Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

AN: For clarification: Stan Shillings, Maggie Kyle's alleged rapist, was mentioned briefly in Thomas Payne's letter to the Gotham City Star in Pandora's Box. Achilles is an OC from the Sisters of Mercy subplot, and the foster brother to Jimmy Connolly and Maggie Kyle. His name should be pronounced in French Creole as "Asheel" (not "A-keel-ees" like the Greek hero). As for the introduction of other canon characters in this chapter, remember, I can't make everyone's version of a realistic Nolanverse personality out of the raw materials of the Batman comics. But I'd still love to hear good, constructive suggestions on how I might improve them!

This chapter takes place between the events of Eris Unleashed and Lacrimosa, filling in the gap in the timeline between chapters 2 and 3.

The following PANDEMONIUM Taskforce file contains an exert from The Shoulders of Giants, a collection of essays and brief biographies compiled and criticized by Detective Aaron Lawless (also by Lawless: Rite or Wrong: Crimes of Passion and Public Opinion in the Twentieth Century and Americans and Race: the Inherent Injustice of Equality.] This was used as psychological evidence during a PANDEMONIUM hearing concerning individual members of GCPD Homicide, and their continued abilities to enact their duties of Non-partiality and Upholding of the Law in a potential conflict of interest following the events of August 20th, 2030.

Back Cover:

"Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies - or else? The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or else we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation."-Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was born and raised in Gotham City, perhaps now most infamous for the murder of Thomas Wayne. And I suppose it was this death that struck me so much, even then as a child, and fostered in me a desire to enter medicine. St. Wayne, as he was perhaps only half-jokingly nicknamed, had himself been a surgeon. But I was a child then, and I did and said many childish things. Now that I have become a man, I have put them away, too late. As a man I now know that it was the life of Thomas Wayne, and not his death, that deserves to be remembered and commemorated. And yes, perhaps the course of a good man's life may seemingly make his death all the much more regrettable, I believe Mr. Wayne would be not only embarrassed by the postmortem attentions given him by the media and state, but also disappointed. Good Men don't wish their deaths or lives to become sacred, merely their causes, in which all their own great deeds are but only a small part.

I wanted to write a book on this subject, but during the writing process I realized that most everything I wished to say had already been said, and by an authority far greater than my own. I attempted, therefore, to bring such authorities together where a reader might listen and judge for themselves through the struggles of a not-so-distant history rather than the pangs of experience that such words and lives as these of Thomas Wayne bear a message of heavy and staggering truth.

"Here is a history that will speak to you of the atrocities and horrors of Man, but also of his redemption. And such a book, I believe, can only be written convincingly by a man, regardless of his race or religion, who knows them both painfully and intimately." -Naveen Prashant, DVM, Honorary PhD Ethics and Religion from Gotham University

Dedication:

For my friend, Naveen, for introducing me to Gandhi. For my wife, Amy, for nonviolent protests putting up with my long hours and ridiculous hobbies. But mostly for my son, Ian, because the world you live in was built by all these men in Daddy's boring books.

Foreword:

For many, the question will be why do I care about what a bunch of dead men wrote? And for most, the answer will be simple: you don't. Replace this book on the shelf where you found it for now, but in several decades you may be forced by others to return and burn it.

For the rest, who recognized immediately that the question posed should have read why does anyone care about what a bunch of dead men wrote, the answer is no less simple, if not perhaps more difficult to bear: you must, because in the pages of history there have been, there yet are, and forever will be those who recognize truth and seek to use it or conceal it for their own purposes.

Quid est veritas? Truth is. Is perilous, is absolute, is exclusive, and thus is highly offensive. Truth is that slavery once existed in this country, and even after the martyrdom of Martin Luther King, Jr. some extremist groups still seek reparations that would again put a monetary cost on the human soul while others have fought, contradictorily, and have banned or abridged the works of Samuel Clemmens simply for portraying this dark chapter in our history in an accurate light. And the truth is that this is cause for fear, and grave concern.

Quid est veritas? Truth is books are first frowned upon, banned, then burned, along with the corpses of six million Jews laid to rest in mass graves in concentration camps across Europe all in the name of patriotism and the greater good-and quite legal, as the Nuremburg trials noted. Truth is neither fun, nor just, nor pretty, and is far easier and lighter of conscience to ignore it or let it conveniently be forgotten than it is to remember and regret and teach our young.

Quid est veritas? Truth is that we must always remember. We must always forgive, yes, but we must never forget, for to do so would be to nullify everything that Good Men have ever stood for.

And that is what this book is about: Good Men. Others may write about arbitrary time periods or the compiled histories of a people group or geographic location, and I will refrain from comment on the practicality of their work if they will refrain from academic treatise on mine. To me, it is the stories of these Good Men, from any and all locales and ethnicities, that makes the pursuit of history worthwhile. If not, it becomes simply a muddling medley of dates and place names often and easily confused. But here I digress.

It is my hope, as it is every historian's, that you will see not a collection of essays of or about great men but that the underlying story of their causes becomes clear. Because great and Good Men have spoken, and you can ignore their words but not their truths. Truth is coming, as it always has and always will, and we must be ready to face it and all of its ugliness, whether it occurs across the Atlantic, the Pacific, or in the sanctity and seeming privacy of our own silent hearts.

Seek the Truth. Study it well. And most importantly of all, use it if you are ever faced with a choice between what is right or what is easy. For only in acting on Truth do we disclose to the generation to come whether we have indeed learned anything from the Good Men who came before us. In closing, I must again defer to the wisdom and words of another more qualified than I to give this ruling: The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy (RDMLKJ).

-Aaron Scott Lawless, 2029

Friday, August 23rd 2030

03:45 EST

1776 Lexington Lane

Do you think she's a coward the boy asks you sadly. Sometimes I do, he admits. I do and I just feel awful. You can't force someone to do something they don't want to, you tell him. There's a word for that, and it's rape, Kid. It's not like that he protests. He loves her, she's his sister-

But it doesn't have to be sexual. If you try to force someone to do something, to take away their choice, their free will, that's rape. Not in a physical sense, no. But the principle holds. If you take away Maggie's choice, her ability and free will to choose, you're no better than Stan Shillings. He says he's nothing like the man who hurt her. Swears he'll never hurt her. Loves her to much to let her do this-but you say no. No, if you really loved her you'd let her choose. And the car is silent, the rain pounds down. You look ahead, focus on the blurring road between cuts of the wipers and wonder if and what he'll answer, wonder if he even understands. So I'm supposed to let her choose, the boy says bitterly. Just like that. If I loved her I'd let her throw her life away? Live there forever? I know it's what she wants, it's what she thinks she wants, but how is it loving-how am I loving- to let her go on even if it makes her miserable?

The rain grows louder. Patters on the metal of the roof and echoes in the cab like the memory of the ocean's roar in a bone dry conch on an abandoned seashore. Especially if it makes her miserable, you finally answer. It's easy to love someone, easy to let people make the choices that make them happy. It's not until it involves hardship and suffering that you prove it. And he begins to weep. He's never been loved before, no one's ever loved him before and no one's ever been able to hurt him like you have. And no one hurts you like him. He's your son. Your child. You're his father, and damned if you can't stand for him to cry. But he has to. Has to know love. The hell he's ever going to emulate it if he's never seen it. Who the hell will teach him if not you.

So you drive. He cries. Tells a story and your guts go cold and your heart starts to pound but you keep your eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. This is love, you say. Love to let him cry. Weep. Be wounded. You can't always protect him.

She was so happy. She was so happy, the boy moans with longing. Says she had a good foster family, went to college, even had a boyfriend. He came to visit her once. Just once. He means in the hospital. When she was-when she was hurt-you finish for him. When she was hurt.

When she was hurt. He repeats. He can't say the word. Can't say rape. It cuts too deeply. He's a man. Her brother. Should have protected her. Should have been there. Should have stopped it. But he wasn't and deep down inside he knows he's failed, emasculated, believes and doubts if he'd been there he'd been able to do a damn thing about it.

But her boyfriend, Maggie's boyfriend, he said he never wanted to see her again. Said he didn't want to be with a girl who'd, who'd…

He never loved her. You finish for him. No, he says, no he didn't. So he stares out the window, watches the rain. Then he turns and faces you and asks his father if he thinks he's a coward.

And you don't know what to say. And you don't want to hurt him. And you love him desperately like your own flesh and blood like salvation like baptism but you're a father you're his father and the sons you love you chasten. By his definition, yes you have to tell him. He acts like Maggie is the only family he has. And he hasn't failed her. Never failed her. Treats her like a brother, like a man should but he's ignoring something. He's running from something the same as her. She's been hurt like him, victimized, tossed in the garbage and trampled but that's not what makes him a coward. Not what makes him a failure. The words, they hurt you. Take a chunk of your soul as he listens and shudders because he looks to you for love acceptance respect and if he doesn't have that he has nothing, nothing at all…

You have another sibling, you say, and he whispers Achilles. Tells you that his foster brother killed three people.

Yeah. Yeah he did, you admit, still eying the road, can't look to the passenger's seat, can't look in that rearview mirror can't stand to see him cry have to treat him like a man when your heart screams he's just a Kid just a boy he's your son-! But he's also your brother. And you're supposed to love him. when's the last time you went and talked to him?

But the boy is silent. Perhaps he ignores you. Perhaps he cannot speak.

A still, small voice. I used to write him. Every week. He never answered. Not once. You ask him if he's ever visited. He tells you his brother is a murderer. Yeah, you tell him, and so's anyone who claims to love God and hates his brother. A murderer, and guilty enough to go to hell. He shudders. He's afraid to go to Hell. All his life he's been told he will go to Hell and he's scared shitless that it's true, that life and fate and destiny are beyond his control and he'll burn and rot for all eternity for all his failures and sins.

He didn't think you believed in the Bible, he whispers to you. You don't. But he does. And damned if you can't let him live a contradictory life, not without loving him, not without confronting him. Not if you're his father. You can't make him choose, no one can make him choose, but he still has to. He has to be a man. Has to believe what he says or he'll always be a failure, always be a coward. And he has to act on his beliefs so you ask him if he really loves his brother and you ask him to prove it. You ask him to become a man. You want me to talk to Achilles he asks, but no, no you say, your eyes never leaving the road, you want him to do what he thinks is right.

He's a coward he says, he just can't face that. Anything but that. And you listen as he tells you that his sister got a foster home because she was a girl but they never gave him a chance, never gave any of them a chance for being boys for being men for being thugs and abusers and rapistsmolestersmurderers that they send to group homes to be neglected and ignored and preyed upon boys 12 to 17 all together in the same room when the lights go out, oh God when the lights go out-!

And you know what's coming. Your heart is heaving you're incensed and angry want to let out a primeval cry adrenaline burns pounds in your ears your veins hands gone white want to kill the motherfuckers who hurt your son, the negligent who made it possible for prison block gang rape shut up, bitch such my dick lay down and take it like a man-That's why he left foster care, you tell him as water pours down drowns the car your anger your sorrow nothing but numbness and cold. That's why he ran away. Yeah, he tells you. That's why I left. I thought they were supposed to keep us safe. And they didn't. They d-didn't. Two weeks. Night after night, they'd turn off the lights a-an-nd…I was so afraid. The only person I knew was Achilles…I should've told him I was leaving. Should've asked him to come with me. And maybe if he had, maybe if he'd left he wouldn't've, wouldn't've done what he did…

The night is empty, rain flows down the windshield like tears on the boy's face. And there he goes, trying to make people's decisions for them, take away choices, free will and guilt. But he can't. He just can't you tell him, he has to love them enough to let them go-

He killed three people! You've seen the pictures! I know Allen and Montoya were the ones who finally brought him in. And it was, it was horrible. It was my fault. I left him, I left him alone! I, I write him letters. But I can't see him. I just can't. I can't go to Arkham. I don't wanna ever go to Arkham. People have been telling him his whole life he'd end up there or prison. Said if he had any sense of decency he'd hang himself and save them the trouble. He doesn't want to ever go in, he begs you. Never. But until you do you'll always be running. Hiding. Until you confront this thing it will eat you alive. You know what's right. And until you act on that, until you go to Arkham Asylum and talk with Achilles, you're nothing but a coward, hiding behind paper walls and telling yourself you're safe until you're willing to confront what you could be, what every man can choose to be, to look at the disgusting depravity that we choose for ourselves and others, and admit that it could be you, you're no better than Maggie Kyle.

I made him what he is. That makes me a murderer. You're wrong, son. He chose that. He chose it for himself. Did your parents make you what you are? Do you hit women because your father did? Do you molest little kids because that was how you were raised and you can't help it, can't control it, that it's part of your very nature? No. No, you chose not to. You could be like that. But you're not. You tell him, you're not. He doesn't want to be like them, he pleads. Doesn't ever want to be like them-

You're not, you tell him. You're not. What if you're wrong he asks you and your heart turns to stone. What if all he is a walking time bomb. What if everyone he knows and loves is better off if he were dead, if he'd never been born.

Then you have a service pistol you say. You know how to use it. But you don't. You haven't. Because regardless of how much shit's in your life, you believe suicide is wrong. You believe in your heart that all men are responsible for their actions and to eternal consequences. That's why you haven't killed yourself. But not dying isn't the same thing as living. And until he's willing to live by that same principle, he's going to miserable. Guilty. And terrified. You'll be terrified, you tell him, just like Maggie-

He's terrified. Afraid. You say you'll hold his hand, walk with him as far as the door but he has to face his demons alone, his demons can only be faced alone and the demons are here and they are hungry he wants to run to back away to leave this place walk away from this Hell he doesn't want to go to Hell, he begs you, I don't want to go to Hell-

So you watch behind one-way glass with a psychiatrist as he enters the room to confront his fears, to love his brother to not be a murderer just like him. You've got to be shitting me, the demon says. What the fuck you want?

He never answered the letters. Fuck him and his letters. He gets letters all the time. Better ones. Ones with girls who write him because they're fans and think he's famous and hot and want to fuck me, look at these pictures, look at this-

He doesn't want to see it. Tells him to put it away. The demon laughs and smoke pours out his nostrils takes his forked tongue licks the pictures of the naked girl's genitals as your son cringes and turns away. You're such a pussy, look at this, look at this! The demon calls you know you want some be a man and say it! And you're trembling, sweating, growing cold with doubt and dread you shouldn't have brought him here, should never have brought him here the psychiatrist asks you what's going on you lie say nothing, nothing have to let him stand on his own have to let him be a man-

You come to arrest me? Again? The demon sneers. No, no he says. He came to apologize. To say he was sorry. He's sorry he left him, sorry he's in here, sorry he's become an animal and a murderer he loves him he loves him he's his brother you're my brother and I left you I left you behind I'm sorry you're my brother and I love you forgive me forgive him please forgive him-

But Achilles only laughs and howls as the room fills up with smoke and flames and your son cries out in agony that ain't all I done the demon gloats. That ain't the worst. And your son looks at him at those pictures of all those whorring girls and something's wrong heart beating loud in your ears the demon's smile is wrong taunting and terrible a rift in time and world and universes your son is trembling, trembling and he's in control the bastard's in control you have to get him out of there-

Cry little girl the demon shrieks. Go ahead and cry go ahead and squeal like you squealed when I fucked you pathetic cocksucker think you're so good so self-righteous want forgiveness well fuck you, fuck you again-!

You bury your face in your hands what have you done what the fuck have you done brought your son here handed him over to be tormented never believe you love him again what have you done what have I done-

But the room goes white-hot with iridescent light those flames extinguished feathered wings unfurled the Angel stands with the blade of Eden and the blood of Abel sings the words of power as the foundations tremble and the floodgates of the heavens unleash in a clap of thunder and darkness the electricity flickers backup generators a voice speaks from Heaven tells the demon I forgive you.

The demon's lost but will not retreat defies the Cherub's sword mocking and unrepentant to the bitter end what you think you are, the padre? Think this is confessional? You gonna absolve me you fuckface pussy? No. The Angel rises, soft words like music like healing waters to your soul. I forgive you. Absolution is between you and God. You have to ask for that, Achilles. You son of a bitch, you think you've won. Don't you. Don't you! The demon calls struggles against the bonds that hold him chains clanking venom flying you fucking pansy! You fucking fag! When your balls gonna drop, huh? When are you gonna be a man? But the Angel turns your son turns white eyes glowing with a piercing fire, says he doesn't even know what that word means. Suck my dick, the demon shouts, defiant still suck it again! You know you liked it-!And the door clangs shut flames lick anew the demon is consumed by lust and hate chose to be consumed by lust and hate and cast into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. The Angel flies wings away you follow breathless down the empty halls of Hell bright light burning searing your retinas your heart breaking free at last to the pouring rain and freezing chill where the angels are weeping for man and his depravity and your beloved son-

You call for him and he turns to you. Are you happy now he cries accuses bares his grieving soul are you happy now choking on chill in the drenching downpour but no, no you say. But you are proud of him. You love him. And he's a man. He's a man and he's your son and he is goodness and innocence and love, and you are proud of him, you tell him again, so very proud of him. He's not he's not he wanted I wanted to kill him I wanted to hurt him he's my brother and I wanted to kill him I'm just like him I'm just like Achilles I'm a coward and he's worthless and evil an afraid so damn afraid he'll be just like him but you're not you tell him you're not. Because you feel violated feel fear feel anger have every right every reason to hate him to kill him and no one would care no one would blame would call it justice goodness eye for an eye tooth for a tooth but you walked away, walked away when you wanted to kill him and that's what makes the difference you chose to walk away-

Hold him close warm heart against yours fingers balling into fists in the freezing rain empty darkness beautiful boy looks up into your eyes asks his father again if he thinks he's a coward wishes he could be brave like you and you say no, no being brave doesn't mean having no fear. You live in fear everyday you can't defeat it can never be rid of it but you can go out to meet it be willing to face it every moment of every day it's not a battle you can win not a battle he can ever win it means admitting our weaknesses and still fighting anyways. So the boy blinks liquid eyes languid under the shadow of his hair as rain goes beading down his porcelain skin like crystal tears through impossible lashes whispers what are you afraid of-

In the sprawling suburbs of Gotham City, Detective Aaron Lawless woke with a start, shuddering as he sat up in an empty bed. In the pounding heartbeats in his ears and the echoes of his panted breath he could still hear the resonant whisper of that weeping voice: what are you afraid of?

What every man, every father fears. And suddenly he was in the hall, forcing himself to a fast walk not a sprint fighting everything paternal instinct in his heart crying out it was futile useless it was too late it hadalwaysbeentoolate-!

But no. That tiny heart was still beating, Ian Anthony's heart was still beating chest rising and falling peacefully curled in bed with that goddamned cinnamon bear. Lawless bent over, pressed his lips to the boy's sweaty hair and let out a breath a sigh a sob of relief. Alive. His son was alive-

…Jimmy. He walked slowly back to the bedroom, fear mounting again in his heart as he passed picture after picture of his two sons hanging on the darkened walls. Hands groped through pants pockets in the darkness until fingers grasped the familiar feel of the phone.

"Aaron Lawless, GCPD. I need the location and status of a Legacy victim."

"The name, sir?"

"Connolly, Jimmy—No, this isn't a fucking prank call!" He snarled over the operator's protests. "You find my son, do you hear me? You tell me where my son is!"

04:27 EST

FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch

Long nights. Short weekends. Lousy pay. And that was just the good days, Edward "Eddie" Nashton sighed, laying his head onto the immaculately spotless surface of the reflective glass on the desktop. It was four in the morning and the consultant had been staring at this goddamned video for ten hours now while elsewhere in Gotham survivors were still being pulled out of the Legacy. Sometimes working with the FBI gave him a thrill, a sense of excitement and adventure, an ego stroke telling him he was putting his brilliant mind to a higher and nobler cause…and other times it meant working for a dumbass bureaucracy and sitting on his ass in a crowded cubicle and working hours of thankless, payless overtime. And this was one of those times. Give him a firesuit, a uniform, some basic first aid training and let him help, let him make a difference but no. Some FBI pshrink had failed him on his psych eval and now that was on his permanent government service record and Nashton knew the closest he'd ever come to employment in the Bureau was being called in to sift through paperwork, hard to track calls and ISP addresses for a consulting fee. But on the bright side, as a consultant he got privileges and perks-like listening to Flight of the Valkyries on his iphone while still on the payroll.

Consultant. Bureau-speak for we think you're a genius, Eddie, but it doesn't change a damn thing about your OCD. At least they were intelligent enough to realize his potential, he said for the thousandth time. No point in getting bitter, no point in holding a grudge. He still got to use his extraordinary intelligence to catch the bad guys who were foolish enough to let themselves get caught. Socrates is a man, and all men are mortal, Nashton quipped to himself. Not unlike the young man in the video, getting cut from ear to ear, something darker within him riddled.

"How's it coming, Eddie?" Field Office Director Dan Murray's familiar voice cut across his thoughts. Damn. The Director at this hour of the morning? "Couldn't sleep." Dan replied to his unvoiced question. "Not with all this shit. Tell me you got something here."

Nashton unpopped his earbuds, the strains of Wagner's masterpiece disappearing in a garbled static blip. "Hard to say. The video quality's pretty poor, but without the original digital file there's no way for me to check for editing-this could've been shot with a modern camera then filtered to make it look older and less technical. DC told me it was a hoax, but going back over these pixels again, I dunno…" He sighed, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "Damn technology's made it near impossible to tell."

Murray shook his head. "Don't give me that, man. You're our go-to guy for stuff like this. When I've got a riddle my boys can't solve I call you in. Don't tell me you've hit a dead end-"

"Not a dead end." Eddie corrected. Nashton had never hit a dead end in his life. It was simply a matter of making a call, faked or not, and until he convinced himself beyond a doubt he couldn't in good conscience make a decision. He'd never been wrong before, not once. And the longer he worked the more pressure he felt not to let a failure sully his record…

OCD? Maybe. "Just a snag. Yeah, the Joker's face is easy enough to fake, all over the news and all, and it's so bunged up to begin with…but shit if this blood doesn't look real. The splatter patterns, viscosity…you remember that faked execution video some kids pulled? Back during Operation Iraqi Freedom about some US soldier getting beheaded by Jihadists? Those kids got busted big."

Murray nodded. "I remember reading about it, yeah. You think this is something similar?"

"Maybe." Nashton said. "Because there's only two explanations I can come up with using current evidences, and one is it's a fake. A clever, well disguised fake that will be damn near impossible to disprove."

"And the second?" The Director asked.

"You ain't gonna like it." Nashton warned. "It's real. It's real and some punkass kids found it and kept hold of it until the right moment then released it just for kicks to pin this on the Joker…either that or he gave it to his followers, which means our guys should've known the Legacy was coming."

Murray nodded. "It's possible. Is that your official statement?"

The consultant clenched his eyes, raked his nails across his forehead and chewed his lip. "I dunno, Danny-boy. I just don't know."

"Christ, Eddie. I need this. If it's a no go it's a no go but my department has to know in order to focus. You have any idea the amount of friends and family my men have lost to this bastard? And what sort of pressure that puts on us?" Murray shook his head, and held up his hands to stop himself. "Hell, I'm sorry man. It's not fair to say that. You do know. You're one of us-"

Not quite. Nashton thought. But the apology was well meant if not entirely truth. "You're the best, Eddie. The goddamned best. And right now the world's gone to shit and you tell me you have a problem and I'm just not prepared to hear it. What's holding you up?"

"Initially I didn't think it was fake." He grunted. "But logically it can't be anything else. The voicing pattern, pitch and range are perfect-like a signature, but again, the resolution on the sound and video are pretty poor. Even with the best analysis software I can't rule out a voice actor with similar vocal qualities and damn good imitation skills. I've also run it against the Douglas and Engel videos and all the Joker MO files and it fits this bastard's personality to a T. But hell, this is the information age and those vids are open to the press and so are the court records declaring him not guilty by reason of insanity-and they're highly specific, mind-so it's entirely possible and plausible it's some film students jacking around, especially with the CGI they have nowadays, but-"

But the blood is just so goddamned real. Now there was a conjunction he had been using too often in the last ten hours. He needed a break. A shower. A good night's sleep and a decent meal, not this pre-packaged garbage from the floor's vending machine. "What's holding you up?" Murray asked patiently.

'This." Eddie said, pulling up the clip and enhancing it to fill the 27-inch Mac monitor. The speakers were on silent-hell if he had wanted to listen to the audio all night-but the boy's lips moved to mouth those three deadly words: You're. Not. God. Purple gloves, shining scalpel, boy's face held firmly and without escape those horror-filled eyes taking up the screen-

He froze the frame. Ran facial recognition software to create an eerie green grid over the cheekbones, eyes, and jaw. "He look familiar?"

Murray stared long and hard, face creasing into a frown. "No." The Director finally answered. "But with all the bruising and the plaster-"

"What about now?" Eddie brought up a second image, a famous image, one no Gothamite could ever mistake and ran a comparison. "And that's why it has to be a fake. Someone had to scan this in and doctor the film up to poorer quality-make it look like VHS even-because it's just not possible. The Joker's been in Arkham for over a year, so this can't really be the Kid from Stop the Violence-"

Murray yelped. "What? Connolly-?"

"Yeah. Yeah that's what the guy says. Says his name is Jimmy Connolly-"

"Put on the audio!" Murray barked. "Put on the audio and play that clip again! Play it! Fuck it, Eddie, I have to hear his voice-!"

And as if my face wasn't ugly enough al-ready, you had to go and uh, cut it up. Don't ya think this'll leave a scar? And now wouldn't that be such a sha-muh, scarring up such a uh, pretty face-

Oh God-

Yes, Johnnie-boy, I am uh, god-duh . I have the power to kill you or let you uh, live. That makes me uh, pretty, pretty di-vine, don't ya think?

You're…not…God.

"Again." Murray ordered, face a ghastly white. "Play it again."

You're. Not. God. You're. Not. God. You're Not God. The panted words looped with those agonized breaths that perfect bubble of blood slice through the cheek like a fresh cut peach and that scream, that horrible, squelching, piteous scream-

Director Dan Murray shut his eyes, and fell slowly forward onto the desk. Nashton closed the video, sickened. "That's why I had the sound off, man." He mumbled as Murray wiped his tearing eyes and struggled for words.

"Eddie, this thing is fucking real."

Nashton shook his head. "I'm telling you, that's impossible, Danny-"

"Don't fuck with me, man, I know that Kid!" Murray swore. "Wrote him a fucking letter to get into academy-"

"It's not possible, Danny. It just isn't." Eddie nearly pleaded. "No way in Hell Arkham security wouldn't reported if that high a profiled patient went missing-"

"I don't give a damn about Arkham security!" The Director cried. "Call a team over, right now! I want retinal and fingerprint confirmation of the Joker! ASAP! And not a word of this leaks, you hear?"

Numbness. Cold. Shock. He'd discredited it as impossible. No way the video could be real because the Joker was in Arkham. Worked all night to find a way it could be fake let that bastard have another ten hours because he couldn't stand being wrong had to know for sure should've gone with his common sense instead of dicking around trying to prove himself-

And that Kid, that Kid from Stop the Violence, whoever the Hell he was…he was dead. He was really, legitimately dead…and for all Nashton's intelligence and experience he could only think of one thing to say: what an absolutely goddamned awful way to die. "You're saying this thing's real. I…shouldn't we…Gordon-?" He finally whispered.

"I don't know." The Director moaned, tearing his hair. "Eddie, I don't fucking know and until I do I can't risk scaring anybody. Word like this gets out, word gets out we even suspect the Joker's loose and the whole world'll go to Hell. You didn't hear it from me, Eddie, but Calderon was this close to Manhattaning the PRC on Tuesday. News caught wind of the tension, and Chinese citizens were attacked in DC, somebody shot at people leaving their embassy…hell of a mess. We can't leak this until we're sure…but Hell. Gordon. Lawless. Connolly…I know these guys…and if this is what I think it is…" His voice trailed off into hopelessness.

"The shit-storm ain't even hit yet." Nashton finished quietly.

Murray sighed. "Tell me when they get to Arkham." His voice shook with grief, rage and doubt. "And pray to God they find the Joker."

"Yeah." Eddie whispered. "Dead."

"Today I'd settle for alive." The Director returned. "Jesus, never thought I'd hear myself saying that…"

04:52 EST

1776 Lexington Lane

"Detective Lawless?" an authoritative voice interrupted the chords of elevator music as the anxious father juggled a curly-headed toddler, still fast asleep. "We have location for your son."

Aaron Lawless whispered a prayer of relief. "Where is he?"

"Arkham Asylum. I suggest you contact them for more information." And with that pronouncement, the line went dead. I can't go to Arkham. I don't wanna ever go to Arkham. I don't wanna go to Hell…

He held Ian closer, kissed those auburn curls, tried to find comfort and calm as the Angel's face from that dream swam hauntingly before him, that unanswered question festering in the back of his mind: what are you afraid of? In the stillness and darkness, cradling Ian, wondering and worrying about his wife and second son, the Detective finally found an answer.