The contrast was grotesque.
Scarecrow's face twisted with manic violence—veins bulging, eyes fever-bright.
The Joker, on the other hand, looked almost… serene.
As Crane's fingers tightened around his throat, as the broken cuff gear hovered a breath away from his carotid artery, a slow smile stretched across the Joker's lips.
It wasn't defiance.
It wasn't fear.
It was exhilaration.
Death, up close and personal, thrilled him.
That smile unsettled Crane more than any struggle would have.
Snarling, desperate to end it quickly, he adjusted his grip and drove the jagged edge of the cuff mechanism toward the Joker's neck.
Smack.
A hand snapped out at an impossible angle and seized Crane's wrist.
The metal stopped less than half a centimeter from skin.
Crane's eyes widened.
His other wrist was caught just as fast—fingers prying, strength overwhelming. The pressure on the Joker's throat vanished as Crane's hands were forcibly peeled away.
"You were restrained," Crane breathed, panic seeping into his voice. "You couldn't move."
The Joker rolled his neck lazily.
"Did you really think that would hold me?" he said, almost bored. "I stayed there because I didn't feel like getting up."
Then he moved.
A blur.
Bang.
Crane's body left the floor and hit the far wall with a flat, sickening impact. He slid down like discarded gum.
The Joker rose from the metal platform, shaking out his arms and legs as though he'd just woken from a nap.
Crane had never been physically formidable. And after Lex's beating, he was running on fumes.
The only reason he'd dared attack was because he'd believed the Joker helpless.
Now that illusion was gone.
Crane crawled across the floor, shaking. His eyes darted toward the piece of dry bread Lex had left behind.
He grabbed it.
Then he scrambled to his knees in front of the Joker, raising the bread over his head with both hands like an offering.
"Boss," he croaked.
The Joker looked down at him.
"From today forward, you're in charge," Crane continued rapidly. "I'll do anything. Anything."
The Joker took the bread.
Then kicked Crane aside without ceremony.
"Idiot."
He sat back down on the platform and began eating slowly.
Crane crawled back immediately, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"I'm an idiot," he repeated. "An idiot."
The Joker snorted.
He hadn't been lying there motionless just out of laziness. He'd been waiting—for a weakness, for a mistake, for the right moment to reverse the board.
Crane had ruined that timing.
And that was the only reason he was still breathing.
The Joker didn't enjoy solitude. He needed an audience. Even a pathetic one.
He chewed thoughtfully.
Crane trembled at his feet.
—
Lex returned to Wayne Tower with the fear-toxin antibody synthesized by Alfred.
Gordon had absorbed a heavy dose; recovery would take time. But for those with lighter exposure, the injection worked almost immediately. Clarity returned to their eyes. Tremors faded.
Barbara had held the building together in his absence.
Not a single breach.
Not a single mutiny.
By the time Gordon's hallucinations began to subside, no one questioned who had been in command.
"Batman," one of the Tower's senior guards said, stepping forward with a formal nod. "On behalf of everyone here—thank you."
Lex shook his head slightly.
"Thank her," he said, gesturing toward Barbara. "She pushed to come back. She kept you standing."
The guard turned.
"Barbara. You've become a warrior."
She flushed faintly.
"I didn't do much."
Lex watched her carefully.
Confidence without arrogance.
Measured judgment.
Promising.
He shifted the conversation.
"What about the detainees?"
The guard glanced at Barbara, deliberately deferring.
She took a moment before answering.
"In this city," she said slowly, "every survivor matters."
Lex said nothing.
"Those criminals aren't reliable," she continued. "But they're afraid. Of the gas. Of what happens if they step out of line."
She met Lex's gaze.
"We can use that."
He gave a small nod.
That had been his calculation as well.
He hadn't administered antibodies to the surrendered criminals for exactly that reason.
Opportunists gravitate toward power.
Right now, fear was leverage.
"Then it's yours," he said. "I have other fires to put out."
—
First stop: the sewer tunnels where Bane had taken refuge.
Twenty-four hours had passed since exposure.
Lex observed from concealment.
Bane sat upright against a damp concrete wall. His injuries—once severe—had visibly improved. No necrotic signs. No signs of infection.
No mutation.
Good.
Without revealing himself, Lex extended reinforced vines through the tunnel shadows and delivered a relief pack—dry rations, water. Enough for three days.
If Bane remained stable by then, the antitoxin could be considered viable.
And Lex would administer it to himself.
He withdrew silently.
Next destination: Blackgate Penitentiary.
After the outbreak, riots had torn through the facility. Most inmates escaped. Most died in the attempt, joining the undead ranks.
Now the once-secure prison sat hollow. A few zombies wandered through rusted gates and silent yards.
The Joker had once been housed here—before being transferred to Arkham for higher containment.
Bruce Wayne had mentioned Blackgate as a potential hiding location for the so-called Dionysus Factor.
The probability was low.
But not zero.
And that was enough.
The internal surveillance network had been destroyed during the riots. The Batcomputer had no live link.
Meaning Lex could operate without remote oversight.
He drove the Batmobile through the broken main gate and into the exercise yard.
Wind scraped across empty bleachers.
Then—
Whoosh.
A streak of light tore across the sky like a falling star.
It slammed into a cell block with explosive force.
Concrete cracked.
Dust billowed.
Lex's eyes narrowed.
Not a meteor.
A suit.
Red and gold armor rose from the crater, servos whining as it straightened.
Iron Man.
Tony Stark.
If prior patterns held, Stark should have been infected. Mutated.
A zombie inside powered armor.
That possibility alone shifted the tactical equation.
Stark might not have been the strongest Avenger physically.
But his mind?
Second to none.
Strategic modeling. Adaptive engineering. Real-time battlefield recalibration.
Even as a corpse, the suit would be dangerous.
The armor turned toward the Batmobile.
Arc reactor glowing.
Lex tightened his grip on the wheel.
If he brought Stark down—
What would he gain?
Unlimited capital?
The suit's schematics?
Or Stark's genius-level cognition itself?
The Batmobile's engine growled.
Lex eased forward.
"Let's find out," he murmured.
....
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