Batman (2 page)

He would need help—he wasn’t such an egomaniac that he thought he could do it on his own. If he wanted to step into the vacuum left by the Joker…

No.

For decades the face of crime in Gotham City had been insane, wearing a mad rictus and green hair. The Riddler had no desire to step into those shoes. Like all of the resources he was procuring, he would remake the role. Gone would be the lunacy, to be replaced by something a little… classier. In the way a riddle was classier than a joke. Jokes relied on a brief incongruity, a momentary collision of expectation and reality. They stimulated the low behaviors of human nature—not for nothing did they call it a belly laugh.

A good riddle demanded intellect and reasoning.

Fate had handed him the perfect opportunity. More than ever, he had the resources he needed to establish the Riddler’s pre-eminence among Gotham City’s criminal hierarchy, in a way that would be incontestable. The chaos he would bring would make them forget the Clown Prince of Crime, once and for all.

A delusion of grandeur?

So be it
, he thought. All thoughts of grandeur were delusions… until one made them real.

* * *

The corner of the steel mill gaped in a ruin of stone and metal, evidence of the explosion that had partially destroyed the building. Like the remains of the building, the armored construct they had brought up from below was scorched, but whereas the mill was inoperable, the mechanical guardian appeared to be intact.

Looking like something out of a steampunk dream, the tick-tock men were the perfect representatives of a technology well ahead of its time. They had been built ostensibly to protect the denizens of Rā’s al Ghūl’s domain, when in truth they represented his despotic control. Round eyes were dull and lifeless now, but soon they would glow green again with artificial life.

Perfect
, thought Nigma.
If enough of them have survived, they’ll be perfect.
Immediately he contacted the teams he had combing the abandoned streets, instructing them to find the rest.

Brutish strength combined with the elegance of the gambit—it was the mark of a true genius. Anyone could achieve power with a gun or a knife. The perfect riddle commanded its recipient to act in one way, and one way only. There was no greater mastery—and that was what the Riddler sought to achieve over Batman—absolute mastery.

Here in the ruined splendor of Arkham City.

Bruce Wayne mistrusted the calm.

Gotham City had been quiet in the months since the Joker’s death. It wasn’t in the city’s nature to be calm. There was always something brewing. Everyone from the ordinary street thugs to the organized crime families seemed to be less active than usual. It was almost as if the city was mourning the madman, honoring his twisted legacy by abstaining from violence and chaos for a time.

It seemed bizarre to contemplate, given the terror the Joker had inflicted on Gotham City over the past decades, but there it was. Facts, as the saying went, were stubborn things—and the fact was that Batman hadn’t seen any of the rogues’ gallery of costumed opponents since the cremation. Whether they were in mourning, or waiting to see how the power vacuum would be filled, that remained to be seen.

On a more personal level, yet just as disturbingly irrational as the city’s apparent grief, Bruce was grappling with the psychological effect of the Joker’s death. They had been mortal enemies for so long that he couldn’t help but experience a kind of loss, twisted though it might seem.

He was also dealing with the physical effects of the battles in and around Wonder City. As superbly conditioned as he was, even Bruce Wayne was getting a little older. He didn’t recover as quickly as he once had.

The fortunate lull in criminal activity was giving him time to rest his battered body, and to deal with essential maintenance of his unique equipment. He was spending a lot of time in the Batcave, assisted by Robin and Alfred. They replenished supplies, repaired damaged components, and replaced any that couldn’t be repaired. Regular orders for parts and tools went to Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and an engineering genius in his own right.

When the lull ended—and he was certain it would—Batman would be ready.

“If I may say so, you’re not your usual self, Master Bruce,” Alfred said.

“How’s that, Alfred?”

“Well, sir. You’re never a loquacious man, but in recent days you’ve been positively taciturn. An inward turn of mind, it seems. I must inquire: Is all well?”

“As well as it gets,” Bruce replied. “I don’t trust this quiet.”

“Me neither,” Robin chimed in from under the Batmobile, “but we don’t have to trust it to take advantage of it.”

“True enough, Master Tim. True enough,” Alfred said. He waited for a moment, then when the silence became awkward, he climbed the stairs and left the Batcave.

“He’s right, you know,” Tim Drake said.

“He usually is,” Bruce responded.

“You’re not yourself.”

“Who else would I be, Robin?” Bruce said, trying to be flip. “It’s nothing that should concern you.”

Yet Robin and Alfred were right—there had been a real change in him. Other people might not have noticed it, but they knew him too well. He had to admit to himself that it was there. The Joker’s death was affecting him in unexpected ways.

Was he grieving? Could that be it?

It seemed ridiculous, but when you lost someone who was a part of your life—even if that person had spent decades trying to kill you—perhaps it was natural to feel that loss.

Maybe his condition was physical. He felt strong, he felt quick, but he also felt… unwell, in a nebulous, unidentifiable way. He’d been writing it off as lingering effects of the Joker’s toxins, and that still seemed the most likely cause.

Whatever the source, four months after the collapse of Protocol 10, something was wrong. Sooner or later he would shake it off. Until he did, however, it would continue to frustrate him. He wasn’t comfortable with a problem he couldn’t solve, didn’t like a foe he couldn’t fight—couldn’t even identify.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said. “And even if I wasn’t, Gotham City doesn’t care if Batman isn’t feeling up to par.” He hoped that would end the conversation, and got his wish when the private line from Commissioner Gordon’s office pinged.

“Commissioner,” he said, activating the voice-only system.

“Batman, glad I caught you,”
Gordon said.
“I need you to come down here. We’ve got a… a situation, and could use your expertise.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, than he broke off the call.

Within minutes he was suited up, and moments after that he was in the Batmobile. Before long the armored vehicle was roaring through Gotham City—past Theater Row, through Chinatown, skirting Amusement Mile and the casino. People turned to watch. Some cheered. Some cursed and made obscene gestures.

In other words, everything was normal.

Eleven minutes after leaving the Batcave he arrived at the Gotham City Police Department headquarters and left the Batmobile parked on the street. It was a conscious decision on his part. After the exposure of Hugo Strange’s TYGER conspiracy, four months before, he’d determined to make himself more visible. People needed to know that someone was watching—and not just watching, but taking action.

There were still plenty of people who considered Batman a dangerous vigilante, but more of them viewed him as a warrior on the side of law and order. At times it seemed like a slim majority, but he’d spent years building it. He wasn’t going to let it slip now.

It seemed to be paying off, since criminal activity was at its lowest level in years. There was still tension in the city, though. It didn’t feel like a place where people went about their business freely and without fear. It felt as if there was another shoe about to drop.

Batman had long ago learned to trust his instincts, yet he also had to acknowledge that he was edgy. Was he jumping at shadows?

Something wasn’t right.

Whatever it was, however, he had to relegate it to the back of his mind. He made a point of walking in the front door of GCPD headquarters. People would see that and recognize Batman as an ally of the police, one who responded when Commissioner Gordon summoned him.

Protocol 10 had shaken the civil order—almost destroyed it, in fact. Hundreds of Arkham City’s inmates had died, many of them innocents who had run afoul of Hugo Strange’s lunatic plan. Amidst the violence and chaos, a number of genuinely dangerous criminals had escaped. Batman had been rounding them up as fast as he could, but it had proven difficult. His adversaries had been keeping quiet. Too quiet.

Gordon was in the atrium. The commissioner looked worn and rumpled, as always. The cares of his position had aged him prematurely. So had his years of battling powerful interests who wanted the police to become their cat’s-paws—personal enforcers, rather than representatives of a law that applied equally to all.

They had had their differences, Batman and Gordon, yet he knew the commissioner was one of the few people in Gotham City who would always do what he thought was right, no matter the political cost, no matter what ridicule he had to endure from the media… no matter what. In that way, Batman and Gordon were the same, and that was what bound them together in the battle against entrenched corruption and vice. Each could count on the other to be an ally, and Gordon was willing to accept the consequences of that alliance.

The commissioner reached out to shake Batman’s hand.

“Glad you came,” he said.

“You know you can count on me, Commissioner,” Batman said. Gordon’s grip was strong, and he looked slightly less worn than he had in recent months. Maybe things
were
changing.

Quincy Sharp was mayor, and that wasn’t necessarily good news for Gordon. But with TYGER gone, the GCPD was no longer stuck on the sidelines. When under the influence of Hugo Strange, Sharp had replaced the police with TYGER, leaving Gordon powerless. It was a tribute to the man’s character that he had continued to do his job, even with the odds stacked against him.

More remarkable still, in Batman’s mind, was the fact that the commissioner continued to associate with known vigilantes. There was a certain kind of law enforcement that could not wear a badge. Gordon recognized it, even if he didn’t openly endorse Batman’s tactics. It was the mark of a good man, a strong man, to admit that the world didn’t always operate according to his ethics.

“What is it you need me to see?” Batman asked.

Gordon left the atrium, motioning for him to follow. He walked to the back of the building and up a rear fire stairwell.

“We keep a private conference room back here,” he said over his shoulder. “It seemed like a good place to… well, I’ll just show you.”

On the third floor, down a dimly lit corridor, Gordon unlocked a door and stood aside so Batman could enter. The room was a simple rectangle, perhaps twelve feet by twenty, with blank walls and no windows. A table and chairs occupied the center of the floor space. The table was empty except for a single envelope.

“This was inside of an unmarked package. Once I’d pulled it out, I didn’t open it,” Gordon said. “As soon as I saw who it was addressed to, I brought it here myself, and contacted you.”

Batman approached the table and assessed the envelope from arm’s length. It was addressed plainly, in block capitals.

JOKER
C
/
O COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON
GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT

What he saw caused him to suppress a shudder that ran through his body, and he took a moment to focus. There was no return address, and no postmark. Someone had slipped this envelope into the departmental mail system without using the post office—a fact that in and of itself was disturbing.

Batman filed the fact away.

“You wore gloves?” he asked.

“No point,” Gordon replied. “By the time I’d picked it up, and saw the address…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “After I put it in here, I called a decontamination crew. They doused me, and they’re in my office right now testing for toxins. Next they’re going to survey the mail room. I’ve got my shipping manager interviewing everyone who works down there, to see what they might know. She’s good people. I’ve got someone checking the security footage, too.”

“Probably a good idea,” Batman said, though he didn’t mention that it was probably too late. If there was a toxin on the envelope, there was no telling how many people had handled it since its entry into the building. The subtle approach wasn’t exactly the Joker’s style, but he hadn’t been above employing it.

If
, Batman thought,
the Joker had anything to do with this at all.

He had been dead four months—Gordon had personally supervised the cremation. This envelope hadn’t been sitting in the GCPD mailroom all that time. So either one of his many minions had sent it… or it was a message from another of Gotham City’s villains.

“My first guess would be that one of the Joker’s henchmen sent it,” Batman said. “It wouldn’t be unusual for him to have rigged something to be done in the event of his death. Especially given the circumstances of his death. He knew he wasn’t going to live—not without the antidote.”

“I was thinking along the same lines,” Gordon said, peering at the package. “So what do we do?”

“Where the Joker’s involved, we hedge our bets.” Batman unclipped a small device from his Utility Belt and turned it on. It was a portable X-ray machine customized to detect the presence of most common explosives and toxins, and even radioactivity. He held it out over the envelope, and an image appeared on its screen.

“It’s a USB drive,” he said. “There doesn’t appear to be anything else inside.” He checked the readings. “You can call off your decontamination protocol.”

“Are you sure?” Gordon asked. “I’m responsible for people’s lives here.”

“So am I,” Batman said. “I don’t see anything but an envelope. But I’ll have to open it to be sure.” He reached for the envelope.

Instinctively Gordon backed up a step.