scrunched his face up, trying to remember, but I quickly became apparent it was a vain effort. He shook his head, frowning in disappointment with himself. "I-I'm sorry, Commissioner; and Detective. I don't Scarface or I ever heard of a man named 'Wilson'. W-we… he… I was still fairly new on the scene, and was more concerned with the big mob heads to be dealt with."

He perked up, apparently on a new tangent. "Oh, b-but! Those bosses, they might know some things! I remember that Sionis, in particular, was proficient at tracking the newest faces and talent in Gotham!"

Jim grinned for an instant. He'd come here in desperation, with no other leads to turn to. He honestly hadn't expected much from Wesker this time, but he'd delivered. Only one problem persisted, which Sage commented on with a raised finger to halt that train of thought.

"I forsee an issue: how do we bring in a mob head for questioning? Heavily guarded, extremely careful not to make visible crimes to be prosecuted on. And kidnapping would just attract Wilson's attention, he'd be two steps ahead of us."

"Not to mention, it would be illegal." Jim reminded his partner. Vic shifted in his seat, nervously coughing into his fist in some odd manner of deflecting the stab at him.

Arnold twiddled his thumbs, looking positively giddy as his brain worked. "I think I might have a way around that! There's a young waiter who works at the Sicilian restaurant your, er, daughter and I, Commissioner, went to. He doesn't work for him, but he's the biological nephew of Roman Sionis. So, er, he might be the key to setting up a meeting, or otherwise getting the information you need?"

"As a matter of fact," Jim said. "that's exactly what we needed."

He stood, and shook the boy's hand. "Thank you again for your cooperation, Mr. Wesker."

Several minutes later, the Commissioner and his Detective were leaving the Asylum, Victor lighting up another smoke as Jim dialed a number on his cell phone. He put the device up to his ear, and waited a moment as it rang. A few seconds later, he heard a click, and a voice on the other end answered.

"Hello?" came the familiar voice of John Blake.

"Blake, it's Gordon." The older man said, opening up the door to his cruiser. "Just got a lead; you have anything yet?"

"Anything but." John told him, sounding rather disappointed. "Found an old haunt with a few loose-tongued friends of mine burned straight to the ground. Wilson knows we're coming, sir."

Jim cursed under his breath. Predictable, but still frustrating. They'd need to act fast to protect what leads they had left. "Listen, I need to know how close you are to the center of town, where they've got all the restaurants?"

"Wood and Marshall streets, sir?" John asked. "Not far at all, we're maybe two minutes away."

"Okay, that's perfect." Replied the Commissioner. "I need you and Bullock to head there right now, there's a waiter in the Sicilian place, goes by the name of Remil Sionis. Get him somewhere safe, and find out if he can squeeze some information out of the big man himself; he's his nephew."

"Absoulutely. And, sir?"

"What is it, Detective?"

"Have you heard from Montoya? Bullock and I tried to reach her, but she isn't picking up."

That spelled trouble to Gordon, who felt nebulous feeling growing in his gut. "No, I haven't Blake. Where was she last seen? Sage and I can check it out."

"She was in the old market district." John replied. "Said she had old friends to check up on."

"Market, right. Good luck, Detective."

Gordon flicked his phone shut and started the engine of his cruiser. He immediately shut off the radio, deciding no music was better than whatever Vic would try to play. He nodded at the Detective in the passenger seat, and told him to buckle up. "We've got a significantly shortened timetable; Wilson's actively moving against us now."

"Sionis?" asked his partner.

"Blake and Bullock have that handled. Right now, we're checking in on Montoya. It's not like her to go comm silent on a case… only time she's done that is…"

Victor watched a change in Jim's expression. In one instant he went from confusion and deep thought to a growing, gripping terror. The blare of sirens wailed above them as Jim slammed on the gas.

Detective Montoya stepped into an old apartment, sniffing the pungent air. Microwave food, cats, and a thousand varieties of fabric. It certainly smelled like her grandparents' home always did, yet she couldn't help but feel off. It felt wrong, horrifying to be gripping her sidearm as she went into the residence of her own family, but she couldn't take chances.

The tip had been simple enough. The old Tap and Tab, in her old neighborhood; they were crooks, but they were friends first. They grew up together. Anyone who's told you the golden rule of "no snitching" was lying, as far as Montoya was concerned. If it didn't concern their own business, certain loose tongues were more than willing to part with a few tips. And what she'd gotten was… disturbing.

"Poppa? Abuela?" she whispered into the darkness. Nothing. She didn't panic, not yet; they were old, and sometimes their hearing aids weren't up to snuff. She'd just look for them before getting the wrong idea.

That tip still sat in her mind, the snot-nosed punk that she barely recognized as her old neighbor a decade ago sitting at the bar and slurring as he recounted what he'd heard. The name "Wilson" had been going around, mostly in their old neighborhood. Nobody knew what he was up to, just that he had a tendency to swoop in and make off with defenseless folk from their homes. The thought had been unbearable the moment it wriggled its way into her brain. Her grandparents were the only family she still had in the old neighborhood, but they were defenseless all right.

"Poppa! Abuela!" she hissed again, bringing the sidearm higher up, ready to fire if necessary. Still nothing. She stepped through the tiny hall, and into the sitting room they used. It was utterly dark, with the windows pulled and every light off. She only navigated the place by memory, moving for the light switch. She remembered it was on the wall just in front of her… she reached forward, and yelped in surprise as she felt nothing but cold steel.

Just above eye level, a bright, white and pulsating eye opened to look down at her. There was no color, only a striking black pupil that seemed focused for its stark contrast. She resisted the urge to scream, falling back on instinct and aiming her gun up at it. As she squeezed the trigger, she felt a terrible crushing pressure on her hand force her aim up. The bullet was shot off harmlessly into the ceiling, flashing the room long enough for Montoya to see the hidden figure was a man, with an orange plate over half of his face.

"Now now, Renee." The man crooned in a low, smooth tone. "That's no way to treat a guest. Sit down for a minute, and let's talk…"