Freedom always came at a price. At least with confinement, you had guaranteed shelter from the elements, a stable source of nutrition, and, depending on behavior, a stable stream of information whether it was through books, or digital means.

The Outside had none of those guarantees as Dr. Jonathan Crane was finding out. Yes, the last few weeks in Arkham had become unbearable, what with "Warden" Sharp hoping to transform it into the next Blackgate. The noise of new prisoners being added to the ranks had given him quite a headache and disturbed him from his studies, the one thing he did when not being subjected to therapy. He may have an, ahem, unhealthy fascination with fear and anything related or involved with it, but he was not crazy.

Though "Warden" Sharp was doing his damnedest to make that a reality.

All of that was in the past, several weeks in fact. None of it helped when it came to where he currently found himself.

That was a rundown apartment complex one step away from being condemned. The floorboards were rotting, the wallpaper was peelings, a hodgepodge of dirt, dust, and cobwebs decorated the place, and it was doing a number on his allergies. And was that...yes, there was a mold problem too.

The only plus was that the place had a view of the city...from a window with a broken latch. That was about it. Oh, the furniture had definitely seen better days, all of which was about to break apart if even the slightest weight was put on them.

Yes, he was moving up in the world from a lonely room in Arkham Asylum to this.

And as if he hadn't fallen far enough, he was broke too. That meant he couldn't afford any of the very uncommon ingredients he needed to whip up a batch of his infamous fear toxin. On top of that, of the very little he had hidden away, he had discovered that like all manufactured materials, the toxin had expired. Thus it was next to useless.

Oh, Jonathan. What are you going to do?

Currently, he rested his body on a dilapidated couch, sinking into the cushions and ignored the groan that came out of it. An arm was propped up on the back of the couch, his hand pressed against his head as he peered at the window and to the city beyond it.

Look at it. By all accounts it was ripe for fear, filled to the brim with it. The defeat of the Batman, the terror of Bane, all of that fed into the panic of the public, and there was nothing he could do to take advantage of any of it. It was both infuriating and depressing.

What was he to do? The only thing he wanted was to know, to understand every single facet of that little emotion, that primal force that was fear itself. But to do that, he needed money, a way to fund his research. It was a stroke of genius when he had developed the toxin, a sure way to induce that fight-or-flight reaction that had kept alive humanity's ancestors for so long. But if he couldn't produce it, or even find some...test subjects, then he was doomed to obscurity.

Those simple-minded twits at the University didn't have the vision, or the courage to see his research to the end. The benefits to humanity would be enormous. Cowards, the lot of them. Sometimes a few had to suffer for the benefit of the many. If only...if only...but it was a useless exercise of fantasy. He was powerless to act on…

What the…?

Filled with contempt, Crane had looked away from the window, the city taunting him from beyond, and had turned his gaze to the opposing wall when from the corner of his eye he had detected movement. Frowning, he shifted in his seat and turned his head further to get a better look at what had attracted his attention.

It was...smoke. Oh perfect, was the building on fire too? How grand. He was about to be run out of this place just as he was getting settled in.

Following the smoke, his brow furrowed as he saw that a corner of the room was covered in it. How that had happened without him noticing before, he had no idea—but wait, there was movement. It wasn't only the smoke, there was something in there.

He narrowed his eyes as he stood up from the couch, turning to face the misty phenomenon.

No...no that wasn't something. That was someone, a someone who was emerging from the smoke as if they had been there the whole time. The dark-colors immediately brought Crane back to Arkham, where another figure clad in dark colors loomed over him. His heart immediately began to speed up as adrenaline was released into his system, the beginnings of the fight-or-flight response.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Crane jumped slightly as the deep, ominous voice boomed from the figure. The smoke was beginning to dissipate, revealing the person to be wearing a grey-colored cape that covered their body, a hood over the head where a skull-designed mask peered from beneath.

Any and all thoughts of this being the Batman vanished instantly.

"Who are you?" Crane demanded, even as he took a step back.

The masked...person came to a stop behind the couch, a very imposing figure to say the least. Already, Crane could tell that this was another practitioner, someone who used fear as a weapon, much like the Batman and himself.

The masked person began to speak, "You are the one that created the fear toxin, the same one that Roman Sionis used in Operation Dread, the October 27th Attack."

The psychologist narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What of it?"

Instead of saying more, the masked individual turned their body slightly, their skullesque face looking towards a small, rickety table that was placed next to a wall, two chairs placed at either end of it. Crane followed the intruder's gaze and spotted a rectangular briefcase on the floor, placed next to one of the table's legs. When did that get there?

Eyes darting back to his guest, the masked individual was staring back at him, waiting for him to act. Switching his gaze from the briefcase to that impassive mask, Crane made the tentative decision to investigate. However, he wouldn't let this person out of his sight, not for a second.

Moving around the couch, always keeping his front facing the caped man, Crane retrieved the briefcase, lifting it up off the floor raising an eyebrow at the weight. Placing it on the table and ignoring the groan from the piece of furniture, he unclasped the locks and lifted it up, looking into the case and at its contents.

His eyes widened at the sight of the very thing he had been complaining about before. Those were $100s! Grabbing the briefcase, he lifted it up and turned it over, dumping out every single stack that was inside of it and making a pile of money on the table.

By all that was...this was more than his yearly salary from the University! With this...with this he could... he could begin producing his toxin again! And he wouldn't have to steal the ingredients! Not when he could purchase them legally! Suddenly, he could see so many, many possibilities...

"Do we have a deal, Dr. Crane?"

That voice interrupted his thoughts, Crane turning to look at the cloaked home invader who had not taken a step away from where he had stopped.

Licking his lips, it took a second before the former fear researcher said, "I think we can come to an understanding."

The Den was a dive bar in the seedier side of Gotham—you know, the east side. Only broken families and shattered dreams lived there. The Den was one of the fixtures of its neighborhood if only for one reason.

A local gang frequented the place. They called themselves the Wolfpack, or something equally ridiculously. That they chose their hangout to be the Den was just asking for someone—a casual observer even—to come and bust them. They were small time really, so small that Batman didn't bother them unless they got full of themselves. Local legend has it that the gang tried to go into narcotic smuggling and were promptly beaten and bloodied by the vicious, manly hands of the Bat. Ever since, they stayed small time: racketeering, neighborhood "protection," drug using, that sort of stuff.

And it was this small-time gang that would prove itself to be the perfect opportunity for an aspiring vigilante to test his wings.

With a quite brutal kick, the doors to the Den swung open. Inside were a bunch of teenage punks and thugs, some of whom probably passed for twenty five despite their birth certificates indicating otherwise. Hmmm, actually, they did look like they were twenty five. Must be the mustaches.

Because of the doors swinging open, all of the blue-clothes youngins were looking right at him, sitting at tables, lounging at the bar, one even leaning over an ancient pinball machine. All of their focus was on him and his dramatic entrance.

The Bat-Joker.

"Greetings, miscreants and misguided youths!" he greet them, his arms extended out as far as he could, holding his cape out to make himself look bigger. "Tonight is your lucky night!" No wait, that didn't sound. "I mean, your unlucky night." Oh yeah, that was better. "Surrender yourselves now, or I won't have to put a whooping on your baby boy bottoms!"

Several of the gangbangers tilted their heads to look at each other—no doubt in fear, though they were disguising it with confusion. Alright, their minds couldn't comprehend the terror in front of them.

"Hey, what's with the screw loose on this cabron?" one of them asked, jabbing their thumb towards him.

"That's right, don't realize the horror that's in store for you."

A few stared at him for a moment before all of them burst out laughing. "What kind of moron is this?!" one of them guffawed.

Bat-Joker lowered his arms slightly, staring befuddled at the sight in front of him. Why were they laughing? He hadn't made a joke. The Bat-Joker didn't joke! So why? He had done everything right. He had made a dramatic entrance—kicking in the door, in case you didn't know—then made a threatening speech with a demand for surrender—just read the above in case you missed it, not that you could.

So what was he forgetting?

Quickly, Bat-Joker wracked his brain for the answer. What did Batman do all those times they had gone up against each other? There was the dramatic entrance, the speech...oh wait! How could he have forgotten! Batsy always knocked out, or pulverized one of the lesser henchmen when he entered a room. Now that he thought about it, that gave a perfect example of what he would do to anyone that fought him.

Jesus, if he didn't have a love/hate relationship with the man, he would've shaken his hand.

Eyeing one of the closer gangbangers, Bat-Joker dropped his arms to his sides and strolled—no, no, marched; the Bat-Joker did not stroll, but moved with determined purpose, like with marching—right up to one of the still-laughing simpletons. Grabbing the back of his bandana-covered head, Bat-Joker's face twisted with unbridled fury as he slammed the kid's face down on the table. Over and over, he bashed the youth's face down until he went limp. Even then, he slammed the boy's face down one more time for good measure.

There, that should make these guys take him seriously.

There was a stunned silence in the bar, all of the gang members staring at him in shock. Then out of nowhere, all of them pulled out their guns, pointing them right at him.

"Well, now that's more like it," Bat-Joker remarked.

"You don't know who you must messed with, dead man," one of them threatened. "Now we're gonna make you pay with what you did to Issac."

"Uh, no, I don't think so," the masked vigilante said. "You see, crime does not pay. I know this from a former life, ya know. Now, it would be in your best interest to put your guns on the ground, put your hands behind your heads, and...uhh, read your Miranda Rights."

There were a few befuddled looks exchanged, but strangely enough no one put their guns down. "Someone put a bullet in him," someone demanded.

"No, wait! Don't!" Bat-Joker exclaimed as he shot both of his hands up, holding them in visible sight. "Hands up, don't shoot?"

You could've heard a pin dropped from the silence after that. "Is he for real?" someone asked.

Bat-Joker dropped his hands down. "No, no, I can't say I am." That's when he reached behind his back before pulling out a stack of dynamite, several sticks that were tied together by metal bands. At their center was a miniature Joker face, the mouth wide open and displaying the number 30, then 29...28…

However, while this was a design of the Joker's, this one had a crudely drawn Bat Symbol on it, marking at the features of the white-faced clown with a black Bat. This was a Bat-Joker bomb now.

"Holy shit, it's a bomb!" one of the punks shouted before everyone burst into activity. All of them went running for the exits, running over each other and squeezing their way out through the doors.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Bat-Joker exclaimed, finding himself completely alone in the bar. He stood there for a moment before he glanced down at the bomb, finding the number 8 on it, then 7.

"Oh crap." He finally remembered just what happened when bombs hit zero. Frantically, Bat-Joker threw the bomb away from his person and spun around, running for the front door. "Take cover!" he shouted as he ran into the street. "Bomb's about to blow!"

A few seconds later, an explosion ripped through the Den, a rush of fire blasting out of the open front door just before the front of the building blew into shreds. The force of the blast slammed into Bat-Joker's back, throwing him off of his feet and sending him crashing to the pavement. The vigilante laid there for a moment, letting out a groan before he turned from his stomach and onto his side.

Well now, that hadn't been pleasant. Looking to the former bar, he could see it ablaze with fire, the roof slowly collapsing in on itself. Breathing heavily, he stared at the sight before he realized what he had just done.

He, the Bat-Joker, had just destroyed the hideout for a notorious, no-good, very bad gang of misfits. He...he was a Bat through and through!

One down, a thousand left to go!

With his forces shored up, it was time to continue the campaign. While there were losses, those had been anticipated beforehand. That there were so few fell within expectations.

While the GCPD licked their wounds, Bane turned his attention back to North Gotham.

"My sources tell me that this is where the Italians have holed up," Bird reported, tracing a circle with his finger on a map of the city. "This used to be an old union office, before they moved on to bigger and better places, namely downtown. Behind it is an old storehouse, where farmers used to keep feed and farms tools and all the crap. A perfect place to hide an old cache of weapons, if you know what I mean.

"Now across the street, we also need to keep an eye on. That's a restaurant, which is the big reason why that union originally set up shop across from it. Didn't need to walk far to get a bite to eat. They're using it as a lookout and it's in a good position. Got a great view of one end of the street."

"What kind of force will we be dealing with?" Zombie asked.

"All told, about two hundred, which makes me wonder where they found all those schmucks," Bird answered.

A surprising number, a somewhat higher amount than what Bane currently employed. He had no doubt that his Santa Priscan army could handle it; based on the intelligence, this could be a very bloody affair.

He had no issue with bloody. There had been times when he himself had been drenched from head to toe in other people's blood. This was an operation of conquest, and it was just as important to be able to hold territory gained as well as be capable enough to wage war. It was a balance that needed to be kept.

"We will need to reduce their numbers first before we engage," Bane stated, studying the map intently as if searching for the weakness he knew was there. "Zombie, do you have a poison that can kill, or incapacitate in a short amount of time?"

"Within the hour, though the amount I can make will depend," the thin, bald man replied.

"We strike here first," Bane declared, placing his finger on the location of the restaurant. "They are expecting a show of force. That will happen, but not yet. First, we limit the number of men they have by poisoning their food supply."

"The lunch rush will be about noon or so, maybe earlier," Bird added in. "Our eyes in the area report that the little people are keeping away from there, like they know who's hiding out there."

Not that Bane cared about collateral damage, but one could not rule a kingdom if there were no people in it to rule. "It matters not who else is caught up in it. If nothing else, it will serve as a distraction. The men in front will see nothing more than an illness spreading. That is when we attack. The cover of darkness will be necessary. Otherwise, they will see our approach."

"Then we go for the dinner rush. The only people who will be affected will be them," Bird murmured thoughtfully. "That will be sometime after seven, closer to eight."

"What can you prepare in that amount of time?" That question was directed to Zombie.

"Something that can suit our purposes. So long as they exhibit signs of vomiting and sweat, it does not matter what the lethality is. Those not able to fight will be slaughtered when we send our forces in, too indisposed to offer any resistance," Zombie remarked. "It'll be quantity over quality, but it's doable."

"Get to work immediately. In the meantime, I want our forces surrounding the area. We will not allow any of their leaders an opportunity to escape," Bane ordered.

"What do you want to do with them once we capture them?" Bird asked, looking at the bulk of muscle.

Without a second's hesitation to look at his subordinate, the masked man stated, "Who mentioned anything about capture?"

"We're going to kill them. That makes things easier," Bird said, not even batting an eye. "When do you want to strike?"

"Tonight. All eyes are on the police. They are too weak to interfere. We act now, take the element of surprise, and finish this resistance once and for all." Haste was an element, but all who worked for him understood that he did not tolerate any delays not of his own making. A person could rest once they were dead; idleness was not an issue for this army.

"I'll get to work immediately," Zombie said, turning to leave. He was a man who knew what was expected of him and made no excuses.

"I'll—" Bird began only to find himself interrupted.

"I want you to take Talon and survey the area. I want up-to-date intel on the hour, every hour," Bane ordered. "I will organize the men. Notify me if you observe anything that is out of the norm."

"Alright," the blond man nodded.

It wouldn't be long now. One of the last pockets of resistance was about to be purged. There would be smaller ones, no doubt about that, but none that had the power to defy him. By midnight tonight, his grip on this city would be complete.

Gotham would at last belong to Bane.

There were still details that needed to be hashed out, but for the most part, the establishment of the Network was a success. In all honesty, Barbara had thought that there would be those who resisted, or flat out refused the proposal.

Things had gotten a little tense when the only holdouts had been the Birds of Prey, and in all honesty, they were the ones she had really wanted to get on board. The Batclan had already been accounted for, minus what trouble "Red Hood" literally brought to the table. She was going to have to speak with Nightwing about getting that guy's temper under control.

Otherwise, Huntress agreeing from the get-go had been the biggest surprise. The sudden reappearance of Green Arrow was not to be questioned as he had proven himself quite an asset back when Two-Face was still a threat. That they managed to get one hundred percent consensus was the cherry on top.

But this was all the easy part; the hard part was the initial logistics. It was simple to sell them on the idea of an interconnected network; getting them to buy and stick with it was something else altogether. Oracle had needed to bring her A-game and show them all the advantages of joining this new organization.

Her intel was sound; she was sending them all to North Gotham because if everything was going the way she thought it would, that was where Bane was going to strike next. The large presence of known mobsters, all of the Italian variety, was a huge giveaway that there was a buildup there. Bane had to know about it; it was most likely the reason he hit the GCPD first.

This would be the biggest test.

"That went better than expected." Tim's voice filtered in through the speakers. On a monitor, she had the image of the Bat Bunker where both her old teammates were located. The Birds, Green Arrow, and Huntress were already on their way; the rest of the Batclan was waiting for Nightwing to lead them.

"I honestly thought someone was going to say no. I'm not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Oracle?" There was the mentioned man himself.

"This is just the start. The Network can fail at anytime, if anyone thinks it's a waste of time. This is when we really sell it," Barbara answered. Turning to another monitor, she spotted two of the Birds, Katana and Manhunter, the pair appearing on screen for barely a second. They were going to be reaching a, ahem, parking spot where they would ditch their motorcycles to go on foot. So far, so good.

"Do you think this is going to work? I don't think anything like this has ever been tried before," the youngest of the three pressed. "Let's face it, we've got a lot of personalities here. Some work better with each other than others. Then we have our newbies. And where did you pick up Red Hood? I think that's one of my old costumes he's wearing."

"We don't have a choice, we need to have this work. Also, that's a long story. By the way, what makes you think coming back here was a good idea, Robin?"

"It's Red Robin now."

"Why...why did you name yourself after a restaurant?"

"It was an accident! I totally forgot that place existed!"

"Boys, as enthralling as you conversation is, it can wait. We have work to do. Nightwing, you know what you need to do with the Batclan, right?" Barbara interrupted. This was starting to sound like old times, but old times weren't going to save the city from Bane.

"I'm keeping Red Hood close. His hand-to-hand is the second best of the group—"

"After you, of course." Tim, shut up.

"—but he needs to keep that temper in check. I'm not about to let him be alone with any of the others until that's fixed. Spoiler I want to stick with Robin, excuse me, Red Robin, here and hopefully not serve anyone a Royal Red Robin Burger. If there's anyone I can trust to be on their own, it's Bluebird, but I'd rather all of us stay together. We don't need to be taking too much risk here, not after what happened the last time we got separated."

"The only egg I'm going to be putting on anyone's face is yours. I haven't sat on my ass in Jump, ya know, and I've been doing some training of my own. No one will be unmasking me anytime soon," Red Robin retorted.

"The pissing contest can wait until after tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get all my attention on Little Italy. We did promise live intel. Remember, tonight makes or breaks the Network, and I will be damned if we let it happen," Barbara interjected once again, trying to prevent the nostalgic bantering she hadn't known she had missed. Like old times, nostalgia was not going to win this latest war.

"Don't overexert yourself, Oracle. We're going to need you for the next however long this is," Nightwing cautioned. "This needs to work. Honestly, it does. If it doesn't, I don't know what we're going to do."

"Then do what a friend of mine would," Red Robin advised.

"What's that?"

"Turn into a rhino and scream 'Leroy Jenkins' while charging headfirst into the enemy."

Even Barbara had to stop and think about the one for a second. Nightwing would unknowingly voice her thoughts about that statement.

"What?"

"Whatever happens, happens. Make the most of the opportunity you do have." And there was Red Robin's point.

"I highly doubt that Beast Boy is an appropriate role model for this," Barbara deadpanned. Long story short, every once in a while, Tim would contact her about his new team's progress, and this shapeshifter he had picked up featured prominently in those reports. Namely, quite a few complaints.

"I don't know who that is, so you're going to tell me about him later, but we need to get this show on the road. Let's keep our heads in the game, and try to prove to anyone who has doubts about us that we aren't going to be the C-team forever. This is something we've been working towards since the beginning, to prove we are legitimate crime-fighting vigilantes. That we belong on the streets as much as the others."

Nice motivational speech there, Nightwing. However, it did hit some points. Those were some legitimate issues for the Batclan and continued to be. Between the three of them, the original founders, they knew their group wasn't highly regarded.

They were leaving that all behind. Huntress, the Birds of Prey, the Batclan, all of them were going to be one now.

But first the trial by fire.

"Make sure to grab those motorcycles when you leave. The others have a head start on you," Barbara recommended.

"Not even going to ask where you found them. Just going to say thank you for the sweet toys," Red Robin remarked.

Good boy.

"Tonight's the night we begin taking Gotham back. Let's make it count."

To Guest: But that's too easy. The Joker is, after all, a connoisseur of sophisticated, murderous humor lol