Carmine Falcone, the underworld emperor of Gotham City, was a man who could make clouds and rain with a wave of his hand. That was the reputation he'd built over decades of ruthless control. Although his empire had recently begun to shrink, he was far from a soft target.
A year ago, everything had changed. The Bat began appearing in Gotham's nights, treating Falcone's carefully built infrastructure like common street crime. Unacceptable, insulting, and highly effective.
Simultaneously, Gotham's most powerful legitimate entity—Wayne Enterprises—had begun attacking him through business and legal channels. Shell companies exposed, money laundering operations disrupted, political connections severed. Falcone had been forced to shut down highly profitable prostitution rings, protection rackets, and gun-running operations.
Whenever he thought of the Bat and that playboy billionaire, Bruce Wayne, hot, impotent rage rose in Falcone's chest.
The Bat was a nightmare he couldn't solve—a ghost he couldn't bribe or intimidate. But Bruce Wayne was just a spoiled rich boy who'd somehow developed a spine. Falcone had tried countless times to make peace with him, sending intermediaries and offering mutually beneficial partnerships. Every approach had been rejected, once through a very pointed press release about Wayne Enterprises' commitment to ethical business practices.
Falcone had finally given up. This playboy is so incompetent, he thought bitterly, he doesn't grasp that cooperation is better than conflict. Or he did realize it, and just didn't care. Which was worse.
Fortunately, Gotham had been enjoying rare good weather these past few days. Carmine had come to his suburban mansion to get away from the city and process the frustrations of the past year. Even lounging poolside, his appearance was impeccable: meticulously combed white hair and an expensive, custom-tailored white Italian suit over a black silk shirt. He radiated the majestic, calm presence of a corporate executive holding court.
That calmness vanished the next moment.
His cell phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number. The voice on the other end was strange, sharp, and high-pitched, like a cartoon villain.
"Carmine, I'm the Joker, and I need you to help me kill the Riddler."
The words hit like a physical blow. Falcone's face flushed, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth threatened to crack. "What?!" he demanded sharply. "How did you know this number?!"
This specific device was something he never left behind. It was his private line, kept sacred and secret for over a decade. It hadn't rung in years. Literally only a handful of people—his mother and his brothers—knew it. And somehow, the Joker had it.
Nearby, a bodyguard immediately realized something was catastrophically wrong. Short and stocky, wearing a trench coat despite the warm weather, he resembled a fat penguin in formal wear.
His name was Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. His future infamy as the Penguin was still years away, but for now, he was a trusted lieutenant with sharp instincts. While others might have assumed it was a prank call, Oswald watched Falcone's sharp blue eyes widen with fierce, calculating danger, and knew better.
On the other end of the line, the Joker didn't want to engage or explain. He didn't care about Falcone's outrage.
"You have an hour," the Joker said flatly. "Thank you."
"I'm going to hang you!" Falcone shouted, losing control, the veins standing out on his neck. "Do you hear me?! I can just flick my fingers and crush you like an ant!"
Empty threats. How do you threaten someone who actively courts chaos?
Click. The line went dead. A continuous dial tone.
Carmine stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear. As the Roman—the emperor of Gotham's underworld—no one had dared hang up on him in decades. And some lunatic in clown makeup had just dismissed him.
As his brain caught up to the impossible reality, his initial explosive anger was quickly suppressed by cold, calculated fury. The kind of rage that led to bodies.
He whirled around to face the black-clad bodyguards surrounding the pool.
"What are you doing just standing there?!" his voice cracked like a whip across the grounds. "Find that damn Riddler! Kill him!" He pointed at them, making it an absolute, personal order. "You have an hour!"
The bodyguards scattered immediately, sprinting toward vehicles and phones. Standing still in Falcone's presence right now felt like signing their own death warrants.
Across the city, entirely unaware of the massive bounty just placed on his head, the Riddler was strolling through Gotham's botanical gardens, enjoying the rare sunshine filtering through the glass roof.
Ever since carving the huge question mark into his chest at the hospital, the Riddler had taken to wearing his suits completely open. The trauma was mostly scabbed over and permanently scarred, though tiny beads of fresh blood still oozed from the edges. The Riddler ignored the discomfort, talking calmly with his companion.
Poison Ivy walked beside him. She wore dark green jeans and a brown coat over a white sweater, her vivid red hair fluttering like burning flames. Beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.
"What bothers me is the fact—not the possibility—of 'scorched earth,'" the Riddler said, his voice low and serious. A hint of genuine concern broke through his usual intellectual superiority. "He once promised to set the world ablaze and turn it into scorched earth."
Ivy didn't react, her face neutral as she listened.
"I know, I know. It's just a promise. Can he really do it?" the Riddler gestured in frustration, trying to articulate the threat. "But what else can we judge him by? All his actions so far show only one thing." He let the terrifying implication sink in. "The Joker keeps his word."
Hearing this, Poison Ivy's expression finally shifted. She raised her eyebrows slightly, her emerald eyes assessing the Riddler with new interest. The corners of her mouth lifted into a small, knowing smile, as if she suddenly saw through to what he was really asking.
The Riddler met her scrutinizing gaze unflinchingly. "Of course, I'm not perfect in every sense of the word," he acknowledged—a rare admission of limitation. "But I have a plan."
Before he could elaborate, a sudden, dense sound echoed behind them.
Thud thud thud thud—
Running footsteps. Multiple people moving fast.
They turned simultaneously to see dozens of armed figures in black rushing into the botanical gardens, charging directly toward them.
Falcone's men, the Riddler thought. Already?
"Oh," his voice carried genuine surprise for a fraction of a second before immediately slipping into performance mode. "Uh, hello guys—" he said, his tone as pleasant and conversational as someone greeting a neighbor. "Who are you looking for? What can I do for you?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~