The roof of the GNN building was slick with rain.
"Heat signatures are stationary," I reported, scanning the structure with my senses. "Twelve hostages in the main studio. One individual pacing back and forth. Presumably the Clown."
"We go in hard," Bruce growled. "Through the ventilation. We take him down before he can pull the trigger."
"A sound strategy. However..." I paused, tasting the air. "It feels too easy. The Joker is a performer. Why would he stay in the box once the audience has arrived?"
Bruce didn't wait for my analysis. He kicked the vent cover open and dropped in.
I sighed, adjusting my gloves. "Impulsive youth."
I followed him down into the darkness.
The Main Studio
We dropped from the lighting rig, landing silently on the catwalks above the news desk.
The studio was brightly lit. The cameras were rolling.
Mike Engel, the anchor, was tied to his chair with duct tape. A crude smiley face had been drawn on the tape over his mouth. The other eleven hostages—cameramen, producers, interns—were huddled in the corner, bound with zip ties.
Sitting at the main desk, back to us, was the man in the purple suit. He was humming a twisted version of 'Pop Goes the Weasel.'
"On my mark," Bruce whispered. "Three... two... one."
Bruce swooped down. He crashed through a pane of decorative glass, landing directly behind the chair.
"It's over, Joker!" Bruce roared, grabbing the chair and spinning it around.
The chair spun.
Bruce froze.
It wasn't the Joker.
It was a mannequin. A cheap, plastic department store dummy dressed in a purple suit, with a green wig stapled to its head. Taped to its chest was an oversized alarm clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
"A decoy," I said, landing gracefully next to Bruce. I looked at the mannequin. "And a tailored suit off the rack? Offensive."
Suddenly, the monitors all around the studio flickered. The static cleared, revealing the Joker's face. He was leaning close to a camera, eating popcorn.
"Surprise!" the recording shrieked. "Oh, don't look so glum, Batsy! You didn't really think I'd stick around for the commercials, did you? I have places to go! People to... amuse!"
Bruce turned to the hostages. "Everybody out! Now!"
He rushed to Mike Engel, slicing the tape on his wrists with a batarang.
"But," the Joker's voice boomed from the speakers, "I couldn't leave without a parting gift. You see, I've been working on a new recipe! And I need a focus group to test it."
On the mannequin's chest, the alarm clock hit zero.
HISS.
It wasn't an explosion. It was worse.
Vents opened all along the floorboards. Thick, emerald-green gas erupted into the room, filling the space with terrifying speed.
"Gas!" Bruce shouted. "Rebreathers! Everyone hold your breath!"
He pulled a small breathing mask from his belt and jammed it onto Mike Engel's face. He threw two more to the interns in the corner.
But there were twelve hostages. Bruce only had four masks.
"Sebastian!" Bruce yelled, his voice muffled by his own cowl's filtration system. "Get them out! The door is sealed!"
I watched as the hostages started to cough. Their eyes watered. Then, the coughing turned into giggling. Horrible, high-pitched giggling.
"Hee hee... ha ha... can't... breathe... ha ha ha!"
"Neurotoxin," I noted calmly. "Fast-acting."
I took a deep breath. The gas filled my lungs.
To a human, this was death. To a demon? It tasted like peppermint and battery acid. Unpleasant, but hardly fatal.
"The doors are reinforced steel, Young Master," I said, walking through the green fog as if it were a mist on a spring morning. "Blast doors. He locked us in."
"Break it down!" Bruce commanded, frantically performing CPR on a cameraman who was laughing while he choked.
"Very well."
I walked to the massive steel blast doors. They were designed to withstand a bomb.
I pulled back my right arm. I didn't use technique. I used brute, demonic force.
BANG.
The sound was like a thunderclap inside the room. The steel warped, buckling outward in the shape of my fist.
BANG.
The hinges screamed. Metal tore.
CRASH.
The door flew off its frame, skidding twenty feet down the hallway.
"Exit is clear," I announced, dusting off my knuckles. "Ladies and gentlemen, please exit in an orderly fashion. And do try to stop giggling; it is quite unnerving."
Bruce and I spent the next sixty seconds hauling the victims out into the fresh air of the hallway. The paramedics (who had been waiting downstairs) rushed up.
Bruce ripped his cowl off—not fully, just pulling it back to vomit. Even his filters hadn't blocked 100% of the concentrated gas. He was shaking.
"He played us," Bruce spat, wiping bile from his mouth. "He knew we'd come here. He wanted to test the gas on me."
I stood over him, perfectly unaffected. I picked a piece of lint off my lapel.
"He was distracting us, Young Master."
"What?"
"Look at the time," I pointed to a clock on the wall. "It is 12:05 AM. While we were playing with his doll, midnight struck."
Bruce's eyes widened. "His threat. He said he'd kill someone at midnight."
Bruce tapped his comms. "Alfred... I mean, Computer. Scan police bands. Any 187s reported in the last five minutes?"
The Batcomputer's automated voice responded in our ears.
"One fatality reported. Gotham City Water Treatment Plant. Victim identified as... Henry Claridge."
Bruce froze. "Claridge? The billionaire?"
"Yes. Cause of death: Acute laughter-induced cardiac arrest."
Bruce punched the wall. The plaster cracked.
"He targeted the GNN studio to draw us away from the real target," Bruce realized. "Claridge was at home. The Joker must have poisoned him hours ago."
"A time-release toxin," I theorized. "Ingested perhaps? Or absorbed through the skin?"
I looked at the monitor where the Joker's recording had frozen on a static grin.
"He is not just a madman, Bruce," I said, my voice losing its usual playfulness. "He is a strategist. He traded a few pawns (the hostages) to keep the Knight occupied while he took the King."
Bruce pulled his cowl back on. The white lenses narrowed.
"He thinks this is a game," Bruce growled.
"It is a game," I agreed. "And we are currently losing."
"Sebastian."
"Yes, sir?"
"Go back to the Manor. Get the antidote fabrication unit ready. I'm going to Claridge's house. If he poisoned him hours ago, there must be a trace."
"And you?"
"I'm going to wipe that smile off his face."
I watched him grapple away down the elevator shaft.
I stood alone in the ruined hallway, surrounded by the fading green gas.
"Sir Pounce will be disappointed we are late," I muttered.
I walked over to the mannequin the Joker had left behind. I ripped the green wig off its head.
"Tacky," I whispered, crushing the plastic skull in my hand. "But effective."
The Joker had just declared war. And for the first time since I came to this universe... I wasn't sure if Bruce Wayne was ready for it.
_________________________________________________________________________
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