Batman was angry when he called the hospital.
Not his typical cold, calculated anger. This was hotter. More personal.
When he arrived at that alley, he saw with his own eyes what the Joker had done.
Carmen Marie Falcone. Seventy-something years old. Small. Frail. Lying in a spreading pool of her own blood. Her arteries had been cut—professional, agonizing slashes designed for maximum blood loss without immediate death. Theater rather than efficiency.
She'd been thrown away like garbage.
Batman stood there for three precious seconds, just processing. He thought of the life Alfred had compiled in her dossier: Beaten by her father in Naples. Lost her first child to violence. Spent forty years in Gotham cleaning public restrooms to raise ten orphans on a janitor's salary. A life of unimaginable tenacity, ended by a madman as leverage in a game she had nothing to do with.
Batman's hands clenched. The leather of his gloves creaked.
After ensuring Carmen Marie was stable and in the hands of EMTs, he get back to the Batcycle to find the Joker. He spent his time riding harboring clear, detailed, murderous intentions toward the Joker. It was the kind of blinding rage that made him understand, for a brief and terrible moment, why some vigilantes crossed the line.
But he had felt this before. He had spent years studying cognitive behavioral strategies and Tibetan meditation to convert this exact fury into focus. Turn murder into justice.
Back in the Batcave, he began hunting for Joker's accomplices. The clown didn't have friends, but he had survivors.
Batman found one: Charles "Chuck" Brown. Aerodynamic engineer. Recently divorced. Unemployed.
Months ago, Chuck and three others had been forced to build the "Joker Chariot." The other three builders were murdered upon completion. Chuck survived. Though $15,000 of Joker's money was found in his account, surveillance video showed Chuck being pistol-whipped and held at gunpoint for three days straight.
Batman didn't care about the legal distinctions. He was single-minded. Chuck Brown could find the Joker, and Batman needed the Joker before anyone else died.
But when Batman tracked Chuck down to a dive bar, he found something unexpected.
Jude Sharp.
The police officer was sitting at the bar with Chuck, talking and laughing like old friends.
Batman's original plan had been brutal: drag Chuck to a clock tower gargoyle and dangle him until he provided contact info. Quick and efficient. But seeing Jude there, and remembering that Jude's cryptic warning had likely saved Carmen Marie's life, made Batman pause in the shadows.
Jude's words from the botanical garden echoed in his head:
"When someone doesn't want to answer your questions, you have no right to force them. They're not a criminal. A neutral person won't become an enemy unless you push them... When asking for help, you should always use the word 'please.'"
Batman took a breath. He let reason suppress the remnants of his rage.
Chuck Brown wasn't a criminal. He was a broken, terrified victim trying to drink himself into oblivion. Demanding his help with intimidation would only trigger a fundamental human instinct to flee.
If Batman wanted his help, he'd have to ask properly.
So Batman went straight to Chuck's apartment to wait. When Chuck arrived, Batman did something he rarely did: he explained. He reasoned. He asked.
It worked. Chuck's only condition wasn't money or immunity. It was his son's safety. Batman gave his word, and Chuck believed him.
Which was how they ended up here.
Chuck stood on a rooftop among brightly lit high-rises, his phone pressed against his ear. The biting wind whipped at his cheap blue suit.
"Well, I don't know if you remember me, Floyd," Chuck stammered into the receiver. "I'm Chuck. Chuck Brown."
Chuck wasn't afraid of the height. He was afraid of the man he'd just called.
Floyd Lawton Deadshot.
He had no meta-human abilities or alien tech. He was simply the deadliest marksman on the planet. Master-level precision. At two thousand meters, he could shoot a spinning quarter out of the air. To Chuck, standing in front of Deadshot felt like volunteering for a firing squad.
"If you don't remember me," Chuck's voice pitched higher, "I did some key aerodynamic work on the Joker chariot a few months ago. Made sure it could turn without flipping." He swallowed hard. "There were four of us. He killed the other three."
So I'm the only one left who knows how to contact him. The implication hung in the wind.
On the other end, Deadshot took a long drag of a cigarette. The silence stretched.
Finally, Floyd's voice came through, flat and cold. "Meet me on the roof of the Ellsworth Building. Twenty minutes."
The line went dead.
Chuck looked at his phone, then into the shadows where Batman waited. "He wants to meet in person."
"I'll be watching," Batman said. "If things go wrong—"
"I know." Chuck tried to smile, and failed. "I really hope it doesn't come to that."
Twenty minutes later, Chuck stood on the Ellsworth Building's rooftop.
Deadshot was already there, as if he'd materialized from the concrete. He wore his signature red bodysuit with white accents, his face obscured by the mask and its glowing, data-fed targeting monocle. Wrist-mounted guns were locked onto both gauntlets. He looked dressed for war. He always was.
Deadshot took a final drag from his expensive cigarette, then spoke without preamble. "Hold this."
He handed the smoldering butt to Chuck.
Chuck took it automatically.
"Hold it steady," Deadshot clarified.
Chuck obeyed, his mind racing. He kept talking, because silence felt like a death sentence. "I think maybe the Joker spared me because I'm useful. Since he's going to war with the Riddler, I thought I should take the initiative. Volunteer before he comes looking for me."
"Raise it higher," Deadshot ordered, gesturing vaguely.
Chuck raised his right arm, holding the cigarette above his head like a human candlestick. His hand trembled.
"Since you're on his side, I thought you could put in a good word," Chuck forced a desperate eagerness into his voice. "I'll do anything to help. Absolutely anything."
"Good."
Chuck's heart leaped at the acknowledgment. He looked up, hope flickering.
Deadshot stood several meters away. He raised his hand and gave Chuck a thumbs up.
Then, Deadshot clenched his fist.
The motion snapped the black muzzle of his wrist-mounted gun upward.
Aimed directly at Chuck's head.