Jude hadn't bought the beret for warmth either.
Warmth was a side effect. The real value was the SAN recovery boost — sanity, in system terms, measured and quantified like a stat in a video game. According to the system's assessment, the Mad Hatter's mind control hadn't yet reached advanced tier, which meant the beret combined with Jude's baseline mental resistance should be enough to keep his brain his own. Should be. He appreciated the precision of that qualifier.
He swapped out the black hood of his cloak for the beret, then tucked the hood back on over it. The transmogrification service ran him a thousand asset dollars — steep, but cheaper than getting his mind hollowed out.
The moment he rolled out of the East District on his bicycle, the gate sentry was already on the phone.
"Boss, Thor has left."
"Has the word been passed?"
"Spread it. None of our people will be assisting Bike Stripper against the Mad Hatter tonight. Upper West Side crew is redirected — they'll be supporting Clayface against Batman."
"Good. And starting now — all of you call me Riddler. Not Boss."
He hung up and immediately dialed again.
"Clayface. Start your war with Solomon. Now."
"Roger that, boss."
The vein along Edward Nigma's hand stood out against his knuckles as he ended the call. He stared at the communicator for a moment, then dialed a third number.
"Thor's already moving. Spread the word."
A pause on the other end. "Boss, are we sure about this? Won't this tip off the Joker?"
"This isn't about the Joker. It's about the Mad Hatter. There is a fundamental difference between those two sentences. Now do as I say."
"Understood, boss."
"Stop calling me boss."
Three blocks from a fortified factory on the Upper West Side, a young man in a hoodie pocketed his phone and took stock of the situation.
The factory was the most heavily defended point in the district. Falcone soldiers patrolled the perimeter in rotating shifts, but they weren't the only problem. Scattered throughout the surrounding streets were ordinary Gotham residents — women in headscarves, cowboys in ten-gallon hats, teenagers in baseball caps, men in hoodies not unlike his own. They looked harmless. They were not. Every single one of them was armed, and every single one of them wore a hat.
That was the tell.
The Mad Hatter hid his control chips inside headwear. Anyone who put on one of his hats became his to command, without exception, without awareness. The number of people he currently held wasn't his ceiling — the Joker had quietly imposed a cap, knowing that an unchecked Mad Hatter could pivot from useful asset to independent army overnight. Supervillain alliances ran on muscle, not loyalty, and the biggest fist set the rules.
So the Mad Hatter's also managing Solomon's territory, the young man thought. Makes sense. That zombie's too stupid to run a lemonade stand.
Down the block, a Falcone patrol rounded the corner and moved toward him.
The young man muttered something low, and his body — clothes and all — softened at the edges, color draining, shape dissolving, until there was nothing left of him but a low yellow mass of clay. He poured himself into the shadow of a nearby alley and went still.
The patrol swept the street with bored, practiced eyes, found nothing worth noting, and turned to leave.
Then the man at the back of the line stopped.
"Hey." He raised his rifle toward the alley mouth. "There's something in there."
The others halted. Guns came up. The alley was dark and deep and smelled like standing water.
"Should we check it out?"
"I'm a little scared. Do we have to?"
"There's six of us. Even Batman couldn't hold off six rifles. Get me a flashlight."
The beam swept into the alley — dirty water, overturned trash cans, something low to the ground. Then a yellow shape moved, fast, deeper into the dark, and every finger tightened on every trigger.
"Hold fire!"
The lead gunman's voice cracked out before anyone could shoot. The shape slipped out of the alley's shadow and into the edge of the beam.
A golden retriever sat on the wet pavement, head tilted, ears up, regarding the six armed men with the mild curiosity of a dog who had never once been taught to fear anything.
"Jesus. That's what we were pointing guns at?" The lead gunman let out a long breath. "Reggie, you had your rifle on a dog."
"You all had your rifles on a dog too!"
"Alright, alright. Nobody panic. Let's go."
They turned and moved toward the factory. A few of them, after a few steps, couldn't help but glance back.
The golden retriever was following them. Silently. No panting, no clicking of nails on pavement. Just a large, placid dog drifting along behind a six-man armed patrol like it belonged there.
"That's — that's a little creepy, actually. It doesn't make any sound."
"Ignore it. Keep moving."
"What if it follows us into the factory?"
"Then Solomon will either stomp it flat or ignore it. Either way, not our problem."
Reggie was still looking over his shoulder when the dog broke into a loping run. It covered the distance between them in a second, launched itself at Reggie's back — and in the air, it came apart. The shape collapsed into a surging wave of sticky grey mud that hit him from behind, wrapped his entire body before he could draw breath, sealed his mouth and pinned his arms, and dragged him sideways into the alley in one smooth, soundless motion. Two, maybe three seconds, start to finish.
Nobody in the patrol turned in time to see it.
Several paces ahead, one of the gunmen finally glanced back a second time. The street behind them was empty.
"Huh. Dog's gone." He scanned the darkness. "Hey — where's Reggie?"