The Riddler in his dark green suit walked through the door.
It was midnight. The moon hung full and bright over Gotham—an unnatural sight in a city that preferred clouds and rain and perpetual gloom. But tonight, clear skies prevailed.
Moonlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room with silver-white illumination. It made the space almost as bright as day. Almost beautiful, if you ignored where you were and who you were meeting.
The Joker sat quietly behind a wooden desk.
On the surface: a turned-off lamp, a blank photo frame, and an open book.
The arrangement made the desk look simple but not empty. Curated. Intentional.
Opposite the desk sat a comfortable chair. Positioned perfectly. Angled to catch both the moonlight streaming through the windows and the view beyond.
Outside, Gotham's skyline stretched into darkness. And in the distance—visible even from here—the Bat-Signal blazed against the night sky. That familiar symbol. That call for help.
Unanswered.
The room itself was completely empty otherwise. One person. One desk. One chair.
But spotless. Dust-free. The desk had been furnished with care. Even the seating arrangement was thoughtful—positioned to appreciate the view, to contemplate the irony of that distant signal calling for a hero who wasn't coming.
There was no doubt the Joker had prepared for a guest.
A guest worthy of his careful attention.
But not the Riddler.
The Riddler, however, didn't care.
He looked around the room with the assessing gaze of someone cataloging details, filing away information, solving puzzles before they were even asked.
Then he walked directly to the chair across from the desk.
Sat down without invitation.
"Knock—knock—knock."
He rapped his knuckles on the wooden desk surface. Three precise strikes.
"Open the door—who is it?"
The Riddler looked at the Joker's droopy face. Even sitting quietly on the stool—even with the wrinkles in his gorgeous suit smoothed out, posture perfect, hands folded—the Riddler could sense impolite disgust radiating from these polite details.
The Joker's body language screamed: You're not welcome here.
But again, the Riddler didn't care.
"Before I tell you the answer," he said, leaning forward slightly, "do you want to know how I solved the puzzle you left?"
The Joker didn't respond. Didn't acknowledge the question.
The Riddler continued anyway. Talking to himself. Monologuing the way brilliant people do when they know they're the smartest person in the room.
"The riddle you left for the detective. The pattern on the map. The nose on the clown's face." He ticked them off mentally. "And—why is Six afraid of Seven?"
He paused for effect. Savoring the moment.
"Because Seven ate Nine. Six was scared away and Nine was eaten, so there were 78 left."
The numbers worked perfectly. Seven (8) ate (9) Nine. Only Seven and Eight remained. 78.
The seventy-eighth floor.
"But I saw more than just that." The Riddler's smile widened. Triumphant. "I saw through everything. And I know you can't laugh anymore."
At this, genuine satisfaction crossed his face.
"It's in your pattern of action. In the way you raid Gotham: stand-up comedy spots, joke shops, comedy movies, talk shows, joke factories." He gestured vaguely at the city beyond the windows. "In leading him to you, you're also seeking humor. Searching desperately for something—anything—that will make you laugh again."
The Joker sat silently behind the desk. His eyes squinted at the Riddler with something that might have been interest or might have been murderous calculation.
The corners of his mouth remained turned down. Expression unhappy. Grim.
"And this is all because of him, isn't it?" The Riddler leaned back. Confident now. "Batman. The jokes have to be unpredictable—that's what makes them funny. But now with him, everything is predictable. He always sees through the fog. He always beats you."
He let that sit for a moment.
"You need to laugh. Otherwise, who are you? Just a man in a suit. But you can't laugh as long as he's out there—unless you kill him. And you feel like you have to kill him."
The Joker still didn't speak. But something in his posture shifted. Barely perceptible. Listening now.
"What you don't know," the Riddler continued, "is that I feel the same way. All the riddles seem meaningless after he appears. Every puzzle I create, he solves. Every trap I set, he escapes. Every brilliant scheme, he ruins."
His voice carried genuine frustration. Anger. Pain.
"I can solve everything except him. But if there's a puzzle I can't solve, I have to solve it. Otherwise—" He spread his hands. "—who am I? Just a man who asks questions."
The Riddler stood. Began pacing. Energy building.
"I've seen your plan. That's why I'm no longer in prison. I had to come out and talk to you. Because as long as one of us succeeds in killing him, the other's wish will never be fulfilled."
He turned to face the Joker directly.
"Therefore, we must first decide the winner between us. Either you kill me, or I kill you. Only the survivor will have the right to kill Batman. The worst thing is—" He paused. Let the horror of it sink in. "—in this three-way war, he will have the last laugh."
The Riddler's fists clenched. Eyes burning with conviction.
"But there is a way, my friend. A clear way."
When he said this, he waved his hands vigorously. His tone filled with unusual excitement and conviction—or perhaps even bewitchment. Like a prophet delivering revelation.
Then he covered his hands in sudden pain.
Damn it.
It hurt. That bastard rookie's helmet had been too hard. His knuckles were still bruised from punching reinforced polymer.
With a distorted expression, he suppressed his cry of pain and continued speaking.
"You and me. Jokes and riddles. We don't fight—we solve puzzles together and laugh together."
He lowered his head. Looked directly into the Joker's eyes. Enunciated each word with careful precision.
"Together, let's kill Batman."
Facing the smile on the Riddler's face—that eager, almost manic light flashing in his eyes—the Joker finally spoke his first words of the entire conversation.
"Hmm."
Just that. A sound. Neither agreement nor disagreement.
Seeing what he interpreted as the Joker's interest, the Riddler added quickly: "I can see through every move in any plot. That's what I'm good at—and this move is the only way out of our deadlock. The only logical solution. The only path that leads to both of us getting what we want."
Hearing this, the Joker finally withdrew his gaze from the Riddler's face.
He looked down at the open book on his desk. The pages blank. Empty. Like everything else in this room that waited for meaning.
Made up his mind.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You're right. The only way for me to laugh again is for you and I to join forces."
A satisfied smile appeared on the Riddler's face. Victory. Vindication. The proof that his intellect could solve any problem, even this one.
"Well—" The Joker's hand moved beneath the desk. "Maybe this is also okay?"
BANG.
The revolver was pressed against Nygma's stomach when it fired. Point-blank range. No chance to dodge.
The expression on the Riddler's face shifted rapidly: satisfaction → confusion → shock → pain → anger.
All in the space of a heartbeat.
He fell backward. Hit the floor hard. Hands immediately going to the wound. Blood spreading through his dark green vest. Staining the fabric black-red.
Wailing. Actual wailing. The sound of someone experiencing agony they'd never imagined.
"No." The Joker stood. Looked down at the bleeding man with clinical detachment. "That doesn't work either. It's still not funny."
He made a sound of disappointment and exasperation. Like someone sampling food that wasn't quite right.
Hmm. No. Still missing something.
Then he stepped over the wailing Riddler. Headed toward the interior of the building. Leaving him to bleed out on the expensive hardwood floor.
"Now, about you," the Joker muttered to himself. Talking to someone who wasn't there. "Well, if he could come now, maybe you could survive? I don't know. Probably not. But maybe?"
He paused at the doorway. Glanced back at the Riddler.
"Seventy-eighth floor, hmm."
Then disappeared into the shadows.
At that same moment, Jude was climbing stairs.
Breathing hard. Legs burning. Cursing every decision that had led to this moment.
"That stupid Riddler," he gasped. "Damn it! All the elevators pushed to the top floor. Waiting for them wasn't as fast as climbing stairs—but climbing stairs is so tiring."
He raised his hand. Checked the time on his phone while catching his breath.
Three minutes of continuous stair climbing. Finally approaching the seventy-eighth floor.
If it weren't for Intermediate Physical Fitness Enhancement, he'd probably have collapsed from exhaustion around the tenth floor. Maybe earlier. His home universe's Gotham didn't require this much cardio.
"Two floors left," he muttered. "Almost there. Almost there."
One more flight.
Another.
His legs felt like concrete. His lungs burned.
Why did I think detective work would involve less running?
At exactly that moment, on the other side of Gotham, a pitch-black shape flew through the night sky.
Batman.
Finally.
Feeling filled with regret.
He didn't know if it was the universe rewarding him for his work over the past year—the crime rate decreasing month by month, Gotham experiencing something almost like peace—but the city had welcomed sunshine it hadn't seen in ages.
This morning, watching the sunrise through Wayne Manor's windows, he'd made a decision.
One day of rest. Just one.
Alfred had temporarily returned to England for family business. The manor was empty. No one to disappoint. No one to witness weakness.
So Bruce Wayne—Batman—had done something he hadn't done in over a year.
He'd turned off all his electronic devices. Every one. Phone. Computer. Police scanner. Emergency alerts.
And slept.
Undisturbed. Deep. Dreamless.
The kind of sleep that healed. That restored. That let you wake up feeling human instead of running on fumes and determination.
But.
What happened today made him extremely regretful.
When he'd finally woken—late afternoon, disoriented, realizing with horror how long he'd been unconscious—the news had been waiting.
The Riddler escaped. The Joker attacking hundreds of comedians. The execution theater. The bodies.
If I hadn't turned off my equipment, he thought bitterly, I would have woken in time to prevent these crimes.
He saw Commissioner Gordon's Bat-Signal blazing in the sky—how long had it been burning? Hours?—and angled toward the GCPD rooftop.
But at that moment, the police radio crackled to life in his cowl.
This was one alarm he'd set up to override everything. Emergency frequency. Automatic activation.
A dispatcher's voice: "—red taxi in Burnley suddenly lost control. Rushed onto the sidewalk and crashed directly into the square fountain. Driver's condition unknown. Multiple pedestrian injuries. Passersby report that a passenger resembling the Joker left the vehicle and walked into the building adjacent to the accident scene."
The information made him change course immediately.
Not the GCPD. Not Gordon.
The Joker.
Batman dove downward. The Batmobile had been following him via autopilot—always within range, always ready.
He dropped into the cockpit. Engaged the engine.
And drove toward the scene at maximum speed.