CHAPTER 33

Every news station in the world had dropped whatever they were reporting and turned their attention to Gotham City. They couldn’t stop going on about it. And why stop now? After all, it was the most catastrophic time in the history of the city. On that, every pundit was in total agreement.

The riots had continued well into the afternoon, even as some sort of dogfight between U.S. aircraft and at least one unknown aircraft had taken place in other parts of the city and at street level! Some of that dogfighting had been caught on cell phone cameras and sent in to GCN and CNN, both of which played the footage constantly while trying to decide if they should go on about that or the attempted attack on the Anglo Nuclear Generating Station. At this point, stories about the riots, while still drawing some interest with an occasional update, were on the backburner.

There was talk now that many of the rioters had been pushed back towards the Bowery, which didn’t necessary stop the destruction but at least isolated it to an area already on the verge of becoming a total demilitarized zone. A fire had already started in one building, a fire that no fire truck could approach because the streets were still far too volatile.

What had started as a scant few groups of opportunistic Dreaded Sun and Molehill Mob gangsters seeking to rob while the power was turned off, was now being touted as an uprising of the lower class. Normal people, completely unaffiliated with any gang, were taking to the streets and flipping over cars—the more expensive they looked, the more likely they were to be flipped.

Rumors had started circulating that the Joker had been spotted amidst all the rioting, and had been responsible for shooting two police officers on Molehill Street, but those reports were so far unconfirmed. Another rumor had the Joker and some unknown female lackey boosting a Jaguar and driving down Chowley Avenue, firing on random people.

The National Guard had finally arrived, and were in full force, taking to the streets on orders from the President, who had just declared martial law, an event unheard of in the U.S. since World War II. The reasons were many, but mostly had to do with the elevated state of alertness of the DHS in recent years and the threat posed to ANGS. It was now rumored that officials had both ANGS and GL&P back under their control, and power was being switched on in various districts every minute. Everything in and around Gotham City was now extremely suspect.

Mayor Walden was on TV, naturally, addressing the people. He started out talking about Gotham’s strengths, as his speechwriters had certainly made sure he came out strong with nothing negative. He talked about the trials and tribulations they had passed through as a people long before Mayor Bernard Murdoch made his important changes. He talked about surviving the hellish aftermath of the Revolutionary War, and how all their ancestors came together to put the city back together again.

Walden’s speech hit its stride when he brought up modern responses to the ever-changing world. “We’ve adapted to these changes before. The adaptation wasn’t easy, it didn’t come naturally, but we did it. We are now entering a time where barriers are being torn asunder, barriers of race, religion, politics, sexuality, technology, and international borders at a staggering pace. Gotham City has ever been on the cusp of these barrier-breaking moments. Sometimes, though, our creativity exceeds our grasp. I’m sure the Batman meant well by what he began, for instance, but his rather creative answer to the problems Gotham once faced is now an outmoded concept—if it was ever a viable option at all, that is.

“But we will survive this time. We will survive him, and all he’s brought on us! I have it on good authority that the Batman attempted to infiltrate Anglo Nuclear Generating Station, despite being denied access and warned to turn back. But do not worry, it seems the Department of Homeland Security and the Air Force have dealt with him, and ANGS is now safe. Control has been reestablished over both ANGS and GL&P, and Gotham is now safe.

“We are safe now without him! We will continue to sally forth, just as this city did in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War! Just as we did during the Depression! And just as we did in the aftermath of the Joker’s attacks! Together, we will fix the shops, the homes, the businesses, and the public parks that have been ravaged by these mobs, and we will weed out the corruption of the various crime families that seek to take root here in our blessed city! We will pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, just as our ancestors did, just Mayor Murdoch would’ve had us do, and we will push this menace from our society! We will push them out, just as our ancestors removed the dangerous cults that once sought to turn Gotham into a sanctuary for their evil kind! Gotham City will be the jewel that we’ve all dreamed it could be! Thank you.”

Rather than being met with thunderous applause, Mayor Walden was met with shouted questions. He walked away from the podium in front of City Hall, led quickly by a pair of executive protection experts and his assistant Pamela Brighton. He never responded to the questions being shouted at his back.

The reporters all around him seemed deflated that he mentioned nothing about the intense rumor mill at the moment, which had it that some Anglo staffers were talking secretly to the press about a meltdown that had (possibly) been narrowly averted. The mayor also hadn’t mentioned anything about the intense helicopter-jet chase down Kissinger Avenue. It was more rhetoric, and when people had constant video coming in from different cell phone users, rhetoric meant less than nothing.

When the first gunshot went off, people at first thought it was a car backfiring. Those closest to the mayor saw him go down, and his security team immediately threw their bodies on top of him. Another shot went out, then another, then there was rapid fire from an automatic weapon.

Suddenly, the news stations had all gone back to their cameramen, live on the scene where Mayor Walden lay in a pool of his own blood on the steps of City Hall.

* * *

BARBARA HAD LEARNED that the man’s name was Lenny, and he’d been circling around Parkinson Avenue and the surrounding streets looking for his sister, who’d called him during the riots saying that her duplex was being broken into, but she’d been cut off, either by force or by accident, and hadn’t called him back.

“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “I hope your sister’s all right. God…I feel so stupid asking you to take me someplace to find somebody when your sister’s missing.”

“My sister’s a tough girl,” was all Lenny said on that. “But I been circlin’ around there for a couple o’ hours, and couldn’t get near her house because o’ the police barricades.” He smiled through his scraggily beard. “I’m happy to help somebody out, at least, ma’am.”

Yeah, but we keep getting farther and farther away from where your sister lives, she thought, but didn’t say. Barbara knew that everyone in Gotham was worried about someone else right now—everybody knew somebody at least in the vicinity of “Park Empire”—but right at that moment her Jim was also in trouble, and was likely at the mercy of the insidious monsters who had orchestrated this incredible mess. To what end? she wondered. What could this possibly all mean to these people? Certainly this was the kind of world the Joker had dreamt of living in, but why would Gotham City’s organized syndicates want this?

There must be a reason, she thought, just as they were coming within sight of the Iceberg Lounge. Barbara recalled everything Jim had disclosed to her when he’d come clean about everything that was going on. What was the name of the club owner? Cobblepot, that’s it. She remembered that Jim had said everything seemed to point to a convergence in and around the Iceberg Lounge. And now, his cell phone’s signal was emanating from there.

Barbara looked at the cell phone in her hand, and said, “I need you to drop me off here.”

“Ya need me to wait, ma’am?” Lenny asked.

She was halfway out the door when she paused. “Could you do that for me? Would you mind?”

“If it’ll help ya find your man,” he said.

“Um…” Barbara didn’t know how much to tell him. If he went off calling the police, everything could fall apart just like Jim had said. She made a decision. “I need you to stay here. Um…if you hear anything strange, like maybe fighting or even gunfire, will you please call the police?”

Lenny raised an eyebrow. “Gunfire?”

“Can you do it, Lenny?”

The big bearded teddy bear nodded. “Sure. Sure, I guess can do that.”

“Thank you, Lenny. I’ll owe you big time for this.” Barbara shut the door and jogged across the street. There was a crowd collected around a large screen on a sign outside of an electronics store, which was showing footage of some insane chase between a black helicopter and a jet caught on civilian cell phones. She moved down a side alley and came to the backside of the nightclub. There were two garage doors, both of them currently closed, as well as a side door that said “EMPLOYEES ONLY”.

Barbara moved around the sides of the building, peeking through a few windows and finding that they all just looked into dark rooms with no activity. She then sidled up beside the back door, and decided to wait. She had no other plan besides that. Jim had taught her how to defend their home using the Beretta, had taught her about the importance of corners and what were called “dead spaces”. He once confided in her that the Batman had told him about the craft of finding dead spaces, those areas where people were least likely to look. The bat had recommended a few books on the subject to Jim, who had in turn told Barbara all about the study after the past threats their family had faced. However, finding a dead space wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

When the back door opened and a cook stepped out with a bloated garbage bag in his hands, Barbara had the Beretta in her hand, ready to make threats if necessary, but the cook went on without looking back at her. The door swung out towards her, concealing her for a moment before she held it, walked around it, and dipped inside the kitchen.

Potential dead spaces were all around her, including a nook between a refrigerator and a large sink, a space between a chopping table and the tile floor, and a corner where a few small pallets had been stacked. The door shut behind her, and she knew she only had a few seconds to decide where to hide. She had to make a decision: stay and hide, or move quickly and search the nightclub. If she chose the latter, she risked getting caught rather quickly—she didn’t trust her skill with moving silently, and didn’t think that her selection of dead spaces would be on par with the bat’s.

* * *

“THE MAYOR IS dead, Commissioner,” the Riddler said. “All of your problems have just evaporated. Like water in the desert.”

They had switched on a plasma screen that hung from the wall where most of the owls nested. GCN was still replaying those few moments just before the gunshot. Gordon watched, mouth slightly agape, squinting at the TV and not understanding. GCN just kept showing the same footage, those moments up to the shooting, and then the assassination itself. It just kept going and going, with meaningless, ignorant, and continuous commentary from the newscasters.

In the moments since he’d finally met face-to-face with Edward Nygma, Commissioner James Gordon had been told to sit tight, that Sarah would be brought to him momentarily, and that they only wanted him to be patient long enough to witness a very special moment that they all expected to be announced on the television news. Cobblepot had poured them all some wine, and had handed a glass to Gordon while they waited. Gordon still had his wine in his hand, not having taken a sip for fear of what might be in it.

“We’ve lifted your burden,” Nygma was saying. Hank, the biggest thug, had brought him a chair so that he could sit across from the commissioner. Nygma sat with one foot propped up on his own knee, his wooden cane laid across his lap. “Tomorrow, Mayor Marcellus Walden will be a martyr. Next week, after we release the full tapes of everything you actually said to him, as well as conversations he’s had with a certain Mr. Seth Blair about working with Mulcoyisy ‘Nate’ Stewart-Paulson behind the scenes, then he’ll be demonized. You’ll be vindicated, Commissioner. You’ll be the man who was unfairly vilified by both Walden and his favorite news pet, the Informer. An avalanche of apologies is coming your way, and you’ll have what all Americans want most of all—to be absolutely free to say ‘I told you so’ without having to feel an ounce of guilt for saying so.”

“I don’t…I-I don’t understand…” Gordon couldn’t find the words. On the television screen, his adversary in the fight for greater police resources was dying, repeatedly, as a bullet smacked him the middle of his spine, twisting his body grotesquely as he fell to the stone steps. His bodyguards leapt on him, one after the other, as the mayor’s wife screamed and did the same. Gordon felt sick, angry, indignant, and surreal, all at once. He looked up at Cobblepot, who was smoking through his quellazaire and checking his collar in a mirror on the wall, as if he hadn’t just been complicit in the assassination of a mayor, as if he was just tidying up before going to a dinner party. He probably is.

Gordon looked at Nygma. “What have you people done?”

“We’ve granted you a rare opportunity.”

“You’ve what?” he said. “You call this a—?”

“You’re going to be mayor, my friend,” Nygma said. That couldn’t have stunned Gordon more if it had come from an alien from another world. “Walden fulfilled his purpose—though the poor bastard never quite knew what it was—and now there is a vacuum of power. Once his dirty deeds are known, and you become the darling of the media for having been attacked so viciously and unfairly, you can fill that vacuum. The United States government is issuing martial law, but that’s just for now—an acting mayor will be put into place for a few weeks, but then they’ll work closely with city officials to get someone who can be trusted to permanently fill the role. Someone who stood up to Walden and his corrupt friends, perhaps?” Nygma smiled at him. “Someone like James W. Gordon?”

Gordon didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

Cobblepot waddled away from the mirror, and pointed his quellazaire at the TV footage on the wall. “After all this is past, they’ll need someone who’s unquestionably loyal to Gotham City and the wishes of the federal government,” he said. “You fit that bill, Commissioner. Everybody knows you stand up to corruption. After all you and Harvey Dent did together, no one will ever question your record.”

Gordon finally found his voice, and said, “Then why would the lot of you want me in charge, when you know the first thing I’ll do is come straight after you?”

“Because you won’t come after us, Commissioner,” the Riddler said. “Not after we’ve shown you the extent of what we can accomplish, once we put our minds together.” He touched his right temple with two fingers. “The amount of planning we’ve put into all of this, the careful execution, and quite a bit of improvisation along the way—the clown’s appearance on the scene, for instance, was a big surprise to us, but we’ve used him and his people to their greatest efficacy—all of this together should reveal to you what we’re all about. We are not the sort of criminals that once were, Commissioner. We are more informed in this new age of information distribution, we are more capable and more aware of our environment, more willing than ever to consolidate and communicate, where past criminal syndicates feuded to a bloody end.

“What we’ve pulled here is what a government would call a ‘false flag’ operation, or a Black Flag. A covert operation designed to deceive the public so that it appears to have been executed by other entities. Why, even the Joker’s unpredictable escape and sudden emergence onto the scene will prove useful, because we can put all of this on his shoulders, especially once we put it out on the street for our people to spread through the rumor mill, and the clown will probably be only too happy to take the blame. It has been a terrific feint, wouldn’t you say? It has smeared all the people that need smearing—Batman, Walden, and eventually any city officials associated with the mayor—all while allowing you to come out the other side utterly clean. If you wish for your safety, and the safety of your family and colleagues such as Sarah Essen, you will cooperate.” He added, “You’ve seen what we can do now.”

In that moment, Gordon was livid. He’d never liked Walden, and he’d never liked the way he did politics, but manipulating the pitiable bastard and then shooting him dead once his use was up was just barbaric! “You can’t run this town,” he said. “It’s not possible. You can’t just…take control like this and expect it to work out in the end.”

Nygma was chuckling. He leaned forward and set his cane against the desk. “Commissioner, this is one of those times law enforcement officials dread the most, a time when various syndicates come together to fly under one banner, working together in new, imaginative ways. We’ve already been doing this. I came all the way from my homeland in Russia once I recognized the opportunity here,” he said, leaning back in his seat.

The Riddler put his left hand up on Cobblepot’s desk and drummed his fingers. “In the beginning, there were the Falcones, but they fell out of power. Sal Maroni’s reign didn’t turn out so good, either. All that was left were ragtag outfits like Dreaded Sun and the Molehill Mob. I used the various feuding clans as a well to draw various mercs-for-hire from, just to get us started. Creating a fake ID in this country is as easy as crossing the borders, so Mulcoyisy Stewart-Paulson was a legitimate name as long as I needed it to be. Once it had served its purpose and I had all I needed to get started, I ditched the ID and allowed the name to linger as an urban myth in the streets.

“Slowly but surely, I caught the attention of Falcone’s remaining people in the street. I became consigliere, and suggested bringing in an information broker whose reputation was beyond reproach,” he said, nodding towards Cobblepot, who saluted the commissioner as he fed one of his parrots. “I ran various cons to initially give us the capital we needed to get started. I hacked into a number of banks. I created a false paper company, one that looked so authentic it made it onto the New York Stock Exchange. I defrauded investors and used the money to rent office spaces to set up fake clinics in Gotham, taking applications from doctors desperately looking for work—in this economy, it was easy—as well as suckering a few homeless people to come in and give up their ‘red, white, and blue’—their tri-colored Medicare card—and viola, we had defrauded the American healthcare system for about, oh, $237,000,000 or thereabouts. I also opened a charity for a 9/11 memorial statue, and made off with a couple million—common people are such suckers for that sort of patriotic thing, never questioning, just endorsing things.” He put a hand to his chest, and feigned humbleness. “All in all, it’s been an onerous task, to be sure, but one worthwhile. All that money was funneled into this project here, after all.”

Gordon listened to the man ramble, realizing that he was obsessed with himself, incredibly proud of his own achievements, and spoke frankly only because he was positive his plan was perfect, and that he’d never be caught.

“Everything you’ve processed and been through has been carefully orchestrated,” Nygma went on. “I’ve moved in and out of various parts of this city using a variety of false IDs, everything from a lowly janitor to a jazz musician—I formed The Hurlihees myself, and Oswald here is slick enough with the local entertainment business to know how to get them booked for parties such as the Policeman’s Ball.”

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“That’s how you got in,” Gordon said. “To the Ball.” He wrestled with a thousand unanswered questions, and said the one most important to him at the moment. “But…with all this planning, why kill people? Why take Amanda Riddle and Theresa Fuller hostage and put them in deathtraps?”

“Various reasons,” he said, shrugging. “To lure out the bat. To create another maniac persona to blame on him. To put you and the police under greater pressure.” Then, he smiled. “But, honestly? It was mostly for the challenge.”

“The challenge?” he said, incredulously. “A challenge to who?”

“To anyone. To Batman, to you, to whomever thought they could stop it all from happening.” Nygma studied Gordon for a moment with that confident smile smeared across his face.

“You…you said you came from Russia?” Gordon said. “Are you…vory v zakone?”

The Riddler scoffed. “To you, that’s just a name. What do you really know about the historical significance of the vory v zakone?”

“They’re all Russian thieves.”

“Yes,” Nygma said. “We are that. The vory v zakone is an old tradition. We ‘thieves in law’ stretch all the way back to Stalin’s Gulag, the prison camps. Way, way back in 1917, my ancestors stuck together in those hellholes, and they fashioned out the rules that we vory use today.” With his fingers, the Riddler ticked off the rules that every member of the vory v zakone must adhere to. “No gambling without being able to cover losses. Thieves must also be willing to teach the trade to young beginners, and make good on promises, but only those promises given to other thieves. They should also never drink so much alcohol that they lose their reasoning ability. They must take the blame for a theft if it will create confusion and enough time for another thief to make a break for freedom. They must also keep secret all knowledge of hideouts, lairs, dens and safe houses. There must be no molesting of minors, and sex crimes in general are frowned upon. A thief must never join the military, or take weapons from the hands of authorities. A thief must have good command of Fenya, the thieves’ jargon or cant language, which is always evolving so that we can make wiretaps pointless for law enforcement. And, last but not least, a thief must never, under any circumstances, work, no matter how much difficulty this brings; a thief must live exclusively off of the profits of his thefts. That is our code.”

“But, you said you already stole hundreds of millions of dollars of the United States government!” Gordon tried to reason, knowing it was futile even as he said it. “What else could you possibly want? What did you do here that stays in line with the thieves’ code? What did you steal that was so important that you would murder so many to get where you are now?”

The Riddler glanced at the Penguin, and the two of them chuckled together. Nygma looked back at the commissioner. “What did we steal?” he said. “With you in power as mayor, and completely unquestioned by either a public that’s anxious for a hero now, or the U.S. government, you’re asking what did we steal?” The Riddler looked like he enjoyed his next words, relishing them the way the Penguin relished fine wine. “An entire city, Commissioner. We’ve stolen an entire city.”

* * *

BATMAN HAD SWUM down the river a couple of miles before he emerged on the opposite shore from where he’d dived in. He ran for about a hundred yards before jumping back into the water, swimming another hundred yards, and then jumping back out. It would confuse the dogs that would certainly be out looking and sniffing for any sign of him.

He was about fifty miles outside of the city when he breasted a hill and emerged from the forest onto the old logging road, where Lucius stood waiting beside his car. His car was parked and filthy from having driven down the muddy logging trail.

Lucius was facing east when Batman emerged, and turned suddenly, startled at the sound of a twig snapping under the bat’s foot. “Jesus,” he said. “Are you all right? They said you were shot down?”

Batman said, “It’s nothing. Just get in the car. We have to move.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just get me to Gotham. I’ve got to get to the Iceberg Lounge,” he said, opening the door to the back seat and lying down.

“The Iceberg…?” Lucius said. “Why there?”

“There’s someone there I need to talk to,” he said. “And…I don’t know…maybe another victim of the Riddler. I won’t know what’s waiting for me until I get there. Just hurry.”

“I’m just glad you’re alive,” Lucius said, getting into the driver’s seat and turning the car on. While he searched for room to turn around on the road, he explained what had been going on on his end of things. “They were only too glad to let me and the rest of our team leave. After what you did there, they wanted the place evacuated of all non-personnel, for safety reasons they said, but I think they suspected some kind of catastrophe was coming, like you might’ve put a bomb inside the reactor, or something.”

“I managed to stop the Riddler’s worm,” Batman said. “For now.” He reached down to massage his right knee. In his landing, he thought he might have injured his ACL. That’s not good. That’s not good at all. Not if there’s still work to do.

“I know,” Lucius said, having successfully turned the car around. “I was briefly allowed into Level Six, to try and help undo any damage you might’ve done. I saw the program you put in. It was a brilliant.”

“How fast can you get us into Gotham?”

“If I break every traffic law between here and the city limits, you mean?” He shrugged. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“All I need you to do is get me to Thornwall Street.”

“Why Thornwall? There’s nothing there but an empty industrial plant…” Lucius trailed off. “Oh. Gotcha.”

The old industrial plant had once belonged to Goodwell-Fisher Industries, which had gone out of business a decade ago and sold the land to a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises. Hidden there in the belly of the old plant was one of Batman’s six secret stations in Gotham City. He had a good mode of transportation sitting there, waiting on him.

Batman tried sending a message to Gordon via Alfred, telling him that the Iceberg Lounge needed to be paid a visit and fast, but so far he’d only gotten back a message from Alfred saying that Gordon hadn’t responded at all to any of the transmissions he’d sent.

“The program you developed is backtracking through the systems of both ANGS and Gotham Light and Power, stopping the worm from spreading. Power is returning to all districts in Gotham, but still, the roads throughout the city are gonna be jam-packed with traffic, what with all the riots going on,” Lucius said. “And especially with the mayor being shot.”

Batman rose up in the back seat. “What?”

His company CEO looked back at him. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot you’ve been a little busy today, and out of the loop. Bad news all around today, my friend. Hate to be the one to tell you this, but Mayor Walden was shot just after finishing a press conference. Last I heard on the radio, they’re saying he’s dead. They think it was the Joker. Some people said they spotted a guy in clown makeup running away from the scene.”

Batman sat upright and stunned. All thought to his injuries were gone. He bowed his head. Certainly Marcellus Walden didn’t deserve a lot of sympathy, but after the Joker’s terror plot against city officials, this was another hard hit that Gotham couldn’t afford, especially right now.

He sighed, and laid back down in the seat.

“Can I get you something before we get back to the city?” Lucius asked.

“Just drive, Lucius. I’ll lay low here in the back. If we get stopped by any roadblocks, I’ll make a run for it, and you can tell them I made you drive me around, that I threatened you. And…thanks, Lucius. I don’t say it enough. Thank you, for all your help.”

The CEO looked into his rearview mirror, and said, “We’re all in this together, my friend. We’re all in this together.” They hit a bump in the road, and were now on the open highway, headed east for the most troubled city in America.

* * *

“YOU CAN’T JUST expect government officials to not detect your influence once you’re in power,” Gordon was saying. The Riddler had pulled out a cell phone, one of three Gordon had seen him pull out of his pocket, and was texting someone. “If you let them know about Walden’s business with the underworld, then they’ll realize what a crucial role all of his efforts played in helping Nate and the Riddle Killer go uncaptured. Even if you put me in power, they’d still scrutinize everything I did, and rightly so, considering my work with the Batman. You can’t expect this to work!”

Nygma finished sending off his text, which took him a few more seconds and seemed to amuse him. Finally, he looked up as if having just heard Gordon’s words. “Oh, sure,” he sighed. “They’ll scrutinize you, all right. But I don’t think they’ll do it to the degree you seem to think. They’ll just be anxious to have order and stability back in place—this President wouldn’t want a Hurricane Katrina kind of problem on his hands—and once we hand over a few scapegoats to take the blame for the Riddle Killer’s actions, or once some idiot imitator gets caught for copycat crimes and takes the fall for all that I did, the government will be satisfied that disaster has been averted, and it’ll become another great tale of how Americans persevere in the face of adversity, another talking point for politicians to use to their benefit. In short, it’ll all pass. It always does.” The Riddler waved a finger at him, in the universal sign of shame-on-you. “You’ve got a lot to learn about politics, Commissioner, if you think that this situation isn’t easily manageable for driven individuals such as myself and my associates.”

Gordon didn’t care for any of this useless prattle. It was all conjecture and hope on the part of these maniacs—although, Gordon had to admit that so far they had accomplished a great deal that no one could have predicted—and it was all hinging on the fact that he decided to cooperate. Well, maybe it didn’t completely hinge on him. If I say no, they’ll just shoot me in the head, drag my body off someplace, chop it up, throw it in the river, and then go and pick some other politician to help them. My kids will be left without a father, my wife without a husband, and these bastards will go on drinking wine and playing jazz.

Gordon said, “Where’s Sarah?” Nygma exchanged glances with Cobblepot. “I want to see Sarah. That’s what I came here for.”

Two parakeets took flight overhead, and one of them alighted on Cobblepot’s extended arm. He petted it, and fed it. He looked at the Riddler and shrugged.

The Riddler nodded. “Yes, that is why you came here. And I want you to remember that, Commissioner. I want you to remember how much power we have. I want you to realize that we got hold of not only Sarah Essen, but her assistant Gary Carlisle. We have both of them here, and yet here we all sit, in the Iceberg Lounge, drinking and smoke and watching TV. Do we look rushed? Do any of us appear concerned to you, Commissioner?”

A moment passed. He thought it was a rhetorical question, but then he realized the silence was meant for him to fill. “No,” he finally said.

“That’s right, Commissioner. We aren’t concerned. That’s the point I want to drive home with you. On this dreadful, horrible day for Gothamites everywhere, on this most inauspicious of days, sorts like us ought to be very afraid, oughtn’t we?” he chuckled. “Yet, here we sit. You and I, having drinks. That’s the kind of power you’re dealing with here, Commissioner Gordon. Don’t think just because you can’t see the thousands of foot soldiers we have at our disposal right this instant that you’re not dealing with a well-oiled machine. Don’t look us askance, we’ve placed our pawns precisely where they need to be—the Suns, the Shukurs, and the Mob are ours, and very soon we’ll even have the other up-and-coming bosses under our thumb, bosses such as Nicky Tombs, Tony Zucco, and Silas McAfee.”

“And what’re you gonna do with these syndicates once you’ve united them all and have control over the city?” Gordon asked. “What’re you going to do, genius? Rule? For what reason?”

“Power is its own reward,” the Riddler said, “and it’s so much sweeter when won with intelligence instead of brawn, when soldiers do all the fighting for the mastermind, who sits back and plays one group against another. I’ve led you and the Batman around and around, and while you’re both certainly sharp, you just weren’t smart enough to stop me, Commissioner. You also were never sharp enough to stop Marcellus Walden from controlling you. Commissioner Gordon, you’re just going to have to accept your own ineptitude as innate to your character. You’re just not as smart as I am. You never will be.”

Cobblepot finally spoke up again. “You see, Commissioner, there’s no thinking your way out of this one. You’re in it hip-deep, and the only way to cut your losses and help the people of Gotham now is to do exactly as we say, and all order can be restored. We control Dreaded Sun’s leaders and the Molehill Mob’s, so we can make sure Gotham City enters a new era of peace. We can control the influx of illegal weapons and narcotics to the city, also, since we have control of the Shukurs and the Juarezes. The Calabrias will fall in line, too, as they always have, and Carmine Falcone’s people are all about this. Commissioner, you have a real opportunity here to usher in a new era.”

Gordon snorted. “One that the Joker will never stand for, and you people are obviously perfectly okay using him.”

“Let us deal with the clown when the time comes,” Nygma said. “He was a minor annoyance that suddenly cropped up at a pivotal time, and we had to make the most of him.”

“He’ll burn this whole city down. You can’t control him. He’ll wrest control of the violent youth from you, the Suns and the Mob won’t remain at peace for long.” Gordon sneered at Cobblepot. “And don’t pretend that your goals are noble, that you just wanted some kind of utopia. You’re thieves, you said so yourselves.”

“No,” Cobblepot said, lifting his arm and setting the parakeet back into flight. “He’s a thief,” he said, pointing to Nygma. “I’m a businessman, and all I want is good business. I want my club to flourish, I want my clientele to continue paying me well for my services, and I want to enjoy fine dining, art, and culture until my dying days. That’s all I want. If I keep friends in high places, and if I can help them get into higher places, that’s all good for me.”

Gordon nodded. “So you just went along with this maniac here because you knew he had a good thing going. You went along for the ride?”

“And what’s wrong with going along for the ride?” the Penguin chortled, lighting another cigarette and tossing the old one out of his quellazaire. “If others fail, I can always jump off.”

“So that means you don’t actually think it’s possible to hold onto power in Gotham forever.”

“Oh, it’s possible,” Cobblepot said. He sniffed, and itched at his bent, pointy nose. “It’s just that I leave that to people who desire it. As I said, all I want is to taste culture and drink the finest, most expensive wines. If, along the way, I meet a clown and his crazy lady clown, or a riddler or two, and they can help me with that goal,” he shrugged, “well, we do what we must to live the American dream.”

Gordon shook his head derisively. “You’re all nuts. And this is an insane conversation with a bunch of freaks rationalizing. Where the hell’s Sarah Essen and Gary Carlisle?”

“Commissioner, do you understand that—?”

“Yes, I understand! That’s all I do is understand! I understand that you have power and that you’re smart and that I’m probably not half as clever as any single one of you, but I don’t give a damn about any of that unless I see Sarah Essen right now!” he shouted, rising from his seat. Hank, the big Frankenstein thug, took a step towards him. “You wanna go, big boy? C’mon, I’m ready to dance, too!” Gordon tore off his coat and threw it to the floor. He hadn’t actually been in a fight since his days on the force, but old habits died hard, and facing a two-bit thug like Hank, while being threatened by the likes of the Riddler and the Penguin, had brought something out of him.

“Commissioner, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Nygma said.

“Yeah? Well I’m about to embarrass myself a lot more if you don’t bring me Sarah and Gary! And they’d better be alive and unharmed!”

Once again, the Riddler and the Penguin exchanged glances. The fat dwarf shrugged again, and then waved a hand, indicating “It’s your call”. Nygma sighed and looked at Gordon. “If we bring Agent Essen up here, do you promise to sit back down and listen to the rest of what we have to say?”

Gordon didn’t see how he could safely say anything else besides, “Yes.”

The Riddler nodded. “Oswald, call your people. Bring Essen and her assistant on up.” Cobblepot pulled out his cell phone, and started dialing. “This may take a few minutes,” Nygma said to Gordon. “She’s not actually in this building, but she’s close enough. You sure you don’t want some refreshment while we wait? You haven’t touched your wine. Need something else? Water? Soda?”

“I’m fine,” he said. Overhead, a lone robin suddenly took flight, and dashed out the window. Gordon looked up at it, then looked at the TV screen on the wall. There was Mayor Walden getting shot all over again. The ticker news at the bottom of the screen read “SOURCES CLAIM NUCLEAR DISASTERS AT ANGS FACILITY MIGHT HAVE BEEN NARROWLY AVERTED; BATMAN SIGHTED NEAR ANGS, SOURCES SAY HE WAS SHOT DOWN AND IS CLAIMED DEAD”.

It’s not true, he thought, feeling the world spinning utterly out of control. It can’t be true. Nothing can kill him. He’s too tough, too crafty to just be shot down and killed.

The Riddler must have been reading what was on the television as well, because the next thing he said was, “It’s a shame if he’s really dead. I was really looking forward to meeting him. But, he was a good and fun opponent while he lasted. I wonder what I’ll do now.” He sighed. “What’s life without a good enemy?”

Gordon looked at him. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. You’re so smart and all.”

The Riddler took no offense. In fact, he smiled, as though it were a compliment.

* * *

THE ROADS INTO the city hadn’t nearly been as packed as the roads leading out of the city. Vincefinkel Bridge was virtually open on their side, while it was bumper-to-bumper on the other. Two military choppers hovered all around, changing positions slowly, while a third zipped overhead more quickly.

“Everybody wants out, and nobody wants to stay,” Lucius observed.

The Batman was still lying down in the back seat when they crossed over into Gotham, and thankfully none of the roads leading to Thornwall Street were blocked or had rioters in them. “Looks like we made it ahead of the martial law observance in this district,” he said.

“Thornwall’s just up ahead,” Lucius said. “Any particular place you need to be let off?”

“Down that alley’s fine.”

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you the rest of the way to the Iceberg Lounge?”

“There’ll be roadblocks all along the way, and if this car gets searched, they’ll find me and it’s over for both of us. You’ve risked yourself enough for me. Besides, I can get there faster in all this traffic on a motorcycle. Just drop me off around here.”

Lucius did as instructed, pulling into an alley behind a row of houses that had been repossessed by the bank in the last recession, and hadn’t found new buyers yet. When they pulled to a stop near an old wooden post fence, Batman rose from the back seat and opened the door. “Thanks, Lucius.”

“My friend?” he called out. Batman turned to look at him. “Good luck.”

“You too. Watch the streets, rioters are probably still all around. Stay safe.”

Lucius gave him a curt nod and Batman shut the door. Lucius drove away slowly, and pulled away on Thornwall.

Batman ran to the fence and leapt over it in a perfect Kong vault, taught to him by Tristan, his urban freerunning instructor that he met with once a month for four hours of training. When he landed on the other side, his knee buckled from the pain. He stood up slowly in a field of tall grass, tall because no one had mowed it in over a year. Ahead of him was the empty husk of a gas tanker truck, and beyond that was the decrepit Goodwell-Fisher Industries factory.

His limped a little now. He kept low, just in case anyone in the area happened to be out in this desolate part of the city. Homeless folks sometimes came through here, squatting for a few days or even weeks before moving on. No one could stay here long, though, not even the homeless, because there were no restaurants, homes, or stores to get food from for miles around—the recession hadn’t just taken down Goodwell-Fisher and the homes all around it, it had taken away a terrific amount of this district’s fundamental community-building businesses. Too bad for the city because it continued to be a sore spot that wouldn’t heal; good for the Batman because, for the time being, it was another station he could launch operations from.

Inside the factory’s main building, his footsteps echoed off the walls and the dead machinery. The dusty odor filled his lungs. He paused at the sound of a helicopter nearby, but relaxed once it flew on. He knelt for a moment to massage his knee, which was in some serious pain now. Meditation helped, but he had to take a moment to apply some ointment he got from his utility belt. It took a few minutes to remove the armor around his knee, but he was glad he took the time, because his knee already felt a little better after applying the ointment.

Batman wasn’t limping anymore, but the soreness in his shoulder and other parts of his body (particularly where his ribs had met with the impact from the SWAT team’s bullets) was still going to hinder him. But he couldn’t just sit here applying ointment all day, he had to move! His ribs would just have to deal.

The Batcycle was waiting for him exactly where he’d left it. A stack of crates were piled around it, concealing it from plain view. A couple of useless pump parts had been stacked on top of the tarp, which he removed. When the tarp came away, so too did a cloud of dust. He cleared a path for himself through the debris, and hopped on. This model had been a concept vehicle from Wayne Enterprises simply called the “Ultra”, and it was based off of some of the Dodge Tomahawk’s more interesting design features. The Ultra’s top speed was 300 mph, with a 500-horsepower 8.3 L, V10, SRT10 engine from the Dodge Viper.

With two closely-packed front wheels, and two closely-packed rear wheels, the Ultra was actually a motorized quadricycle. It had advanced oil pans, coolers, skid plates, and other heavy-duty parts from the R&D department of Wayne Enterprises. It had been designed to be nimble, capable of quick turns, while blasting to unbelievable speeds if given enough runway. However, the thing cost half a million dollars just to make, so only the wealthiest motorcycle enthusiasts could ever afford one—Bruce Wayne had acquired one of only five ever completed through an anonymous collector’s auction.

Batman got on the Ultra, and punched in the six-digit code to get it started. The engine switched on, roaring to life—the only drawback to the Ultra’s design was that it was loud, and although he had taken some time to diminish the engine’s noise, there was no silencing a motorcycle like this to the point of making it truly stealthy.

I don’t need stealth right now, he thought, pressing the clutch and shifting into first gear. He pushed forward on the accelerator and the Ultra thundered through the previously tranquil, dusty environment. A switch on the bike opened the large bay door at the other end of the factory, and the Ultra moved over the empty parking lot, pocked with reeds and grass growing up through the cracks in the concrete.

He made his way out into the alleyway where Lucius had dropped him off, and drove out onto Thornwall Street. Two blocks later, he came across the first few pedestrians, one of them a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart full of cans, the other one a man guiding his children by the hand. They all paused to watch him go flying back, no doubt wondering if what they were seeing was real. Possibly, they were thinking that seeing the Batman driving around on a motorcycle was no stranger a sight than anything else unfolding in Gotham lately.