"Mr. Joker, I'm glad you still remember me."
Chuck's voice came out slightly strangled. "Uh, it's an honor."
Honor was not the word he meant. Terror was closer. But you didn't tell the Joker you were terrified of him. That only encouraged him.
"I used to read some comics," the Joker said suddenly. His voice had a wistful, almost distant quality. "They were funny. Or at least I thought they were funny at the time."
Chuck stayed silent, pressing the phone harder against his ear.
"Did you read comics, Chuck?" The Joker didn't wait for an answer. "There was a 'Chuck Brown' in them. Peanuts. Charlie Brown. I thought it was funny at the time. Close enough to be a reference, different enough to avoid a lawsuit."
His voice shifted. Darker now.
"But now they're boring. There are no funny parts anymore. The same strips, over and over. The same jokes that stopped being jokes decades ago." A pause. Heavy breathing on the line. "Chuck, do you still find them funny?"
Before Chuck could even decide if answering was safer than staying silent, the Joker continued his captive monologue.
"Nine authors are sitting in a boat," the Joker said, adopting the cadence of a riddle. "One jumps into the river. How many creators are left?"
Chuck's mouth opened, his brain scrambling to work through the trap. Nine minus one is eight. But it can't be that simple. "The answer is none." You could hear the smile in the Joker's voice. "The rest are plagiarists."
He let the punchline sink in.
"Is that a joke or a riddle, Chuck? I can't tell anymore. Can you?"
Chuck was completely paralyzed. How do you respond to a madman asking philosophical questions about creativity while planning a murder?
"I—" Chuck started.
"Doesn't matter," the Joker cut him off. "I'll see you soon, Chuck Brown. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Chuck stood staring at the blank screen, profoundly unsettled. He still had absolutely no idea what he was walking into.
The next night, Jude sat at the bar drinking orange juice and eating a medium-rare steak.
Lyle's cooking was surprisingly good. Not quite on par with Jude's system-granted culinary mastery, but delicious nonetheless. Jude was perfectly content to let someone else do the cooking.
Lyle, however, was not content. Every time he looked at the bright, childish glass of orange juice sitting in his gritty bar, he physically cringed.
"Kid," Lyle knocked on the counter. "Can you eat in the corner? This is a bar."
Jude didn't look up from his steak. "Another drink, please." He slid a fifty-dollar bill across the wood.
Lyle stared at the money. His principles warred with his profit margin for exactly three seconds before he silently poured another glass of cheap concentrate.
Jude didn't care about being overcharged. He needed to wait here, and drinking alcohol when he might need to use his abilities was a recipe for disaster.
He was just reaching for his glass when he paused. Someone was approaching.
Not Chuck.
A mountain of a man loomed over Jude. His orange shirt looked ready to burst at the seams. If Jude didn't know better, he would have pegged the guy as Bane. Same massive build, same intimidating presence. Just missing the mask.
"Kid," the muscleman rumbled like a polite avalanche. "Don't drink orange juice here. Don't eat steak here. Get out."
Jude looked at his fifty-dollar glass of juice, then up at the giant. Slowly, deliberately, Jude picked up the glass and gestured toward the man, visibly calculating whether to pour it on his chest or his face.
For a fraction of a second, panic flashed across the giant's face—the panic of a man who really, really didn't want to get into a fight over citrus.
"Drink your juice," the man amended quickly. "And then get out."
Jude set the glass down. "That's not impossible. But I just spent fifty dollars on this juice, and fifty on the steak. If you want me to leave before I'm finished, you'll have to compensate me."
Anger flashed across the burly man's face. His fists tightened, his body language screaming that he wanted to throw Jude through a wall. But he glanced at the other patrons, the expensive liquor bottles, and forcibly swallowed his rage.
"Want to fight one-on-one, kid?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"No," Jude replied cheerfully. "I can't beat you."
The blunt honesty was somehow more insulting than bravado.
"But if you start trouble here," Jude continued, "the boss will shoot you. He's got a shotgun under the counter."
Right on cue, Lyle lifted the shotgun just high enough to be visible.
"Kid's right," Lyle kept his eyes on the giant. "He's drinking his juice and paying his tab. What's it to you? Don't cause trouble in my bar."
The muscleman stood there, his massive hands opening and closing. Then, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and slapped it on the counter.
"Is this enough? If so, leave."
Jude picked up the bill, checked the watermark, and smiled. "The boss is really generous."
He downed the juice in one gulp, shoved the last piece of steak into his mouth, and walked straight for the exit. "Pleasure doing business with you," he called over his shoulder.
Outside, Jude checked his phone. Not quite midnight yet. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hummed a tune from his original world, walking home a hundred dollars richer.
Thirty seconds later, the muscleman stepped out of the bar. He watched Jude disappear around a corner three blocks away, then pulled out his phone.
"Hey, Boss. Yeah, he left. Took the money just like you said. Didn't seem suspicious." He paused, listening. "Understood. I'll keep watching the bar."
He shoved the phone away. His instructions had been clear: make sure the cop who'd been talking to Chuck Brown didn't interfere tomorrow. Mission accomplished.
The muscleman never noticed the figure watching him from a rooftop two buildings away.
He didn't see Batman's white lenses tracking his every movement. He didn't realize he had just confirmed exactly which bar the Joker was using as his staging ground.
Amateur.
Chuck Brown was halfway to the bar when his shoe kicked something metallic on the pavement.
He looked down. Gleaming under the streetlight was a cheap, plastic lighter. Chuck picked it up. It was practically weightless, the kind you buy for three dollars at a convenience store.
But it had a unique design. A clean, elegant kite logo was embossed on the side.
"Nice design," Chuck muttered, turning it over. He squinted. Built into the side of the lighter was a tiny, clear compartment. Inside rested a single, dark green seed, about the size of a grain of rice.
Chuck glanced around the empty street. Figuring no one was going to come back for a three-dollar lighter, he shrugged, dropped it into his pocket, and continued his walk. His mind was already on the tequila waiting for him.
The lighter was forgotten immediately. The seed inside waited patiently.
"Huh? Jude didn't come today?"
Chuck slid onto his usual stool, his mood instantly souring. The cop had become a regular drinking buddy, but more importantly, Chuck had drunkenly confessed the entire Joker-Batman meeting to him last night.
If Jude was voluntarily avoiding the bar, it meant he believed the warning. It meant he knew this place was about to become a warzone.
"Hey, Lyle. Give me a tequila," Chuck said, trying to sound casual. "Why didn't Jude come today?"
Lyle pushed a glass across the wood. "He came earlier. But he got chased away by some big guy in an orange shirt. Looked like he could bench press a car."
Chuck's heart skipped a beat. "Chased away?"
"Paid him a hundred bucks to leave," Lyle shook his head. "Kid took the money and went home. Smart."
Chuck took a long drink, his mind racing.
Jude hadn't stayed away voluntarily. Someone had paid to get the cop away from the bar. Someone who knew Jude had been talking to Chuck.
The board was already being set.