The Riddler had clearly discovered Jude's weakness.
"No problem," Jude heard himself say. "Leave it to me." He'd accepted the assignment before his brain finished running the math on whether that was a good idea. He already knew it wasn't.
"Boss." He kept his voice even. "Not saying I don't trust you, but the Mad Hatter's a different category of problem. I want to bring some men."
"No. This has to be a covert operation."
"Can I at least have time to prep?"
"Give me the bonus up front. I need the money for materials."
"Send it now."
The Riddler clapped his hands, and for a man who had just handed Jude a suicide mission, he looked genuinely delighted. "Go collect your prize. I want to hear about the Mad Hatter's defeat before sunrise."
Something is wrong. Something is very, very fucking wrong.
Jude kept his face neutral all the way out of the hall. The negotiation had gone too smoothly—that was the tell. The moment Jude agreed to take the job, the Riddler had turned cooperative, easy, almost magnanimous. That wasn't the man Jude knew.
If there was nothing suspicious about this assignment, he'd gladly twist his own head off and let the Riddler use it as a soccer ball. He'd already had a nagging feeling about being dispatched solo against the Mad Hatter, and this little exit interview had upgraded that feeling from nagging to screaming.
Riddlers, he thought, stepping out into the night air, are genuinely despicable.
Back in the hall, the Riddler wore a calm, satisfied smile.
He'd spent the past several weeks quietly mapping the behavioral patterns of the Abnormal Bike Stripper, and the picture was now clear: the man's survival rate was directly tied to having teammates nearby. When cornered, he sold them out. Without anyone to sacrifice, the equation changed entirely.
"You all heard the recording," the Riddler said, addressing the room. "You know exactly how despicable Thor is. When he has teammates around, he finds a way out by burning them. So—if he has no teammates to burn, we no longer have to worry." He let that settle. "Now. With that jinx Clayface ruled out of the equation, we can finally make some reliable plans."
"Boss, did you call me?"
The Riddler pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Basil Carlo." His voice dropped half a degree. "Do not start mimicking that piece of trash's speech patterns."
The large, broad-shouldered man standing near the door blinked, then began to shift. The flesh moved wrong, softening, losing definition, until the human shape was gone entirely and something else stood in its place—a figure sculpted from living clay, features compressed into a fierce, flat mask. Clayface. The real one.
"Don't call me Basil Carlo," he said. His voice had changed too, losing whatever warmth the disguise had carried. "Carlo is dead."
Poison Ivy studied him for a moment, something complicated moving behind her eyes. "Harvey once told me that knowing who you are is its own kind of luck," she said. "You can become anyone. With that kind of ability—how long has it been since you've worn your own face? How long before you forget the name that actually belongs to you?"
"I know exactly who I am," Clayface replied. "I am Clayface. I will always be Clayface. Who I was doesn't matter. What matters is that there is only one person in this world who can be anyone—and that's me."
Poison Ivy looked away. Something's not right with his mind, she thought, though whether that was the clay or something older, she couldn't say.
The Riddler spoke again. "Clayface. One more task. Because you are who you are, I trust you with this. Tonight, move on Solomon as early as possible. Make noise—the bigger, the better. I need Batman drawn in."
Poison Ivy's pupils contracted. She understood immediately.
And if Batman doesn't come?
"You don't need to worry about that," the Riddler said, as if he'd heard the question. "All you need to know is: if Batman shows, your primary objective shifts from Solomon to containment. Stall him. Hold him off as long as you can." He paused. "You'll receive an evacuation order within the hour. Delaying Batman shouldn't be difficult for you."
Clayface shrugged, and said nothing more.
Evening settled over Gotham, and Jude had not made any real preparations. Truthfully, the reason he'd demanded triple the bonus up front was instinct—this felt like the last money he'd ever squeeze out of the Riddler. He wanted it in hand before the night got complicated.
He pulled up his system panel, more out of habit than hope.
The numbers were solid, at least. Between selling intelligence to the Joker on the side and his official Riddler paychecks, he'd accumulated $400,000 in asset points during his time undercover. It was hard not to feel a grudging respect for his two employers' generosity, given that each of them believed he was exclusively loyal to the other.
None of it had been saved. Every cent had gone into upgrading I Didn't Kill, which had now absorbed a total of 500,000 asset points. In return: six slots, cooldown reduced to three hours, and flexible activation. The low body count throughout the campaign owed a lot to Chuck Brown's civilian evacuation work, but this skill had done its share of the heavy lifting.
When Jude had downtime at the base, he ran the skill on outgoing patrol teams and on his fellow villains without their knowledge. He'd also slipped into Joker territory on multiple occasions just to practice. Combined with the groundwork Batman and Slade had given him, and the sheer repetition of field ops, his stealth ability had quietly climbed to master level. Cooking and English had stayed flat despite more frequent use. Talent, he supposed. Or the lack of it.
"Triple bonus comes out to almost $200,000." He clicked his tongue. "The Riddler really has gotten flush since Wayne's sponsorship came through."
He checked the shop. The intermediate mental resistance item—useful against the Mad Hatter—was priced at 300,000. More than some master-level skills. More than he had. He closed that tab.
Then something else caught his eye.
SYSTEM STORE — FEATURED ITEM
Beret
Price: $5 in asset points (50 Hurry Coins)
"Hurry, hum hum hum, what a good eye! This hat is very warm, and it only costs 50 Hurry Coins." — The pig-man proprietor of the Sow-Ear Hat Shop
"I didn't buy it for warmth." — Vera
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