"Clayface, let our Mr. Chuck out."
The moment the Riddler spoke, the massive man's transformation reversed itself. His human shape dissolved, the orange shirt and jeans melting away into a fluid, humanoid pool of living mud.
Then, he opened a cavity in his chest and expelled Chuck Brown like a man coughing up seawater.
Chuck stumbled forward onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. The sensation of being buried alive in living mud—blind, mute, and suffocating in the dark—left his lungs burning and his mind screaming.
"Just to be sure," the Riddler's voice cut through Chuck's panic with casual precision. "Your son has the same name as you, doesn't he? Charles Brown Jr. Correct?"
The question snapped Chuck's attention up. He stared at the figures on the stage in absolute dread.
The man leaning against the stage wore a tailored green suit and a top hat, a hideous question mark scar carved directly into the flesh of his exposed chest. The woman beside him had hair the color of autumn fire, and was examining Ivy's seed with intense, scientific curiosity. Behind them stood the towering, shifting mass of Clayface.
Chuck wasn't a fighter, but he knew Gotham's survival rules. He recognized these three immediately.
"I don't really like repeating questions," the Riddler added softly. He looked at Chuck's trembling legs with a gentle, terrifying smile. "He and his mother live in Cavalere Terrace, correct? Apartment 37, Building G?"
The specific address landed like a punch to the gut. They knew exactly where his son lived.
Chuck's mind raced through scenarios, and all of them ended badly. Finally, he whispered, "Yes."
"Very good." The Riddler's smile approximated warmth. "Now, tell me everything about this meeting you arranged with the Joker."
The following night, Chuck sat at the bar, stomach knotted with anxiety. This was the night. The meeting. The trap.
Beside him, Jude sat at his usual spot, drinking orange juice and eating fried chicken as if it were just another normal evening in Gotham.
"Hey, Jude," Chuck said, forcing his voice to stay casual. "I have to tell you something. You need to go home today. Really."
Jude took a bite of chicken, looking confused. "Why? Did something happen?"
It was seven-thirty. In exactly thirty minutes, Batman was going to initiate a war with at least three super-criminals in this exact room. Chuck considered Jude a friend—maybe his only friend—and the kid didn't deserve to catch a stray bullet in a supervillain showdown.
"Because I suddenly feel a little hungry," Chuck lied desperately. "Let's find a restaurant in a different neighborhood. I'll treat you."
"Uh, no thanks," Jude pointed to his plate. "This is quite filling. Look, I even ordered popcorn. Want some?"
Before Chuck could try another excuse, his cell phone buzzed. A text message.
Mr. Chuck, time is almost up. Please start drinking now and refrain from any suspicious behavior. We're watching you.
No signature. Chuck glanced around the bar, seeing no obvious surveillance, but he knew better. He shoved the phone in his pocket, abandoned his rescue attempt, and ordered tequila. Straight.
One glass became two. Two became three. The alcohol hit his empty stomach fast, dissolving his inhibitions.
"Jude," Chuck's words began to slur. "Nine authors are sitting on a boat, and one jumps into the river. How many creators are left?"
Jude paused mid-bite.
"You think there are eight," Chuck waved a heavy hand. "But you're wrong. The answer is none. The rest are plagiarists. But that's not the point. The key question is: is this a joke or a riddle?"
"We call this a brain teaser where I'm from," Jude answered matter-of-factly.
Chuck ignored him, downing another glass. The world blurred pleasantly. "Does it even make a difference? Jokes or riddles... I still like thinking about the wind. Wind is simple. Clean. Follows rules."
"Ah, I see," Jude wiped his hands with a napkin. "You're an aerodynamicist. 'Wind' is what you deal with. Whether it's a joke or a riddle, you don't want to choose between them."
"Yes. Yes, exactly," Chuck nodded emphatically. Wind followed physical laws. It could be calculated. Unlike jokes, riddles, or madmen who carved symbols into their own flesh.
Neither of them mentioned that the bar had become strangely deserted.
The dart players, the gamblers, the loud drunks, the prostitutes by the restrooms—all the usual Gotham clientele had evaporated. In their place sat a dozen tattooed gangsters with dead eyes and poorly concealed firearms, nursing drinks they weren't actually drinking.
Even Lyle had gone completely silent, mechanically pouring shots without making eye contact. The atmosphere had shifted from relaxed to a calculated, suffocating tension. Anyone with situational awareness would have felt it immediately. Chuck, drunk and distracted, missed it completely.
Finally, the front door opened. A slender figure in a tuxedo walked in, his expression suggesting profound disappointment with the universe.
"Chuck."
The voice was instantly recognizable—human, but filtered through something fundamentally wrong. The Joker stepped up to the counter, completely ignoring Jude, who was happily munching popcorn on the next stool over.
"Chuck Brown?" The Joker examined the washed-up drunk with clinical interest.
"Uh, Mr. Joker?" Chuck tried to straighten up. "Yeah, hiccup, it's me."
"Since you arranged this meeting, I assume you have something to ask for?" The Joker's conversational, almost friendly tone was somehow worse than outright hostility.
"Yeah, I'd like to, uh, join you," Chuck forced the words out. "If you need an engineer, or—"
The heavy bar doors creaked open again. Loud. Deliberate.
The Joker frowned. He'd given his men specific instructions to keep everyone out.
"Oh my, oh my."
The theatrical, mocking voice filled the room. The speaker stood in the doorway, backlit by the streetlights, dressed in his signature green suit.
"The Joker and his poor little pony, along with a GCPD cop, all gathered in a small East Side bar." The Riddler stepped fully inside. "This scene is really quite lively, isn't it?"
As he moved forward, the figures behind him stepped into the light.
A massive, reptilian humanoid covered in green scales: Killer Croc. A towering, gray-skinned undead tank: Solomon Grundy. A thin figure in an orange prison uniform, a burlap sack obscuring his face: The Scarecrow.
"Since it's so lively," the Riddler spread his arms in a gesture of false bonhomie, his smile sharp enough to cut glass, "why not add me to the party?"
Across the street, crouching in the shadows of a rooftop, Batman watched through high-powered optics. He felt his carefully constructed plan instantly collapse.
"Oh no," he whispered grimly, already calculating contingencies. "The Riddler brought in other super-criminals who weren't part of the plan."