"Oh, you want to know that question."
Jude shrugged. Casual. Like he was explaining how he'd found a good restaurant instead of how he'd tracked two supervillains to their secret meeting.
"After you ran away, Commissioner Gordon asked me to go home and take paid leave. But as you know, I'm new in Gotham. Don't have anywhere else to go for the time being. So I wandered around the city."
He gestured vaguely. "Wasn't just looking for an apartment—mainly wanted to see if the Joker would return to any of the crime scenes. You know. Basic police work."
The Riddler lay on the floor, bleeding, listening with an expression of dawning horror.
"But that guy was too cunning," Jude continued. "I couldn't catch him. Had no clue what was going on. Finally, when the news reported he was missing, it was already pretty late in the evening."
He paused. Scratched his head in that familiar gesture of apparent confusion.
"Then I remembered—you pointed at the map in the interrogation room. During that detective's visit. Before the whole escape attempt thing."
Jude's voice carried simple logic. The kind that made perfect sense.
"Well, smart people always make the right choices. So I figured whatever you were pointing at was important. Took a taxi there."
He snapped his fingers.
"Halfway to the location, I heard this huge noise. Like a car accident. Crash, explosion, the works. So I had the driver take me to where the sound came from instead."
Jude wasn't lying. Except for the fact that the system's existence had to be covered up—that the "DS Intelligent Analysis" had revealed the clown pattern, that notifications guided his actions—the rest was all truth.
It really was because of the Joker's car accident that he'd been able to lock onto the Riddler's location.
But these words were too insulting to the man bleeding on the floor.
Hearing this explanation, the Riddler closed his eyes in complete despair.
It's like this again.
It's like this AGAIN.
Why did that madman Joker have to deliberately crash his taxi—flip it into a fountain like a lunatic—when this idiot should have gone straight to the stand-up comedy venue?
The wrong location. The accident. The noise that drew attention.
He clenched his teeth. Actually ground them together hard enough to hurt his jaw.
He was really fed up with the frustration of this entire day.
Every time an accident. Every time just a sudden decision by a fool who didn't understand the larger game being played.
If the Joker had arrived at his destination normally—
If Nygma hadn't pointed to the stand-up comedy venue on the map during the detective's interrogation—
If the idiot hadn't been on leave today because of the prison incident—
If he'd had a place to go back to instead of wandering the streets—
"Then I followed you," Jude said, oblivious to the Riddler's internal breakdown. "Saw you walking into the building. So I followed."
He shrugged. "Pretty straightforward, really."
"But you shouldn't know about the floor!" The Riddler's voice cracked. Pain and frustration and absolute incomprehension. "How did you—"
Then it hit him.
Understanding dawned like cold water.
The Riddler turned his face away. Expression twisted in agony that had nothing to do with the gunshot wound in his stomach.
He saw which floors my elevator was running on.
Of course. The display panel in the lobby. The simple technology that showed which elevator went to which floor.
Not solving a riddle. Not demonstrating intellectual superiority.
Just... looking at a screen.
"Damn!" His voice was barely a whisper. "Damn! Damn!"
He closed his eyes in despair.
Because he'd thought of something deeper. Something worse.
He understood why this guy had arrived at exactly the right time.
The elevator buttons.
The Riddler had pressed all of them himself. Sent every elevator to the top floor. Standard escape protocol—deny pursuit the ability to follow quickly.
Which meant no one could use the elevators for several minutes while they slowly descended, stopping at every floor.
Which meant this idiot had gone up by stairs.
At least the first half of the journey. Maybe more.
Which took time.
Precious, specific amounts of time.
If this guy had arrived earlier, the Joker could have dealt with him along with everyone else. Shot him. Disposed of the problem.
If he'd arrived later, the Riddler could have escaped immediately after Batman left. Slipped away during the chaos. Disappeared into Gotham's night.
But the timing of his arrival was perfect.
After Batman had arrived. After the confrontation. After the Joker had shot him and fled upward.
Right when Batman was about to leave but hadn't left yet.
At exactly the moment when the Riddler had lost too much blood and had no ability to resist. When even if Batman departed, he couldn't deal with Jude with his bare hands.
And all of this—all of it—was caused by the Riddler's own plan.
The elevator buttons he'd pressed. The map he'd pointed at. The escape timing he'd calculated.
His own brilliance, turned against him by chaos and coincidence and the universe's apparent hatred of Edward Nygma.
In his entire life, there had never been such a desperate moment as this.
For the first time, he deeply experienced what people meant when they talked about "malice from fate."
"Damn madman!" He cursed internally. Couldn't even speak aloud anymore. "Damn idiot!"
Cursing everything that had happened today:
The prison guard who'd somehow dropped his keys outside the door during that scuffle.
The moody Joker who'd caused a car accident like a lunatic and then suddenly shot him for no reason after agreeing to an alliance.
And the idiot in front of him who'd dared to follow him with just basic training and dumb luck.
The stupidity of ordinary people was already disgusting enough to make Nygma feel ill.
But ordinary people causing his perfect plans to fail because of their stupidity?
That made him want to commit suicide immediately.
The Riddler, who claimed to be a genius, who'd built his entire identity on intellectual superiority, had never been humiliated like this.
Why?
My plan had such a high margin of error. Accounted for so many variables. Predicted so many outcomes.
So why do these mediocre people always mess everything up at the most crucial moment?
Don't they know the consequences of making mistakes?
Don't they CARE?
At that moment, an ambulance siren sounded on the street below. Getting closer.
"Oh, the ambulance is here." Jude rubbed his hands together. Almost excited. "Now it's my turn to ask you a question."
The Riddler's eyes opened. Wary. Exhausted.
"I was just about to ask—" Jude gestured at the Riddler's hands, still clutched around his stomach wound. "What's wrong with your hands? Why do they look like chicken claws?"
The bruising. The swelling. The obvious injury from punching something very hard.
When the Riddler heard this question—this innocent, oblivious, perfectly timed question about the hand he'd injured punching a rookie's helmet—
His eyes rolled back.
Went dark.
And he fainted.
Just... lost consciousness from pure psychological trauma.
Jude had been about to walk to the window. Check out Gotham's night view from seventy-eight floors up. Maybe appreciate the irony of the Bat-Signal still burning in the distance.
But he stopped.
Listened carefully.
With his enhanced hearing—Intermediate Physical Fitness Enhancement doing work again—he could detect sounds most people would miss.
Light footsteps. Crisp. Deliberate.
Coming from the floor above.
That's the Joker, he thought.
Batman was a master of stealth. His footsteps were almost silent. You heard Batman only when he wanted you to hear him.
And after that gunshot—after the violence and chaos—there wouldn't be anyone else left in this building. Everyone had fled or was already dead.
Only the Joker remained. Still hunting. Still searching.
When the Riddler was loaded into the ambulance, one of the EMTs checked vitals and reported to the attending physician.
"He's still got a pulse. Weak but present. Might be able to save him."
Jude didn't care much about this assessment.
If the Riddler was really dead, it wouldn't be his fault anyway. Self-defense. Clear case. The man had escaped from prison and was meeting with another supervillain.
Then he followed the police team back to GCPD headquarters. Gave his statement. Answered questions. Filled out forms.
Standard procedure for "officer involved in apprehending escaped prisoner."
Finally, exhausted, he found a hotel.
As for where his money came from:
In the hospital, police officers had been checking the Riddler's belongings as part of evidence collection.
"Strange." One cop held up a wallet. Opened it. "Why is there no money in this guy's wallet?"
His partner shrugged. "Is that important? That bastard killed a police inspector this morning. Far as I'm concerned, if he got his money stolen by a thief, or robbed by a mugger, I still think he deserved it."
They logged it as "no cash found" and moved on.
The Riddler had been carrying quite a bit of money. Jude had estimated—while the man was unconscious and couldn't object—that the amount was enough to cover a hotel room for about a week.
In order to prevent the banknotes of the two universes from being different, he'd also purchased several gold bars from his home dimension before traveling. Universal currency. Always useful.
However, he hadn't had time to sell them yet. So he'd temporarily borrowed the cash from Nygma's wallet.
He'd return it next time. Probably.
Of course, there were cheaper places to rent in the East End. But it was too late that night to find anyone who could serve as a landlord reference. No one to vouch for the new cop in town.
Tomorrow, he'd look for an apartment properly.
The next morning in Gotham City.
Jude stood on the side of the road on Modov Street. Waved down a yellow taxi. Got into the back seat.
"Hello." He gave the address. "I want to go to East Gotham."
"Hahaha—" The driver's response was... odd. "What a coincidence! Haha! The last guest went to the northeast area of Gotham! Hehe! You guys are very close! Hahahaha—"
Jude blinked. "Hmm."
He settled into the seat. Looked out the window at Gotham's morning streets. Surprisingly bright. The sunshine continuing. Strange but pleasant.
"Although it's a nice day today," he said conversationally, "I rarely see people smiling so happily. Is there something good happening?"
The driver didn't answer the question.
Instead: "Haha! Hahaha! What did you say?"
Jude's expression changed.
Because the driver couldn't stop laughing.
"Hahaha! Haha! Hehe! Hahahahahahaha—"
The laughter was escalating. Getting louder. More manic. Losing any connection to humor or joy.
And it sounded familiar.
Horribly familiar.
Jude had heard two people laugh like that before.
One was the Joker. Genuine madness distilled into sound.
The other was Solomon Grundy, back in his home dimension, after being poisoned by Scarecrow's fear gas mixed with Joker toxin.
This was the same sound.