3Disclaimer: I do not own any media related to the Batman or Hellraiser franchises. Batman is the property of DC Comics, and Hellraiser is the property of Clive Barker.
Introduction Notes: I am, apparently, doing this. I always wanted to write a crossover between these two franchises, basically because I love them both and I think they could work well, but I found myself unable to actually write something down. I never was able to drawn an effective line of plot… until now. Now's the chance. I hope you enjoy this, and don't worry if you ask yourselves "How can you make a crossover between Batman and Hellraiser?"; I'll leave more notes at the end to explain things. Without more delay, I hope you find this little idea as fascinating as I did while having it.
What is your pleasure?
Chapter one
New faces in Gotham
"What is your pleasure?"
"The Box; nothing else."
The streets of Metropolis were as lousy and busy as you would expect from a city that rivaled New York for the title of 'Most cosmopolite city in the USA'. The people walking, mending their own business weren't likely to notice the pair of men sitting around a small, circular table in the terrace of a cafe discussing their little exchange. One of them was pale, clean shaved, small, chubby, wearing black and round sunglasses, a hat over his head that shadowed his face and that let only some black curls falling to the sides of his cranium to be seen. He was dressed in the usual dark blue business suit that befitted an important, clean and honest man of Metropolis... though he wasn't one. He was smiling.
The other man was, however, a polar opposite. He was a thin man with white and rough skin that denoted years spent in not very advisable circumstance and company, the smell of bad cologne that hardly covered the bad odor product of the mix of sweat and alcohol. He had short brown hair, which clearly had been bathed in the same cologne as the man's body. His face had sharp and angular features, accentuated by his pointy nose and malnourished body. It seemed that the man had been feeding in nothing but alcohol for a while, something that wasn't too far from reality. He was dressed in a simple pair of pants and a flannel shirt of a whitish color. He was frowning.
And what was between the two of them, resting peacefully at the center of the table? The Box. A puzzle box, to be precise; a cubical device crafted in wood and with strange symbols engraved all over it. And it was waiting. It had been waiting for too long.
Reluctantly, the thin man searched in the bag between his legs, carefully brought and protected, and from it he pulled out a banknote with over twenty Ben Franklin in it. No reaction was gained by doing it, however. He pulled another banknote with the same amount of cash out of the bag, putting other two thousand dollars over the table. The thin man's frown deepened while the fat man's grin seemed to widen.
"Take it," the fat man said in an amused tone, pointing to the Box with no apparent intention of taking the money. "It's yours."
The thin man seemed dubious for a second, yet in the end his desire to get the object he had pursued for so long imposed itself. He took the Box and sat up, leaving the cafe. The fat man was left behind, still grinning; noticing that the man had left the money. Not that the money had any value for someone like him.
"It has always been yours."
The thin man was quick to walk towards his temporal home in Metropolis, a small, dirty house in the outskirts, far away from the skyscrapers' shadows. He hated Metropolis, or more precisely, he hated how Metropolis worked. This was kind of ironic, since he was from Gotham; and every child of Gotham dreamed of getting out of that place and coming here, to Metropolis; in the dreams of reaching a better life. But those idiots didn't understand a thing about Metropolis and how it really worked. This man had seen Metropolis' real face… and it was no different from Gotham's. It just was covered by a mask. Both Gotham and Metropolis were whores. But Gotham was an older whore than Metropolis, and thus knew how to be herself, wearing her wounds inflected by many violent lovers, mainly Maroni and Falcone, exposed to the air. Gotham screamed, and said: "I am hurt, I am beaten! Here I am world! This is what you made of me!" Then Gotham proceeded to empty a bottle of whisky.
Metropolis… oh, Metropolis was far younger than Gotham, and her flesh was way fresher. A jewel of modernity; that's what Metropolis was usually called. Yet it was a whore too, Gazzo and the businessmen born of capitalism's most recent golden age abused her as much as Falcone and Maroni did with old Gotham; but Metropolis answered them with a smile and putting into some cosmetics and a pretty dress that Gazzo had bought her. "It's nothing, really;" Metropolis said. "I can take it, I'm beautiful." Then Metropolis proceeded to empty a bottle of white wine.
As he unbuttoned his shirt and discarded his pants, closed the windows and lighted some candles in the small room where he was supposed to carry out the ritual, he took a moment to look back at his days at Gotham. His days in the police department… One could say that he had been one of the pioneers there, one of the first corrupts; which was understandable considering his older brother's profession. One of the first to take bribes, to consume drugs, to enjoy sluts… then, after several years, it had got boring. Boring! And then, well… then it had gotten worse. He didn't know if he had been hit by a disease, or if he had become insane, but he had grown unable to feel anything. Nor pleasure, nor pain… he had felt it all! Or at least, so he thought. He had taken all the money he had saved and travelled a little around the continent. Nothing had been left in Gotham for him, not after the bitch he had as a wife had taken his daughter away from him. Who else tied him to Gotham? Rupert? What a joke.
He had seen things he had deemed impossible before, experienced magic first-hand after searching enough… and then he had ended hearing about the Box. The Box and its promises of 'surpassing the limits of human pleasure' were what the thin man, named Joseph Thorne; had been searching for so long. Plus he was a man that had enjoyed puzzles since childhood, a trait shared with his father.
Completely naked, Joseph Thorne sat in the dirty floor of the room, legs crossed, only the light of the candles to help him see, and the Box in his hands. Around him were a bunch of strange tokens needed for the ritual: A box of chocolate candy, a jug with his own urine, dove's heads, and a bowl full of living worms. He started to proceed as many had told him to do so, by solving the Box. As he discovered, it was more difficult than he had previously thought. Normally, these things had a lot of combinations of different parts before actually ending into what they were supposed to be. This one didn't, and Thorne had to rack his brains in order to start moving it. Finally, he was able to decipher the damn thing, or at least a part of it. One of the corners of the cube rotated over itself, releasing a bunch of pinkish sparkles that made Thorne tingle at contact with his skin. There it was, after so much time! Feeling!
Smiling for the first time in what seemed to be years; Thorne kept trying to solve the box. His right index finger found itself over one of the cube's bases, caressing the picture of a circle that seemed to emulate a sun. Thorne practically giggled when a part of the puzzle box shot upwards and rotated over itself like one of its corners had done seconds before. This part, however, didn't go to its previous position, instead remaining were it was. The Box was waiting for him to push it down. So Thorne did exactly that, leaving the whole Box with another, way different shape than the one it originally had. Then a stream of electricity shot from the Box, shocking Thorne, sending him backwards and shooting afterwards a bluish lightning to the ceiling of the room he was in.
Thorne opened his eyes again after the initial shock had passed. The Box, still in its new shape, was in the ground now, producing a calm yet haunting music, something akin to a macabre lullaby.
When Thorne looked around, he noted that he wasn't in his house's room anymore. It was still a room, with four walls, ceiling and floor; but it was darker, for starters. He couldn't see any window, door or candle light. The floor was not of wood anymore, instead being of cold, wet stone. The only dim light in the place seemed to come from the walls themselves, and an innumerable amount of chains hanged from the ceiling, and from each chain hanged a piece of wood that had bleeding body parts attached to them by nails. And the most frightening thing was that there were pieces of faces there, mouths and eyes and ears... and they were still moving. Where was he? Where had that damned Box taken him to?!
Wait, wait! Now he was hearing something. Something that sounded like... steps? Indeed, it was the sound of steps. Was someone coming? Who was coming?!
To the sound of the steps joined another, more frightening one. A sound that accompanied the footsteps, growing stronger as the steps came closer.
Chatchatchatchatchat...
Out of the darkness appeared an… individual. Calling it by any other word wouldn't be appropriate. The being seemed to be male, but that was where it stopped looking human. The individual was one of a standard high for an adult, with a thin yet muscular frame, dressed in tight and black leather. He had zigzagged slices on his stomach and on six sections on his chest and six to match on his back; all of them showing fresh and deformed flesh, continuously bleeding.
His face... his face was the worst part. He had his face covered in a mass of burned skin with no visible facial features besides a mouth, which was stretched open by eight hooks digging into its sides and stretching them to the torn flesh on the back of his head; leaving his teeth and gums to be seen in their full glory. And the teeth... oh, that awful sound!
Chatchatchatchatchat...
More steps approached, and other two individuals stepped out of the shadows. The first one was a pale one, tall, bald and incredibly fat, obese even; and a male too. He was clad in black leather too, and over his eyes he wore two round sunglasses not very different for the ones worn by the man that had sold Thorne the Box. He had a very deep slice in his stomach that was being held open by hooks wrapped around the wound's sides.
The other was female, from that Thorne was sure due to her softer features and that she looked more human-like. Plus, the leather she was wearing really accentuated her figure. However, she was still far away from looking human. Her skin was bluish, her head was shaved and wires came out of her cheeks. These wires were intertwined into a metallic triangular frame which then had six more wires leading down to her throat where the flesh had been cut and peeled back to be held by said wires. This one did something that neither of the others did, however. And that thing was talk.
"We have found ourselves another candidate," the female thing spoke. Her voice was raspy and soft, a result of her opened throat, no doubt. "Similar circumstances as the last one, albeit better material."
"W-what?" Thorne finally spoke. "Who... who're you?! What are you?!"
"Ah... always the same question. Who are we? What are we? Explorers... in the further regions of experience. Demons to some, angels to others."
This voice was way different from the female thing's. It was much, much deeper. It belonged to a male, if Thorne's ears didn't betray him
They didn't.
A fourth individual stepped out of the darkness. He was, as Thorne had correctly deduced, a male one. Considerably taller than the other three, he was also clad in a suit of black leather, albeit his uniform was far more elaborated than the others', the hem of which brushed the floor; the patches of skinned flesh exposing blood-beaded muscle; and the skin tightly interwoven with the fabric of his robes. His flesh was virtually white, his hairless head ritualistically scarred with deep grooves that ran both horizontally and vertically, at every intersection of which a nail had been hammered through the bloodless flesh and into his bone. Perhaps, at one time, the nails had gleamed, but the years had tarnished them...
He looked like a creature that had lived too long, his eyes set in bruised pools, his gait steady but slow. He spoke, and the voice was deep and terrible, as if a legion spoke through his mouth.
"For the intents and purposes that will befall here," the man said in his deep voice; "you may refer to us as Cenobites, Mr. Thorne."
"W-What?" Joseph was able to weakly say. "How do you… know my name?"
"Oh, we know you very well, Mr. Thorne;" the bald male thing… Cenobite, Thorne corrected himself; spoke. "We know everything about you. After all, you are a candidate."
"C-Candidate for… what?" Thorne asked, afraid to the extreme.
"For ascension," the female Cenobite broke into the conversation. "That is the reason the Box ended in your possession; that is the reason you have been seeking it, and that you heard about it in the first place. In order for you to become one of us."
"You mean I'm supposed to be…" Thorne's eyes jumped from one to each of the four creatures; "like you?" Thorne's expression changed then, from one showing fear to one showing anger. "Well, screw all of you then!" he said, rising his middle finger. "I'm not going to be like any of you! Go to Hell!"
Chatchatchatchatchat! The creature that had appeared first made the same chattering sound with his teeth that it had been doing for long, but this time it was much faster.
"Ohohohohohoho…" let out the obese one with the round sunglasses, while his lips formed a macabre grin that Throne felt to be pretty similar to the one of the man he had conversed with over the Box.
The female one took a hand to her lips, now curved into a smile, and chuckled softly, her eyes narrowed towards him as if he was a kid that had said the stupidest thing in the world.
Laughing, they were laughing at him.
"There is no need to be afraid or to cause a commotion, Mr. Thorne;" the bald male one, who seemed to be the one in charge here, told him. The human-shaped abomination gave a couple of steps towards Joseph, and as he came nearer and nearer, Thorne's wrath vanished and was replaced by pure terror again. "After all, this is what your heart has been longing for so long. For years, we have watched you, how you grew bored with the pleasures your world had to offer, how you longed for something more, and thus dwelt in the worlds of the occult in the search of an experience that would bring you near to the true definition of ecstasy. In that regard, each one of us here, right now in this room of the Labyrinth, is kindred; and thus that which you have been longing for so long, we know how to provide."
Thorne thought about this being's words for a bit as he approached him and looked down towards him, his completely black eyes nailing in his human ones.
"Tell me, Joseph Thorne, for I am Pontiff of the Labyrinth;" the lead Cenobite spoke; "what is that you seek, in your life? What is that you seek from the Box? What is that you seek, from this world?"
Thorne answered. He had thought that he would say something like 'pleasure' or some synonym, or something similar… but that wasn't the word that left his mouth. The word came by itself, and yet when Thorne pronounced it, he felt like the word defined the desire his quest had been based upon better than anything else.
"Transcendence;" Joseph Thorne answered.
"Then," the lead Cenobite said. He raised his right hand as if to give an order. "Begin."
Before Thorne had any opportunity to react, hooks attached to chains shot from the same darkness the Cenobites had appeared, and pierced through his skin and muscles, tensing and lifting him from the ground while he let out deafening screams of pain and blood poured from each of the spots the hooks had nailed themselves into. His body hanging in the air, the blood falling a creating a crimson pool under his feet, Joseph Thorne felt that, if the tension of the hooks pulling from his flesh increased anymore, his body would be torn apart.
"We told you, no need to be afraid;" the female said in her raspy, soft voice. "In the Labyrinth, the line between pleasure and pain must disappear, so the real experience of the flesh can begin; so you can ascend."
"Only then, when you attain the transcendence of the flesh you have longed so much for," the lead Cenobite said; "you shall become one of us. You will attain your desire, Joseph Thorne. And we shall be granted a new Engineer."
"IIIEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!" Thorne shrieked in pure pain, the hooks finally pulling from his body with all their strength and ripping him apart. But he continued alive, and feeling the most agonizing pain he had ever felt.
Back in the room of that house of Metropolis, however, no sound could be heard. The only thing remaining in the room Joseph Thorne had carried out his little ritual was only the Puzzle Box.
Gotham, a decade later; 1999; July
I believe in Gotham City
I believe in Batman… most of the time.
I believed in Harvey Dent, my ally, my friend… and that didn't end well at all.
The Detective moved swiftly, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, descending elegantly in between buildings in order to land where he wanted to. Neither the rain, nor the lightning and thunder in the skies bothered him. He had travelled like this to the GCPD so many times that now his body did it practically in an automatic manner, leaving his mind with the ability to concentrate in other things.
Alberto Falcone, son of Carmine Falcone, the in other times 'untouchable' crime lord of Gotham City… Alberto was Holiday; a serial killer that had committed murders through the past year, being a mystery that couldn't be solved either by the police or by the Detective himself. The Detective had suspected the (at the time) District Attorney, Harvey Dent; his ally and friend. But it had been Alberto Falcone all along, in what had turned out to be possibly the most horrific call for attention towards a neglecting father in Gotham's history. When the Detective, the Batman, had caught him… he had to make an effort to not kill Alberto, and to not feel good breaking his ribs, and shattering his arm. They had stopped Holiday, and shortly afterwards, Carmine Falcone was dead. The Detective and the forces of justice had won the war… but thanks to the Falcone family and their machinations, they had lost Harvey Dent.
Alberto Falcone had ended up in Arkham Asylum. He should have ended in the gas chamber, but his father's power and manipulations had reached even beyond the grave. Instead of condemned to die, Alberto had been put in a cell of Arkham, with three meals a day, and without risk of being targeted by cellmates. He had been placed in front of the cell of another criminal obsessed with holidays, a man called Julian Day, also known as Calendar Man. The rivalry between the two… had been clear since the first day Alberto had been interned in Arkham.
And now, the new District Attorney, Janice Porter, a white, short woman in her thirties with long blond hair and a fair complexion for her stature; had decided to re-open the case of Alberto Falcone. She had travelled to Arkham, and had been speaking with Falcone, a conversation the Detective had been monitoring. For what he had heard, Porter was determined to actually get Alberto out of his cell of Arkham. That… was an error. Alberto was Holiday, he was a Falcone. It was thanks to him that Harvey Dent had lost his wife, his reputation, half of his face, and his sanity. Men like him… men like him didn't deserve second chances.
He could see the building in the distance, once filled with corruption, now slowly transforming into a beacon of hope. Gordon hadn't used the signal in quite the time. The Detective, the Batman, knew why. That signal… and specially that rooftop of the GCPD… it brought back memories, both good and bad. Mainly bad.
The Batman landed near the window to Gordon's office. He checked them before focusing into the conversation unfolding inside. He felt reassured when he noted how Gordon had followed his counsel and had installed reinforced windows, and in addition had moved his desk and chair so his back was in a blind point for anyone that decided to play sniper with the Commissioner.
Commissioner James Gordon. For the Batman, the title still sounded weird. Maybe it was the fact that Gordon was the first Commissioner of the GCPD in a long time that wasn't full of corruption; maybe it was the fact that the job was taking its toll on Gordon. He set foot in his own house less and less as time passed, mainly because the house was empty now. No Barbara, no young Barb, no little Jim. For a man like James Gordon… that must have felt worse than anything.
"You can't be serious," the Batman heard the Commissioner's voice from inside his office. Looking inside and opening the window slowly between yells so it wasn't noted, he saw how Janice Porter and James Gordon had started a heated argument.
"I'm very serious, Gordon;" Porter told him. "I saw Alberto myself, read the reports on what happened that time, when you caught him. You not only let Batman to be there, you let him take his time with Alberto. You can't tell me that his civil and human rights weren't broken there!"
"And you think that's an excuse to reopen his case, and get him out of Arkham?" Gordon asked, adjusting his glasses. From his spot Batman could see how he had lost some hair, and how some white streaks had started to make their way into the otherwise brownish red hair and moustache of the Commissioner. "That man's a serial killer. He killed dozens of people, and it was thanks to people like you that he got out of the gas chamber."
"Oh yes, I can easily picture you mourning all the people Alberto killed;" Porter told Gordon, referencing the fact that Holiday's victims had been nothing but members of Gotham's mafia.
"Holiday," Gordon corrected her. He really wanted to hammer the point against her in that regard. Holiday; like the Joker, or the Scarecrow, the Mad Hatter… Two Face. Names for criminals that weren't usual criminals, that weren't motivated by money or power, lacking human motivations. They were crazy criminals; narcissistic, psychopathic, sadistic, and schizophrenic criminals; some of them with abilities that couldn't be considered human; clearly not ready to be reincorporated to society. For Gordon, Alberto Falcone belonged in that group, and should always belong in that group.
Porter breathed deeply and then sighed. "Look, I know this is something personal for you, and I don't need your permission, I only came to inform you. But I have read the psychological analyses they've run on Falcone. Maybe you should give it a chance." Batman… could understand her point, to a degree. Everyone was worth a chance at redemption, everyone deserved a second chance. And there would be nothing that would make him happier than seeing Crane or Tech to regain their lost sanity. But that wasn't going to happen, much less with Holiday. Much less with a Falcone…
"You are making a mistake," Gordon said, eyes narrowed at the District Attorney as she opened the door of his office, his calm voice barely containing his anger.
"I think not," Porter answered, closing the door when she exited the room.
Once Porter left the scene, Batman opened the window completely and entered into the office. He waited a couple of seconds for Gordon to realize he was there. The Commissioner sighed tiredly and leaned his arms against his desk. For a moment, Gordon looked even older, his tiredness highlighting the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes and over his forehead.
"She will do it," Gordon said slowly, referring to Porter taking Falcone out of Arkham. "That's what she is known for, being a bull in a China Shop. She doesn't like you, either. It's not going to be as easy as it was with… as how it was before. I don't know if I can protect you on this one."
The Detective, the Batman; gave a couple of steps. Even now, after four years since he had first appeared in Gotham; Gordon still marveled at the sight. He was a tall individual, taller than most, with strong and tight muscles in a body that had trained to be the pinnacle of humanity's physical prowess for years. He was dressed in a skintight suit that, albeit seemed to be made of black leather at first glance, further inspections (mainly the ones thieves and gangsters had done with their guns) revealed to be made of some kind of material similar to Kevlar. Falling from his shoulders to the floor and covering his whole body was a long, black cape; and his head was covered by a black mask with pointy ears, his whole appearance reminiscent of a humanoid bat-like creature. That was the reason he had been nicknamed 'The Batman' by the press during his first appearances, a name that now everyone used to refer to him; albeit Gordon and some others referred to him just as 'Batman'.
"That won't be," Batman told Gordon; "and never has been; necessary."
Gordon remained silent for a couple of moments, there bent over himself and leaning against his desk. Some had started to question if he actually slept there, with the mountains of paperwork serving as his pillow.
"I miss him," Gordon said sadly, eyes locked on the door. A part of him always hoped that one day that door would open and that Harvey Dent, the real one, with his entire face, a deck of cars in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, would enter in his office and convince Gordon to stop overworking, drink and play a bit with him and go back to his home, with his family.
"Don't," Batman told the Commissioner, like he had told himself so many times after Harvey's fall from grace. However, his single word made the Commissioner to abandon his mourning and get angry.
"How can you be always so cold-hearted?" Gordon asked, offended by the Detective's apparent lack of emotion. "That man and I were friends, damn it! We played cards together, we got drunk together… And independently of what he has become, Harvey Dent was your friend too, no matter how much you try to deny it."
The Commissioner's small rant met no response; since in the moment he tried to look at Batman again, the Detective wasn't there anymore. Like always, he had disappeared as he had appeared, leaving Gordon with half the phrase still in his mouth.
"Damn…" Gordon cursed, fists clenched; returning to his paperwork. Out in the streets, a lightning crossed the sky violently. Gotham wasn't known for its gentle and sunny weather, after all.
Yet little did they know that the storm raging in Gotham's skies was nothing but a prelude of dark times to come.
Around a month later; August 2nd
I am alone, the Detective thought as he observed the scene from the top of one of the graveyard's mausoleums. Graveyards always brought back the memories of that fateful night in Crime Alley, when Bruce Wayne had lost his parents… and the seeds of what would transform into Batman had been born within the child's soul. The images still were fresh in his mind, even after all these years. A family of three exits a theater, a man confronts them in an alley, a scream, and two shots. Then nothing but silence. I still remember how loud the gun sounded, how bright the flare of the gun was, and the terrible smell of the gunpowder.
Batman kneeled and let his suit to merge with the night's shadows in order to hide his presence, his eyes fixated into the lights produced by candles in a nearby shrine. My parents were loved by Gotham City, Batman kept thinking. I remember thinking that as many people came to the funeral in the same way they came to one of their lavish Christmas parties. All of them said the same thing, with different words. 'Your father was a great man, your mother didn't deserve this… you are not alone, little Bruce'. I knew all of them to be just lies wrapped in a sweet box. All of them false… except for the words of one man. Batman took two fingers to his right eardrum, and the other hand pressed a button in his belt, said button activating a series of microphones in the shrine. He wanted to hear every word that was said there before Gordon and his men arrived. Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone, that was his name. A tall, thin man with thick eyebrows and a thin moustache, black hair combed backwards; always dressed sharp. He came to me and told me that my father had saved his life, and that if I needed a favor anytime, no matter what it was, then I just needed to ask. Even then I knew… that I had seen the face of Evil.
August 2nd, it was a very important date. Not only because it was the day in which the last birthday of the late Carmine Falcone had been celebrated, but because it had also been the day in which the late Salvatore 'Sal' Maroni, the leader of the second most powerful crime family of Gotham, and The Roman's occasional rival and ally, had poured corrosive acid over the left half of Harvey Dent's face, scarring and deforming it forever. How ironic, that the day in which The Roman had celebrated his birthday, it had also been the day in which Two Face had been born. Two Face, who had taken almost every important super-powered or demented criminal of Gotham to the Roman's penthouse and had murdered him; doing something that Harvey Dent would have never done if he was still a sane man. Talk about digging your own grave. But as result of those events, Batman had decided that the burden of protecting Gotham from men like Carmine Falcone… should be his and his alone.
That day, the Roman's daughter, Sofia Falcone; fell from the apartment in an attempt to fight the intruders. But instead of dead she had ended crippled, confined to a wheelchair. Today, at dusk in this graveyard, she was hosting a little meeting in honor of the anniversary of her deceased father, and that doubled as a measurement of the forces the Falcone family still possessed. Batman watched from his hiding spot and listened thanks to the microphones. Since the Roman's death, people like Cobblepot or Sionis had taken charge of many of their crime operations, and there were drug sellers that were turning towards Crane now instead of them. And that wasn't speaking of the kind of damage the Joker did to their businesses each time he decided to incorporate them in his jokes. Gotham was changing, and the underworld was changing with her. For the old-fashioned mobsters, this meant that either they fought for their place in that world, or they died.
Sofia Falcone was a gigantic woman, which was kind of lampshaded thanks to her other surname, 'Gigante'. Even now, always sitting in a wheelchair, her legs covered by a mantle, with a wig that emulated her lost dark red hair over her head and three scars over her cheek that seemed to have been inflected by a large feline claw; she still looked imposing. "Poppa…" she began; her voice still strong. "My father would have appreciated all you all coming here tonight. He loved his birthdays, and this one shouldn't be any different."
One by one, Batman was able to identify all the attendants to this macabre show. The first one was the one that gathered most of his attention, a tall and beautiful woman that wasn't wearing the most adequate of funeral dresses, since even if it still was black; it showed her generous cleavage and more leg that what some people would judge appropriated for an occasion like this. Her long, black mane denoted her identity, especially for Batman. Her name was Selina Kyle, and Batman's other half, Bruce Wayne, still questioned if what he felt for her was just embellishment or true love. Mixed in with sorts she shouldn't be, Batman thought. Or should she? This is not the first time I have found her at a Falcone gathering, the Detective acknowledged, thinking back at the night Johnny Viti had been married and then murdered.
"It's hot," she said, and then her eyes focused on the man standing behind her. "But not as hot as the night Johnny Viti got married;" she whispered.
The man behind her didn't utter a word, but smiled. The black hair combed backwards and the thin moustache over his lip could have given the impression that a young Roman had arisen from the grave and now walked again amongst the living. The similarities between the two were astonishing; much more clear that between Carmine and Alberto. Mario Falcone, the prodigal son of the Falcone family. For years he had been out of the country, deported. Why he had returned now of all times, and if he was going to stay, and why he seemed to look at Selina not how most men did, but with actual care; was something Batman would investigate… later.
A couple of twin Italian men approached, shoulders broad and strong, one dark haired and with a ponytail, and the other a brunette and shorthaired. Their faces looked similar to the one of the late Sal Maroni, but then again, they were family. The brunette kissed Sofia's hand with respect.
Umberto and Pino Maroni, Batman thought. Heirs to the Maroni family and representing the Falcone interest in narcotics and drug dealings. Now playing number two to the Falcone clan since they can't afford an open war… for now.
Next one was a thin black man around his forties, named Edward Skeevers. Responsible of the importing, exporting and trafficking of stolen goods; Batman made a mental annotation upon witnessing the man dressed in his mourning suit paying respects to Sofia and the deceased Carmine Falcone.
Following Skeevers appeared a short, bald, obese and sweating man that, while cleansing his sweat with a hanky in one hand, he took Sofia's hand with the other. Zucco, a henchman of the Maroni twins; Batman remembered. In charge of the trucking and transporting necessities. Just being here increases his status.
Next one, this one looking directly at Sofia's eyes, was a beautiful woman with pale skin and dressed in black funeral attire with a high-collar. Lucia Viti, Sofia's cousin thanks to the Roman's sister marrying into the Viti family. Even to the most uninterested of eyes it was clear that she had landed in the good side of the genetic pool in opposition to the late Johnny Viti. The Viti clan runs Chicago, Batman thought. Lucia must be here to give support to the Falcone clan, see if they finally fall… or to ensure they fall.
Last but not least was a man in his late fifties, not much younger than the Roman had been during his last year of life; an Italian that walked elegantly and took Sofia's hand to kiss it with care. Bobbi Gazzo, the Big Man of Metropolis. Gazzo is to Metropolis what the Roman was to Gotham City; Batman made a mental note. As one of the few men that could call Carmine Falcone a friend, being a Consigliere to Sofia now that she leads the Falcone clan and having in mind his political connections… he is dangerous.
The conversation between Sofia and her supposed allies continued as Batman expected it to continue, with her proclaiming that she would take the Falcone clan back to its rightful position at the top of the underworld of Gotham City, taking back from the 'freaks' the territories that they had already 'stolen' from them.
"Get 'em up!" someone yelled at the Detective's back. Looking out of the corner of his eye, Batman sees one of the Falcone's goons pointing a shotgun at him; instructed with patrolling every corner of the graveyard, including the tops of the mausoleums. Sofia… had learned.
"Keep your hands where I can see 'em," the goon told Batman; "and come slowly towards me."
It was surely a mere beginner, possibly new to the job of guarding the mobsters, or perhaps such a small fish that the higher ups hadn't bothered to explain to him how you deal with people like Batman. When you deal with people like Batman, you don't ask for him to get his hands up. Either you shot first…
Batman readied three little batarangs between his hand's fingers, and threw them quickly at the goon. The mini-batarangs nailed themselves in his hand, and the goon let out a scream and dropped his gun before Batman threw another set of mini-batarangs at his neck, these ones with a little dose of narcotics, making him fell unconscious.
Or you didn't shoot at all.
"Batman…" Sofia whispered. Not surprise or shock in her voice. She had been clearly expecting this, having his presence as a possibility.
In the verge of a second, a rain of bullets was flying across the night sky, and Batman was again glad that the combination of high adrenaline and how well his suit bended into the night hindered their aiming ability. The basic strategy for any armed goon that dealt with him seemed to be shot indiscriminately and see if one lucky bullet impacted. Normally, they didn't.
"We should get back to the car. We do not want to be part of this;" Mario Falcone addressed his sister, the other big shots of the mob already on the run. One would think that, after the whole show they had put up to honor the late Carmine, some of them, at least Gazzo, would have stayed around Sofia. So much for honor amongst thieves. "Selina, we should also… Selina?" Mario inquired, but Selina Kyle was nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, Mario Falcone followed his sister out of the scene.
Meanwhile, Batman was locked in a fight with the small army of goons that Sofia had brought to the graveyard. Batman could handle this, but not as easily as he would like. They were too many, and there was always the possibility of the probabilities turning against him. With so many people, one of them could become the one in a million shot. Better take care of them fast them.
Group of four below, at my twelve; Batman thought as he evaded the shots the best he could and jumped over the quartet of goons, knocking them out with swift movements. Break arm with Krav Magá, break leg with Muai Tai kick, caution with the man at my eight…
The guy at his eight never got a chance to attack, since he was chocked with a bola before he could do anything. A bola Batman knew very well, especially since its trajectory lead his eyes directly into who had threw it, the feminine shape clad in robes emulating a cat jumping, using the top of a tombstone as a supporting point and entering the fray.
Catwoman, Batman thought as his body shot instinctively towards her, grabbing her ankle. Reckless, she will get both of us killed. "Get down!" he yelled. He hadn't yelled in a long time. When he had grabbed her ankle, he forced her to go down, in order to evade the bullets. When they both landed, she had her back against the grass and he was on top of her. For the playful smirk she was sporting, she was clearly enjoying the parallelism.
"Why are you here?" Batman asked, enraged. How are you here? A part of him wanted to ad, but he contained himself.
"Someone screamed for me to get down," she said, the smirk not vanishing from her lips in the slightest. "Wasn't that you…?"
Answering with questions, half-truths, saying what he already knew. She answered without answering at all, and she did it even when her life depended of her telling the truth. That was Catwoman, a cat playing with a ball of wool even under a rain of fire. He ought to say something, but then…
"This is the police! Stop where you are! The entire area is surrounded!"
Gordon, just in time to get the pawns distracted enough for the two masked individuals to leave…
"Lay down your guns! Put your hands on your heads!"
But not to take out the big pieces off the board.
"Little fish," Gordon said between grinded teeth. He hadn't even bothered to put on his usual long coat for tonight, even in Gotham, the nights of August were hot. So there he was standing, in Carmine Falcone's shrine, shirt and a tie, and a pair of regular pants and suspenders keeping them up. Looking at him from the shadows, Batman noted that he was smoking a cigarette, not the tobacco pipe. That was weird; he didn't smoke in cigarettes unless he was really nervous for something in the near future.
Around him, three men looked at the show of cops arresting the several goons that had been mounting guard around the graveyard. But as Gordon had said, all of them were nothing more than little fish. However, these men were content with the capture of the day.
The first one was a man in his late fifties, probably older; but definitively older than James Gordon. Chief Clancy O'Hara, one of the old timers of the GCPD, one of the ones that had lived the times before the Roman, before Maroni… before the corruption and the cops turning blind eyes to the foul acts of cruel men around them. During the reign of Gillian B. Loeb in the GCPD, this type of cop has gone practically extinct; but not O'Hara. O'Hara was, as surprisingly as that may sound considering his age, an idealist. Even the clothes he wore denoted that, a perfectly clean and well kept police uniform. There was a rumor on the GCPD that said that, since he didn't have any wife or kids, he spent the nights cleaning and ironing that uniform.
The second man accompanying Gordon that night was a complete opposite from O'Hara. Around Gordon's age, he stood tall and chubby, dressed in a bad kept suit and with a small amount of dark gray hair over his head and a bad trimmed beard of the same color. Detective Harvey Bullock was a 'cop of the street', and where O'Hara was the idealistic, Bullock was the realist. A man that knew that sometimes you have to sink your hands in the mud in order to raise something better from it; Bullock had dedicated his life in the GCPD to be a man trying to do his best with what little he had. Now with Gordon as Comissioner men like Bullock got the opportunities they deserved in order to protect the common man, and albeit he didn't show it, Batman knew that Bullock respected Gordon more than anything else in the world for that.
The third man around was a recent addition. Younger than the others, being in his early thirties, was a man with black short hair and a fair and thin complexion. Dressed in the suit that detectives usually dressed in, the man stood mere centimeters taller than the Commissioner, a cigarette not very different from Gordon's in his mouth. Batman supposed that Gordon had taken his from him. Harry D'Amour was from Chicago, where he, according to the files Batman had access to, had achieved quite the fame thanks to solving some cases around serial killers with ritualistic patrons. Then his interest for the Viti family had grown, since apparently some of those ritual killings could be tracked back to them. But of course, no substantial proof was found of that. As such, when Lucia Viti had come to Gotham to aid the Falcone clan, D'Amour had come to the aid of the GCPD.
"What's that you are sayin', Comissioner?" O'Hara, voice soft, asked.
"Little fish," Gordon said with a stronger voice. "Some of the biggest crime lords of Gotham, for not speaking of the Big Man of Metropolis and the Viti woman, were here tonight;" Gordon told the old Chief as his eyes narrowed towards the police vans in which the goons were being put. "But we have only caught… little fish."
"Being fishing every summer since I was a kid," O'Hara told him. "You catch some fish, even if small, then it's a good day."
"The old timer's right," Bullock said next, his voice deep and raspy. "More of their goons behind bars, means less on the streets."
D'Amour, for his part, had approached the Roman's grave. Lowering his gaze towards it, he read the inscription over it. "Vini, Vidi, Vici… Strong words for a dead man." D'Amour's voice was neutral and calm. Analytical, even.
"And what's that gibberish supposed to mean?" Bullock asked.
"It's Latin," Gordon answered. "I came, I saw, I won; or something like that."
"It's a phrase attributed to Julius Cesar in one of his conquests;" D'Amour informed. How fitting, the most famous phrase of one of the most famous of Romans for the Roman.
"Animals, all of them, dressing as if they were people;" O'Hara said as he stood near the grave, kicking the little candle that Sofia had left behind. "If you want to hear my opinion, Harvey Dent did this city a world of good the night he put two bullets in the old man's head."
Gordon didn't say anything, his gaze losing itself into the night. "I know you're out there;" the Comissioner whispered. "Why not show yourself?"
A part of the Batman wanted to be there, with them. For four years he had dreamed of a situation like this, the moment in which Batman could stand side by side with the GCPD, now purged of the corrupt. He had wished for so long to stand by the side of good men trying to safe Gotham from its darkness… but the last time it hadn't ended well, had it?
I'm sorry Gordon, Batman thought as he left the scene as silently as he could; but the responsibility of dealing with such danger… it must be mine and mine alone.
Gordon gave a couple of more puffs to his cigarette and then dropped it, crushing it with his foot. "Let's go, we're losing our time here;" the Comissioner told his men. "And D'Amour," Gordon addressed the new addition to his inner circle; "buy better ones next time."
The man from Chicago answered with a little smirk, while Bullock let out a big, loud laugh. O'Hara walked mere steps behind Gordon, hands at his back. He had noticed that Gordon had smoked in cigarettes tonight too, but in contrast with Batman, the old Chief understood why. After all, starting tomorrow Gordon wouldn't be living alone anymore.
August 3rd; Gotham Train Station
Diary of Barbara Gordon; August 3rd; 1999
Gotham. I'd write it's been a while, but it hasn't been more than year. Not for me. Mom's still in Chicago, with little James. I've been away a few hours and I'm already missing the little guy. Go figure. Anyway, here I come; ready for a life with dad. Only with dad… okay, go to hell with all this, this is weird, this whole situation. I'm fourteen and, what? My parents are divorced, but not really. Because my dad started to work with a crazy guy dressed as a bat, and a lawyer that got himself deformed and transformed into a supervillain; and then the supervillain's wife left the city, and my mom and dad yelled at each other… and next thing I know mom's taking James and me in the car, and then we're in Chicago. Good thing I'm a master of puppy eyes, or else mom wouldn't have let me come to live with dad until I start classes. I hope I can extend that time a bit, or maybe a lot. I hope it's a lot. Gotham has a lot of good schools, after all. Possible argument? I just want to stay here for a little longer. Why? 'Cause I miss my dad. And I doubt he can live by himself, honestly. Geez, I hope the house's not a mess when…
The train stopped, making Barbara to bounce a bit in her seat and stop writing due to the risk of drawing a scrawl over her text. Some would say that it was childish of a girl her age to write a diary, but she liked to differ. A diary helped her to organize her head and work ideas over the paper. And she remembered reading somewhere that writing was therapeutic. 'One day I'll punch whoever wrote that book', she remembered of having thought when she had ended in Chicago.
Barbara Gordon was currently fourteen years old, a girl with a thin body that had started to develop and average height, with long red hair tied into a ponytail that fell over her back, and currently dressed in a pair of jeans and a yellowish shirt, over which she wore a deep blue vest. Over her knees and between her legs was a pair of bags with all the clothing and things she would need during her stay in Gotham; and in her hands were her diary (a normal looking notebook with dark green covers) and a blue pen. Once the train had stopped, the girl closed her diary, rose up from her seat and took the bags carefully, walking slowly towards the train's exit. The swarm of people that was inside didn't ease the task.
"Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon…" she repeated over and over again as she collided with almost everyone around her in her vain attempt of getting out of the damn train as soon as possible. "Excuse me… Hey!" she shouted at a random bystander once she finally exited the train, with whom she had collided and that now she had to thank for her bags, diary and pen falling to the ground. Kneeling, the girl cursed in her mind as no one of the countless citizens around the station or that were coming out of the train moved a single finger in order to help her.
"Excuse me, need a hand?" she heard a female voice over her head, and next she knew a hand carrying a diary entered her field of vision. Looking up, Barbara's green eyes met with brown ones in a lovely face. A woman in the middle of her twenties, with dark brownish curls falling over her shoulders, dressed in a pair of jeans not very different from Barb's and a white blouse with a pair of buttons unbuttoned and that let a bit of her cleavage to be seen. A brownish bag was at her back. A bit reluctantly at first, Barbara took her diary and this time she put in inside one of her bags. When she got to her feet, she put on a smile for the woman, who smiled back.
"Thanks," Barbara told her. "You're not from here, are you?"
"What's betrayed me?" the woman asked in a funny tone.
"You're the only one that helped," Barbara said with a chuckle.
"Ah! I've heard of this. Gotham's rather infamous hospitality, right?" the woman asked, not dropping the amused tone of voice at any second. "And little me here expecting a gentleman in every corner, ready to lend me his arm."
Barbara couldn't avoid chuckling at that. "Not all of them are like that, though;" the redheaded teenage girl told the woman. She then surveyed the station until her eyes located the person she was looking for. "Look, there you got an example."
Following the girl's finger, the woman's eyes ended falling over James Gordon, the Comissioner leaning against a pillar of the train station, hands in the pockets of his brownish long jacket.
"And he's one of the nice ones?" the woman asked with a quirked eyebrow. The Comissioner had the most bored and exasperated of expressions on his face. He didn't seem to be exactly the most kind of men.
"As long as you trust his daughter's word for it, yes;" Barbara said, shrugging in a comedic manner, making the woman to crack a laugh.
"Alright, alright… I'll take your word for it;" the woman told Barbara. "You didn't lose anything, did you?"
Barbara shook her head. "Nah, everything's good here;" the redhead girl said, and then extended her hand. "Anyway, thanks for the help. I'm Barbara, Barbara Gordon."
The woman extended her own hand and shook Barbara's with pleasure.
"Kirsty Cotton."
Wayne manor; August 5th
The Wayne manor was one of Gotham's jewels. Built when Gotham was still young, the enormous and magnificent building had housed each generation of the Wayne family since Solomon Wayne's; with each new generation adding the necessary changes in order to adapt it to the new times. Sometime in the past, someone had decided to install a pool in the yard. Bruce Wayne, current heir and sole member of the Wayne family, was glad for that decision. Swimming was a very good practice in order to exercise the whole body, and it had the benefit of not gathering much attention. Batman needed for Bruce Wayne to be perceived as a Playboy businessman, and that meant that his martial arts training must be done in secret. Swimming, however? Swimming was normal, and the so-called 'First Son of Gotham' could do it without rising suspicion. Besides, his body thanked the touch of water, especially during the heated days of August. The millionaire exited the pool by one of its edges, just to find a towel waiting for him in somebody's hands.
"Thank you Alfred," Bruce, dressed in nothing but a pair of board-shorts and removing his swimming glasses, said as he took the aforementioned towel. However, once he looked at the person that had handed it to him, it wasn't his old and loyal butler who he met.
"Guess again," Selina Kyle, dressed in a strapless and sleeveless dress that emulated the color scheme of a tiger and left her cleavage and legs to be seen (aside from accentuating all of them), a light brown jacket over it and an orange picture hat over her head; said playfully.
Sighing, Bruce dried himself with the towel and stood up. He was taller than her, and truth to be told, he still had to meet people that were as imposing as him. This situation didn't surprise him, either. The woman had done this too many times already.
"I…" Bruce began; "Selina, I thought we discussed you coming here unannounced."
"Didn't Alfred tell you I was coming?" the beautiful, black haired woman said, her head slightly tilted to the side and clearly enjoying the situation. Bruce couldn't know if she was lying or not, since it wasn't so strange for Alfred to do this kind of things to him, especially regarding women. "Anyway, I want you to meet someone," she said, gesturing to her side.
Bruce froze in the moment the person Selina had come with appeared in front of him. The khaki pants and shirt he was wearing didn't mitigate the fact that he still looked like a younger version of his father, and then he extended his hand towards Bruce.
"Bruce, this is Mario Falcone;" Selina introduced him.
I know who he is, Bruce thought with anger that he hid behind a mask of cold indifference. He is his son, and you brought him to my house, my father's house!
"Mr. Wayne, a pleasure;" Mario said elegantly, hand still extending and expecting a handshake. Bruce didn't respond to that, he wasn't going to give this man, the Roman's son, Holiday's brother; that benefit.
"Weren't you deported?" Bruce asked abruptly. He had sounded more brusque than intended. Selina crossed her arms under her bust as she distanced a bit from both men.
Of course you have to react like that, Selina thought; like a rude, crude boy.
"I was a teenager and made some mistakes;" Mario explained. As if Bruce was going to accept that as an excuse. "The ignorance of youth. My… family's reputation made the judge of my case to lean heavily on me."
"Yes, judges and your family have a long history," Bruce answered coldly. Or thieves and your family, or killers and your family… or attorneys and your family; he added in his thoughts.
Mario seemed offended by his wording, but he didn't voice any problem with Bruce's choice of words. However, he quickly caught on what Bruce was implying. "Bruce," he said, dropping the 'Mr. Wayne' completely. "I came here to offer my friendship. No matter the past, Falcone Imports is now completely legitimate."
Let's see how long that lasts, Bruce thought. He knew that Mario had made sure to assume control of one of the Roman's front businesses when Carmine had perished, and apparently now said business was completely legal… but Bruce didn't buy into it. Let's see where this goes…
"Why tell me?" Bruce asked.
"My father more than once said that the Wayne family was synonymous with Gotham City," Mario said, extending both hands towards Bruce. If someone else had seen the scene from afar, it would almost look like the Falcone heir was basically begging for something; "and that we went indebted to you, Bruce, for your father's…"
My father's… mistake; Bruce thought, remembering what had happened back then. He had been nothing but a child back in those days, back on that night in which Mario's grandfather had crossed the door carrying his injured son, Carmine; in his arms. Thomas Wayne, Bruce's father, and one of the most talented surgeons of his time, had saved the Roman's life. When he had seen it all from the top of the stairs, Bruce had thought his father was some kind of magician, able to bring a man back from the verge of death. He had admired his father's doings ever since, and he would lie if he said that the actions of Thomas Wayne hadn't shaped his own code, especially his 'not kill' rule. But sometimes Bruce wondered… if his father had let Carmine Falcone die back then… how many lives could have been saved? How many Harvey Dents could have avoided becoming Two Faces?
"The debt, as you call it;" Bruce said, turning around and walking towards the manor; "is paid. Now, if you'll excuse me. Selina, you know the way out."
"You keep behaving like this, Bruce;" Selina told him; "you won't have to worry about anyone coming here unannounced."
Perhaps that's the best for all of us, Bruce thought as he walked towards his home.
"Do you know how to remove a brain tumor?"
"What?" both Selina and Bruce asked at the same time, both of them with the same amount of surprise, both of them looking at Mario.
"A brain tumor," Mario Falcone, hands at his back, asked. For a moment, with that posture and his now completely serious face, both Selina and Bruce couldn't avoid seeing Carmine Falcone in Mario's place. "How do you remove it without killing whoever has it?"
"I don't know," Bruce answered sincerely, eyes narrowed towards Mario. What kind of question was that?
"According to some of the books I have read," Mario continued. "Your father did know."
"What's the meaning of…?"
"My point is, Bruce;" Mario interrupted him at midway of his question. "You are not your father. And I would kindly thank you if you stopped thinking I'm mine. Because I am not, and neither are my siblings; no matter how much Sofia and Alberto keep insisting otherwise. My offer will always be there for you to take, Mr. Wayne. Have a nice day."
With that last sentence, Mario Falcone left the scene and shortly after Selina followed him, not without dedicating a last smirk towards Bruce.
And the 'First Son of Gotham', Bruce Wayne, the Batman… was left alone in the house of his father… thinking.
August 19th; James Gordon's house
"Mom, I told you this will be alright;" Barbara said at the phone. "Yes… yes… look, nothing's gonna happen to me, okay? Just give him the opportunity! Yes… I'll go to Chicago in Christmas, I promise. Yes, I've all the paperwork for my inscription. I promise I won't miss a day of school just because dad won't be there for me… mom, you know me! I'm responsible. Okay… okay… yes, I love you too. Hey, do you want to talk with dad, or…" Barbara felt silent as her mother put together her excuse for not talking with the Comissioner. "Alright… give James a big kiss from my part. Good bye, mom."
Barbara Gordon hanged out the phone in the house's kitchen. She sat down at the kitchen's table (a small, circular and wooden one with a couple of chairs around) and sighed while letting her head to fall backwards out of its own weight. She spent there some minutes, looking at the ceiling. Good news, her mother had agreed to let her stay with her father the whole (school) year! Bad news… she felt a bit bad for that. God, families could be so complicated. It was this damn city's fault, with its monsters, and crazy bat-people… but she supposed things could be worse. Maybe she should just look at the positive side of the whole situation. She was here and that's what was important.
Rising from her seat, Barbara found her father in the living room, organizing some boxes. No boxes full of clothes, or objects, or something like that. They were boxes full of papers, documents describing old and new cases, some of them solved years ago.
"Oh look! Someone followed my advice;" Barbara said in a joking tone, leaning against the frame of the entrance of the room.
James Gordon lifted his eyes from the bunch of documents that he was currently inserting in a box that had the words 'FIRST BATMAN CASES' written in one of its side. The papers were mostly newspaper clippings, but there were some official documents here and there. They had been all tossed together in some folders inside the Comissioner's office, but upon her first visit to her father's workplace Barbara had told him that he really needed to organize himself. Gordon had filled quite the number of boxes until now, and he had found quite surprising how as the years of the cases advanced, there were less and less documents about usual criminals and more and more depicting the acts of some freak that had ended in Arkham after Batman's intervention.
"The more I get to do it, the more I see that you maybe were right when you said that I was a bit disorganized;" Gordon said, shrugging and putting more documents inside a box. "This is the last one, I think;" the Comissioner muttered as he glanced to the twelve boxes he had already fill.
"Maybe?" Barbara asked with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk. She approached the couch and sat at her dad's side. "I'm totally right, dad. And a bit disorganized? No, you see, I'm a bit disorganized, and that's because I'm a teenager. Disorganization is in our nature. You're basically chaotic."
"Alright, alright…" Gordon said. He wasn't in the mood for one of their usual joke arguments, and he had learned long ago that none of the Barbaras of his life were likely to get defeated in a discussion. "Tomorrow I'll bring these boxes to the GCPD and archive them." Best if I put some of these memories to rest; the Comissioner thought.
"Hey, you forgot something;" Barbara's voice interrupted his thoughts as she extended her arm towards the floor and took something from under the table. "It's a… photo?"
"Let me see," Gordon said. "That's weird; I don't remember having photographs… oh."
The photograph wasn't very big. Nothing much exaggerated, able to fit inside Barbara's hands, perfect to put in a little frame and have in your bedside table. It was the group of four people standing in front of a house covered by snow depicted in the photograph that caught Gordon's attention. One of them was himself, another was his wife Barbara, who he hadn't seen in almost a year. At Barbara's side was a short and black-haired woman with pale skin and big eyes; and at said woman's side was a tall man in his late thirties, with brown hair, a perfect jaw line and a smile from ear to ear. In fact, all of them were smiling.
"That's… that's him, isn't he?" Barb asked, looking at his father's eyes, sadness present in them and both locked in the photograph. "Harvey Dent, right? I remember him from some of the times I saw him."
"Yes, that's Harvey;" Gordon said with half a smile. The real Harvey, before… "And his wife, Gilda. I remember this; this was when they bought their house. Ha! I remember that Harvey told me before he got to buy it, and he insisted that I kept it a secret because he wanted to give Gilda a surprise. And then he convinced your mother and me to be part of it, and he told me to stay away from Gilda, because apparently I can't keep a secret…"
"Christ," Barb said, forcing her father to look at her.
"What?" Gordon asked. The expression in his daughter's face, showing something between happiness and pity, confused him.
"It's just…" Barbara said, dedicating a comforting smile to her father. "He really was your friend."
"Yes," Gordon answered sadly. "Yes he was."
September 8th, Arkham Asylum
Arkham Asylum, for the mentally ill and the criminally insane. Alongside the Wayne Manor and a few others, it was one of the oldest edifications of Gotham. The funny thing was that, it had once been a manor too, this one belonging to the Arkham family instead to the Waynes. Amadeus Arkham had once transformed it into an asylum in order to 'help the world to cure the illness that insanity was'. A tragic tale, the one of Amadeus Arkham, who had ended in one of the cells of his own institution after the murders of his wife and daughter had driven him to kill their killer and had rendered him insane. Now what once had been his home served as little more than a prison that Gotham's 'New Age of Crime' had produced. The bizarre serial killers, the narcissistic and compulsive thieves and conspirators, the murdering psychopaths, the monsters… all of them were locked here, away from the world and from a legal system that didn't have a clue about how to deal with them.
Today was raining. However, little did the weather matter to James Gordon, Janice Porter or Batman, when today was such an important day. Because today was the day in which Alberto 'Holiday' Falcone was given a second chance. Gordon and Porter had come together, and by the moment both of them were there, Batman already was, disguised as a nameless and unimportant guard inside the Asylum. Mario Falcone was there too, standing mere steps away from the man that he had met with a month ago without realizing it. And in the room's two cells… were both Alberto Falcone, also known as Holiday; and Julian Day, also known as Calendar Man. Alberto was a skinny man with dark hair and glasses with purple crystals. His left arm was now useless, thanks to Batman's punches. As for Julian Day, he was a bald man, always standing right and stiff, always looking from his cell with a predatory gaze. During Holiday's murders, Batman and the police had tried to get his help, since he and Holiday shared their obsession. But the Calendar Man had answered with riddles and more questions. Even now, Batman didn't know if Day knew if Alberto had been the killer all along or not.
Gordon and Porter crossed the door. The Comissioner seemed to be in a better condition than the last time the Batman had crossed paths with him. The Caped Crusader attributed this to two factors. One, his daughter was now living with him, and that had to be positive. Two, anger was a splendid motivator.
"Sorry for the delay, Mr. Falcone;" Porter addressed Mario. "But on the bright side, I have some good news."
"Oh?" asked the older brother.
Porter approached the glass that maintained Alberto inside his cell. The youngest of the Falcone clan looked puny even in comparison with a normal woman like Porter. How did he manage to terrorize Gotham for so long?
"We have a court date," Porter informed, the sentence making Mario's eyes to light with happiness. "Judge Harkness was very interested into reviewing your brother's case."
"I… I'm very grateful to you, Miss Porter;" Alberto thanked her. "I know as District Attorney you had to make some difficult choices…"
"This is insanity!" Gordon, unable to contain himself anymore, spoke. "This man killed dozens of people as Holiday! I was there when we arrested him, and he was proud of what he had done! He's insane!"
"I think I should be the judge of that."
Who? Batman thought. Strange, there shouldn't be anyone else here today.
A newcomer had appeared by the door, a man in his late fifties, with short gray hair and a few wrinkles starting to make their way into his face. Dressed in one of the white coats of Arkham's staff, the man's eyes were black and cold, and they quickly surveyed every individual inside the cell, as if memorizing their features.
"Who…?" Gordon asked, looking at Porter, but the woman seemed as surprised by his presence as him, and so did Mario Falcone.
"Philip," the man presented himself. "I'm Doctor Philip Channard; new head of psychiatry of Arkham. It's a pleasure to meet you all. I think we spoke on the phone once, Miss Porter."
I didn't know they had found a new head psychiatrist so fast, Batman thought. He had thought that it would take longer, since the last one had ended quite gruesomely during one of Killer Croc's tantrums. Channard… I will have to investigate about him. Arkham doesn't have much luck with their employees, and the last thing I need right now it's another Strange.
"You're the man who agreed to free this freak?!" Gordon asked of the doctor.
"Technically, I agreed to give my approval from a professional point of view for his case to be reopened;" Channard explained; "and I did by using the information my coworkers already provided regarding Mr. Falcone. And albeit I cannot speak about his physical state, I have concluded that he is the sanest intern in Arkham right now."
"Great, next thing you will say is that the Joker is just misunderstood;" Gordon joked darkly.
"Actually Comissioner;" Channard answered. "I'm of the firm opinion that the subject known as 'The Joker' is more or less irredeemable by both a moral and psychological standpoint. However, I must insist this is not the case with Mr. Falcone here."
"T-Thank you, doctor;" Alberto said behind the crystal of his cell.
"I'm doing my job, Mr. Falcone;" Channard said. "Now, if all of you have concluded your business here, I think it's the moment for you to leave. If you could lease follow me…"
Gordon, Porter and Mario Falcone followed Doctor Channard out of the room, and before he did the same, Batman approached the glass of Alberto's cell.
"I'm watching you," Batman whispered to Alberto, who in return, gulped in fear.
Meanwhile, out in the halls of seemingly endless cells of Arkham, Gordon walked in front of Porter and Channard; while Mario Falcone walked way ahead of them, head lowered.
"I'm not the bad guy, Jim;" Porter told the Comissioner of the GCPD. "I know you liked working with Harvey Dent; but the reason the city council appointed me as District Attorney was in order to repair the damage he did."
Gordon clenched his fists. "You don't know a thing about what Harvey did when he was in office."
"Alright, I get it. I'm not going to be as great as he was, I know;" Porter said dryly. "Do you know I admired him too? He was my teacher back in college, for God's sake; or he was until he married and started to run for District Attorney here in Gotham. But admiration or personal ties don't excuse the transgressions of the law he perpetrated while on office. For not speaking of how you and your department grow more and more dependent on Batman crossing the line with each day that passes. Every time that you leave him to handle something without supervision, the collateral damage he does to the city and its citizens skyrockets! And then we have the case of Alberto, who was beaten to an inch of his life even when it was clear he couldn't defend himself anymore, and that coupled with the psychiatric reports…"
"Yes, yes, and I bet he wet his bed until he went to Oxford;" Gordon said sarcastically.
"Actually, Comissioner;" Channard interrupted him. "Now that you have mentioned Harvey Dent, I think that's more his case."
"Excuse you?" Gordon said dry, cold and hatefully. Stopping and turning around, he eyed Philip Channard, the psychiatrist halting too.
Jim, don't do anything stupid; Porter thought with worry. Last thing the GCPD needs is their Comissioner getting into a petty fight with a man of Arkham.
"The tests my colleagues and I have conducted on Mr. Dent reveal that his… exceptional case of personality disorder and obsession with duality runs deeper than the incident with Salvatore Maroni. You could say that his extreme scarring was just a catalyst;" Channard gave a couple more of steps and continued walking. Gordon and Porter followed in his steps. "This has been the failure of the many treatments my predecessor tried to apply in Mr. Dent during the past year; thinking that his 'Two Face' persona was created at that moment, when 'Dionysus' had been hiding inside 'Apollo' all along. Two Face has always been there, it was just that Harvey Dent was the dominant personality of the two, and in the moment Harvey Dent's identity was weakened by his experiences during the 'Holiday' case and Maroni's attempt on his life, Two Face was able to even the odds and get a conscience of his own, gaining as much power as Harvey and becoming opposite to him in methods, albeit I doubt they don't share beliefs. That's why they need their coin in order to make decisions. Right now, we are trying to decipher when exactly the Two Face persona was born, and all points to a childhood trauma. Sorry if it sounded like an insult back there, Comissioner."
"No, it doesn't… forget it;" Gordon told the psychiatrist. As they all continued to walk, they passed by the cell of the aforementioned Two Face. Gordon looked inside for a second, catching a glimpse of Harvey Dent. His companion, his friend. Then the former attorney turned his head around a bit, and Gordon caught a glimpse of the extremely scarred half of his face. The burned flesh without skin, the hole in his cheek, the exposed eye…
"Let's get out of here," Gordon sentenced. What he wanted the most now was to go out of Arkham and return to his home, with his daughter. God bless her for giving him something that forced him to return home every night.
September 11th; Falcone penthouse
After the death of Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone, Sofia took possession of and residence in his penthouse, in the top of one of the tallest skyscrapers of Gotham. The Roman had directed his organization from there, as if he were an untouchable king up in his castle. Sofia seemed to want to send the message that she was in charge, alongside another, different one.
'We are still here, we are still strong'.
"I want it on Halloween Night;" Sofia addressed her two guests. "It has to be on Halloween; in the anniversary of my father's death."
In front of her, Umberto and Pino Maroni listened carefully. "We have the floor plans, entrances and exits, alarm system, the whole works;" one of the Maroni twins told her.
"We got somebody on the inside and Zucco is handling the hardware;" the other added.
"Then Harvey Dent is a dead man," Sofia said, making her wheelchair to approach the twins. "But I want to make something clear as water. If someone touches a single hair on Alberto's head… he will go and make company to Dent, understood?"
The twins understood. If there was something a Maroni knew better than anyone; that was that you don't mess with the Falcone clan if you don't want the others after your throat. In that moment, the lights went off thanks to a sudden power surge. This shocked the twins enough to get their guns out, but Sofia didn't even flinch.
"What happened to the friggin' lights?!" one of the twins yelled.
"Calm down," Sofia said. "I electrified the balconies in case we received... unwanted guests."
"Oh," one of the Maroni twins said simply. Not the brightest bulbs in the rooms, these two brothers.
"Mr. Mirti will check it, don't worry;" Sofia assured them.
Their conversation followed as one would expect it would follow. Deals and promises between mobsters, the oath from the Maroni twins to the Falcone matriarch of finishing the job that their father, Sal Maroni, had left 'half-done'. Mr. Mirti, Sofia's personal and undyingly loyal bodyguard (and butler), a man in his forties with a lean frame and dark curly hair and a moustache of the same color; suspected that it were the feelings that Sofia had once harbored for Salvatore Maroni that had lead her to trust Umberto and Pino with this job. Anyway, Harvey Dent… no, Two Face, was better dead. This city was better without freaks like him. Mirti entered the room Sofia and the two Maroni twins were in.
"Anything?" Sofia asked him.
"Something," Mr. Mirti answered, holding up a robe attached to a hook. It was too rudimentary, or more specifically, less elaborated than any of Batman's tools.
The cat… Sofia thought, a hand rising to her scarred cheek without even noticing it.
Gotham City Bridge; Midnight
"How's life in home now that you've little Barbara with you again?" Clancy O'Hara asked of James Gordon, the Comissioner looking into the waters under the bridge. Tonight was a foggy night in Gotham, one of the many that anyone could enjoy during autumn in the city.
"Better," Gordon answered. "Way better than before. I thought it would be complicated or tense but… she's making my life easier."
"It's good having someone back at home," Chief O'Hara said as he looked into the waters too. "And the Mrs.?"
"Same as always," Gordon said. "Still in Chicago. Writes, but refuses to talk in the phone. Sometimes I hear Barbara… the young one I mean, talking to her. I miss them, both her and my son."
O'Hara snorted. "Cops and marriages, right? Like drinking whisky before eleven A.M:"
Both men fell silent for a few moments, staring into the fog. "Couldn't we have done this in the office?
"I don't think your office's safe, Comissioner; not for this;" O'Hara answered, searching in one of the pockets of his uniform and pulling out a paper. "Here, these are the best I could find. I suppose you'll get Bullock and D'Amour inside too."
"Thanks," Gordon said, taking the paper. "D'Amour has a lot of info and experience with the Viti family. Lucia's presence in Gotham bothers me a lot, it feels as if in the moment we take down the Falcone the Viti are going to step in and take their place. I won't let that happen."
"Sir," O'Hara said. "You sure you don't want to give the Bat another chance?"
"No," Gordon answered with determination. "As much as I dislike Porter, she makes a point. Batman won't come back, and it's clear we've been relying too much on him. We need this."
"If you say so, sir;" O'Hara told him and then tipped his hat. "Good night."
Gordon was left alone, staring into the thick fog of Gotham. It gave the city a phantasmagoric appearance, making it seem as if the place was older than it already was. He decided it was time for him to go back home too; and leave Gotham to sleep.
Later on
The Batman loomed over the city of Gotham from the top of a skyscraper, powerful and vigilant. There was something in the atmosphere… something that bothered him strongly. The city had been calm for the last year, baring the usual super-criminal's attack, which also had decreased exponentially as time went on. This couldn't go on lasting forever, the Detective knew as much. Gordon seemed to be feeling the same, and also seemed to have decided to stop relying on him, gathering some of the newest and most promising cops and founding some sort of team entirely and solely dedicated to deal with the mafia. Something big was approaching; a feeling in the back of his head telling Batman that it was going to be different than anything this city had seen in all its history. However, right now his attention was going to be redirected into something else.
"Mrrow…"
"How long have you been there?" Batman asked as Catwoman appeared behind him.
"Long enough," the cat burglar answered as she approached him and settled at his side. Maybe a little too close to him for the Detective's liking. Of course, she was doing that on purpose. "What's the world coming into when I'm the only one you can trust?"
"What happened to you?" Batman asked, taking Catwoman's hand by the wrist and showing the wound that was on her palm.
"I fell," the thief answered.
"Didn't you just say something about trust?" Batman asked.
Catwoman snorted. He's already figured it out, hasn't he? Where I was, how I get this…; she thought. "Damn you, I don't even know why I bother. I want something for this… Your friend, Harvey Dent. He's in danger, Sofia and the Maroni twins plan to kill him in Arkham."
Letting that information to sink in, Batman remained silent for various minutes. "He's… not my friend any longer;" he finally answered.
The first slap was strong and fast, as you would expect from Catwoman. The second came even more strongly. "Isn't there anything left inside you?!" an angry Catwoman inquired.
"Enough," Batman said coldly, stopping her next blow.
"Damn it," she cursed as she jumped from the rooftop. "I hope you show more concern when they come after me!"
Batman looked at her go, and then lifted his head to look at the sky. Dawn approached, a new day for the citizens of Gotham to live their lives, and for Batman to stop living his and let Bruce Wayne to take the wheel. But both Batman and Bruce Wayne cared for Harvey Dent… and Harvey Dent was in peril. Something needed to be done about that.
September 23rd; Arkham Asylum
The private office of Philip Channard was simplistic and austere, even if a bit bigger than the one he had in the Channard Institute. Sitting behind a desk, the psychiatrist had connected a tape recorder and was letting his thoughts and words to run free. Without anyone to bother him, the old psychiatrist spoke clear and loud.
"Subject 0801, known simply as 'The Joker'. I can understand why this case has driven the attention of the psychiatrist community so much. He can be considered the first demented criminal to be recognized as one of those… Super-Villains, as society seems to have designated them, as if the world were some kind of comic book. It's clear that, if Gotham is starting to be considered the birthplace of super-criminality, Joker could be considered the firstborn of this new breed of criminals. Society knows this as a whole, and acknowledges him as such. However, the effect of society over Subject 0801 must not be diminished, as even his actual name 'The Joker' was provided by the press, even if his first crime already incorporated jokes. He is way too different than the other inmates of Arkham. In them, their obsession is part of their insanity, but with the Joker… the pathological obsession with comedy seems to actually be a remnant of his sanity, something akin to a cover up for his real insanity and that he needs in order to maintain a proper concept of an identity. Behind the jokes lies one of the more weird cases I have seen. Megalomania, schizophrenia, and some form of neurosis… pages and pages could be filled just to discern which mental diseases he possesses and which not. On top of that, the exams conducted on him reveal one of the most chaotic brain chemistries documented in the history of psychiatry, probably a product of whatever left him deformed. Interestingly, a byproduct of this insanity seems to be a genius level intellect… or perhaps the intellect was there to begin with. Subject 0801 has proven to be able to memorize entire works of literature after just one read, and also able of self teaching himself numerous disciplines and improve them just by reading documents describing the process. No medical treatment makes any effect, since his brain chemistry practically adapts to anything we put in him. Having this in consideration, it's no wonder the press refers to him as the first super-human criminal. If there is a way to cure his insanity, humanity has yet to discover it. This fact alongside his enormous kill count until now makes it clear that he should be confined in a prison especially designed for him until a cure is found, not in a place like Arkham, which's purpose is to cure its inmates, not to serve as a prison for empowered criminals. Make this clear to Warden Sharp… ah… also mention that the facilities need an upgrade. Uf… this is starting to get tiresome."
Channard stopped recording and paused the tape. He reclined into his chair, and yawned. Age didn't pass in vain over a man's body; that was clear. In the past he could have gone on for 24 hours with a coffee, working in cases from dawn to dawn. Now he couldn't, and that was bothersome to a man like him. Stretching his arms, he changed the tape and started another record.
"Subject 445, Edward Nygma, known as 'The Riddler'. A much easier case to decipher than the Joker's. Pathological obsession with riddles aside, Mr. Nygma showcases almost a textbook example of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, only fueled by his high intellect. It's clear that his career as a… super-villain, for lack of a better term; is not focused into causing mayhem, but in the achievement of two goals. Said goals are being the focus of the attention of society as a whole, and the recognition by said society as their completely intellectual superior. He wants to be recognized as the smartest being in Gotham -and probably the country, and if left unchecked, the world- and be admired for that. As his documented encounters with Batman prove, this desire seems to be rooted into an inferiority complex due to him being perceived as physically weak during childhood than then becomes a superiority complex during adulthood due to his intellectual superiority over the average man. Uhm… this new era of super-beings doesn't exert a positive effect over his psyche either. There is that man in Metropolis that can apparently fly and that the press calls Man of Steel, and empirically speaking, Batman has proved his better in an intellectual level. Both of these heroes are costumed vigilantes. Mr. Nygma sees himself surrounded by people in costumes that gather more attention than him and that are superior to him, so his answer is to put on a costume himself and adapt the role of a super-criminal. The treatment to use with him shouldn't be chemical, but therapeutic. His intellect is too much of a treasure to be discarded as a side effect of his treatment. Perhaps the best course of action would be to take him from Gotham and put him in an environment that admires and respects Edward Nygma for being Edward Nygma than for being the Riddler. His intellect and genius could be incredibly useful in politics. However…"
Channard stopped the tape recorder, rose from his seat and walked to a bookshelf in one of his office's sides. There, he opened the bookshelf's doors and took something from inside. "However, his obsession for puzzles could be useful…"
Even to the most fervent of his detractors, Philip Channard was clearly a man fully dedicated to his task of helping the mentally ill. As a psychiatrist, he had sworn an oath to do so, to investigate in the name of knowledge, a better world, and sanity. Always dutiful, always hardworking, and yet, after so many successes, humble. In what respected to being a professional of psychiatry, Philip Channard was a saint.
But what in what respected to being human? In that regard, like everyone else; Philip Channard was a weak man, and thus a sinner. Temptation had come to him many times ever since his youth, and he had ended welcoming it with open arms. And although he had been able to redirect said temptation into his profession, the desire was too strong. Call it greed, call it gluttony or call it lust... but Channard wanted knowledge, needed knowledge. Since he had discovered the existence of a world of wonders hidden to the eyes of the common man, since the existence of the Labyrinth had been revealed to him, Channard had desperately needed to know more about it. He craved that knowledge like a thirsty man craved water in the desert. But fate seemed to laugh at him, because now that he finally had the tool to fulfill his wish, he lacked the means to use said tool.
The Puzzle Box, known to the ones that knew where to investigate and which questions ask as the Lemarchand's box or the Lament Configuration; rested in his hands. He had tried to open it many times, without success. Why?! Why didn't the damn device answer to his desire and will?! What was the secret?!
"Perhaps someone with far more skill with riddles should be the one opening you," Channard told the box with a sinister gleam in his eyes.
Arkham, cell 445
Edward Nygma, also known as 'The Riddler' and the usual occupant of the 445 cell of Arkham Asylum (a number he also had assigned as Arkham's patient) sat in the bed of his cell. Dressed now in the whitish, dull uniform that the staff of Arkham gave to all their inmates, or at least to the ones that could wear one properly; Edward, a skinny man in his early thirties (albeit he could have passed for someone younger) with short brown hair; was currently dedicating his time to think.
Oh, but that should be understood as an understatement! After all, Edward Nygma was always thinking. About riddles, about how to build devices, about how to plan his next crimes, about Rome… but he thought mostly about riddles. Riddles were his drug, his obsession. Through riddles, he had been able to accomplish a lot of things. That was the reason his door had the notes 'Don't ask any questions!' and 'Don't answer any questions!' written on it; since some thought he could put incredibly complicated plans in motion by just using them, and some others thought that letting him indulge into his compulsion would worsen his condition.
"Mr. Nygma?" the voice of Philip Channard came from the other side of the door, through the little overture in it used to give the inmates their daily meals. "It's Doctor Channard, the…"
"New head of psychiatry, I know;" Nygma retorted. "I'm the only one that pays attention to Warden Sharp's announcements. But, come in! You know I don't bite. Those are in other cells."
Channard crossed the door after that, entering alone, a fact Nygma took in account. No psychiatrist usually entered alone in one of the cells of Arkham, much less came to visit an intern without a guard… which was exactly what the new head of psychiatry had done. A folding chair under his left arm, he was also carrying a plastic bag with something inside of it, but what it was, that Nygma didn't get to see. How interesting…
"How are you feeling today, Mr. Nygma?" Channard asked.
"Why do the French only have one egg for breakfast?" Nygma asked in return, crossing one leg over the other, taking his left hand to his and resting his head's weight over it.
Channard didn't answer right away. He thought for a few seconds, as if trying to remember. Then, he spoke. "Well, I think my French may be a bit rusty, but I think the reason is because one egg is… 'un oeuf'."
Nygma let one of his brows to crook. For a moment, the smug and confident look that usually was on his face disappeared, instead replaced by a serious and curious one. "You… answered my question," Nygma declared. And you didn't bring any guards, and I have the feeling Sharp doesn't know that you are here. The smug look returned, accompanied by a grin and a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes.
"So many years dedicated to this profession teach you a bunch of useful tricks, Mr. Nygma;" Channard declared, leaving the plastic bag in the ground. The man gave a couple of steps around, inspecting Nygma's cell. There wasn't much to look at, aside from the bed and the toilet. In the end, he unfolded the folding chair and sat down in front of Edward. "For example, I know that sometimes it's necessary to talk to some patients in a language they can… understand. Now it's your turn."
Nygma chuckled a bit. I don't know what this idiot thinks he's playing at, or if he thinks he can play me; the man thought, but I could use the entertainment, and maybe I can get something out of this… "Well, I think I'm feeling pretty good, doctor. Now tell me, what belongs to you, but is used by others?"
"My name," Channard answered right away. I now you can do better, Mr. Nygma; the psychiatrist thought; or at least I hope so. "Now you see, Mr. Nygma; I would like to… give you a present. You could also say it's a new form of test I would like to run in you, of course. However, I won't do so without your permission. Are you willing to cooperate?"
Ah, so in the end this is nothing but one of those tedious, useless and recently developed therapeutic methods… Nygma thought. Meh, at least I get to bid my time until Halloween comes. "I have billions of eyes, yet I live in darkness. I have millions of ears, yet only four lobes. I have no muscle, yet I rule two hemispheres. What am I?"
This time, Channard lasted a few more seconds than before until answering. "The brain," he declared, answering correctly. That hadn't been the best riddle to ask to a man that had opened quite the number of craniums in order to study their contents. "Well then, I shall take that as a 'yes';" Channard declared as he searched inside the plastic bag, taking its content out and holding it in front of Edward Nygma.
And then the eyes of Edward Nygma widened, and his heart practically skipped a beat. Channard was holding the Lament Configuration in front of him. Nygma had seen a lot of puzzle boxes in his life, solved all of them, each with more ease and boredom. He had solved his first one while being a mere three year old, fascinated by the thing, by how it moved, the challenge it proved to his young mind. Few more times had Edward Nygma felt like that again when presented with a puzzle box… until this very moment.
"W-What's that?" Nygma inquired, eyes not even blinking, completely focused in the Box. He was so absorbed with it that he completely missed how Channard's lips formed a smile.
"I thought that now it was my turn to make a question," the head psychiatrist of Arkham said in a neutral tone. He didn't want for Nygma to get offended, not now. "The question is not what this may or may not be, Mr. Nygma. The question is…" he said, pleased at how Edward was looking at the device. Yes, the trinket had done its magic.
"What is your pleasure?"
Author's Notes: And with this, our first chapter ends. As you may know by now, this story takes place in the Dark Victory storyline, the 'sequel' of The Long Halloween. Re-reading this thing in order to get the details for the context well made me realize how much this story needs for you to have read The Long Halloween, not only in terms of plot, but also emotional connection. Harvey's transformation in Two Face really hit Batman and Gordon hard. But enough of those things, the Cenobites are here! Or will be, in the future. And of course, this means changes on Dark Victory's plot. I mean, you can see changes from the plot of the first issues in this chapter already. Having said this… it's time to bid you farewell until the next time. If you who are reading this are a reader for Guardian, Wizards and Kung-Fu fighters… then, don't worry. Chapter 18 was started the other day. I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, so please, leave a review with your opinion, any question or any thought about this thing.
Bye, bye!