Jude left the GCPD. Not the building—that was mostly rubble now—but the temporary parking lot office, with its folding chairs and terrible coffee.
Before he went, he had something to say to Commissioner Gordon's exhausted presence.
"There's an ancient saying," Jude began, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that comes from either profound wisdom or complete delusion. "'To enter the tiger's den is the only way to catch the tiger's cub.' As the saying goes: as the saying goes: high risk, high return."
Gordon looked at him blankly, trying to parse what that meant. Jude continued, undeterred.
"The fortune teller said I was doomed. Cursed. That everywhere I go, disaster follows." Jude smiled sharply. "But I disagree. I believe those who escape doom decide for themselves whether to live or die. Fate isn't written; it's negotiated. My previous boss once told me: 'There is no garbage in the world. Only resources that are misplaced.'"
Jude looked at the smoking ruins of the precinct. "I used to think my life was a comedy. All these absurd disasters. But now I think it can be even more fun. The comedy can get better. Or maybe it becomes a tragedy. We'll see."
Gordon was momentarily stunned by the exaggerated philosophical rambling. The young officer spoke like someone who'd taken fortune cookies too seriously. Almost against his will, Gordon asked, "How is your former boss doing? The one with the wisdom about garbage?"
"Oh," Jude's expression didn't change. "Went to prison. He got sentenced to ten years."
"Ah," Gordon nodded slowly. "No wonder he's your former boss."
"That's about it, anyway," Jude shrugged. "Commissioner Gordon—see you again someday."
"It doesn't necessarily mean goodbye," Gordon replied reflexively, then instantly regretted tempting fate. Given Jude's track record, "see you again" probably meant "see you at the next catastrophe."
Jude walked away into the Gotham afternoon, leaving the ruined police station behind. The war continued.
Half a month later, Gotham had transformed from a city into a battlefield.
"Don't go, Gordon," Batman stated flatly. It wasn't a plea, but the underlying concern was audible to anyone who knew him.
"Have you seen the map, Batman?" Gordon's response was equally flat, weighed down by exhaustion. "I have."
They stood on a rooftop in the neutral zone—one of the few buildings unclaimed by either faction. The weather was bright and sunny, a beautiful day that violently contrasted with the scenery below.
"The city has fallen," Gordon said.
The streets were deserted. Moving between buildings meant crossing war zones, risking snipers or mines. Columns of smoke rose from dilapidated neighborhoods and caved-in roofs. Crows circled in the sky, calling out to each other as they scavenged the expanding battlefield.
Gordon's gaze swept across the divided city. In the distance, the Joker had claimed the Upper West Side, transforming it into a grotesque carnival. Buildings were splashed with garish paint and dazzling strobe lights. Thugs patrolled in professional black suits and ties—a strict dress code enforced by a madman.
On the opposite side, the Riddler controlled the East District. The buildings there looked like a messy, architectural decay, but the appearance was deceptive. Doors were barricaded, windows sealed. Seemingly ordinary structures had been converted into bunkers with firing ports and kill zones. Military efficiency disguised as urban blight.
Caught between them was the Park District. The no-man's-land. The meat grinder.
"This city has fallen before," Batman's voice cut through Gordon's dark thoughts. "This is Gotham. It has always been like this. And next, we rescue it. Like we always do."
Gordon smiled bitterly, taking a long drag from his pipe. "You know what you're saying. But do you actually believe it?"
Batman didn't answer.
"Every day, fresh recruits pour into the Park District," Gordon continued. "Cannon fodder desperate enough to believe the Joker's promises or fear the Riddler's threats. The Joker sets them up for punchlines that end in blood. The Riddler makes them pieces in puzzles nobody wins. I've seen them fall. Dozens at a time."
Gordon shook his head. "We've been lucky so far. We've had you. But luck runs out. There's a one-hour truce every day at noon to collect the bodies. You've seen the puddles of blood in the streets. They've been completely brainwashed into machines that attack, kill, die, and repeat."
Batman remained silent. Everything Gordon said was true.
The psychological pressure had pushed the Commissioner to do something desperate. During a daily truce, Gordon had left envelopes for both factions, requesting negotiations. Remarkably, both had accepted.
The Riddler had responded with a thirty-seven-page letter demanding Gordon wear an orange Arkham prison jumpsuit and follow a strict behavioral script. The Joker had replied with a single sentence written in lipstick across a corpse's chest: "Leave nothing but your underwear on and come back."
Gordon had endured the humiliation of both. He wore the jumpsuit. He stripped to his underwear. He went alone and unarmed to negotiate, because he was Jim Gordon and he didn't quit.
The negotiations failed, but he gathered vital intelligence.
"They want you," Gordon said, delivering the bad news. "Both sides gave the exact same condition for ending the war: 'Bring me Batman.'"
"What did you say?"
"I told them to go to hell, phrased slightly more diplomatically," Gordon put his notebook away. "We can't negotiate with terrorists or hand you over. We have to take direct action."
Batman started to speak, but Gordon cut him off.
"But we can't go in yet. The Joker has rigged entire buildings in the Park District with explosives. The Riddler is holding massive numbers of civilians hostage in undisclosed locations. They both have human shields. If you go in aggressively, they'll kill everyone."
Gordon's expression hardened into absolute resolve.
"So I contacted the federal government. I made the case that this is no longer a crime wave; it's an armed insurrection. Domestic terrorism requiring a military response. The National Guard. Maybe more." Gordon looked directly at Batman. "We treat it as a war. You and I have to maintain containment protocols until they arrive. Don't let anyone enter the city center, and don't let the war spill into the suburbs. We hold the line and wait for bigger guns."
Gordon paused, a nagging detail suddenly coming to mind. He frowned.
"Come to think of it... didn't that Bike Stripper fight alongside you?" Gordon turned to look at Batman. "I saw him on the Riddler's list of allied criminals. He had a green question mark next to his name. Why did he join the Riddler's side?"
The question hung in the air, critical and demanding an answer.
When Gordon looked back at where Batman had been standing, he was gone.