This driver was certainly not the Joker.
Jude had taken a quick assessment when he'd gotten into the car. Standard threat evaluation. The kind of automatic cataloging his brain did now without conscious effort.
Skin color: darker. Height: shorter by several inches. Body shape: softer, less angular. Smell: cheap cologne and coffee, not the chemical-floral scent he'd noticed on the Joker. Accent: local Gotham working class, not the theatrical precision of a performer. Dressing habits: completely different—wrinkled shirt with oil stains, worn jacket, practical shoes instead of expensive tailored suits.
Everything was wrong for the Joker.
Setting aside the theoretical possibility that the Joker could disguise himself this thoroughly—and he probably could, given enough motivation and preparation—he'd have no reason to do so in the first place.
At least not just to get to Jude.
From yesterday's meeting on the seventy-eighth floor, it was clear that the Jokers in this universe were also high-IQ criminals. Particular about their presentation. They had standards. A personal aesthetic. Dress codes and manners they maintained even while committing atrocities.
Jude found it hard to imagine that the man who'd sat behind a polished wooden desk in moonlight would deliberately change his clothes into cheap fabric with wrinkles and oil stains. Would deliberately shave his distinctive green hair into a balding Mediterranean style.
Dealing with Batman might be worth sacrificing his image for. That was personal. That was the great game. That was worth any deception necessary.
But dealing with Jude?
A rookie cop the Joker had shot yesterday and left for dead?
Absolutely impossible.
Which meant the answer was naturally the second option.
This driver, like Solomon Grundy back in his home dimension, had been poisoned by the Joker's laughing gas.
The reason he'd managed to hold on until now—the reason he was still alive instead of dead on the street with a rictus grin frozen on his face—was the [I Didn't Kill Anyone] skill buff that Jude had activated on the Joker last night.
Anyone the Joker tried to kill within that radius wouldn't die for twenty-four hours.
Otherwise, this driver would probably have been killed by the laughing gas hours ago. Just another casualty. Another body for the morning news to report.
Jude watched the driver who was laughing wildly.
The man seemed to be losing consciousness. After just a few words—broken, garbled, interrupted by laughter—he could no longer form complete sentences. Could only produce creepy bursts of sound that had nothing to do with humor or joy.
"Ha—haha—I—hahaha—can't—HAHAHA—"
His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Fighting for control. Fighting to breathe between the spasms.
Jude reached into his inventory.
Pulled out the water gun—bright plastic, child's toy, completely incongruous with the situation.
Aimed at the driver's open mouth—conveniently available since he couldn't stop laughing.
And squeezed the trigger.
Squirt.
MC milk shot into the driver's mouth. The magical healing liquid from his system shop. Sweet. Restorative. Effective against poisons.
Not a lollipop this time—mainly because Jude was afraid the hard candy would lodge in the man's trachea during a laughing fit. Then the Joker's laughing gas wouldn't kill him before Jude's milk candy choked him to death.
Which would be embarrassing to explain to Gordon.
The driver swallowed reflexively. Coughed. Gagged slightly.
After a few seconds, the wild laughter began to subside.
His breathing steadied. The rictus grin relaxed into something more human.
Consciousness returned to his eyes.
"Cough—cough—" He covered his throat. Hacking violently. "Oh my god. Oh my god."
The wild laughter had put tremendous strain on his throat and lungs. Muscles torn from overuse. Vocal cords shredded.
He even coughed up blood. Small flecks of red against his palm.
The Joker's laughter was really deadly.
"I finally don't have to laugh anymore." His voice was hoarse. Damaged. "Oh my god, I felt like I was almost dying just now."
You were going to die, Jude thought silently.
If he hadn't met this taxi driver—if the man had picked up a different fare, if Jude had taken a different cab—the driver might have been found hours later. Taken back to the Gotham City Police Department. Subjected to double examination by Gordon and Batman while they tried to figure out what had happened.
Of course, in that case, he'd still have a chance of survival. Lucius Fox was brilliant. Could probably research an antidote in time.
Probably.
"Sir." The driver was still coughing. Still recovering. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just suddenly—I don't know why—"
He paused. Confused.
"Wait. Why do I have a sweet taste in my mouth? What happened just now? Did you give me something to eat?"
"No, I didn't," Jude lied smoothly. "Just now you suddenly started laughing very loudly. Took you a long time to calm down."
He gestured at his uniform. Badge visible. Official.
"As you can see, I'm a police officer from the Gotham City Police Department. You looked like you were poisoned by the Joker's laughing gas. I have to report this to the chief."
The driver's face went pale. "Joker's—what?"
"Maybe someone will come to you to record your statement later," Jude continued, "but it won't be me. I have to rush to your last passenger's destination. See what's going on there."
He kept his voice level. Professional. But something cold settled in his gut.
"If I'm lucky, no one will be in trouble. But I don't have much hope."
"Well—" The driver's voice was still rough. Damaged. "I remember that I was driving on the road in Audisburg. Early morning. Almost no one else around."
He coughed again. Wiped blood from his lips.
"When I passed an alley, a very pale-skinned man came out of it. Waved at me. Flagged down the cab."
Of course he did.
"Dari Campbell," Jude said into his phone. Walking now. Away from the recovered taxi driver. Heading toward the address. "That's the name of the taxi driver. He owns the yellow cab."
Commissioner Gordon's voice came through clearly. Tired but alert. Always alert.
"Go on."
"Campbell is an experienced taxi driver. Been driving for fourteen years. Encountered the Joker trying to stop his taxi on the road. Ordinary citizens don't always recognize supervillains out of context, so he thought it was just a regular passenger."
"He was wrong." Gordon sighed heavily on the other end. "Fortunately, he didn't die. But Jude—why didn't the Joker's laughing gas kill him?"
Jude shrugged even though Gordon couldn't see it. "I don't know. Maybe the dose he inhaled wasn't high enough?"
Or maybe my skill is still active. But I can't explain that part.
"Anyway, at least he's not laughing now. Back to the situation at the time—"
He relayed what Campbell had told him. The story emerging. Ordinary. Tragic in its ordinariness.
Campbell had been telling the Joker about his two children. Proud father. Working man. Using tips to support both kids through college.
Still owed student loans. Probably would for years. But he'd covered all other tuition and living expenses through sheer determination and fourteen-hour days.
"Thank God he's still alive," Gordon said quietly. "Otherwise his two children would be fatherless."
A pause.
"But where did the Joker get out of the car?"
"Oh." Jude's voice went flat. "That's the point. According to Campbell, he drove the Joker to 69 Dick Sprang Street."
Silence on the other end.
Then: "The unlucky guy told the Joker a dirty joke."
"Exactly." Jude shook his head. "I guess Campbell was trying to be friendly. Make conversation. Professional driver making a passenger comfortable."
Another pause from Gordon.
"Dick? Sixty-nine?"
"Hmm." Jude could almost hear Gordon's face as he processed the implications. "I'm guessing the Joker might not appreciate this kind of humor."
Sex jokes. Crude. Pedestrian. Not clever. Not funny.
Not the kind of thing that would make someone laugh who couldn't laugh at anything anymore.
"Anyway," Jude continued, "the Joker arrived at 69 Dick Sprang Street about half an hour ago. I'm on my way there in a different taxi now. Campbell went to Gotham Hospital, so you should be able to find him there if you need his statement."
"Jude." Gordon's voice sharpened. Commanding. "Be careful. You're alone and unarmed. If you're facing a dangerous individual like the Joker, prioritize your own safety above everything else."
Jude smiled slightly.
Probably in 99% of parallel universes, Commissioner Gordon was a good person. Protective. Honorable. Actually cared about his officers instead of treating them as expendable.
"Wait for backup," Gordon continued. "I'll send officers immediately. When you arrive at your destination, you can assess the situation. But don't act rashly. If you encounter the Joker—"
His voice was firm. Clear. The kind of order that left no room for interpretation.
"—just wait for support. If you can delay him, delay him. If you can't delay, then run away. That's an order. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Jude agreed casually.
But he didn't hang up the phone.
After obtaining his identity in this world, his original phone card, driver's license, and other identification documents worked universally in both universes.
Very convenient.
He kept the line open. Gordon would be able to hear if something went wrong. Could send backup to his location if he couldn't call for help.
Standard procedure for potentially dangerous situations.
The taxi drove through Gotham's morning streets. Sunshine still present. Still wrong. Still making the city look almost normal instead of the perpetual twilight it preferred.
Jude arrived at Sprang Street.
Got out of the taxi. Paid the driver—more of Campbell's borrowed money. The universe's most patient loan shark.
Commissioner Gordon's voice came through the phone again immediately.
"Jude, where are you?"
"Commissioner Gordon." Jude scanned the street. Residential area. Quiet. Too quiet. "I just arrived at number 69 on Sprang Street. There's a house here that looks like an ordinary residence."
While reporting the situation, he approached the building.
Two-story. Modest. Well-maintained lawn. Children's toys visible in the yard—a bicycle, a soccer ball, a sandbox.
A family lived here.
With his enhanced hearing—Intermediate Physical Fitness Enhancement doing work again—he focused on the house.
Listened carefully.
No voices inside. No movement. No sounds of normal human activity.
As if the Joker had already left.
Or as if everyone inside was already dead.
Jude walked closer to the door. Step by step. Hand near his weapon. Not drawn yet. Not wanting to alarm any potential survivors who might be looking out windows.
Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a lockpick from his system inventory.
Standard issue. Professional quality. The kind that could open most residential locks in under thirty seconds.
On the other end of the phone, Commissioner Gordon was sitting in his car. Also heading toward Sprang Street. Racing through traffic.
He looked at documents in his hand. Property records. Background checks. Information appearing on his tablet as the station sent it through.
"The records on that house have been located," he said. Voice tight. "The owners are a couple. Kim and Tony Templeton. Moved in about a year ago."
Jude worked the lock. Feeling the pins. Applying pressure.
"I know, Commissioner. I know."
Click.
The lock opened.
Jude pushed the door slightly. It swung inward. Revealing darkness beyond. Curtains drawn. Lights off.
He sighed.
The sound was quiet. Heavy.
"There are five of them in this family, right?"
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