On the rooftop, Deadshot and Chuck Brown stood facing each other.
The wind was cold. The city spread out below them in a grid of lights and shadows. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
Deadshot raised his wrist guard—the one with the mounted gun—aimed directly at Chuck, who was still holding the cigarette butt above his head like an idiot.
And fired.
The hot bullet brushed past Chuck's ear, so close the sonic crack made his eardrum scream.
Chuck shrieked. He dropped the cigarette and clapped his hands over his ears instinctively, bending over, convinced he'd find blood when he pulled his hands away. He was filled with pure, animal terror. He didn't dare feel anger. He didn't dare show it. Because Deadshot could put the next bullet through his eye socket, and there wouldn't be a damn thing Chuck could do about it.
Deadshot, meanwhile, examined his wrist guard with the clinical detachment of a watchmaker. He didn't even look at Chuck. Didn't acknowledge the screaming.
"Yeah, I knew it," his voice was flat. Professional. "The calibration is wrong. Trajectory's pulling to the right by about two degrees."
He made a small adjustment to a dial on the weapon's side, then finally looked up.
"Would you mind staying a little longer?" The question was phrased politely, but the tone made it clear this wasn't optional. "I remember I have a pencil somewhere. You could hold it for me."
Chuck's mouth went dry.
Hold a pencil. Stand perfectly still while one of the world's deadliest marksmen used his skull as a backdrop for target practice.
His hands were shaking as he accepted the pencil Deadshot produced from his pocket.
This was going to be a very long night.
"No, Chuck, this won't work!"
Chuck Brown—hair disheveled, face flushed, holding a half-empty bottle of tequila—tried to imitate Batman's voice for Jude's benefit.
The impression was terrible. His voice kept cracking, dropping into a gravelly growl before shooting up into a squeak. He sounded less like the Dark Knight and more like a drunk man doing a bad Darth Vader impression.
"The number you got from Lawton," Chuck continued in his broken Batman voice, "points to a non-existent network operator. Can't be traced. Completely useless." He dropped the impression, his voice returning to normal. "God, that guy has no idea what I went through on that rooftop!"
Jude sat beside him on Chuck's worn sofa, listening with the patient expression of someone used to babysitting drunks. He patted Chuck's shoulder sympathetically and poured him another glass.
"And then what?" Jude asked. "Did Deadshot hit you? Threaten you?"
"No, that's not—" Chuck mumbled into his glass. "He said he'd give me $100,000. Guy's quite rich, apparently."
Jude immediately picked up his own bottle and took several long gulps, the bitter alcohol doing nothing to wash down his sudden, burning envy.
Why didn't I earn that money? He would have gladly stood there holding pencils for Deadshot if it meant getting paid.
"I can talk too," Jude muttered under his breath, knowing Chuck was too drunk to hear. "I can negotiate with international mercenaries. I'm so jealous."
Chuck didn't notice. The alcohol had loosened his tongue to a dangerous degree.
"Anyway, I promised him I'd use this phone to arrange a meeting with the Joker." The words tumbled out, running together. "I'll be there, and the Joker will be there, and Batman will be there—God, I can't imagine what that scene will be like."
Jude could imagine it perfectly. If Batman showed up, the Joker was going to be beaten into a coma. Batman had that effect on people who tortured old ladies.
"Forget it, let's not talk about this anymore," Chuck waved his hand vaguely. "I have to call the Joker and—wait. Wait."
He stopped mid-sentence. He blinked, his eyes struggling to focus. He looked at the sofa. The familiar walls. The bottle of wine in his hand.
Finally, his gaze snapped to Jude. Confusion spread across his face like a man trying to solve a complicated math problem.
"That's not right," his voice rose. "Why do I remember drinking in a bar? How did I get home?" The confusion curdled into alarm. "Holy shit, how the hell did you get into my house?!"
Jude sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who had been nothing but helpful, only to be accused of breaking and entering.
"Listen, Chuck. When you get sloppy drunk at a bar, invite me home, and I have to carry your ass so you don't end up sleeping on the floor and getting robbed, I expect to hear 'Thank you, Jude,' not 'How the hell did you get in?'"
As Jude spoke, the alcohol-fogged fragments of Chuck's memory began to align.
He remembered the bar. He remembered drinking to suppress the sheer terror of his afternoon. He remembered a voice asking for his address, and he remembered answering it.
"Thank you, Jude," Chuck mumbled, shaking his heavy head. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been rambling about Batman and the Joker to someone he'd just met.
Wait.
The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. All the blood drained from his face.
The secret meeting. The phone number. The trap. He had just told a complete stranger—a cop—about Batman's highly illegal vigilante operation.
"Chuck, what are you mumbling about?" Jude sounded concerned. "Are you sober now? You kept talking about the Joker and Batman and all that nonsense. I had to humor you." Jude laughed, a warm, dismissive sound. "How can those lunatics have any connection with ordinary people like us? And a hundred thousand dollars? Are you that desperate for money that you're fantasizing about supervillains?"
Chuck froze.
The suffocating despair in his chest instantly transformed into giddy, hysterical relief. Jude didn't believe him. He thought it was just the pathetic rambling of a broke drunk.
"Ha, ha, well, you know, Jude," Chuck nodded enthusiastically, forcing a laugh. "I'm just like that. Been so broke lately. When I get drunk, I imagine myself helping superheroes fight crime. Making a fortune. Typical drunk fantasies. You absolutely must not tell anyone about this. It's too embarrassing."
"Okay, okay," Jude said smoothly, glancing at the wall clock. Nearly midnight. "You really should drink less, Chuck. It's almost time for me to leave. Don't worry about anything, and remember to drink some water before bed."
The door clicked shut.
Chuck stared blankly at the entryway for several minutes before collapsing back onto the couch in a boneless heap.
The secret was safe. Everything was fine.
His gaze dropped to the coffee table. Two candies sat there—one milk, one strawberry. Probably fell out of Jude's pocket. Chuck shrugged and pocketed them. His son would like them.
Speaking of his son... with $100,000, Chuck could afford to take him out for a real meal. Somewhere with tablecloths. More importantly, he could afford a professional, carbon-fiber kite. He could take his boy to the park and teach him aerodynamics. Share what he loved most with who he loved most.
The thought made him smile despite everything. But first, he had a phone call to make.
Chuck picked up his phone, took a deep breath, and dialed Deadshot's number. Facing the Joker required terror, but he had to sound professional.
After three rings, it connected.
"Hello, Mr. Joker," Chuck kept his voice level. "If you remember me, I once helped you design the Joker Chariot. The vehicle you commissioned several months ago."
The voice that answered gave him goosebumps. It wasn't a theatrical, high-pitched cackle. It was just... wrong. Fundamentally detached from humanity.
"Hmm?" The Joker sounded distracted. "Joker Chariot—I don't remember much about that. What do you want?"
Chuck's mouth went dry. Three days of being held hostage, and the madman didn't even remember him.
"Well, I thought you kept me alive because I was still useful. Because you might need me again."
"Kept you?" The voice sharpened. "What's your name?"
"Brown. Charles Brown." Chuck's heart hammered against his ribs. "You can just call me Chuck."
Silence. Long enough that Chuck wondered if the line had disconnected.
Then the Joker spoke again, and his tone had completely shifted.
"Oh. Chuck Brown."
A pause. Something metallic shifted in the background. Knives, maybe.
"I remember you." The voice dropped, heavier this time. "I remember your name."
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