Batman's timing was perfect.
Jude slipped through the theater's side entrance while every set of eyes in a three-block radius was pointed at the sky. Outside, the factory was still burning. The Batplane had just crossed overhead with two monsters in a net, and the Falcone soldiers who'd been guarding the door had jogged out to gawk at it like everyone else. Inside, the chaos was more contained — guards milling, radios crackling, people talking over each other trying to piece together what had just happened.
"What's going on? What was that explosion?"
"Sounded like it came from Solomon Grundy's factory. Maybe that thing finally snapped — he was never stable."
"Lesen, Lesen! What's the situation at the door?"
"This is Rayson. I've got eyes on the Batplane — Batman's airlifting both Grundy and Clayface. Kite Man's still on the wing somehow."
"They're out of visual range now."
"Is the Hatter sending anyone to help? What are the Joker's orders?"
"This is a superhero problem. We stay on the theater."
The news rippled through the building in under a minute — Batman had taken two supervillains off the board simultaneously. Nobody had orders to respond. The Mad Hatter was silent. The Joker's channel was quiet. The guards settled back into nervous inertia, which was exactly what Jude needed.
He was already fifteen meters deeper into the building.
Then the loudspeaker crackled to life.
"Listen up, all of you idiots in the theater!" The voice that came through was almost hysterical — pitched high and ragged, carrying the manic, half-formed quality of someone who'd never quite finished developing, in more than one sense. "Stop running around! No fussing, no crying! Anyone who disrupts my rehearsal gets killed!"
The Mad Hatter.
Jude pressed himself into a shadow and watched the corridor empty as guards scrambled back toward their posts. The announcement had created a brief window of movement and then snapped everyone back to attention — but the second or two of shuffling gave him the gaps he needed to push further in.
He'd read the file. Jervis Tetch — born with a condition that stunted his physical development, then self-medicated with an experimental compound that had made everything significantly worse. Heightened aggression, paranoid ideation, morbid fixation, and a psychological profile that Batman's dossier had described, with characteristic understatement, as complex. The voice on the speaker sounded like a furious twelve-year-old who'd been given too much power and too little supervision.
The only people who make it in Gotham, Jude thought, edging past a support column, are the ones who were never quite right to begin with.
The theater was enormous — multiple levels, a labyrinthine backstage, corridors branching in every direction. The outer sections were thick with hat-wearers on their mechanical patrols, and Jude's disguise moved him through them without friction. Nobody looked twice at a middle-aged man in a hat holding a gun. The further inward he pushed, though, the more the composition changed. Falcone family members in black suits, standing in pairs, actually paying attention. The Joker had seeded the core with professionals — partly for security, partly to keep a leash on the Hatter's operation. Balance of power, in the loosest possible sense.
And then the hat-wearers stopped entirely. A clear boundary — past this corridor, controlled civilians didn't go. Only suits.
Jude exhaled. Good.
"With this setup, it's basically already done."
He was still processing the checkpoint problem when he spotted him — a man in a black suit pushing through the crowd nearby, roughly Jude's height, roughly Jude's build, with a gut that matched his current disguise almost exactly.
Beautiful.
He fell into step alongside the man, keeping pace, letting the crowd carry them naturally toward a quieter stretch of corridor. The suit-wearer was completely relaxed — he'd been surrounded by hat-wearing automatons for hours and had stopped registering them as threats entirely. That was the thing about robots: you stopped noticing them after a while. And once you stopped noticing them, you stopped noticing what was moving among them.
The moment the man's back was turned, Jude's right arm came across his throat from behind, left arm locking in behind the right elbow, the rear naked choke applied in one smooth motion. The man's mouth opened but nothing came out — just a thin, compressed wheeze as the blood flow to his brain was cut off and his lungs fought against the constriction. He grabbed at Jude's arms, twisted his weight, tried to drop — but they were matched too closely in size, and a properly-set choke doesn't care about desperation. His struggles faded inside of ten seconds. His body went slack.
Jude carried him into the nearest restroom, locked the stall, and changed.
Two minutes later, he walked out in a black suit, moving at the relaxed pace of a man who belonged exactly where he was. The guards lining the corridor didn't give him a second look. Judging by clothes, not faces — it was a terrible security practice, and Jude was deeply grateful for it.
This is the Mad Hatter's inner sanctum? He kept his expression neutral as he walked the corridor. This is the defense he's counting on? It could hold off a frontal assault, sure. It might slow down a costumed hero who didn't want civilian casualties. But a ruthless operator running a targeted strike at the center — there was nothing here to stop that. Nothing at all.
"Hey — kid. Hold up."
A Falcone man stepped out from beside a heavy set of double doors, one hand already resting on his weapon. He looked Jude over with the practiced suspicion of someone whose entire job was noticing things that didn't fit.
"You look unfamiliar. You stationed in this neighborhood?"
The man behind him raised his rifle.
"Yeah." Jude let a beat pass, kept his voice easy. "I'm new. You might not have seen me around yet."
The guard's eyes went flat. His thumb found the hammer.
"That's not a very convincing answer."
Jude's weight shifted forward, almost imperceptibly. If this went wrong, he'd go through the door. He was already calculating the geometry.
Then a second gunman pushed through from the side corridor. "Relax. You forget? After the Ventriloquist got picked up, a bunch of his crew peeled off and folded into ours. Whole new batch of faces."
The first guard held his gaze on Jude for another second. Then, without lowering the gun: "Fine. But you're not going in armed. Spread your hands."
Jude obliged. Both pistols were already stashed in the system— he was clean. The guard's hands moved across his waist, his legs, his shoes, his pockets. Found nothing.
"Looks clear," he said. Then he stopped. "One more thing. Just need to confirm something."
He looked at Jude with eyes that hadn't gotten any warmer.
"The black robe and mask left in the men's room — are those yours?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~