Chapter 8

The Bat

The Batmobile's engine roars and growls as I push it harder, practically grinding the gas pedal into the floor. In the passenger seat, Dick is uncharacteristically quiet. He knows what's waiting, who's waiting for us at the end of this ride. In the side mirror I can see Kate keeping pace on her motorcycle. I had Lucius set her up with something special, and she rides it well. We're halfway to Arkham when GCPD alerts start coming through the scanner. The first few are vague, something about a disturbance at the asylum, possibly a security breach. By the time we arrive, our fears have been confirmed – Joker is loose, and he's freed a few of Arkham's worst. No mention of Scapegoat, only that there are two security guards in that wing holed up in the office. That won't protect them for long.

The front gate guards wave us through. Both have shotguns in their hands, and fear in their eyes. As we pull up in front of the main building, Gordon's voice comes through the com.

"Batman, are you there?"

"Right here Jim. Nightwing, Batwoman and I are at Arkham. What do you know?"

"Not much," he replies. "We don't know how he got loose."

"I may have an idea. Go on."

"As far as we know the chaos is still limited to one wing. We've got Arkham guards in riot gear ready to go, and GCPD S.W.A.T is on the way for backup. There may be hostages, we can't say for sure. A few guards are unaccounted for. I wish I could tell you more."

"Ok, have the guards and your men stand down, we're going in."

There are countless ways into Arkham. Some are common knowledge, some are privileged secrets, and a few only I know. But right now stealth isn't an issue. Tonight we enter through the front door. Inside, the gathered crowd of riot-geared guards parts to let us through. None of them say a word.

"Ok, this may be the creepiest VIP treatment ever," Dick cracks, just loud enough for Kate and I to hear.

"They're scared, and they have every reason to be. If Joker decides to escalate the situation, they could have a full-scale riot on their hands. I wonder why he hasn't."

"What do you think he wants?" Kate asks.

"Trying to guess what drives him is a waste of time. Since Joker and I first crossed paths, he's told me at least five different stories about who he used to be, how he became what he is. Maybe one was true, maybe none. Or maybe each had a bit of the truth. I used to puzzle over it, struggle to piece together his narrative; as if knowing how it happened would somehow explain him away."

"And now?" she prompts.

"Now I know better. The 'why' and 'how' of Joker's story don't matter. The only thing that matters is stopping him, before he hurts anyone else."

Dick, Kate and I walk down the hall to a single elevator. There are no buttons, only a scanner. Two nervous looking guards stand nearby. One looks up at me, nods and runs his ID card over the sensor. The doors open. No buttons inside the elevator either, this car only shuttles between two floors: main level and the tombs. After a short ride, the doors slide open once again and we walk out into the main hub of Arkham's darkest corner. There's a central security office, fully enclosed, and three doors, each leading to a hallway of cells. In the central office two guards gesture wildly at us and point frantically to the middle door, which suddenly explodes outward, followed by a charging, growling Killer Croc.

He growls, low and rumbling, swivels his head left then right, scanning, and almost immediately locks on me.

"Batmaaaan!" he roars. His eyes are wild with rage. "Kill you! Break you! Drink your blood!"

Good. His hatred of me is fresh and strong. I can keep him occupied, away from the guards. But as Croc bellows animalistic threats, I see Victor Zsasz walk through the demolished doorway, dragging something large and heavy. It's another guard.

"Hello officers," he addresses the guards, while wiping his bloody free hand on the leg of his jumpsuit. "I think you misplaced one of your brothers. But don't fear for him. Fate lead him to me, and I have set him free. I am coming to set you all free, one by one."

Zsasz hoists up the guard and I can see the wide, red wound at his throat, still slowly leaking blood though the man is already dead. He hurls the body at the office and it hits the thick window with a grisly wet thud.

"You two take Zsasz," I bark at Dick and Kate, "I'll handle Croc, again."

I throw down a few smoke pellets and fall back, let Croc charge thin air. He turns from side to side, clawing at nothing. The more enraged he gets, the sloppier he is. I'm counting on that. Once he spots me, he takes off at full speed. With his prodigious strength and size, Killer Croc can charge with the force of a battering ram. What he can't do so well is stop or turn. So when he's almost on me, I leapfrog over his shoulders and Croc goes crashing headlong into the concrete wall.

On the other side of the room, Dick and Kate are more than keeping Zsasz busy. One of Dick's batons flies through the air and hits Zsasz square in the chin. Before he can recover Kate delivers a powerful roundhouse kick that sends his head snapping back in the other direction. They're starting to work together like a real team. I knew they would. Or at least I'd hoped.

Turning back to Croc, I slip a sleeping gas pellet from my belt. He's staggering, still off balance from his encounter with the wall. Lucky for me, his mouth is wide open. I move around behind and jump onto Croc's massive back, wrapping my left arm around his neck; slapping the gas pellet into his mouth and holding it shut with my right. I hear the pellet go off, delivering a room's worth of gas directly into Croc's lungs. He begins to struggle even more ferociously as smoke leaks out of his nostrils. For ten seconds that feel much longer, I hold tight. He writhes, convulses, and finally succumbs sliding unconscious to the floor. Then, for the second time this week, I cuff Waylon Jones, the monster known as Killer Croc. For one dark moment I wish Scapegoat had put Croc on his 'to do' list. Too much trouble? Too hard to kill? Who knows, maybe he tried. Whatever happened, it's clear that Scapegoat's plan went horribly wrong. He may already be dead, or worse. While I'm cuffing the unconscious Croc, Victor Zsasz is howling as Kate cinches his bonds tight.

"Nooooooo! So much to do…. Still so much space to fill."

Zsasz's body is covered with scars, one cut for each life he's taken. But for him it will never be enough. Is Scapegoat really any different? Would he ever be satisfied, ever feel his work was done? I doubt it. No matter how many criminals he puts in the ground, more will rise to take their place. That cold, hard truth only bolsters my own refusal to play judge and executioner. I'd tell myself that it would only be once, only Joker. But that would be a lie. Once you cross that line, it ceases to be a line. Then you're no better than them.

I join Dick and Kate. Zsasz is securely bound but still voicing his discontent.

"Shut up, Victor." I deliver an accompanying punch that knocks him out cold.

"Good call," Kate says, "That one gets annoying fast."

"So," Dick chimes in, motioning towards the open middle door, "I guess we have to go in there, don't we?"

I nod.

"Yeah, I figured," he shoots back. "Good times."

I start down the hallway, Dick and Kate close behind. The cell doors are open, including the one at the end. On the ground near one door is the body of Edward Nygma, The Riddler, blood pooled around his head. On the other side of the hall, sitting in his open cell, is Harvey Dent.

"Hello Harvey," I turn and approach his door, "You sitting this one out?"

"Hey Bats," he replies, then looks down at the silver dollar in his hand, clean side up. "Yeah, I wanted to join the fun, but the coin said 'no'. It's probably for the best, those guys are crazy."

"Sit tight, Harvey," I say, and push his cell door shut.

Then, from the pitch black cell at the end of the hall, I hear that voice. That dry, mirthless cackle; grating, like a rusty hinge.

"Ah ha ha ha ha haaaa… Hello lover, did ya miss me? I knew you couldn't stay away for long. Try though you might, you just can't quit me, can you?"

"Where is he, Joker?"

"Oh, you mean my new friend the Capricorn. Don't get your cape in a twist, he's right here."

Then, from out of the darkness I see those eyes, like two malevolent stars; followed by that sick, impossibly wide grin. Joker emerges from the shadows with Scapegoat held in front, arms bound behind his back and a blade to his throat.

"Where's Crane?" I demand. Even in this chaos, I can't let Scarecrow slip through the cracks.

"He's in here with us. Not much of a threat without all his toys, it turns out. I tried to get him to put the fear of God into our horned friend here, but the Scarecrow seems to be suffering from a touch of performance anxiety. It's ok Johnny, it happens to everyone. Well, not to me. But you know, other people."

Switching to night vision, I can see Crane, cowering in the back of the cell.

"Goat boy would have killed him, you know. Just like he did poor old Eddie. He even tried to kill me. Imagine that! But he didn't understand what we have, you and I. He didn't know that no one gets to kill me but you, and vice versa. Personally, I hope we both go out together, a final blaze of glory. What an ending that would make to our story, the stuff of legend! But back to the hapless goat…"

"You sick piece of shit," Scapegoat growls, then grunts in pain as Joker wrenches his arms up behind him. One shoulder pops. I shift a foot forward, ready to lunge if the clown gives me an opening.

"Not another step, my dear," Joker scolds. "That goes for your little tag-alongs too. Why'd you have to spoil the intimacy by bringing those killjoys anyway? I was hoping for a 3-way, not an orgy. Well, never mind. It doesn't mean we can't still have some fun. I've never butchered a goat before, so this might get messy."

"Joker, no. This is between us. Let him go."

"Curious. I'm used to seeing you bend over backwards to save the innocent. But this one hardly qualifies, does he? Why not just lock us both in here together and throw away the key? What makes this one any different?"

"He may not be innocent, but he still deserves a chance to redeem himself. You… you're beyond hope, beyond help. All you deserve is the darkness of that cell, until the day you die."

"Is that any way to talk about your better half? Words hurt, you know," he taunts. "Besides, if that's the way you feel, why rush down here to stop this misguided moron? Why not just leave him to his mission?"

"I didn't come here to stop him, Joker. I came to stop you. I knew he would underestimate you, give you an opportunity, however small. And I knew you would take it."

"You flatter me, Bats. Such regard for my abilities. And of course you're right because, well, here we are. But what are you prepared to do to save the life of this horned fetish freak? At first I fancied escape, now I'm of a mind to just shut the door and enjoy some quality time with my new friend."

Joker slides his face against the slick latex of Scapegoat's mask as he rants; then licks it, snaking his tongue around the base of one horn.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," Scapegoat spits the words out. He grunts as he begins twisting his head, forcing his own neck down onto the blade.

"No!" I cry out

"YESSSSS!" Joker howls with sadistic glee, craning his neck forward to get a better view.

The blade slices through fabric, then skin as blood trickles down Scapegoat's black latex suit. Joker is panting, chuckling perversely as he savors his captive's slow suicide. He's ecstatic, giddy, delighted… distracted. It's a chance I won't get again. I pull three bat-a-rangs and whip them at Joker's arm, the one holding the knife. They hit their mark, burying themselves in deep in his forearm, three in a row. He shrieks and drops the knife. Then suddenly, with incredible speed and force, Scapegoat whips his head back, shattering one curled horn against Joker's face, sending him sprawling back into the darkness of the cell. Scapegoat, shoulder dislocated and throat bleeding, turns and lunges towards Joker.

In a flash he slams Joker's head hard into the concrete floor, knocking him unconscious, and yanks a bat-a-rang out of the clown's arm. He raises the blade, ready to bring it down, ready to end the life of a man who deserves neither mercy nor sympathy. A familiar voice tells me to let it happen. How simple it would be, how easy. No need to kill Joker, just let him die. But even as my mind is spinning, my body is already in motion. It's instinct, pure and simple. I grab Scapegoat's good arm to stop him, then his dislocated arm to quiet him down. He drops the bat-a-rang, wincing in pain.

"Don't you understand?" he pleads as I drag him out of the cell and slam the door shut. "I have to kill him. For you, for Gotham. I have to do what you can't!"

"No. Joker is exactly where he belongs," I reply, stepping over the body of Edward Nygma and pushing Scapegoat into the recently vacated cell, "And now, so are you."