Jude turned and headed for the prison.
Behind him, Commissioner Gordon picked up the entire cup of coffee on his desk—cold now, bitter, probably sitting there since 4 AM—and drank it in one gulp.
Forcing himself to stay awake. Fighting the exhaustion that wanted to drag him under.
He waved to the officers assembled in the station. "Everyone, get ready! The Joker's still going strong!"
Heads turned. Attention focused.
"He just attacked the Joke Shop. Now he's at the Joke Factory. Quick, quick, quick! Get your weapons and body armor ready! We're going to trap him inside before he can hurt anyone else!"
The station erupted into controlled chaos. Officers moving. Grabbing equipment. Loading magazines.
Preparing for war.
The afternoon sun hung in Gotham City's sky, emitting warm golden light through a cloudless expanse of blue.
It was wrong.
Fundamentally, unnaturally wrong.
Police cars appeared on the roads at high speed, sirens wailing. In another minute or two, the vehicles would reach their destination: the Joke Factory, an old comedy venue on the east side.
Inside one of the cruisers, the driver glanced up at the sky through his sunglasses. The gesture looked casual but felt strange.
"Hey, Cody." His voice was too loud. Compensating for unease with volume. "How long has it been since you saw a sunny day in Gotham City?"
The officer in the passenger seat—Cody—looked up too. Squinted at the brightness.
"It's been a long time," he replied slowly. "But hasn't it been sunny for the past two months? I even miss the old weather."
"Are you serious?" The driver shot him a look. "Rain, snow, hot and overcast? You miss that?"
"There were cold, cloudy days too—" Cody shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, a few rainy days now and then is nice. Natural. This is..."
He trailed off. Didn't finish the thought.
Didn't want to say it out loud.
This is wrong. This sunshine feels like a lie.
"Man." The driver shook his head. "You're really weird."
The wheels rubbed against concrete road, leaving short brake marks as they pulled up to the perimeter.
"We're here. Building's been cordoned off—what's going on inside? Can anyone see?"
"Can't see anything." Another officer approached, weapon drawn. "But intel says the Joker kidnapped another group of comedians. Probably planning to do the same thing as before."
The same thing.
Execution theater. Bodies piled in the audience. Blood on the stage.
"Okay." The team leader checked his weapon. "Vehicles are positioned according to the building's architectural plan. Everyone ready. We need to move in quietly and search for the Joker and the hostages. Remember—quiet and quick."
"No problem." An officer chambered a round. "We're all set, Commissioner Gordon. Ready on your command."
Commissioner Gordon stood at the rear of the formation. Took the pipe out of his mouth. Stared at the building for several seconds.
Looking for something wrong. Some sign of a trap.
Finding nothing.
After confirming there was no obvious problem, he gave the order.
"Now. Start entering."
The police officers moved simultaneously. Multiple teams. Guns drawn. Approaching the building from different angles with practiced coordination.
Professional. Efficient. Exactly by the book.
Which was their first mistake.
At the rear of the police formation—where Gordon stood coordinating, where the command vehicle sat, where support officers crouched behind their cruisers—
A revolver was aimed at the guard half-crouching behind a police car.
Purple gloved hand. Steady aim.
The officer never saw it coming.
BOOM—
The remote detonator was pressed.
A massive fireball erupted from inside the Joke Factory. The explosion was catastrophic—windows shattering outward in a spray of glass, the entire front wall buckling, flames roaring into the afternoon sky.
The shockwave hit like a physical blow.
All the police officers trying to approach the building were thrown backward. Slammed to the ground. Ears ringing. Vision swimming.
And at the exact same moment as the explosion—
BANG.
A gunshot.
The sound was completely drowned out by the detonation. Lost in the overwhelming noise.
The police officer behind the car collapsed. Blood spreading beneath him.
No one saw him fall. The explosion was too loud. Too bright. Too consuming of everyone's attention.
"A man ran into a bullet." The voice was flat. Humorless. "Oops."
Purple-gloved hands reached down. Grabbed the officer's face. Forcibly pulled the mouth muscles upward—fingers hooking behind teeth, exposing gums, creating a grotesque parody of a smile.
"Isn't this funny?"
The blood flowed silently. The officer had no answer to give.
The Joker kept fiddling with the corpse's mouth. Trying to make it smile properly. Adjusting. Pulling. Never satisfied.
His voice was filled with frustration. "This should be funny—emm, no. No, no, no."
It certainly wasn't funny.
Nothing was funny anymore.
At that moment, a passerby ran to the corner of the street. Young woman. Probably a reporter. Maybe just civilian stupidity—wanting to get first-hand information about the accident, see the excitement, witness history.
The Joker thought it was okay to give her some information.
So he raised his gun.
The scream rang out almost simultaneously with the gunshot.
Both sounds were immediately drowned by another explosion inside the theater—secondary blast, structural collapse, more fire and noise.
The Joker put the bomb remote control back in his pocket. His face remained gloomy. Serious. Without a trace of satisfaction.
He didn't seem happy that he'd successfully fooled the police.
Didn't show any pleasure at seeing the woman fall.
"A woman ran into a bullet." He stared at her body. "No, no, no, no."
It's still not funny.
Just like the jokes told by those comedians. All meaningless. Empty. Hollow.
He holstered his revolver. Completely ignored the police officers behind him—some groaning from the explosion, some calling for backup, some trying to render aid.
None of it mattered.
He walked away from the street in open displeasure. Hands in pockets. Moving with the casual confidence of someone who knew he was untouchable.
He didn't care about things that weren't funny.
The end of the comedian in the theater. The life and death of the two people he'd just shot.
None of it registered as important.
Then again, he thought distantly, if you were hit in the vitals by a large-caliber revolver, how could you possibly stay alive?
The answer was: you couldn't.
So he walked away.
Into the sunny afternoon that felt wrong.
Under cloudless skies that shouldn't exist in Gotham.
Still searching for something—anything—that would make him laugh again.
By the time Jude arrived at the prison and changed into his uniform, the Joker was already gone.
He stood in the locker room, buttoning the GCPD shirt that came with his new identity. The badge felt heavy on his chest.
A veteran police officer—Lonnie Barron, according to his name tag—was waiting outside. Leaning against the wall. Smoking.
"You're the new transfer?" Lonnie asked. Looked Jude up and down. "Gordon said you're on Riddler duty."
"That's what I've been told." Jude adjusted his belt. "Can you tell me about him?"
"The Riddler?" Lonnie took a drag. "In Gotham City Police Department jail. Been here for a year now."
Jude paused. "Just here? One year? Barron, are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Lonnie looked at him like he was stupid. "Isn't this kind of thing common knowledge? Ever since that bat freak suddenly appeared and took him to jail almost a year ago, this guy's been staying here. Honest. Cooperative."
What.
"He never tried to escape from prison?" Jude asked carefully.
"You must be high." Lonnie laughed—genuine amusement. "He's just a smart criminal. Once his handcuffs are on, he can't do anything. Compared to committing crimes, he's actually good at solving cases. And betting on football."
Jude's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
He'd never dreamed there would be a version of the Riddler who stayed in prison honestly. Who worked as a detective consultant for the police department. Who liked to gamble on football.
It was like hearing that Batman had taken up competitive baking.
Fundamentally wrong.
"What does he need the money for?" Jude managed.
"He has no use for money." Lonnie grinned. Proud. "So all the winnings belong to me. I just need to take a little from it and buy him some wine or cigarettes. The guy's very good at doing things. Makes me decent cash."
After he finished showing off, he saw Jude's expression—shock, confusion, dawning horror—and realized he'd gotten carried away.
Lonnie coughed. Shifted. "Ahem. Don't tell anyone about this. In principle, we definitely don't allow gambling with prisoners. You understand?"
Jude's face immediately showed a knowing expression. "Of course, Lonnie. You didn't say anything just now."
"Now that's right." Lonnie nodded. "You're gonna do fine here."
At that moment, a bald Black detective suddenly walked in from outside. Moving fast. Urgent. Like he'd just rushed over from an active crime scene.
"Lonnie." No greeting. Straight to business. "I need to see the Riddler."
"No problem." Lonnie didn't even look up from his cigarette. "Old rules. Half an hour."
The detective nodded and walked straight to the interrogation room where the Riddler was being held.
Jude watched him go. Confused.
"Does that happen often?" he asked. "People coming to see him like that?"
"Of course." Lonnie stubbed out his cigarette. "Didn't I tell you? He's an expert at solving cases. Brilliant mind. Catches things we miss."
"So every time there's a difficult case, someone comes to consult him?"
"Hmm." Lonnie considered. "Yeah, basically. Anyway, this guy is just sick in the head. Loves solving puzzles. Loves it. No puzzle can stump him. It's like... I don't know. Like breathing for him."
When Jude heard this, the sense of wrongness in his chest grew stronger.
Became impossible to ignore.
In his own Gotham City, the Riddler was a criminal genius. Powerless without weapons or resources, yes. But still able to use his brain to survive between Falcone and the Holiday Killer. Still dangerous. Still proud.
But in this Gotham City—where Batman had only been active for a year—this Riddler couldn't even escape an ordinary prison?
Not Arkham. Not some high-tech supermax facility.
Just a regular GCPD holding cell.
And instead of escaping, instead of scheming, instead of proving his intellectual superiority the way Riddlers did—
He was helping the police.
Solving their cases. Betting on football. Trading detective work for cigarettes.
Domesticated.
Broken.
Wrong.
Jude stared at the closed interrogation room door.
Behind it, a bald detective was probably already asking the Riddler about whatever case he was working. And the Riddler—this universe's version, this wrong version—would probably solve it in minutes.
Then go back to his cell. Wait for the next puzzle. Collect his cigarettes. Live out his days as a pet genius for the GCPD.
There was something wrong with this Riddler.
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