GOTHAM X PART ONE

ALL OF THE CHARACTERS USED IN THESE STORIES ARE PROPERTY OF THEIR RESPECTIVE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS. I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THEM, AND I AM NOT PROFITING FINANCIALLY FROM ANY OF THIS.

GOTHAM-X
by Chuck Miller

Note: This story takes place shortly after the events in the X-Files movie and before the events in "Batman: Cataclysm."


GOTHAM CITY: 4:46 p.m.

This was Dana Scully's first trip to Gotham City, and she fervently hoped it would be her last. Gotham wasn't exactly fun city at the best of times, and the institution she was visiting was about as bleak as it got. A depressing pile of-- what else?-- gothic architecture hunched under shadows behind a huge iron fence. This was the house where it was always Halloween. This was the place where some of mankind's worst nightmares were locked up. This was Arkham Asylum.

Scully was here to speak with one of the inmates. It didn't seem likely that he could have had any direct involvement in the burglary in D.C. But it wouldn't be the first time this individual had orchestrated something from his cell, and there were enough clues pointing in his direction that it seemed worthwhile to check him out. Anyhow, Mulder had insisted that someone had to come here to talk to him immediately. Scully knew that when her partner got a bug up his butt there was no use arguing with him, so she had called the travel office and arranged for a plane ticket and a rental car.

And now she was here, for her interview with the Joker.

She had gone over the FBI's dossier on the criminal during the short plane jump from Washington to Gotham. He was a real piece of work.

Personally responsible for over 300 homicides, indirectly at the bottom of dozens more. Practically nothing was known about his background. He had never even been identified. No one knew his real name, where he was from, what had made him into what he was. His psych file was chaotic and not very helpful. No two doctors were able to agree on what was wrong with him. Mulder, the trained psychologist, had said, "There's nothing wrong with him. I've read these files and others, too. He's jerking them around. He isn't insane. He's evil."

This was one time Scully had no trouble agreeing with her partner. She believed in the existence of evil, and if anyone deserved the label, the Joker did. But just because you're evil doesn't mean you can't be crazy, too. And most of the things the Joker did-- even not counting the mass murder-- were not products of a healthy mind. Had his criminal escapades not been so bloody they would have been humorous. "The Laughing Fish." The kidnap-murders of a group of East Coast comedians. The bombing during one of Gotham's annual Christmas parades. That last caper had resulted in the deaths of 14 children, among others.

This was evil, this was insanity. But it was something else, too. It was theater. Bloody, violent Grand Guignol on a huge scale. He was playing to the crowds. He was an entertainer.

Scully braked the rental car to a stop in front of the massive iron gates. She shifted into park and got out, walking over to the small speaker mounted on the fence. It was late fall, just starting to turn really cold. It was almost 5 p.m. and the sun, huge and bright orange, was dipping toward the horizon, passing behind a thin layer of grey clouds. An icy breeze tossed a dead oak leaf into her face. She brushed it away and pressed a button on the speaker. A small video camera mounted at the top of one of the concrete fence posts swiveled to point at her, and a voice came from the grille:

"This is Arkham Security. State your business, please."

She was looking at the Asylum itself, back behind a small grove of trees at the end of a winding drive. There wasn't a soul in sight anywhere. She thought they ought to have guards patrolling the grounds, there ought to be gun emplacements and sniper towers and searchlights. This was supposed to be a combination hospital/prison, but it didn't look like either. You'd never know that some of the most dangerous men and women in the world called this place home. She hoped the security wasn't as lax as it appeared.

Then again, that might be why so many of the "patients" broke out on a regular basis.

She cleared her throat. "Dana Scully. FBI. I have an appointment with Dr. Arkham." She produced her ID and held it at arm's length toward the camera. There was silence for a moment, then a short buzz and a click. The huge gate began to swing inward. "Drive to the main entrance at the end of the path," came the voice. "Lock your doors and do not stop if you are approached." Was this standard procedure, Scully wondered, or had one of the nuts flown the coop again? She got back into her car and did as she had been instructed.

No one "approached," and she made it to the front of the building without incident. She had to admit, though, that she was starting to get a case of nerves. During the short drive from the gate she had been half-expecting to be attacked by mutated plants or frozen in a block of ice. She knew that the government had stepped in on Arkham's operations to the extent that they confiscated super-weapons like freeze-guns and fear-gas bombs instead of leaving them in the asylum's storage room where their owners on the way out could conveniently pick them up. All that stuff was supposedly in a CIA vault deep underground at Langley. It seemed odd to her than the Company should be involved in a domestic situation like Arkham, and she rather suspected that some of these toys were winding up in the hands of South American guerillas. But that had nothing to do with her, not today.

There was a small parking area in front of the main door. She pulled into a space between a bright red Ferrari and a paddy-wagon-style truck with the words "Blackgate Prison" stenciled on the side. A bored-looking driver sat behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Scully got out and locked the car. She hefted her purse, just to feel the weight of the gun inside. She didn't feel terribly secure here.

There was another speaker set in the wall beside the door and she went through the identification routine again with the same flat-voiced guard, showing her ID once again to the small camera attached to the top of the doorframe. She clipped the ID badge to the front of her blazer as the door clicked. The door opened inward and Scully saw her first armed guard of the evening. The man wore a drab brown uniform, more paramilitary than security guard in design. He wore a black leather holster on his hip and had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. Lovely. Nice place to work.

"Follow me," he said without preamble. "Dr. Arkham is expecting you." He turned and led Scully across a spartanly furnished foyer and down a dimly lit corridor. He seemed to be paying her no attention whatsoever.

The feel of the place was odd. It seemed to be part museum, part hospital. The corridor they were walking in had several old oil paintings hung on the walls. Severe-looking faces. The light, from ornate old fixtures set into the high ceiling, was too dim for Scully to read any of the brass nameplates attached to the frames.

From a little way down the corridor, two men approached. One of them was a guard, almost identical in appearance to Scully's guide. He was leading the other man, a tall, lanky fellow with receding brown hair who was snugly wrapped in a canvas straitjacket.

As the two parties met in the hallway, the man in the straitjacket stopped abruptly, looking at Scully. "Come on, Eddie," his guard said, almost running into him. "Quit screwing around."

But he remained still. Scully stopped walking, too, and looked at the man. He seemed familiar.

"Miss?" he said. "Can I ask you something?" He had a pleading look in his eyes.

"Now, dammit, Eddie..." the guard said. But Eddie wouldn't calm down. He bounced up and down nervously on the balls of his feet. "Just one question, Miss?" He nodded in the direction of her badge. "You're one of Them, right?"

"One of who?" Scully asked. The two guards looked on without speaking further, ready for action if necessary. Eddie's guard looked peeved but not terribly upset. He had the long-suffering expression of someone who deals with recalcitrant mental patients every day.
Eddie looked from side to side. "The Feds. The government."

"I am a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,"
Scully said carefully.

"Yes, yes," Eddie said. "Maybe you can answer a question, then."

He cleared his throat. "What did the smoking man say to the clown?"

Scully was silent for a moment. Her mouth opened slightly, but she managed to keep from going completely slack-jawed. "Did you say the smoking man?"

"Yes, yes," Eddie said, growing a little agitated. "What did he say to the clown?"
"I... don't know." Scully said.

"Neither do I!" he said, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. "I thought he was one of you people... the way he acted... but I didn't hear what he said!"

"Okay," said Eddie's guard, having reached the limit of his patience. "That's enough of this. Come on. You're going back to Blackgate. Vacation time is over." He grabbed Eddie firmly by the upper arm and led him in the direction of the front door. Scully stared after him.

"Who was that man?" she asked the guard who accompanied her.

The guard snorted. "That's Eddie Nigma."

"The Riddler?"

"Yeah, that's what he likes to call himself." They resumed
walking down the hallway. "He isn't very dangerous, and I don't think he's really crazy. He generally spends his time in Blackgate Prison. But he gets a little manic once in a while and they send him out here for treatment."

Scully searched her memory. Eddie Nigma, a/k/a the Riddler, was a small-timer by Gotham City standards. He was nowhere near as dangerous as head cases like the Joker or Two-Face. He was basically a small-time bank robber with a gimmick. And probably not terribly stable, or else why would they bring him out here? He wasn't a homicidal maniac, but he wasn't playing with a full deck, either. So, the question he had just asked Scully could be nothing more than pure nonsense. "What did the smoking man say to the clown?" It sounded like a riddle, but Scully didn't think it was. He really wanted to know. Eddie had seen something that had disturbed him. And it involved a "smoking man." And a clown. She looked back down the hallway. Eddie and his guard were already gone.

But Scully could get access to the Riddler in Blackgate if she needed to. She was beginning to feel that this errand might turn out to be something more than routine.

Scully knew of a "smoking man." And she was here to see a clown.

She did not like the implications, not one bit.

The guard led her to Jeremiah Arkham's office. He tapped on the door. "Dr. Arkham? Agent Scully is here."

"Send her in, send her in," came a voice from inside. The guard pushed the door open. Arkham got up from behind his desk and came around to shake her hand. There was another man seated in a chair near Arkham's desk.

"Ah, Agent Scully, this is Bruce Wayne. One of Gotham's more prominent citizens and quite a philanthropist as well. He is aware of the financial difficulties the asylum has been having and he has kindly offered to help us." Scully had the feeling that Jeremiah Arkham wasn't very good at kissing up to people. But his work obviously meant a great deal to him, and he didn't mind giving it a try. The performance was a little grotesque, and she had the feeling that it wasn't necessary anyhow. She had only just laid eyes on him, but she had the feeling that Wayne was the kind of man who would be impervious to flattery.

Wayne stood up. He was a big man and there was a sense of restrained power about him. Large and obviously in good shape, but not a jock. He was expensively but tastefully dressed. He smiled in a manner which struck Scully as being deliberately insipid. An act of some sort, for some reason.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully," he said affably, shaking her hand.

"Mr. Wayne."

"Jeremiah says you're here to speak with this... Joker?" Wayne
gave an exaggerated shudder. "Brrr. I don't envy you. I wouldn't want to get within ten feet of him."

"Well, I'm not doing it for enjoyment, Mr. Wayne. There has been an... incident in Washington which may or may not point to the Joker's involvement."

Wayne stiffened. He seemed, for a moment, to become another person entirely. Then he relaxed again and when he spoke his tone was languid, almost indifferent. Almost. "What sort of incident, Agent?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss it with you. You understand."

"Of course. Well, Jeremiah, I'll have to be on my way now. We'll discuss this further another time. Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully."

"A pleasure, Mr. Wayne," Scully said.


Bruce Wayne slid behind the wheel of his Ferarri, picked up the car phone and punched in a number. The signal did not go through normal telecommunications channels. It was scrambled and piggybacked off of several different communications satellites so as to make the call completely untraceable, even though the party he was calling was only a few miles away.
"Yes, sir," came a dignified British voice from the other end of the line.

"Alfred," Wayne said shortly. His voice was different from the one he had used in Arkham's office. It was deeper, colder. "I need anything you can get on an incident in Washington D.C. Probably within the last few days. Look for anything that might remotely suggest the Joker."
"Dear me. I thought he was still safely in Arkham."

"He is. I'm there myself. But he could still be involved in
something. The FBI has sent a special agent out here to talk to him. Don't bother with the regular news and police outlets. I think they're burying this one. See if you can hack into the FBI database."

Alfred sighed. "For a crime fighter, you spend an inordinate amount of time committing acts of sedition. Or instructing me to, I should say."

"Never mind. See what you can find... Oh, and get me any information you can dig up on a Special Agent Dana Scully."

"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else sir? Shall I endeavor to penetrate the Department of Defense, the Pentagon and the CIA's electronic defenses as well this evening?"

"That will be all, Alfred. I'll be home soon."

"Very good, sir. Shall I have your... evening clothes ready for you?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to see what we come up with." Wayne broke the connection. He started the car, then hesitated. He had no idea where any of this was going, but he had a bad feeling about it and he wanted to make sure he had things covered as thoroughly as possible. He punched a code into a keypad set into the door of the glove box. Inside was a small assortment of exotic-looking electronic equipment. He selected a small tracer device, about the size of a ladybug, which was so advanced as to make what most people considered state-of-the-art seem primitive. He held it delicately between thumb and forefinger, stepped out of the car, looked around, then began circling his car, touching the body here and there, as though inspecting it for dirt or damage. When he got between his car and Scully's rental he squatted down, pretending to examine the bottom edge of the door panel, while deftly slipping the tracer into place under the bottom edge of the rental's front fender. He stood up, continued his performance back around to the driver's side of the Ferarri, climbed in and drove away from Arkham Asylum.


Arkham led Scully through a wing of what appeared to be ordinary hospital rooms. "These are our less violent cases," he explained. "We have an excellent record working with most of our patients. Unfortunately, the only publicity we ever seem to get is connected with our... less successful treatment plans. Like Number 1012. That's what I call him. The Joker. We try not to encourage the patients' delusions by using their fantasy names. Since we've never learned his real name, he is Number 1012."

They stopped before a large metal door. This was the entrance to the maximum security wing, occasional home to most of those "less successful treatment plans." Arkham pressed a button on a speaker next to the door.

"Arkham Security." It sounded like the same voice Scully had heard at the gate.
"This is Dr. Arkham. I'm here with Agent Scully. Buzz me in, please, Jerry."

There was a muted buzz and a click. Arkham pushed the heavy door open.
They were in a small alcove which contained a desk and a couple of chairs. A bank of closed-circuit monitor screens covered one wall. Another guard, presumably Jerry, sat behind the desk. He was dressed like the others and well-armed, with a pistol in a shoulder holster and a two assault rifles in a rack on the wall behind him. Next to the rack was another metal door, darker, heavier and more ominous-looking than the one they'd just passed through. Jerry, saying nothing, pressed a button set into the desk and this second door buzzed and clicked. Arkham pushed it open and gestured for Scully to step through.

Dana Scully was not a superstitious woman. She had had more than her share of odd experiences, but she remained, for the most part, rational. She wasn't given to hunches or premonitions of dread. But as the metal door swung inward she was conscious of a peculiar sensation.

A slight chill went through her and she recognized something she'd felt before-- the proximity of strangeness and evil.

Stepping through the doorway with Arkham, Scully found herself in a long hallway with large Plexiglas windows in rows down either side, like little shopfront display windows.
"This is the maximum security wing," Arkham explained. "Those windows are bullet-proof Plexiglas. The inmates we keep here are visible at all times." They began to walk slowly down the dimly-lit corridor. "Ten-twelve is at the very end. We try to keep him as isolated as possible. He can have an... unsettling effect on the others."

Scully looked to her right, through the first of the windows. A man sat on a cot, flipping a silver dollar, over and over again. His profile was quite impressive, movie-star handsome. Arkham stopped briefly and spoke, raising his voice so the man could hear him, "How are you this evening, Harvey?"

Harvey turned his head to look at the doctor. Scully's eyes widened slightly. That was the only outward sign of shock she showed, but she felt a little sick at her stomach. The other side of the man's face was a ruined mass of ugly, raw scar tissue. A yellowish eye bulged hideously above the cheekbone. The face was split precisely down the middle, one side handsome, the other side...

"Hello, Jeremiah. We're fine this evening." Harvey replied in a cultured, urbane tone of voice, continuing to toss and catch the coin. "We feel balanced today. Comfortable and content."

"I think YOU are getting better, Harvey."

Harvey tossed the coin again and caught it in his open palm. He held it out so the doctor and Scully could see. It was an old silver dollar, It had come up heads. The face was damaged. It looked as though someone had carved deep gouges in it with the point of a knife.

Harvey sighed, a sharp, exasperated sound, like a parent about to explain something to a child for the thousandth time. "There is no ME, Jeremiah. Not in the way you mean. There is this..." He held the coin up between his thumb and forefinger, showing them the scarred face.

"...and there is this." He flipped the coin over. The other side was heads also, but it was bright and clean, totally unmarked. Harvey tossed the coin again, caught it, shoved it into the pocket of his grey institutional uniform. "And that makes US." He smiled and a little drool ran from the scarred side of his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a couple of octaves and taken on a distinctly menacing tone.

"And you never know which one of us you'll be dealing with, do you, you preening little bastard?"

Arkham pursed his lips and shook his head, motioning for Scully to follow him on down the corridor. Harvey stared after them.

"That's Harvey Dent?" Scully whispered. "Two-Face?"

Arkham nodded. "One of the most tragic cases I've ever seen. A brilliant man. He was once the District Attorney, you know..."


Arkham stopped a few feet before the final cell. "Agent Scully. There are a few things I'd like to say to you before you talk with Ten-twelve." He sighed and then was silent for a moment. He seemed to be searching for words. "I'm a physician, as I know you are, too. I heal people. I TRY to heal them... I WANT to heal them. Have you ever...lost a patient? Do you know that feeling?"

Scully nodded, waiting for Arkham to continue. The man was obviously upset. He seemed...hurt.

"One doesn't like to believe that there isn't any hope. Whether you're dealing with a physical illness or an emotional one. But this man... this..." He shook his head. "I've never encountered anyone like him. He seems to have no conscience, no remorse. If any human being in this world is totally incorrigible, he is. God knows, we've tried everything. We've never been able to make the slightest progress with him." He stared down at his shoes, rubbing his hands together slowly.

"Drug therapy is useless. I don't know, it seems as though he has some kind of... unique body chemistry. Psychoactive drugs have no effect on him whatsoever. Even thorazine barely fazes him. The best we can do is lock him away and try to keep him here. It's... discouraging. I'm a doctor, not a...a zookeeper. Even Harvey Dent shows signs of responsiveness now and then. I don't think he'll ever be ready to return to society, but there is at least something... human inside him, something you can reach if you try hard enough. But THIS one... Ten-twelve..." Another deep sigh.

"I'm a psychiatrist. A man of science. I don't use words like 'evil' to describe my patients... But sometimes..." He shook his head again. "Just be cautious when you speak with him. Don't let him get inside your head."

"'Gaze not into the abyss...'" Scully quoted softly.

Arkham looked up at her. " '...for the abyss gazes also into you,'" he finished. "Precisely." Scully studied the doctor's face. He was young, but there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He had spent more than his share of time gazing into the abyss, she reckoned, and it had affected him profoundly. Harvey Dent's scars were easy to see, but Jeremiah Arkham had scars of his own, and they weren't as visible.





For a moment, Scully wasn't sure the man on the other side of the transparent partition was alive. His flesh was whiter than any she had ever seen, as though there wasn't a drop of blood in his body. It was almost translucent. He sat motionless, a wide, mirthless grin carved into his face, staring at her. His lips were bright red and there were faint dark circles under his eyes. He sat bolt upright, hands on his knees. He looked like a corpse someone had made up like a clown and propped in the chair.

And then he spoke.

"Agent Scully," he said, his voice low and soft. He sniffed the air. "I can smell your... no, that gag's been done to death. Anyhow, I can't smell a thing in here. This cell is more or less hermetically sealed, you know. Independent air supply. I have a... history of experimenting with various gasses."

"I'm aware of your history," Scully replied evenly. "What I'm interested in is your present. I'll come right to the point. There was a break-in at a chemical storage warehouse in Washington D.C. early this morning. Someone wiped the computerized inventory, so we don't know what was taken. We do know that some rather exotic substances were stored there."

"And this involves me how?" the Joker asked.

"Four guards were killed during the burglary. They were poisoned."

The Joker leaned forward. Though Scully wouldn't have thought it possible, his grin got wider.

"You interest me strangely, Special Agent. Do go on."

"The toxin used to kill the guards produced some very unique physical effects. Rictus of the jaw muscles. Loss of skin pigmentation. Do I need to elaborate?"

The Joker tossed his head back and chuckled. It was a chilling sound. "What handsome cadavers they must have been." He ran a hand through his green hair. "You know, I never perfected a formula that would change the color of the hair. Not enough hours in the day..."

Scully leaned forward. "Were you involved? Did you have anything to do with that burglary?"
The Joker straightened up in the chair and looked at her, an expression of mock indignation on his face. "My dear Special Agent, I have not left this room in several weeks." He spread his arms. "You see here my whole world. Three hots and a cot, as they say. That's about it for the time being. I certainly haven't been visiting our nation's capitol."

"That doesn't mean you don't know anything about it. It was your toxin that was used on those guards."

"Agent Scully. I invented the stuff, sure. But I don't have a patent on it. For some reason, the U.S. Patent Office is reluctant to issue patents on deadly nerve toxins to certified sociopathic murderers. Go figure..."

Scully was silent for a moment, looking at the ghastly face on the other side of the Plexiglas. The Joker stared back at her, the grin fixed on his face, nothing remotely human in his eyes. The abyss, indeed. Scully took her eyes from the bizarre figure and glanced around his small cell. There was little in the way of furnishings. A steel cot, bolted to the floor. A steel commode, built right into the block wall. The chair the Joker sat in. Nothing else. The cell seemed immaculately clean, except for something over in the corner by the cot. Scully squinted at the small white piece of debris until she was sure of what it was. She kept her face still, clearing her throat and looking back at the Joker.

"Well," she said calmly, "we seem to be getting nowhere." The Joker nodded. Scully rummaged in her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. It was a habit she rarely indulged, but couldn't quite shake. "Would you like a cigarette?" she asked.

The Joker looked at her, his smile widening slightly. His eyes moved to the spot on the floor, the little piece of trash that had caught Scully's attention. "Oh my," he said. "You are good, Agent Scully. Sharp as a tack. You remind me of someone I know-- though you dress far more sensibly." He chuckled. "Okay, I know how to play a scene." He straightened in his chair, cleared his throat and spoke a bit more stridently, like an actor delivering a monologue. "No thank you. It is forbidden for visitors to pass any object to a patient in the maximum security wing. Besides... I don't smoke. Filthy habit. I want to live to a ripe old age, die in bed, surrounded by..."

"Corpses?" Scully offered. She lit a cigarette. She needed to do something with her hands so as not to betray the nervousness she felt in the presence of this creature. To be honest, she felt a little out of her depth here. Dealing with freaks like this was more Frank Black's stock in trade. Black was back with the Bureau again, she knew. Maybe she should give him a call. But, from what she had heard, he was having plenty of problems of his own these days.

"Actually, I was going to say 'grinning, white-faced grandchildren.' But I like yours better!"

"How often do they clean your cell?" Scully asked abruptly.

"Oh, every now and then. I am neat as a pin by nature, I don't generate much rubbish. And they really don't like opening that door any more than they have to. Once or twice a week, perhaps."

"When was the last time?"

"Day before yesterday, I believe."

Scully tapped the ash from her cigarette onto the concrete floor
and jerked her head in the direction of the empty cell on the other side of the hall. "How long has that been empty?"

"It stays empty as a rule. I am considered a bad influence on people. But they use it occasionally when they run out of space." He put his hand to his chin and squinted, pretending to search his memory. "Why, I believe they did have a young fellow in there for a couple of days. He just left, in fact. Boy by the name of Eddie. While I admire his taste in colors, I don't think much of him personally. He's kind of derivative, don't you think? I mean, the 'Riddler' for God's sake? I think I ought to be offended. Maybe I am."

"Did you have any trouble with him while he was here?"

"No. He keeps to himself mostly. Talks to himself a lot. Restless fellow. Manic depressive, I think. Has trouble sleeping sometimes. Sometimes he lies there awake when he should be asleep."

"And sees things he shouldn't see?"

The Joker tapped a forefinger against his chin. He glanced at the object on the floor near his cot. "We all have that problem at times. Don't we, Agent Scully?" He stretched his arms and gave an exaggerated yawn. "I think we've gone about far enough, don't you? You're no tyro, Agent Scully. You know I'm not going to give anything up, even if I have anything to give, which I may or may not. And I don't think you have anything I want. So let's call it a day, shall we?"
Scully knew the Joker was right. There wasn't any point in prolonging this. And she was, frankly, grateful for the opportunity to get away from him. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of her shoe.

The Joker pointed at the cigarette. "That's a dangerous habit, Agent Scully. You're a doctor, you should know that. Those things can give you cancer. And cancer," he continued, leaning closer to the glass and tapping a spot on the back of his neck, "can be a real pain in the neck, can't it?"

Scully's eyes widened and her hand moved to the back of her own neck, where she could feel the tiny bump caused by the subcutaneous object Mulder referred to as her "alien implant."
The Joker's grin widened until it looked as though his ghastly face might split in half. "Ha! Gotcha!" Then he tossed back his head and began to laugh.

Special Agent Fox Mulder was asleep on the narrow couch in the living room of his Georgetown apartment. The only light in the room came from the television, an episode of "Sightings" featuring a story about a newspaper reporter in Chicago who claimed to have tracked down a vampire in Las Vegas in the early 70s. Mulder twisted uneasily on the sofa, grunting, dreaming an old, familiar dream.

The telephone on the coffee table buzzed. Mulder opened his eyes, fumbled for the receiver.

"Yeah. Mulder here."

"Mulder it's me."

"Scully." He came more fully awake at the sound of his partner's voice. Images of his sister faded away, replaced by a quick rush of memory: Gotham City. The Joker. Scully. What's up?"

"There is something very weird going on here." She told him everything that had happened at the Asylum, the Riddler's strange question, the cigarette on the floor of the Joker's cell. "And, Mulder, listen. He knows about my cancer and the implant."

"What?" Mulder sprang upright on the sofa, spilling a couple of magazines onto the floor. "How?"

"I don't know how. Something is going on with him and I think it involves our 'friend' the Cancer Man."

Mulder was silent a moment. He stood up and paced around the room, scratching his head.

"What could he possibly be doing with the Joker? I don't get it. We know Smoky never does anything without a reason, and we have a pretty good idea of the kind of stuff he's involved in. How does the Joker fit in? How COULD he?"

"Listen, Mulder. What do we REALLY know about the Joker? What does anyone really know? Can you believe than nobody even knows his real name? He's been investigated by the Bureau in the past... Do you believe we weren't able to turn up anything at all?"

"What are you saying, Scully?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm asking questions. You've read the Bureau's file on the Joker, right?"

"Sure. I'll admit it's pretty thin. All anyone has ever been able to get out of him is that he was once a small-time burglar called the Red Hood. He fell into a vat of chemicals during a burglary that went bad and it turned him into... what he is."

"Just think about that, Mulder. Stories about little green men from outer space make more sense than a cock-and-bull scenario like that. People who fall into vats of chemicals die. They don't turn into living playing cards. Industrial waste kills you or makes you sick. It doesn't turn your skin white and your hair green. Not permanently."

"Well, you're the doctor."

"Yes, and while I'll admit I've seen a lot of things I can't explain, I don't buy a story like that. This whole story is according to HIM. It's never been corroborated. It's just something he TELLS people. It's like he's thumbing his nose at the doctors and investigators by offering such an obvious line of bullshit."

"Scully, language."

"Well, that's what it is! And I'll tell you something else. Dr. Arkham told me that the Joker seems to be immune to psychotropic drugs. Another by-product of his swim in the vat? No... There's something very odd about the Joker, and I mean beyond just the obvious. It's as though he's been... I don't know, genetically altered or engineered somehow."

"Scully, I hope you don't mind me pointing out all the times you've accused me of jumping to conclusions... Trying to see how the other half lives?"

"Blame yourself, Mulder. Five years ago, I might have accepted the party line on the Joker. I might not have given it any thought. But you've... broadened my skepticism, I guess. You know I've never accepted anything at what seemed to be face value. I've always wanted the right answer... the TRUTH. Maybe one of the things I've learned from you is that the truth can be bigger and stranger than I ever imagined."

"Well, that's something. I feel honored."

"You should. Listen, I'm going to nose around here a little more. See if I can get in to talk to the Riddler tomorrow."

"Okay. And Scully. Be careful."

"I always am. Talk to you later..."

"Oh, one more thing."

"What?"

"Say hello to the Batman for me if you run into him."

Scully sighed. "The Batman is nothing but an urban legend, Mulder."

"What were you saying earlier about the truth being bigger and stranger..."

"I have to draw the line somewhere. Maybe I can accept Flukemen and Jersey Devils... with some reservations... but a man who dresses up like a bat and fights crime? I would think even YOU would have your limits, Mulder."

"Ahhhhh! I feel relieved. Now THAT'S the Dana Scully I know. You had me worried for a minute. I was afraid I might be talking to a clone or something."

"Mulder, PLEASE don't mention clones..."

"Sorry. But tell me this. If there is no Batman, who keeps catching the Joker? And all the others? They tell a pretty consistent story, you know."

"Not surprising, especially in the Joker's case. How could such a colossal egomaniac admit, even to himself, that an ordinary police force is capable of getting the better of him? The Batman legend is tailor-made for a case of such extreme narcissism. The others follow his lead. Gotham City is a strange place, Mulder. There seems to be a whole different set of rules here. Sort of like New Orleans, only worse. This has to be the single largest concentration of superstitious, fetishistic and histrionic criminals in the country. Something about this place seems to nurture severely unbalanced personalities bent on total self-aggrandizement. At bottom, though, they are cowardly and insecure. Egos made of very thin glass. Desperate, I suppose, to impress the other flamboyant deviants as well as themselves. The Batman legend is at least a way of saving face when they fail."

"Or," Mulder said, "in Harvey Dent's case, saving two of them."

"Goodbye, Mulder."


THE BATCAVE
7:03 p.m.
As Dana Scully cut the connection on her phone, Bruce Wayne leaned forward and flipped a switch on the console in front of him. He was seated in front of one of the Batcave's massive Kray computers. He tapped his fingers on the console for a moment or two, then punched a few commands into the keyboard in front of him. The large monitor screen came to life, displaying a picture of the Joker. Wayne stared at the image for several moments, lost in thought.

"I must say," offered Alfred, who was standing behind Wayne holding a silver tray, "your 'ladybug' is most impressive. It can actually tap into a cellular telephone?"

"As long as the phone's close by, yes," said Wayne. "She must be calling from her car. Apparently they don't bother scrambling their calls."

Alfred placed the tray on a clear section of the console, near Wayne's right elbow. "I find it curiously reassuring to know that the FBI is not as paranoid as yourself, sir," he said dryly.
Wayne ignored the sarcasm. "I wish I'd thought to slip one onto her jacket or something when we shook hands. She won't stay in or near the car the entire time she's here."

Alfred cleared his throat. "The things she said about the Joker, sir. What are your feelings on that?"

Wayne rubbed his chin. "I'm damned if I know. I know there WAS a Red Hood and he DID fall into a vat of industrial chemicals... I was there that night. But Agent Scully is right, we only have the Joker's word that he and the Hood were the same man."

"And if I might ask sir, precisely how much stock do you place in the Joker's word... on any subject?"

Wayne was silent, looking into the computer screen, at the still photo of the ghastly, grinning face. "Damn it, Alfred, maybe I've been a fool. All these years. I've read every word the doctors at Arkham have ever been able to pry out of him in therapy. The most consistent story he tells is that he was a young, would-be comedian. A decent, ordinary man with a wife and a job. His wife was pregnant... she died in an accident... he allowed himself to be talked into leading a gang of burglars into a chemical plant, disguised as the Red Hood... I never questioned any of that. But Agent Scully is absolutely right. It really doesn't make much sense."

He shook his head. "You know, I've never been able to think straight where the Joker is concerned. I hate him, Alfred. I really do. In the kind of... work I do, I try to remain as detached as possible. People like Harvey Dent I even feel sorry for. But the Joker... I hate him, and yet...
"I keep remembering something he said to me, the night I caught him... after he... shot Barbara. He kept talking about 'one bad day.' What one bad day could do to a person." Wayne looked up at his butler.

"And then he said he bet I had a bad day once."

"And in your experience, sir, does one bad day necessarily transform a 'decent, ordinary man' into a monster overnight?"

Wayne sighed. "Well, Alfred. I DID have a bad day once, you know. A terrible day. And, as you have often pointed out, my lifestyle is not what you would call... normal."

"Perhaps not, but you are no monster. And, if I may say, sir, what you have become, you have become by choice. And determination. You made yourself into what you are, and it did not happen overnight, or by chance. The circumstances of your youth did not dictate what you would become. YOU did that, consciously and deliberately, and it took you years to do it. Might not the same be true in the case of the Joker?"

"If that's the case, Alfred... Then the Joker is right about something. Something I've always denied."

"What is that, sir?"

"That the two of us are a lot alike. More than I've ever been willing to admit."

"No, sir. You are both...unique, that is true. But the Joker is sick, a monster." Alfred cleared his throat. "While I am not qualified to discuss the pathology of your... nocturnal obsession, I do know that you are a good man. You do good things. You must not allow the Joker to twist your thinking with such absurd comparisons. That is the only weapon he has against you, Master Bruce." Only Wayne, who had known this man for most of his life, would have been able to detect the depth of earnestness in Alfred's habitually reserved tone of voice. "The only way he can fight is to plant seeds of self-doubt, to attempt to corrupt others as he himself is corrupted."

Bruce Wayne looked at his butler, his oldest friend, and produced one of his rare genuine smiles. "Alfred... What would I ever have done without you?"

The other man stiffened. "Undoubtedly, you would have become a sociopathic serial murderer, sir. And one with very poor eating habits. If you would consider turning your attention to the tray I have brought you, I will finish committing my federal crime for the evening and provide you with the information you asked for earlier."



BLACKGATE PRISON
7:15 p.m.

Eddie Nigma was back in a grey, 10-by-8-foot prison cell. They always put him in the isolation wing when he got back from one of his treatment sessions at Arkham. Which was fine with Eddie, because he preferred his own company to that of the collection of thugs, gang-bangers and killers who made up the rest of the population. He wasn't one of them. He was a genius. He was different.

He lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. He felt a little calmer. It was more comfortable at Arkham, in a physical sense. The bunks were softer, the food was better. And the company was a little more high-caliber. The place was full of psychos, but hadn't someone once said that there was a thin line between genius and madness? At least you could get a decent conversation out of Harvey Dent-- when he was being Harvey Dent and not that other thing that lived inside his head. And Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, was an absolutely brilliant man. On the downside, however, some of the others, like Mr. Zsasz and Cornelius Stirk, were downright frightening.

And then there was the Joker.

There was something about that clown that Eddie did not like at all. The Joker made his skin crawl. Eddie had been around all kids of people, the lowest of the low, but he had never met anyone as creepy and sick and just plain WRONG as that grinning, white-faced freak.

Cornelius Stirk was a cannibal, for God's sake, but Eddie would much rather be locked in a room with him than with the Joker. A feeling of-- Eddie couldn't describe it as anything but "wrongness"-- seemed to come from the clown in waves that you could FEEL. Like he wasn't human or something.

And his attitude. He didn't care that he was locked up. And, in spite of the efforts of Dr. Arkham and the staff, the Joker seemed to be able to come and go almost at will. When he was there, it was like he WANTED to be there. When he got tired of it, he split. There was something weird going on.

Like that man in there last night. Eddie knew he hadn't dreamed that. There had been a man in the Joker's cell, talking with him. An older man with a lined, weathered face, wearing a cheap business suit and smoking a cigarette. The guy had spook written all over him. He had to be from some kind of agency. FBI, CIA, something. Eddie had been busted by feds before, and they all had the same mark. Nothing you could point to specifically, but something you could never miss. Eddie had pretended to be asleep, but watched through slitted eyes. The man had talked to the Joker for a minute or two. The Joker had responded, jotting down a few things on a small slip of paper which he had handed to the man. Then the man leaned close to the Joker and said something. That was when the Joker had started laughing, that wild, creepy laugh of his, gale after gale of it. Eddie had shut his eyes tight, until the laughter stopped. When he had opened them again, the other man had been gone.

Eddie twisted over onto his side. What did the smoking man say to the clown? What was that grinning son of a bitch up to now? Eddie didn't like the things the Joker did, all the killing. It wasn't necessary, it wasn't right. The Joker did whatever the Joker wanted to do-- and he got away with it. Arkham wasn't punishment. The Joker ought to be fried or gassed or shot or flayed alive...

What's green and white and should be dead all over?

A shadow fell across Eddie as someone stepped between him and the dim light from the hallway outside. He looked over at the cell door.

A man wearing the uniform of an orderly from the prison infirmary stood there, inserting a key into the lock.

"What's this?" Eddie asked, sitting up on the bunk.

"Got a shot for you," the man said. His voice was cold and strange. He was big and odd-looking in some way Eddie couldn't define.

"What shot? The doc didn't say anything about shots. And who are you? I've never seen you before."

The man looked at Eddie coldly. "So who the fuck are you, the warden? Look, Nigma, I got a job to do. The docs ordered a shot for you and you're gonna get it." He had a hypodermic syringe in one hand which he was filling from a small bottle. "Now roll up your goddamn sleeve and shut your goddamn mouth."

Eddie shrugged and unbuttoned the cuff of his grey prison shirt.

One thing about Arkham, they were a whole lot more polite.

When Eddie had his sleeve up the other man took hold of his arm and jabbed the needle in without a word. Eddie winced but didn't make any noise. The man pushed the plunger down and removed the hypo.

"There, all done big shot. That'll help you sleep. I hear you've been having trouble. That'll fix you up good."

"Yeah," mumbled Eddie, stretching back out on the cot. "What do you get when you cross a baboon and a prison orderly?"

"Oh, that's funny," said the other man. "Real wiseass, huh? Well, pleasant dreams, smart guy." The orderly left the cell, locking the door behind him.

Eddie rubbed the spot on his arm where the shot had gone in. It stung like hell. That idiot hadn't even swabbed it with alcohol. The quality of service in this place! He was going to have to start planning another breakout, real soon.

He lay on his back, staring up, thinking. He had about 50 grand stashed away in a bank in Central City. That would be enough to get out of the country, maybe try and lay low for a while.
All of a sudden, his head started to hurt. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He tried to sit up, but found that he didn't have the strength to push himself erect.

"What the hell..."

It hit him all at once, what was going on. The "orderly." The needle. The Fed. The Joker. Oh, shit. Oh, God. Oh, no. This can't be the end... Not like this... The fucking Joker...

Eddie's head was swimming. Hell, it was swirling like a hurricane. He couldn't think at all. He was blacking out.

His head fell back on the thin pillow, eyes wide open. His arms and legs twitched convulsively and then were still. His skin was pale in the wan light from the hallway. Dark blotches began to form on his forearms, tracing the lines of his veins. His eyes were rolled back in his head, pupils invisible. Very slowly, like a cloud of India ink spreading through a pool of water, the whites of his eyes darkened until they were completely black...


KANE-CARTER HOTEL
DOWNTOWN GOTHAM
8:03 p.m.

Scully had taken a longer, hotter shower than usual and she still felt grimy and sour. She knew it was because of the Joker, and she didn't like that. She had let him get to her, disturb her. It was hard not to. He was creepy enough on his own, but the little hints and suggestions he'd dropped-- and his possible relationship with the Cancer Man... She felt soiled, she felt uneasy, she even felt a little frightened.

She had tried without success to get in touch with James Gordon, Gotham's police commissioner. She needed to go through him to get approval to visit the Riddler in Blackgate. But Gordon was apparently more of a hands-on administrator than most she had met. The switchboard operator at police headquarters had informed her that Gordon was out in West Gotham, where someone or something called "Killer Moth" had taken a couple of hostages. But he'd get back to her as soon as he could. Scully had thanked the operator and given her cell phone number.

Now there wasn't much to do but wait. She had read the Joker's file nine ways from Sunday; there was nothing new to be gained there. She was fidgety and not the least bit tired, but didn't particularly want to go out. She was unfamiliar with Gotham, and frankly found the city a little weird and intimidating. Even the architecture was bizarre.

A perfect place for the likes of the Joker and Two-Face, but Scully preferred the clean, classical look of Washington D.C. And while it was true that the Capitol was one of the most crime-ridden cities in America, Gotham had it beat by a wide margin. Dope dealers and gang-bangers Scully could deal with; mutated clowns and scarred ex-district attorneys with multiple personalities were something else altogether. And "Killer Moths." Scully didn't even want to KNOW about that one...

So now she sat in an armchair, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, flipping through TV channels. Friday wasn't as good a TV night as it used to be. She couldn't find anything of interest.

The telephone on the nightstand rang. Scully was inclined to let it go. Anyone who really needed to get in touch with her had her cell phone number. Still, it could be something important. She got up from the chair, walked across the room and lifted the receiver.

Instead of her usual "Scully," she simply said, "Hello?"

"Agent Scully? I hope I'm not bothering you. This is Bruce Wayne. We met earlier, at Arkham Asylum?"

What was this all about? Wayne had a reputation as a playboy, but phoning FBI agents he'd met a couple hours earlier? That was a little raw for anyone. "Yes, Mr. Wayne, I remember you. Can I help you?"

"Actually, I was hoping I could help you. I understand you've never been to Gotham before. I've lived here most of my life. I thought we might meet for dinner somewhere, I could answer any questions you might have. If you aren't busy, of course."

"Well, Mr. Wayne, I appreciate the offer, but..."

"I assure you, Agent Scully, this isn't an attempt at a pickup.

"I know you're here to investigate the Joker. I understand that the details of your assignment are confidential. But I have always taken an interest in the crime problem in Gotham. That's why I was at Arkham tonight, working out ways to help Jeremiah with his security. All I have in mind is a little dinner and conversation. If I can help you in any way, I'd be glad to."

Scully thought for a moment. Wayne certainly sounded sincere. And the impression of the man she'd gained earlier in the evening didn't seem to fit the irresponsible playboy image Wayne seemed saddled with in the media. And there was something else she remembered about him. About his parents... They had been gunned down, years ago, during a robbery attempt. No, Bruce Wayne was not an idle, air-headed rich boy, no matter how he was portrayed in public.
And, Scully had to admit, the man was handsome and seemed to have real depth-- which, for some reason, he tried to hide. There was something fascinating about him... There was really no practical reason to refuse. She could bring her cell phone along in case Commissioner Gordon tried to call her.

Not to mention the fact that she'd love to see Mulder's face when she told him about her "date" with one of America's richest, most eligible bachelors.

"All right," she said. "That would be... nice. Where and when would you like to meet?"

"How about the Chez Mattheson? It's on the top floor of the hotel you're staying in. Excellent food, and the view can't be beat."

Scully grimaced. The Gotham City skyline was about as appealing to her as a mouthful of rotten teeth. But she made her voice cheerful. "That would be fine. Nine o'clock sound okay to you?"
"I'll be there. Thank you, Agent Scully. I look forward to meeting you again."

"Same here," said Scully. And she meant it.

GO TO PART TWO

GOTHAM X Part Two

SOMEWHERE IN WASHINGTON D.C.
8:15 p.m.

A man sat behind a large desk in a darkened room. Feeble light came through the partially-curtained window from a streetlamp outside. The man lit a cigarette, the glare from his lighter illuminating his long, deeply-lined face. He exhaled smoke, watched it drift toward the ceiling.
There was a small cassette recorder on the desk in front of him.

He hesitated a moment, finger hovering above the record button. Finally, he pressed it and the reels on the tiny cassette began to turn.

"I am making this recording," the man said in a flat, even voice, "for my son. In the event of my death, I want him to know the truth.

"Some of it you have guessed. Some of it you have discovered on your own. Some has been given to you. But you do not have it all, and some of what you think you have is not truth. You have no reason to trust me, but I am telling you the truth now. All I can give you is my word, and I know you place little value on that. Nevertheless...

"I have been, for many years, involved in... work, the exact nature of which I am still reluctant to detail. Suffice it to say that I have been involved with a group of individuals who are pursuing a certain agenda. They believe that I, too, pursue that same agenda. In fact, I do not. These are extremely dangerous men. I do not fear them, as men, but I do fear the consequences of the things they are attempting to do." He sighed deeply, took another drag from his cigarette. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to be too specific. Secrecy and obfuscation had seeped into his soul to the point where he doubted he was constitutionally capable of real openness.

"Recent events have brought this... project to a crisis point. My 'superiors' in the group wish to introduce certain... unwelcome organisms into our environment. These organisms have recently become much more aggressive and difficult to contain. My colleagues feel that a compromise can be reached with them. This is a goal which must be defeated. By any means necessary.

"I have been conducting experiments of my own with these organisms. Thus far, I have found no way to check their growth and maturation process. We recently lost an important installation in the Antarctic in which experimentation was taking place. I don't have to detail the circumstances of that loss for you. Meanwhile, my 'colleagues' are proceeding with their plans to welcome these... things to our planet. In my view, this will mean the end of human life here. The others are convinced that by cooperating with these... things, they can at least save their own skins. They are fools.

"Last night, I visited, by clandestine means, a certain individual with whom I have had dealings in the past. This individual-- who is now known as the "Joker"-- is not what he seems to be.

"Fifteen years ago, I worked with this man on a project which was ancillary to, but separate from, the project I referred to earlier. This man was a biochemist, one of the most brilliant in his field. He was also the most ruthless, amoral son of a bitch I have ever met." The man allowed himself a thin, sour approximation of a smile. "And that's saying something. His real name is... Well, you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm stretching credibility enough as it is. Anyhow...

"He was recruited into our program from a university where he was teaching and conducting research. Certain scandals had begun to collect around him and he was on the verge of being let go. In fact, he was in serious danger of arrest. We offered him employment and he accepted. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake.

"He did nothing to compromise our research, but he used our time and equipment to pursue an agenda of his own. For reasons of his own, he radically altered his own body chemistry. He managed to slightly reconfigure his own DNA. His reasons for doing this are obscure. Shortly after he accomplished this... transformation, he disappeared. Nothing was heard from him for several months, until he emerged in Gotham City in his current persona and began his criminal activities.

"Since that time, I and certain of my associates have kept tabs on him. We have been able, from time to time, to persuade him to provide us with help in some of our activities. Usually as a consultant in scientific, particularly biochemical, matters.

"When he isn't on the loose, he spends his time at Arkham Asylum. The director of the Asylum is unaware that we have compromised his security setup. This situation has existed for several years. We have found Arkham Asylum to be a valuable source of new and exotic forms of weaponry. Not only the Joker, but also Jonathan Crane, Victor Fries, Pamela Isley and other inmates have provided us with many useful items. In return, we facilitate their periodic escapes.

This gives them the opportunity to develop and field test new weapons."

The man stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray and immediately lit another.

"In my personal opinion," he continued, "the Joker is too dangerous and unpredictable. I would prefer that he be terminated, but there are others who disagree, for whatever reasons. I do not trust the man. I do not like him. However, in the current situation, I find myself forced to deal with him. To make a pact with the Devil, if you will. He is the only man available to me who might possess the skill and knowledge to develop a toxic agent capable of dealing with these... organisms.

"Early this morning, at his insistence, I visited him personally. We had already been in contact regarding this operation.

The Joker had been informed of the problem and provided with certain technical details. I had hoped that the operation could be carried out with no physical contact. However, the Joker delights in making people do what he wants them to do. He was adamant that I come to him personally to receive a list of substances which he would need. A few hours later, these substances, many of which are extremely scarce, dangerous and closely monitored, were stolen from a government facility three miles from where I sit. There was no way to obtain these specimens without drawing attention. Therefore, the decision was made to use so-called "Joker Venom" on the guards at the storage facility. In fact, the Joker himself insisted upon this. Which, I must admit, could work to our advantage. The trail will lead away from Washington and to Gotham City. Any repercussions can be laid at the feet of a...'lone nut.' The Joker's past history makes his apparent involvement in almost anything credible.

"Unfortunately, the rest of the operation cannot be carried out without the Joker's direct involvement. The substances have been taken to a location in Gotham and, as I speak, other arrangements are being made to continue the operation. Arrangements have been made to obtain a test subject."

The man glanced at his watch, holding his arm at an angle so the watch face caught some of the light from the street. He'd have to wrap this up. It would soon be time to leave.

"I hope," he said slowly, "that my decisions in this matter have been wise ones. There is a lot at stake here. More than you have even imagined or surmised. When you learn the full truth, as I am sure you someday will, I hope you can..." He stopped, drawing on his cigarette. What was he going to say next? "Forgive me?" That didn't seem likely... He shook his head, stopped the tape, wound it back a bit. He pressed play, found the spot he wanted, and pressed record. "I hope you will understand. I will leave this tape in a safe place with instructions that it be delivered to you if this operation... goes awry. In addition to the tape, you will be given a number of computer disks containing full details of the project."

He stopped the machine, stubbed out his cigarette, and popped out the cassette. He placed it in a small manila envelope and wrote a name across the front. Then he placed the envelope in his breast pocket and stood. He lit yet another cigarette, then prepared to exit the room.

It was time to go back to work. Back to Gotham.

Back to the Devil.



CHEZ MATTHESON RESTAURANT
9:03 p.m.


Scully hadn't brought along much in the way of clothes, so she was relieved to see that Wayne had dressed casually, in slacks, a dark turtleneck and blazer. She herself wore one of her customary businesslike pant suits. This was her first time to dinner with a billionaire; she had been a little concerned about protocol.

Wayne greeted her warmly. The headwaiter fawned over him and showed them to what he assured them was one of their best tables. The place was much fancier than what Scully was used to. It made her a little uncomfortable. Wayne, too, appeared to be ill at ease here. For a billionaire playboy, he seemed out of place in the haunts of the rich.

Once they were settled in, had placed their order, and were working on small salads, Wayne said, "I hope you're enjoying your visit to Gotham."

She looked at him. "I imagine you said that just to make conversation," she replied, humor in her voice. "I came here to investigate the Joker. For a clown, he isn't much fun."

Wayne returned her gaze. "No, he isn't. He's caused a lot of suffering in this city. Too much."

Wayne shook his head, took a sip of water. "As I said before, anything I can do to assist you, just ask."

"I appreciate that. And if anything comes up, I'll remember your offer. Right now, though, there isn't much to be done." Scully wished she could be more open with Wayne, confide in him as to the nature of her visit. She had a feeling he might understand. There weren't many people in
the world she could trust at this point, and she sensed that Wayne might just be one of them.
"I understand you're a doctor, Agent Scully?"

"That's right."

"I don't know of many physicians who go into the FBI. It's
rather unusual."

"Yes," Scully said. "My father said the same thing. In much stronger terms."

"So what motivated you? If you don't mind my asking."

Scully shrugged a little. "I'm not totally sure. It all has to do with making a difference. In the world, I mean. I've always wanted to do that. Make a difference, make things a little better."

"As a physician, I would think you'd have more than enough opportunities to do that."

"Yes, but..." She sighed. "I don't know, it's not the same thing. The kind of difference I want to make... Well, let me put it this way. A disease organism doesn't deliberately and with malice aforethought set out to infect and kill a human being. Correct?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I'm not saying that I think disease should be allowed to spread
unchecked just because it isn't aware of the suffering it causes, but...
I just realized that I'd rather spend my time trying to stop the deliberate predators. Human beings who know exactly what they're doing, how much pain and death they cause, and do it anyway. Does that make any sense to you?" She looked at him, her eyes wide.

Wayne nodded slowly. "Yes, Agent. It does... It makes a great deal of sense." He fell silent, glancing around the room. Looking anywhere but at Scully, in fact. She was an interesting woman. If circumstances were different, he might find himself very interested indeed. She made him feel uncomfortable, distracted. So he was staring out the window at the night sky when he saw the signal. A beam of yellow light projected against a low cloud, a dark bat-shaped silhouette in the center. Scully, her back to the window, couldn't see it. A couple of other diners glanced at it, one of them even pointed it out to his companion. But there was no commotion. It was a familiar sight to Gothamites.

He sighed. The bat, always the bat. Bruce Wayne could never enjoy a simple dinner with an attractive woman. Sometimes he doubted that there actually WAS a Bruce Wayne. It often seemed that he, too, had died in that alley all those years ago when his parents were murdered.
Self-pity faded as his instincts took over. He was about to make an excuse to Scully when he heard a muted chirping sound. "Oh, excuse me," she said, reaching into her purse for her cell phone. "Agent Scully here.... Yes, Commissioner... what? Yes, I can come over right away. I know where the building is... yes, thank you, I'll be there soon."

She looked up at Wayne, honest regret in her eyes. "I'm sorry, that was Commissioner Gordon. There has been a development in this thing. he'd like to see me in his office. Can I get a raincheck?"

"Of course, I understand. Duty always comes first, right?" It always had and it always would. And there was no room for regret.

"I'm afraid so. Maybe I'll see you later." She closed the phone and stuck it back in her purse as the stood up. Wayne reached into his jacket pocket and gingerly grasped one of his 'ladybugs.'

"I hope so," said Wayne. Scully thought his voice sounded strange. A little deeper, a little colder. He shook her hand and touched her on the elbow, sticking the little tracer onto the fabric of her jacket, and they left the restaurant. Scully headed toward the bank of elevators. She glanced behind her, thinking that Wayne might accompany her to the parking garage.

But he was gone.



GOTHAM POLICE HEADQUARTERS
COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON'S OFFICE 9:59 p.m.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Scully," said Commissioner Gordon, shaking her hand. Gordon was an older man, in his mid-sixties perhaps. His hair and moustache were white and he wore horn-rimmed glasses. But he was robust, active and appeared to be in excellent shape. He motioned for her to sit in the chair in front of his desk and waited until she was settled before taking his own seat. A gentleman, too.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead and got down to business.

"We've got some problems out at Blackgate. With Eddie Nigma."

"What kind of problems?"

"They aren't sure. Something's wrong with him. He's in a coma
right now. They have him in the prison infirmary, but they don't know what to do with him. The doctor out there has never seen anything like it. You're a physician, aren't you?" Scully nodded. Gordon described Nigma's symptoms. Scully felt a cold knot form in her stomach as he described the dark blotches on the skin and the blackening of the eyeballs.

"Have you ever heard of anything like that?" Gordon asked.

"I'm not sure," Scully replied cautiously. She shifted in her chair. "I wonder if it would be possible for me to examine him?"

"I don't see why not. They're talking about transferring him to Gotham General, where the facilities are better. That won't happen for another hour at least. I could send someone over there with you to look at him before he's moved."
"Thank you, Commissioner. You've been very cooperative." Unusually so. Local law enforcement often turned recalcitrant in the face of what they regarded as "interference" by the feds. It was a situation Scully had encountered more times than she could count.
Gordon gave her a thin smile. "You have a very good reputation, Agent Scully. I have to admit, I did some checking on you when I found out you were coming to Gotham. It happens I know your supervisor, Assistant Director Skinner. We attended a forensics seminar together a few years ago. I got to know the man. I respect him and I respect his opinion. He told me you were one of the best."
"Skinner said that?"

"Yes." Gordon leaned back in his chair. "Agent Scully. I know that whatever is going on here involves the Joker. I also understand that there may be national security issues involved that you can't discuss with me. But I want to tell you something." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, looking her in the eyes. "I have some personal issues with the Joker. He has been a blight on this city for years. Even more than that, my own life has been touched by his actions. A few years ago, he shot and crippled my daughter."

"I'm sorry, Commissioner."

Gordon nodded. "So am I. But Barbara was lucky. Most of the
Joker's victims wind up in a box instead of a wheelchair. I'd like to see him put away for good. I'd like to see him dealt with. Frankly, I wouldn't mind seeing him dead. I don't know why you're interested in the Joker, but I'll do anything I can to help you. If the Joker is involved in terrorism or breaches of national security or whatever, I'd like nothing better than to have him taken out of Arkham Asylum and put in a federal prison where they might be able to hold onto him."

Scully sighed. "I'll level with you, Commissioner. I don't know exactly what's going on, but I think the Joker is involved in something very dark, very deep and very bad. Most of it I can't discuss with you. A lot of it I don't even know myself. But I don't like the Joker or his kind any more than you do. If there's any way I can bring him down, I'll do it."

Gordon looked at Scully for a few moments. She reminded him a little of Barbara. Not just the hair, which was almost the same shade, or her age, but the quiet determination. He liked her.
"Okay, Agent Scully, I'll get a detective in here to take you over to Blackgate." He was reaching for his phone when it rang. He picked up the receiver.

"Gordon... What? Oh, Jesus Christ. When? Well, what DOES he know? Damn it... Okay, I'll be out there as soon as I can."

He replaced the receiver and looked at Scully. "I think this thing, whatever it is, just went up a notch. The Joker is missing from Arkham."

"Oh my God," Scully said. Her head jerked to the right. She thought she had heard a slight noise from the partly-opened window. Like a sharp intake of breath. But there was only darkness outside. She was getting jumpy and that wouldn't do.

"I'm going out to Arkham," Gordon said. "I'd still like to you to go take a look at Nigma." He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. "Bullock? I need you to accompany Agent Scully out to Blackgate Prison. Yes. And Bullock? Be careful out there. The Joker's on the loose again and there may be some connection with him and whatever's happening to the Riddler." He was looking at Scully as he spoke, and he raised his eyebrows, seeking her confirmation. She nodded. "Yes. I know. I'll send her down to you and you head out. I'll let you know what happens. Okay."

He hung up.

"Agent Scully, Detective Bullock will be taking you over to Blackgate. You'll find him down in the squadroom. You can hardly miss him. Look for a rumpled fellow in a cheap suit with a box of donuts on his desk. I'll talk with you later."

"All right, Commissioner. And good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it. And the same to you." Scully hurried out
of the office.

After he was sure she was out of earshot, Gordon turned to the window. "You heard all that?"
A black-gloved hand emerged from the gloom outside and grasped the sash, pushing the window all the way up. The Batman slid nimbly over the sill. "Yes," he said, his voice harder and colder than usual. "Something very odd is going on, Jim." He stood in a shadow by the window, looking at Gordon with those slitted white eyes of his. That still gave the Commissioner the creeps, even after all these years. He knew they must be two-way lenses or something, but there was still something... unearthly about it. The whole outfit made Gordon a little uneasy. The black bodysuit, the cowl, the long, flowing cape. It should have looked ridiculous, and probably would have on anyone else. But not on this man. Somehow, he made it work.

"I've learned some things about the Joker," Batman continued, "that have raised a number of questions in my mind." He quickly repeated for Gordon the conversation he'd tapped into between Scully and her partner.

"Jesus," Gordon said. "I never thought much about it, but you're right. What is that son of a bitch into? What IS he?"

"I don't know, Jim," Batman replied, shaking his head. "Beyond the obvious, that he's a conscienceless monster, I just don't know... And who is this 'Cancer Man' they referred to?"
"Who knows? We've got Calendar Man, Cat Man... why not Cancer Man? Well, I'm heading out to Arkham. Will you be meeting me there?"

The Batman pursed his lips into a thin line. "I don't think so. Since when have any of us been able to trace him from there when he gets loose? I'm going to follow Bullock and Scully. I have a really bad feeling about that business with Nigma."

"Okay. I'm still going to Arkham. You never know what..." He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. "Yeah, Gordon here. What!?!

Oh, god damn it! Are they sure? Shit. Yes, I'm on my way." He slammed down the receiver.

"What is it, Jim?"

"Just when you think things can't get any worse... Not only is the Joker out, but so is Harvey Dent! Do they even lock the goddamn doors over there? Jeremiah Arkham doesn't know shit, as usual. He can't even tell me how long they've been gone." He turned to get his hat and coat from the rack behind his desk. "Do you think..." He stopped automatically, before he even turned around. He knew no one was listening any more, knew from long and exasperating experience what he'd see when he looked back at the window.

Which was nothing. The Batman was gone. He had even closed the window, without a sound.
One of these days, I'm going to at least SEE him slip out, Gordon silently vowed.


BLACKGATE PRISON INFIRMARY
10:39 p.m.

No doubt about it. The Riddler had the Black Virus. Scully finished her brief examination, peeled off her rubber gloves and facemask, and stepped out from behind the curtain which had been placed around Nigma's hospital bed.

"This man is in bad shape," she announced to Detective Bullock and Dr. McGavin, the prison physician. "He's still alive, but only just.

I don't believe he's contagious. This thing isn't airborne. But he needs to be moved to a better facility." After what she and Mulder had witnessed over the past couple months, she didn't want to take any chances. At the same time, she didn't want to cause a panic. When she had a few moments alone, she would need to call Mulder and make arrangements to have the Riddler taken to a more secure location. In the meantime, Gotham General would have to do. There would at least be some decent diagnostic equipment she could use.

In fact, they were prepared to take him there. Blackgate Prison was located on a rocky island in Gotham Harbor. The ferry which had brought them over had also carried an ambulance to transport Nigma into the city. Scully would give him the once-over there, then try and get him someplace more secure before the virus could mutate any further. She hadn't even bothered to contact the local Bureau office; Mulder had warned her against it, and she had to agree. If the Cancer Man was involved in this, the old "trust no one" rule was in effect. She'd learned a lesson about that with Agent Michaud in Dallas.

God, it felt awful to be so on your own in these situations. She was grateful she had Mulder. Of course, if she'd never met Mulder, she never would have wound up IN any of these situations...
But she had to admit to herself that she wouldn't trade knowing him for anything in the world.
She wondered if they might be able to turn to Bruce Wayne for help. The man had money and resources, and he seemed to be on the up-and-up. Still, there was something a little odd about him. She couldn't pinpoint it, but she'd been around cloak-and-dagger types too long not to be able to recognize some of the symptoms.

She spoke briefly with the doctor and then made arrangements for the orderlies who had come along from Gotham General to load Eddie on a wheeled stretcher and take him out to the ambulance. "Be careful," she warned them. "Don't break the skin anywhere." They nodded and continued with their work.

"Well, Detective Bullock, are you ready to transport Eddie Nigma back into town?" Scully had found herself liking the detective sergeant almost immediately. They had hit it off quite nicely in a short time. Bullock was a slob, there was no other way to put it, and he was gruff to the point of ill-manneredness, but he struck Scully as being honest, straightforward and loyal. Those were qualities she was seldom exposed to in her normal theater of operations. She was beginning to revise her opinion of Gotham City a little-- or at least of some of its citizens. Gordon and Bullock seemed to be genuinely good men. And then there was Bruce Wayne...

"Yeah. Why not," the detective replied around the stub of a cigar he held between his teeth. "I've hauled this sack of sh... crap downtown more times than I can remember. At least this time I won't have to listen to any of his fu... freaking riddles."

Scully suppressed a giggle at Bullock's efforts to control his language in her presence. Just for fun, she popped off, "Well, let's get the motherfucker loaded up and shipped out."

Bullock almost swallowed his cigar. Then he smiled. "Fuckin' A, Agent. Come on, you two," he snarled at the orderlies. "We ain't got all night here."

Scully and Bullock followed the orderlies and the stretcher out of the infirmary and down a long, bleak, stone-walled corridor. The squeaky wheels echoed off the walls, making a sound like dozens of tiny rats. "So, Miss Special Agent," Bullock said as they walked, "is there anything you can tell me about any of this?"

"Not much," Scully admitted. "If you want to ask any questions, I'll answer what I can."

"Fair enough. You think the Joker did this to Eddie?"

"Possibly. Probably. At least, I think he was involved."

"Any idea why?"

"I can't say."

"Can't or won't?"

"A little of both."

Bullock nodded. "I getcha." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Jesus, I hate that bastard. Not Nigma. He's just a pain in the ass. I mean the Joker. I have never in my life encountered such a hard-down evil son of a bitch."

"Yes. We've met," Scully said drily.

"You know what he did to the Commissioner's daughter?"

"Yeah."

Bullock snorted. "And all they ever do with him is lock him up in that cracker box asylum. Let me tell you something, Agent. If they were to leave me alone in a room with that bastard for five minutes, only one of us would come out. I wouldn't care if they busted my ass down to meter maid or threw me in this place." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, back at the prison proper. "It'd be worth it to get rid of that piece of garbage. I've often wondered why the Bat's never done him..."

"The Bat? Sergeant Bullock, are you talking about the..." She was interrupted when the stretcher hit a crack in the concrete floor and almost toppled over. One of the orderlies just managed to catch it and put it right.

"Be careful!" Bullock shouted. Scully gave an inward sigh of relief. God knows what might have happened if Eddie had hit that hard floor. They continued to a barred door which a guard on the other side unlocked to let them pass. Two more such doors and they were outside.

It was cold and dark and quiet. Out on the harbor an occasional boat whistle tooted forlornly. The little group moved out to the jetty where the ferry was moored and got Eddie into the ambulance. Scully and Bullock stood on the deck, looking out at the dark water. Scully lit a cigarette and Bullock lit up the stub of a cigar. Neither of them noticed the dark figure which emerged from the water and crawled silently onto the ferry, slipping to a place of concealment behind the ambulance. They were both silent, thinking their respective thoughts.

"Well," Scully said, tossing her cigarette into the water, "I'd better get in there and keep an eye on Eddie while we cross."

"Okay. I'll stay out here. Just in case there's any trouble."

"You're expecting trouble?"

"When the Joker is in the picture, I expect any and everything."

Scully nodded and boarded the ambulance. The ferry pushed off
into the harbor. Bullock stood there for a while, feeling the cold wind move over him, then he said, "You can come on out. No sense hiding back there."

Batman emerged from the shadows behind the ambulance. "How did you know I was here?"

Bullock smiled a little. "I didn't. But I figured you might be. You're generally where the action is, or might be. Couldn't resist trying to get the drop on you for a change, just in case."

Batman moved over to join Bullock at the railing. "You do yourself harm by explaining. You had me going for a second. You get a better effect if you stay mysterious."

"Like you? No thanks." Bullock had had an uneasy relationship with Gotham's resident vigilante over the years, which had evolved into grudging respect and cautious trust. You couldn't call the two of them friends, but they were allies.

"Anyhow," Bullock continued, "there's enough mysterious shit going on around here as it is. This is some kinda spook show, I don't know what's going on. The feds are involved. I like that Agent Scully, I think she's on the up-and-up, but there's lots of stuff she isn't telling us."

"I agree."

"This crap with the Riddler, and that white-faced ghoul on the
loose again..."

"Not just him. Didn't Gordon get a chance to tell you? Dent escaped, too."

Bullock pounded his fist on the railing. "Oh, that's just GREAT! Fucking TWO-FACE! How much more screwed-up can this thing GET?"

Batman held up a finger for silence and cocked his head, listening to something Bullock couldn't hear. After a moment he said, "You ever hear that old expression about being careful what you ask for?"

All Bullock had a chance to say was, "Huh?" before the other boat was upon them.

It was dark and sleek and almost silent. About half the size of the ferry, it slid into position next to them and began to pace them. Batman crouched down, a hand moving to his belt. Bullock drew his service revolver from its shoulder holster. The deck of the ferry was illuminated by a large lamp on a pole above the pilot's cabin, while the other craft was totally dark. That was bad.

Batman's gloved hand shot out in the direction of the lamp, something flashed through the intervening space, and the bulb shattered, plunging the ferry into darkness. "Even the odds a little," he whispered to Bullock, who was crouched behind the rail, watching the other boat.
Batman touched a spot on the side of his cowl and a pair of night-vision lenses slid into place over the white slits in his mask.

"Stay still, Bullock," he said as he scanned the other boat. The small bridge appeared to be sealed up and he couldn't see anyone moving around. The other craft maintained a position relative to the ferry. Batman was sure someone was watching. Were they equipped with night-vision gear as well? Best to assume they were. He reached to his belt and removed a small cannister. He pulled a pin from the device and tossed it onto the deck of the other boat. It erupted into billowing clouds of thick, black smoke which quickly engulfed the smaller craft. No way they could see through THAT. Of course, there was no way he could see IN, either... He needed to do something quick. The wind would clear that smoke away before too long. He hopped up onto the railing, saying to Bullock, "You stay here. Keep that ambulance secure."

"Well, I shit-sure ain't gonna try and follow you!" the detective exclaimed. "'Stay here' he says...'"
Batman quickly got his bearings and launched himself across the gulf between the two boats, toward where he judged the other deck to be...

Inside the ambulance, Scully checked Eddie's vital signs. They weren't good. She sighed and got her cell phone out of her purse, punched in Mulder's number. The two orderlies were in the front of the truck, so she could have some privacy. He answered on the second ring.

"Mulder. That you, Scully?"

"None other. What are you up to?"

"Well, I took a nap earlier. Then I went back down to the chemical warehouse to look around some more. In fact, I'm there right now. Nothing to be found here. You come up with anything?"

"Oh yeah." She told him about the Riddler's condition and the Joker's escape.

"Holy shit," he said. "I'm on my way, Scully. It sounds like it might get hairy up there."

"It's already hairy. I'm afraid it's going to turn into a full-fledged Wookie. And I would sure appreciate your presence. I think we need to...wait a second, Mulder..." Scully took the phone from her ear and pressed the side of her face against the ambulance wall. She had heard something that sounded too much like a gunshot. She listened for a moment, then heard another one. Then several more. She put the phone back to her ear. "Mulder? I think something's going on here. Let me get back to you."

"Scully? What's..."

She closed the phone and dropped it into her purse, trading it for her 9-mm Beretta. She hefted the slim pistol in her hand, checked it to make sure it was loaded and clicked off the safety. Then she moved to the rear doors and waited, pressed into the little corner beside one of the sets of hinges. She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of her cell phone chirping from inside her purse. Mulder. "Shit," she whispered, kicking the purse further away to muffle the noise. She could hear what sounded like a scuffle going on right outside the ambulance, and a couple more shots. Then silence. The soft lapping of water. Footsteps. Muffled voices.

Someone tried the handle on the ambulance door. Scully pressed tighter against the wall, gun at the ready. Fortunately, she had bothered to lock it.

Which wouldn't prevent someone from shooting out the lock. Which someone did.

Both doors jerked open abruptly and Scully leveled her pistol. But she was disoriented and had no idea where to aim. It didn't help that an extremely bright light was shining right in her face. She wasn't a bit surprised when the gun was knocked from her hand and went skidding off across the ferry deck. She stood and watched the silhouetted figures standing between her and the light. Than a voice, a familiar voice, said, "Cut that light, please." The glare was immediately doused.

Scully was confronted by two men carrying flashlights. This pair flanked a third man, the one who had spoken. All three were shrouded in gloom. She looked around for Bullock, but couldn't see any trace of the detective in the darkness.

"What's going on here? Who are you?"

"Sorry," came the voice. The cultured, polite voice she had
heard once before, earlier that evening. "Boys, let Miss Scully see who she's talking to."

The other men trained their flashlights on the face of their leader. Scully winced.

"Hello Mr. Dent," she said calmly. "I wasn't expecting to run into you this evening."

****

Bullock came awake slowly and painfully. Someone was prodding him in the shoulder. He didn't like that. "Cudditout," he mumbled. Then a sharp ammonia smell exploded in his nostrils and filled his head and he sprang upright, coughing and cursing.

"What the hell," he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Just a mild stimulant," Batman said, tossing the remains of a broken glass vial over the side of the boat. "Old-fashioned smelling salts, actually."

Bullock rubbed his head, looking for bumps or cuts. "What happened? I just blacked out."

"They didn't hit you. It was gas. It almost got me, too. I got my nose filters in in time, but I still let myself get overpowered. They jumped me as soon as I hit the deck on that other boat. Stupid of me. I got a nice crack in the skull and tossed overboard. I must be slipping, Bullock."

"You? I doubt it. And cut the self-reproach routine. It ain't dignified. Everybody gets taken by surprise sometimes. Even you. They got me, too; you don't hear me whining. You're only human..." He studied the man standing before him, the black suit, bat-eared cowl, long cloak.
"-- aren't you?"

Batman smiled. "Yeah, Bullock." He sighed. "It was Two-Face. I'm afraid he got Scully and Nigma."

"Jeezus," Bullock said. "That's fantastic. So what do we got here? Is he working with the clown?"
"It doesn't seem likely. They've never gotten along too well in the past. But this is too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. They must be working together on this for some reason. Who knows? Harvey is as unpredictable as the Joker."

"That fucking coin of his. He has a serious screw loose."

"He's a ... troubled man."

"He's a freak-job."

"Is that a clinical term, Detective?"

"It's the goddamn truth."

Batman was fiddling with one of his little gadgets, a small box about the size of a pocket calculator. The thing was beeping and squawking and the Batman was squinting at it, punching buttons.

"What are you doin'?" Bullock asked, pulling himself to his feet. "Scanning for lifeforms?"

"In a way, yes," Batman replied distractedly, studying his little gadget. "I managed to place a tracer on Agent Scully earlier. I'm trying to get a fix now."

"A tracer... How did you do that? You didn't come within ten feet of her, that I know of."

Batman glanced at Bullock, giving him what might have been a smile. "Unlike you, I don't give my secrets away. Better to leave them guessing." He returned his attention to the device for a few moments, then clipped it onto his belt. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled around the deck, shining a small flashlight over the surface.

"Whatever you say." Bullock stretched and leaned against the rail of the ferry. "How 'bout the ferry pilot? He okay?"

"Yes. So are the orderlies. They didn't get any of the gas. Two-Face's men simply held guns on them while they transferred Scully and the Riddler to their boat." He stopped for a moment and scraped something from the surface of the deck with a small knife and transferred it into a small plastic envelope, which he placed into his belt. "They're in the pilot's cabin now. I radioed police headquarters. Someone will be on the other side to meet you when you dock."

"'When YOU dock.' Not 'when WE dock.' You planning on getting out in the middle of the harbor? You into walking on water now?"

"Not quite. My ride should be here any minute."

Bullock looked out over the water, saw a couple of red lights coming their way. "That must be it now," he said. A small, sleek black boat, somewhat similar to the craft Two-Face had used, hove into position next to the ferry. The cockpit canopy slid back and someone stuck his head out and started waving.

"The bird boy," Bullock said, waving back. "How's it hanging, kid!"

"Not bad Bullock," Robin shouted back. "You still keeping the donut shop in business?"

"Smart aleck," Bullock said, smiling. He turned to speak to the Batman, but all he saw was something dark sailing over his head. He turned back around in time to see the Bat slide into the cockpit of the small boat. He waved a black-gloved hand, the canopy slid shut and the little boat took off. Bullock shook his head. He respected the Bat but he'd never understand him. Bullock had heard all the stories that circulated in the underworld, about how the Bat wasn't human, he was a ghost or a monster of some kind. And he was capable of coming across that way when he wanted to. But Bullock knew that the man was very human indeed. Maybe too human. The work he did could be grim and lonely. Why did he do it? Bullock understood the passion for justice, the desire to see wrongs righted. Why hadn't the Bat just become a cop instead of... doing what he did? What had happened to the man to make him what he was?

"Ah, screw it," Bullock muttered. "He's a freak. A stand-up guy, but a freak." He'd never understand. He walked over to the pilot's cabin to check on the three men inside.


Batman took the pilot's seat and Robin shifted over into the passenger space.
"You okay?" Robin asked, watching as Batman placed his tracer device on the dashboard of the boat cockpit. Batman was grim tonight, moreso than usual.

"I'll do," Batman replied. "Did you and Alfred get anything on that incident in Washington?"
"Yeah. It took us a while, but we finally managed to get into the FBI's system. There was a break-in at a government chemical storage facility. We couldn't find out what was taken, but we do know that the Joker must have been involved. The guards were killed with Joker Venom."
Batman was about to say something when a soft beeping sound from a device on the dash interrupted him. He reached over and flipped a switch.

"That you, Dick?"

"Yeah," came a muffled voice from the radio speaker. "I'm out at the old Ace Chemical plant. I found it. In a pipe leading from one of the old chemical sluice tanks. It was under about three feet of water, but I don't see how anyone could have missed it when they were shutting the plant down. Unless they didn't bother combing them, which is possible."

"No real reason to," replied Batman. "So?"

"Not much left. Some bones, fragments of what looks to have been a tuxedo... and a metal helmet, shaped like a hood. There are still a few flecks of red paint adhering to the surface."

Batman nodded, his mouth a grim line. "The Red Hood. Damn. Scully was right. Dick, can you bring that out of there, get it to the cave?"

"Sure. So this is the Red Hood, huh? Then who is the Joker?"

"That's the question. I'll see you later."

"Okay. Be careful." Batman cut the connection.

Robin was silent, chewing on his lower lip. "Something freaky is going on, huh?" he said finally.

"That's an understatement, Tim." He steered the boat, taking a course out of the harbor and up the coast. There was a hidden cove a few miles away where they stashed the craft. From there they could make it to Wayne Manor in a few minutes. "We're going back to the cave and I'm going to try and get a fix on Agent Scully's location. According to my tracker, they've gone inland, so we'll need the car. Two-Face has her and the Riddler. I don't know what he plans on doing with them, but whatever it is, it can't be good. The Joker is in this somewhere."

"Nice," said Tim. "The Joker, Two-Face, the Riddler... I wonder what ELSE..."

"DON'T say it, Tim," Batman said, his voice sharp. He stared straight ahead as he piloted the little boat into the cove.



Dana Scully sat in the passenger seat of an old panel truck. She was unarmed and minus her purse, but had not been restrained or mistreated in any way. Two-Face was doing the driving. He had a pistol in his left hand, steering with his right. His two goons were in the back with Eddie Nigma. Fortunately, Scully was on Dent's "good" side. She couldn't see the scarred half of his face. That made things seem a little more... normal.

"So you're working for the Joker now?" she said.

"WE do not work FOR anyone, Agent Scully," came Harvey Dent's strong, rather pleasant voice. "We made a bargain with the clown. He offered us our freedom. In return, he asked us to obtain you and Eddie Nigma. We believe in paying our debts. Thus balance is maintained."

Scully sighed. Harvey Dent was long gone. She glanced out the window of the truck. They had left the city limits some time ago, after Two-Face and his men had transferred them from the small boat into this vehicle, and seemed to be entering an almost rural area. There were few buildings to be seen, and most of them appeared derelict.

"I suppose the Joker intends to kill me?" she said after a time.

"We don't know what the clown has planned. We would imagine so, though. The Joker intends to kill everyone."

"Lovely, just lovely. How can you stand dealing with a man like that? You used to be a prosecutor, for God's sake!"

In fact, Harvey Dent had been one of the country's most up-and-coming young DAs before the incident that had scarred his face and his mind. It was common knowledge in those days that he was on the fast track to the Justice Department-- maybe even the office of Attorney General eventually. My God, this madman sitting here with a gun in his hand could have been Scully's BOSS if things had gone a little differently...

"Things change, Agent Scully," said Dent. "Life goes in cycles. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. We merely go with the flow, as it were. Frankly, I'd just as soon dispose of the clown. Perhaps that day will come. Today, however..." Dent's voice dropped, became low, cold and threatening. "...just keep your fucking mouth shut, bitch, or I'll finish you off myself."

Jesus Christ, thought Scully, and turned to gaze out the window once again.


POLICE COMMISSIONER GORDON'S OFFICE
12:33 a.m.

Special Agent Fox Mulder yawned and rubbed his eyes, taking another sip of the strong, terrible-tasting coffee Gordon had given him.

He was feeling tired after the quick red-eye flight into Gotham. He was also worried about his partner. He had tried several times to call Scully on her cell phone, without success. Once he got into Gotham and made his way to Gordon's office, he found out why.

"Two-Face has her," Gordon informed him bluntly. "He and his men abducted Agent Scully and Edward Nigma from a ferry which was carrying them into Gotham from Blackgate Prison."

"Two-Face," Mulder said. "Harvey Dent? The ex-district attorney?"

Gordon nodded. "He was a good man once, but..."

"I know," Mulder said. "I'm a criminal psychologist, Commissioner. I did a paper on Dent when I was in the Academy. He's got a lot going on in that duplex of a head of his. Schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, post-traumatic stress syndrome..."

"He's a tragic figure," Gordon replied, "but extremely dangerous, make no mistake. Your partner may be in a great deal of danger. We think Dent may be working with the Joker. Dent doesn't mind killing, but he doesn't revel in it like the Joker does. Have you ever studied the Joker?"

"Yes, Commissioner, and I have my own ideas on him. But," he squirmed in his chair and leaned forward, "what I'm really interested in right now is what is being done to locate Agent Scully."

Gordon sighed. "Agent Mulder, when dealing with individuals like Two-Face and the Joker, normal investigative methods are nearly useless."

Mulder banged his coffee cup onto the Commissioner's desk, slopping a little coffee over the rim. "So what are you saying? We're just going to sit here with our..."

Gordon held up a hand. "Calm down Agent Mulder. All I said was that normal investigative methods didn't tend to work. Fortunately, we have some... irregular methods we can take advantage of."

Mulder, somewhat mollified, had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was mopping up the spilled coffee. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Officially, I'm not saying anything, Agent Mulder. Officially, we are just sitting here with our thumbs up our asses, as I believe you were about to say." Gordon stood up. "Normally, I would be hesitant to let a federal agent-- or anyone from outside Gotham-- in on this. But, as I mentioned to Agent Scully earlier, I know Assistant Director Skinner, and I spoke with him earlier today-- yesterday-- about the two of you. He was circumspect, but he let me know that most of the cases you deal with are somewhat-- out of the ordinary."

"You could say that," Mulder nodded.

Gordon was pulling on an overcoat. "I'd like you to come up to the roof with me, Mr. Mulder. I have something to show you."

Mulder stood. "I assume we're not going to do a star chart and try to locate Scully by astrology?"

"You assume right. There's someone I'd like you to meet. He's a... specialist in cases like this. He may already be on the trail, but we can try..."

"Paging him?" Mulder offered. He was actually grinning. Concerned as he was over Scully, tense as he was over the whole situation, he could not repress the thrill of excitement he felt.

"Exactly," Gordon said. "Come on." He led the way out of his office and up a short flight of steps to the roof. He walked over to a large object concealed by a dark tarpaulin. Mulder buttoned up his own dark overcoat against the chill wind.

"That's the pager, huh?" Mulder said as Gordon pulled the tarp away. Underneath was what appeared to be a large searchlight.

"This is it," Gordon confirmed.

"He might want to invest in a cell phone," Mulder suggested.

Gordon made no reply. He pulled a switch on the base of the light assembly. The thing began to hum as it warmed up. Mulder moved a little closer. Then stepped back suddenly as the light came to brilliant life, dazzling him.

"Wow," he whispered, staring at the beam. It shone on the underside of a low-hanging cloud, a circle of yellow light with a black bat-shaped silhouette in the center. It may have been impractical, but Mulder had to admit it was impressive as hell.

"So what happens now?" he asked, stepping closer to Gordon.

"Now we wait. If he isn't on something else, or in some kind of trouble, he'll be here."

They didn't have long. Mulder stood tensely next to Gordon, listening for anything in the silence of the night, when a low, cold voice came from behind him. "What is it Jim?"

Mulder whirled around, instinctively going for his gun. He was tense as a spring, and his academy training had taken over automatically. But before he could even focus on a target, he found himself disarmed, staring at a patch of blackness a couple feet in front of him which may or may not have been a human figure. He looked down at his empty hand, then back at the mass of shadow. A gloved hand extended from the blackness, holding Mulder's pistol by the barrel.

The eerie voice came again, "Be careful with this thing, Agent Mulder. You could get hurt."

Mulder accepted his pistol and returned it to its holster. He should have been pissed off-- and he WAS a little perturbed over the ease with which he had been disarmed-- but considering who had done the disarming, he didn't feel too bad. FBI Academy training was good, but Mulder had the feeling that this guy knew some things the Academy had never dreamed of.

"It's you," Mulder said, feeling stupid. "I mean, you're him. Right?"

The figure moved closer, out of the deeper shadows and into the dim backlight cast by the signal. Mulder could make out the black bodysuit, the insignia on the chest, the cowl which obscured all but the man's mouth and chin.

"Wow," Mulder said again. "There really IS a Batman."

"Yes, Virginia," said Gordon, shutting down the signal.

"I was joking with Scully earlier, but I wasn't sure... I mean, I always thought it was POSSIBLE, but..."

"I try to keep a low profile," Batman said softly.

Gordon stepped forward. "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. He's Agent Scully's partner."

"Yes," Batman replied, in a tone which made it plain that the information was not news to him. "Fox William Mulder, currently assigned to the so-called 'X-Files.' You and your partner are working on a burglary which took place in Washington yesterday morning in which the Joker appears to be involved."

If he had done that to impress Mulder, it worked. "Yeah, right," he replied as evenly and calmly as possible. "And if you know all that, I guess you know Scully's in trouble."

The Batman nodded. "I was on that ferry when Two-Face took her. I should have been able to prevent it. I'm sorry. But I was able to place a tracer on Agent Scully's person before she was taken. Unfortunately, I'm not getting much of a signal from it. I can't pinpoint a location, just a general direction."

"Which leaves us where?" Mulder wanted to know.

"Not as far up the creek as you might think," Batman replied.

"The signal seems to be coming from the northwest, eight or nine miles past the city limits. There isn't much out there in the way of buildings. And the reason I'm getting such a poor signal could be because of some electromagnetic interference. If someone is out there using heavy equipment, they ought to be fairly easy to locate.

"And finally, I got some soil samples from the deck of the ferry after Two-Face and his men had gone. That ought to help. There were some trace chemicals that I think might point to a specific location."

Mulder shook his head. "You're part Dracula, part Sherlock Holmes."

Batman ignored the remark and continued, "Ace Chemicals had an old storage facility out there which is still standing. I want to check that out first. As you know, Jim, there is a connection of some kind between the Joker and Ace Chemicals."

"The Red Hood thing," Gordon said.

"Yes. By the way, I had Nightwing check out the old Ace factory. He found a skeleton out there. Wearing a metal helmet that had once been painted red."

Gordon smacked a fist into an open palm. "Damn! So the Joker really ISN'T..."

"No. But we'll go into that later. I have the body back at my... place. Robin is doing some tests to see if we can make an ID."

Gordon shook his head. "You should have notified me. Bodies like that need to be brought to the morgue and..."

"Jim. We both know about proper procedure. And we both know I step outside of that at times. I promise you, the body will be delivered to you when we're through with it."

"Well, I haven't got time to argue, and neither do you. You need to get out there and find Agent Scully."

"WE need to get out there," Mulder interjected. He looked Batman in the eyes. Or the white slits where he presumed the eyes were. "I'm going with you."

"Of course you are," Batman said evenly.

Mulder was momentarily taken aback. He'd expected to have to put up an argument. All he could think of to say was, "I am?"

"Yes. Scully is your partner. I know how I'd feel if MY partner were in danger. I wouldn't take no for an answer. Besides, there are some questions I need to ask you and we don't have time to sit down and do it over coffee here."

"Okay," Mulder said. "So... What do we do? I don't have any ropes for swinging across the rooftops."

Batman looked at him. Mulder couldn't tell what was going on behind those slits. "Meet me down on the street. We'll take my car." Before Mulder could speak, he continued, "You'll know which one it is."

GO TO PART THREE