The Garden

Arkham Island

11:36 A.M.

"This just in folks: it looks like we've got a full-blown riot at hand. I've been hearing from trusted sources that all access to Arkham Island has been restricted since the top of the hour. I've also been told that Gotham airspace is closed off due to a bomb threat still being investigated, and there are reports that the big guy himself- that's right, Batman- is on the island right now. For more on this developing situation, stay tuned. I've got a feeling we're in for something tonight…"

Jack Ryder's crackling voice echoed inside of the SWAT vehicle, only to be replaced by static sounds as a gloved hand started switching to a new radio channel.

The engine was a rumbling monster waiting to be unleashed as it remained in a stationary position, for now.

"Alright, you're good to go, Sergeant," announced a voice from outside the vehicle. "Hopefully you boys aren't too late."

Sergeant Lambs, who was riding shotgun on the vehicle, acknowledged with a grim nod what the checkpoint officer told him as he accepted his badge back.

"Command sure took their time activating us," he responded with the natural cynicism of a man who's seen his fair share of horrors within a typical career in law enforcement, especially in Gotham.

"You'll get further instruction up ahead," the officer on the outside told him. "Best of luck."

"Thanks." Rolling up the window, he rolled his neck around before signaling to the driver.

With a roar of the engine, the armored vehicle resumed its march into the darkened abyss of the night.

It passed by signs on the side of the road. Bumps along the concrete.

Eventually, Lambs picked up his radio. "Central, this is Charlie Two. We've crossed Checkpoint Three and are en route to the rendezvous. Over."

After another crackle of static, a responding voice came on, "Copy that, Charlie Two. Kill the lights as you come in. Over."

"Yes sir." With an assertive hand gesture, Lambs gestured to the driver who immediately dimmed the van's sirens and other lights.

But another voice, laced with impatience, crackled through the radio. "Charlie Two, what took so damn long?"

"Apologies for the delay, Lieutenant. We just received our orders about ten minutes ago. Over," he replied with a sigh.

Tall, shadowy trees rustled as they brushed past the moving vehicle.

An eerie green glint of luminescent glow sticks, left by the preceding team, occasionally broke the monotony as they traversed the twisting road.

"Lt seems to be in a good mood," the driver, Officer Rodriguez, chuckled.

"Can't blame him. Tonight's been a real shitshow," Lambs replied seriously.

"It's always the Joker," Rodriguez remarked, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

"Who else would it be? Killer freakin' Moth?"

Then a voice came from behind, "Gordon should've sent us to city hall instead of waiting for the Bat. If we made entry, I'd put one between that freak's eyes myself. One shot, one dead clown. You're welcome."

Sergeant Lambs glanced back over his shoulder at the others.

The light inside the van faintly illuminated five of his men, all armed and armored. His gaze stopped at one of the officers, a formidable figure even in the sea of elite.

"Commissioner has his reasons like he always does. You should know that better than most, Dalton," he retorted. "Rush in guns blazing, maybe the Mayor gets caught in the crossfire. That's not just extra paperwork; that's our damn jobs."

Officer Dalton, an experienced officer with a face hardened by years, leaned forward in response.

"Sure, it'd be a mess but look at the one we're going to clean up now," he pointed out. "That psychotic bastard is running the madhouse, commissioner's MIA, and who knows how many good men and women are already dead inside the gates."

"Hey man, don't count out Batman just yet. He probably already kicked Joker's ass," Rodriguez chimed in.

Dalton offered a scoffing retort, "Yeah, how's that? Oh, let me guess: because he's-"

"Batman," the other officers all joined in, the van erupting in a mix of hearty laughter and groans at the oft-recycled joke.

"It's true though, bro. He's a badass. One time, he gave me one of those boomerang things he used to knock out some of Penguin's guys that almost had the jump on me. Told me to keep it as evidence."

Lambs turned to him, mildly piqued. "Is it still in lockup?"

"Hell no, I had to show my cousins something cool I got from work," Rodriguez beamed proudly. "It's in my house somewhere if you guys wanna come and see it after this."

"Maybe next time he can give you an autograph too," came Dalton's dismissive voice. "Am I the only one here who isn't glorifying a criminal that's probably more dangerous than the other criminals we gotta deal with around here?"

"I don't always agree with his methods, but I can't argue with the results," Lambs spoke up. "As bad as Joker is, imagine how much worse we'd be if Calendar Man was still carving up bodies? Or Zsasz? I don't miss those days."

"Oh, those days when cops around here actually used to do their jobs? Yeah, glad we're past those dark times," again came Dalton's cynical response.

"Hey, someone wake Smith up. We're almost there," another officer sitting beside Dalton pointed out.

The rustle of fabric was heard as another officer placed a jolting hand on the shoulder of the officer who had apparently nodded off.

"Not so hard, Mason. Don't want to give him whiplash or anything, right?" another officer with a glint of a medic emblem displayed on his vest cautioned. He was Johnson, the team's medic.

"Relax, I've got this," Mason assured him.

"You said that last time before you put the tourniquet on wrong and Rodriguez almost lost his leg from that gunshot wound," Johnson reminded him.

"Hey, it was loud, okay? I couldn't hear you over all those shots that were ringing out," he argued back. "Plus, it's not like Rod died or anything, right?"

"Don't jinx it, man," the Hispanic officer deadpanned from the driver's seat.

"Listen doc, you ain't gotta worry about every little thing here," Mason kept going. "You think we need to put someone in triage just because they got a paper cut."

Sergeant Lambs finally turned around before their argument could gain too much steam. "Enough. Mason, Johnson's the authority here. Do what he says. If things go south in there, you'll be glad you did."

Taking a breath, he cast a stern gaze around the dim compartment before continuing, "Gentlemen, what we're heading into right now is a damn war zone. We all need to be in this together if we're gonna make it out together. Leave the petty bullshit in the truck. Am I understood?"

"Yes Sarge."

"Sir yes sir."

"Yes sir."

Interrupting the heavy atmosphere, Rodriguez flashed a grin at the Sergeant. "War's gonna end quick once we get inside. We'll have those inmates begging to go back in their cells once we're on-site, right?"

"That's the hope," the older man sighed, turning his gaze to the back of the van in search of a diversion. "Someone check on the rookie."

At that moment, everyone (except the still-sleeping Smith) turned their gaze toward the youngest member of the team.

That man, lean with dark hair and a youthful face, was currently engrossed in a thick dossier.

Feeling the glances of his teammates suddenly bearing down on him, he raised his head to meet their stare.

"Well, he hasn't crapped his pants," Mason reported with a shrug. "At least not yet."

"Plenty of time for that," Dalton smirked. "Hey rookie, those files aren't gonna do you much good in the field. They gave you a gun for a reason, eh? It's not just for show."

"Know your enemy, defeat your enemy," he retorted, brushing a hand through his hair. "You guys read the psych profiles for this mission, right?"

"Was that a serious question?" Mason chuckled.

"Yeah," McKnight answered, as if matter-of-factly. "Understanding these crazies is what makes us the smart ones. At least that's what the academy taught me."

"The academy taught me something a little different. It taught me there's no problem in this city you can't fix with a firearm that's fully loaded and ready to go," Dalton replied confidently.

"Damn straight." Mason nodded. "Who the hell are you looking at anyways?

McKnight offered the files without any resistance, the youngest of the team watching as Mason eagerly flipped through the documents.

"Boring, boring, boring…not boring. You think we'll see Quinn in there, boys?" the officer grinned.

"Hope so."

"Man, I'd do things to her," Mason remarked. "Even with all that clown makeup on, she's still hot as-"

"Dude, she's been with Joker. Joker," Rodriguez reiterated.

"So?" he shrugged back. "I kinda dig crazy chicks. Don't judge."

"Whatever. So how about it, rook? You got a crush on any psychotic and highly unstable felons who'd love you one day and kill you the next?" Dalton tried to refocus the conversation.

McKnight's answer was very curt and to the point. "No sir, my interest is purely academic."

"I call BS on that," Mason piped back in, flipping through pages before finally stopping on one profile.

One with little notes scribbled in the margins.

"Looks like he's got vegan on the menu, boys."

"What? Who?" Rodriguez wanted to know, his curiosity piqued.

"Poison Ivy," Dalton smirked. "The most homicidal tree hugger that ever existed on planet earth."

"Still hot," Mason remarked casually.

"Well she does have a very interesting background. Not that it excuses her crimes, obviously," McKnight started to defend himself.

"Just about everyone in there has an interesting background, son. Only thing that matters in the end is they aren't free to victimize any of the good people of Gotham we're serving and protecting," Lambs stated plainly. "That's where we come in."

With a teasing grin, Mason nudged McKnight, "You in love with that green bitch or something?"

The young officer merely rolled his eyes and grabbed the files back, choosing not to rise to the bait.

That was when the sergeant interrupted with finality, "Alright, enough chit chat. Somebody wake up Smith, we're just about here. Check your gear one last time."

"Yes, Sarge!" came the synchronized response from the officers.

The banters in the vehicle quickly faded into a focused silence, broken only by the metallic clicks and snaps of weapons being inspected and primed for action.

McKnight, with trained precision, checked his rifle and also the equipment on his Kevlar vest as part of a pre-mission ritual.

His attention then gravitated back to the dossiers before him, eager to absorb as much as possible before setting foot in the notorious asylum, even though he'd practically committed them to memory.

"Alright people, time to work for a living!" Lambs ordered. "Get ready."

"Time to earn your stripes, rookie," Dalton told him, hefting his weapon.

As the vehicle came to a complete stop, the rear doors were swung open in one fluid motion, revealing the looming, sinister silhouette of the Arkham Asylum in the distance. One by one, the tactical officers disembarked, determined warriors heading towards the congregation of police vehicles hidden in the woods.

As McKnight prepared to follow, he had managed one last fleeting glance at the file he'd viewed more than all the others. His eyes briefly locked onto her prisoner number…

"Son, it's time!"

…but duty called, so he didn't linger.

The file marked with the number 181 remained open on the bench of the empty vehicle.

The open dossier, bathed in the van's dim overhead light, showcased a photo that many in the force found paradoxically haunting and mesmerizing.

Against the background of a police lineup, a verdant-skinned woman holding up a nameplate stared malevolently at the camera, her lips curving into a tantalizing smile and her emerald eyes shimming with a blend of danger and desire.

The name below the photo:

"Prisoner #181, Pamela Lilian Isley"

Lightning cleaved through the sky, its jagged illumination briefly casting the outline of a man slumped in the darkness—a silhouette etched in momentary light.

"My darling, oh how I've missed you."

A sultry voice cooed, dripped with allure, echoing through the spacious structure.

Sounds of dainty footsteps came to a halt in front of the dark figure, their outlines merging in the occasional strobe of the storm.

"Are you hungry, my poor darling? Don't worry, mommy brought dinner."

The unconscious man, dressed in a prisoner jumpsuit, was abruptly released from his botanical binding. Succumbing to gravity, he descended into the gaping maw of the carnivorous plant below. Never to emerge again.

At least not in solid form.

"Such rich food for my pretty baby here."

A hand, the skin tinted an unnatural green, lovingly caressed the surface of the plant pod with a gentle, reverent touch.

"Eat up, my dear. There's plenty more where that came from."

With the elegance of a viper, a fresh vine snaked forth from the soil, wrapping around her forearm in a sinuous embrace.

"Yes, my little one?"

The serpent-like vine tenderly brushed its tip to her ear as if it were whispering something secret to her.

"Mmmm."

A satisfied hum escaped from her poisonous lips as she pursued them, her expression reflecting a mirror of vanity and vicious intent.

"Oh yes, I can feel them coming, my dear."

Her fingers moved gracefully through the strands of hair, gently guiding them into an intricate braided bun, with the vines entwined themselves around it, adding a touch of earthy elegance.

"And here I thought it would be boring waiting for the Bat to come back."

The crimson of her lips carved itself into a chilling smile.

"Let's have some fun with them, shall we?"