The Last Laugh
Chapter 8: It's a Madhouse
By, Frank Hunter
A tense day passed before Alfred was comfortable setting Bruce's condition as "stable." Another came and went before he was able to get out of bed, though this came without the old butler's seal of approval.
"I swear to you that you'll not find help with me if you pull your sutures prematurely," he shouted at the hobbling figure down the corridor. "One round of stitches per hole punctured. That's my policy going forward. Mark me!"
By the third evening, when Tim arrived back at the cave, Bruce was nowhere to be found, but there was a disc left on the console in the cave.
"He left no special instructions for you tonight, Master Tim," Alfred advised, "save for reviewing the contents of that file. I believe it's solely for information's sake, though. He insisted on addressing the situation himself."
"Situation?" Tim asked.
"See for yourself," Alfred said, beckoning toward the chair.
Tim stepped forward and picked up the disc. A hastily scribbled note was set on top. It was Bruce's handwriting.
Had Oracle look into things. Back tonight.
Tim wasted no time and popped the disc into the computer. It booted up, without hesitation and Tim began browsing the files.
There was a lot of video there, much of it familiar. They were the feeds from the micro cameras the two of them had placed around the city. Though now, several were marked up with annotations set there by Barbara Gordon, the former Batgirl and now most reliable source of digital intelligence available to the whole of the white hat metahuman community.
As Tim started to feel around the information, he found that what Barbara was looking into had been the source of the hack on their cameras. The freeze framing. At least, for starters that had been it. But as she delved deeper into that mystery and began to run traces on the illicit computer activity that had seeped its way into their feeds, she found something more valuable.
The IP of the computer running the hack could be traced back to a machine registered to Risus, Inc, a company with no business holdings, no legitimate income, no employees. In short, no real presence at all. But snooping around their data servers turned up a wealth of information on Wayne Enterprises' new acquisition, Life 2.0. It seemed that Risus was interested in Life, and though the reasons weren't clear, the implications were. By tugging on that string, Barbara was able to go a step farther and find the source of the first hack on Wayne Enterprises in the Risus servers.
Risus had been responsible for all of it, back to the night of Harley's parole. All the digital vandalism, the break in at Life 2.0. They were the ones footing the bill for Deathstroke, and the ones laying claim to whatever it was he'd taken. Which led Tim to the next logical question. Who was Risus?
Obviously the question had come to Barbara as well, and she'd gone digging into the company's filings with the city, the state, and the IRS. There was only one name associated with the entire company that she had been able to find: the CEO. Jack White.
Tim's mouth dropped when he saw it. "Oh. No."
"Hm," Alfred agreed. He watched over Tim's shoulder with the look of someone who'd already seen it all.
"You can guess where he's gone to," Alfred prompted.
"No," Tim repeated, spinning in his chair. "In his condition?!" The butler stared back humorlessly.
"But it's impossible," Tim went on. "How could he possibly have orchestrated something like this? He's contained. Twenty-four hour surveillance. A guarded cell, for Christ's sake. He can't move without a security team knowing about it!"
"All arguments I expressed to Master Bruce not two hours hence. But as they say, Master Tim. 'You know how he gets.'"
"I'm going after him," Tim said abruptly, shooting to his feet.
"I don't imagine there's much good you could do now," Alfred told him. "The errand, such as it was, must nearly be done, and there's been not so much as a fire alarm at the asylum tonight. Security is in place. I expect at this point, the only thing to do is to await his return."
Tim clenched his teeth. Alfred was right, of course. Storming in unnecessarily would be a waste of time, of energy. But at the same time, he didn't want to leave Bruce injured and alone in the abyss of Arkham Asylum, locked in with their most dangerous inmate. Security or not, how could Bruce have expected him to sit back and do nothing?
How could he possibly want to do this alone?
/\/\/\
The halls of Arkham went eerily dark after the sun set, the fluorescent lighting never putting off quite enough light for the mood to feel easy in its lowest levels. That was fine. For as long as the Batman could remember, he was more at home in the dark anyway. He was the thing to be feared here, and he reminded himself of it, trying to let that sense of power flow over him and wash away the pain that persisted in his aching ribs.
A heavy steel gate crashed closed behind him, the dropbar in the mechanism falling cleanly into place. "I know you know the rules," said the guard behind him. Coleman, Batman recalled. That was his name.
"But I want to stress one more time to stay away from the bars," the guard resumed. "And not to try to pass the inmate anything."
Bruce gave the man a look over his shoulder that apparently convinced him that the rules would be followed, and he shut up. The guard nodded and Bruce faced forward, took a step, followed it with another, trying to maintain the illusion that none of it hurt.
His route was a right, followed by a long straightaway and a left that took him to the cell he needed. He walked past the sealed steel doors of numerous "high-risk" patients, carefully, deliberately quiet. He could have sprinted it blindfolded he knew it so well, but it was better to be quiet in this wing. His presence could be disruptive to some of the more disturbed inmates, and it was better if the majority of them didn't know when he came and went. He spared a glance at the nameplate on one of the doors, "Dent, H.," but didn't linger even for a moment.
He turned the second corner and there it was, on his right.
This cell was different than the others. There was no solid steel door. Here, there were only bars, chosen deliberately to ensure that the inmate could not have any semblance of privacy. On the left, across from the cell, sat a slightly overweight guard in a booth made of reinforced glass. Turner, his name was. Turner gave the Batman a slight nod as he approached before leaning back in his chair, reading a book.
As Bruce squared off in front of the cell, the inmate became clearly visible inside. He was already on his feet, as though he had been expecting company, which was unnerving to start with. He stood between his cot and his toilet, the only fixtures in the little cell, and held his hands clenched behind his back. His white face grinned a grin that nothing would ever wipe from him.
"Hello, Bats!" he cried, lighting up with a fake enthusiasm that seemed to be his forte, and his alone.
"Joker," the Batman responded, not rising to it.
"You know, I really wish you would call before coming for these little visits," the nutcase went on. "I mean look at this place, it's a mess!" He gestured around at his empty cell. "Given a half an hour I could pick up my things, invite some friends." His voice went suddenly dry as he nodded toward Officer Turner. "Take the dog out. Set us up for a more cozy chat."
Batman took a step closer to the cell, not quite disregarding Officer Coleman's advice completely, but knowing full well that if the Joker reached through the bars, he was going to come away from it worse off. And more importantly, he knew that Joker knew it too.
"Mind the door," Joker said, "I've been meaning to get that damn thing fixed, but, you know. Been busy. Hah ha!"
"You know why I'm here," Batman prodded.
"Naturally you can't stand to be apart from me," Joker answered, going to straighten his lapel before seeming to take notice of the orange jumper he was wearing. He settled just to shrug. "Can't say I blame you. I'd say it's my natural charisma rubbing off on you, but we both know that's not the case."
Batman just glared at him. "Risus."
"Pieces? Ooh! I love those! Tell me you've got a pack stashed away in that nifty utility belt of yours, yes? Fish me out a handful? Mind the orange ones, though. I don't trust 'em."
"It's your company, Joker," Bruce pressed on, disregarding the nonsense as he always did. "Risus. Jack White, CEO. One of your oldest aliases."
"Always has to be about business, doesn't it, Bats?"
"You've been reaching out through it. Harassing an organization that just became a WayneCorp subsidiary. Why?"
I've been—" he stammered with incredulity. "I've been— I've been what?!"
The Batman's eyes narrowed beneath his cowl, a look that only seemed to egg the Joker on further. He started stomping and flailing around his cell.
"Honestly, here I am trying, trying with enthusiasm, to embrace the power of healing, and you come in here throwing wild accusations around like yesterday's entrails! 'Harassing,' really? Is that what you think of me? How low. Even if I wanted to, how would I? What with the Goodyear Blimp out there hovering over me day in and day out." He again gestured to officer Turner who appeared to pointedly be trying not to pay attention to him.
"You have indirect ways of making people on the outside work for you," Bruce said.
"Oh right, I keep a crew at my beck and call at all times." He gestured at his toilet. "I get the internet on this thing, you know. Though the connection does get backed up from time to time. Hahaha!"
His stare was ice and his grin, if possible, spread wider.
"Though what I don't like is the idea of somebody touching my stuff. I mean honestly, I leave things, toys, clothes, businesses, out there in places I assume are safe, and now you tell me someone's been pawing through all of it? And in Gotham City, too! Imagine it! Heh!"
"I have no reason to believe it's not you behind this," Batman accused.
"Of course you don't! Why should you believe anything at all? I mean, here you are with me, full of vim and vigor, ready to bust outta this place and paint the town red. And there you are, looking like that ridiculous car of yours got hit by a semi on the way over."
Bruce swore inwardly and forced himself to stand straight. It was his ribs, of course. He hadn't even noticed the gradual slouch that had worked its way into his posture as he had curled over the broken bones, but now he cursed his lapse of attention. If there was one thing you didn't do it was to show the Joker weakness, but he'd spotted it and there was no taking that back.
"Oh, Bats. No need to get self-conscious about it. Personally, I think you've never looked better. But you know my philosophy. A smudge of lipstick, a little rouge, some internal bleeding. Voila! Ready for a night on the town."
He tried to put the mistake out of his mind, but another problem loomed. The window for information had already closed. When he dealt with the Joker, it was only possible to pull anything useful out of him for a short time. Joker had already pushed the discussion past the topic of Risus. Anything beyond that would be nothing but drivel, threats, and bad, bad jokes. He wasn't likely to circle back to anything of value.
"If I find out you're lying, if you're somehow doing this from in here," Bruce rumbled through gritted teeth, "you're going to wish those bars could keep you from me."
As usual, the threat rolled right off the villain's back. He just stood there, maddeningly unfazed. "The invitation's always open, Bats. Just drop on by. You know, whenever you're in the neighborhood." He went to turn away but stopped with a finger in the air.
"Oh, and do let me know if you find out anything more about who's doing what with my things, will you? I've got some items of interest I'm sure they haven't found yet. Bombs, bullets, other things that make noise. I'm sure they'd love to get acquainted. You know what I say. If you're gonna put on a show, make sure you play your best, and always go out with a bang! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
He devolved into a convulsive spray of laughter and Bruce took that as his lead to go. It wasn't the Joker; he was reasonably sure of that. The man was a maniac, but he was an egocentric maniac, and loved to ensure that his name was all over something when he was responsible. If it wasn't him, then it had to be someone on the outside. Someone with access, and knowledge. Someone who could operate on the maniac's instructions even without receiving them.
Someone like Quinn.
He stalked back down the row of cells, no concern for silence now. But he kept his posture painfully straight and tried to ignore the insane cackling behind him. He needed to talk to Robin. He needed the kid to press Harley. That was the only logical way to move forward.