Two Weeks Later
The Bat-Signal was a crude device. It was essentially a modified searchlight with a stencil taped over the lens. Gordon had built it himself.
"It is crooked," I noted, looking up at the clouds where the bat symbol was projected. "The left wing is slightly lower than the right. It offends my sense of symmetry."
Bruce ignored me. He stood on the edge of the GCPD rooftop, the wind whipping his cape.
"Gordon didn't turn it on for a social call," Bruce said.
The door to the roof opened. Jim Gordon stepped out. He looked older than he had two weeks ago. He looked sick.
"He's here," Gordon said to the air, knowing Batman was listening. He didn't see me standing ten feet up on a radio tower, blending with the shadows.
Bruce stepped out of the dark. "What is it, Jim?"
Gordon flinched slightly—he still wasn't used to the stealth—but recovered quickly. He didn't offer a handshake. He pulled a file folder from his coat.
"We found a body," Gordon said, his voice grim. "Down by the docks. Some low-level fence named Johnny Vitti."
"Mob hit?" Bruce asked.
"That's what I thought. Until the coroner opened the body bag." Gordon handed the file to Bruce. "I've seen drowned bodies, Batman. I've seen burn victims. I've never seen anything like this."
Bruce opened the file. Even from my perch, I could see the photo.
The victim's skin was bleached chalk-white. His hair was dyed a sickly green. But the worst part was the face. The muscles had been contorted, snapped, and frozen into an impossibly wide, rictus grin.
It was a smile that screamed in agony.
"Joker Venom," I whispered to myself. A crude early batch. Unrefined.
"There's no toxin screen that matches this," Gordon continued. "The M.E. said his facial muscles were torn apart by the spasm. He died laughing, Batman. He literally laughed until his heart burst."
Bruce stared at the photo. I could see his knuckles turning white through his gloves. He recognized the color scheme. White skin. Green hair.
The Red Hood.
"Was there any evidence?" Bruce asked. His voice was steady, but I could hear the tightness in it.
"Just this."
Gordon held up an evidence bag. Inside was a single playing card.
The Joker.
"We checked it for prints," Gordon said. "Nothing. Just a chemical residue."
"I'll run it," Bruce took the bag. "I need to see the body."
"Morgue is closed to the public," Gordon warned.
"I'm not the public."
Bruce turned to leave.
"Batman," Gordon called out.
Bruce stopped.
"This feels different," Gordon said, lighting a cigarette to steady his hands. "Falcone, Maroni... they kill for money. They kill for territory. This? This feels like someone killing just to see what happens. It's... unnatural."
"I'll find him," Bruce promised.
He grappled away into the night.
I lingered for a second longer, looking down at the honest detective.
"Unnatural," I murmured, amused. "You have no idea, Detective."
The Batcave - One Hour Later
The mood in the cave was oppressive.
Bruce had the playing card under the electron microscope. He was running a spectral analysis on the chemical residue.
"Ammonium chloride, hydrogen cyanide, strychnine..." Bruce listed the compounds, his voice flat. "And something else. An unknown binding agent."
"It is a variation of the chemical from Ace Chemicals," I said, walking over with a tray of black coffee. "But modified. Someone turned industrial waste into a weaponized neurotoxin. That requires genius-level intellect in chemistry."
"He survived," Bruce said. He pulled away from the microscope. "The Red Hood. He survived the fall."
"And evidently," I added, "he has decided to rebrand."
Beep.
The police scanner on the main computer console crackled to life.
"All units, all units. We have a 10-33 at the GNN News Studio. Shots fired. Suspect has taken hostages. He... dear God, he's on the air."
Bruce spun around. "Computer. GNN feed. Main screen."
The massive monitor wall flickered to life.
It was a news broadcast. The news anchor, a man named Mike Engel, was sitting at his desk. He was trembling. A gun was pressed to his temple.
Holding the gun was a man.
He wore a purple suit that looked expensive but gaudy. His skin was the color of bone. His hair was slicked back, bright emerald green.
And his mouth... his mouth was painted with red lipstick, accentuating the horrific scars that curled up his cheeks into a permanent smile.
"Hello, Gotham!" the man screeched. His voice was high, manic, and terrifying. It sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your boring weather report," the Joker giggled, looking directly into the camera. "But I have a weather update of my own! Tonight's forecast calls for a heavy downpour of... justice!"
He laughed. It was the laugh I had heard at the factory.
"Batman!" The Joker suddenly screamed, leaning into the lens until his face filled the screen. "I know you're watching! I know you're out there, brooding in your cave! You dropped me into the soup, Batsy! You made me! And I just wanted to say... thank you!"
Bruce stood frozen.
"So," the Joker pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. "To celebrate my birthday, I'm going to kill someone at midnight! Who will it be? The Mayor? The Commissioner? Or maybe..."
He patted the terrified news anchor on the head.
"...maybe Mike here? Tune in to find out! Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!"
The feed cut to static.
The cave was silent.
Bruce turned to me. The guilt was gone from his eyes. Replaced by cold, hard resolve.
"Suit up, Sebastian," Bruce commanded. "We're going to the studio."
I smiled, my eyes flashing red.
"Finally," I said, pulling on my gloves. "A dance partner who knows how to lead."
_________________________________________________________________________
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