The war in Gotham City was over.
Residents who had fled the Diamond District and Park District — some to other parts of the city, some to other cities entirely — were starting to come back. The buildings that had been damaged or destroyed were going up again. The patients in Gotham Hospital were being discharged in ones and twos. Order was returning the way it always returned to Gotham: imperfectly, gradually, with a noticeable limp, but returning nonetheless. The opportunists who had used the chaos as cover were being collected and processed. Everything, by Gotham standards, was getting better.
In the early hours of the morning, in the ruins of a small bar on the edge of the East District, Lyle climbed onto a step stool and hung a new neon sign above the broken back wall. The sign read: FRONTLINE OF THE BATTLEFIELD.
The bar had just reopened, and at this hour it was entirely empty except for two people on two damaged wooden chairs at the counter — one with a drink, one with a juice.
"Good name," Jude said, and took a sip of orange juice. "I didn't give Lyle enough credit as a businessman."
"He's already got half the liquor cabinet restocked." Chuck turned his tequila glass in his hands and laughed. "Fast work. I don't love what it took to get here, but the theme is solid."
"He put orange juice on the menu. I had no choice but to come."
They clinked glasses.
"Alright." Chuck set his down. "What are you doing next? Back to the force?"
"Can't. The Riddler made me, the Joker made me, and so did about a dozen other supervillains in that room. Being a cop requires a certain baseline of anonymity." Jude shrugged. "I'm a little concerned about my life expectancy if I stay somewhere conspicuous."
"So you're leaving Gotham."
"Batman paid me out at the end. It's enough to keep going." He paused. "Speaking of being paid —"
"The five hundred million?"
"Gone." Jude sighed. "Commissioner Gordon would never sign off on that, and honestly, he's right not to. The money I made undercover can be written off as a special operation. Five hundred million from the Riddler's accounts becomes a very different kind of story if anyone looks at it."
He looked down at his glass.
The cash itself was one thing. What actually stung was the asset point side of the ledger. He'd had a brief, beautiful vision of overnight wealth. The system had other thoughts.
[SYSTEM — MISSION EVALUATION] Based on system assessment, this mission is classified as a special case. Income earned during the undercover operation will be considered legitimate employment unless otherwise penalized by law.
[SYSTEM — REWARD QUERY: 500 MILLION] Under review — the Riddler did not at any point issue a task with a clearly defined price. The subsequent five-hundred-million offer was a field statement made under emotional duress, not a commissioned contract. This task is classified as: Fake Commission.
The memory reassembled itself in precise, maddening order.
"Bruce Wayne's billion is still half left, but at this point it's useless to me."
"Tell me who you are, or say goodbye to the five hundred million."
"Five hundred million to whoever kills him — RIGHT NOW."
Jude put his face in his hands.
The man had never, at any point, actually said I will give you this money. He had dangled it, referenced it, screamed it while firing a gun — and every single instance had been technically, legally, infuriatingly non-binding. The greatest riddler in Gotham had looked Jude directly in the face and run a con on him using words that sounded like a promise and weren't.
I am going to his grave when he dies. I am going to steal every single offering.
"If I were to die right now," he asked the ceiling, "could I collect it posthumously?"
[This task is a fake commission. This message is a repeat. This task is a fake commission.]
"Noted."
He checked his balance. Including the million Batman had paid him at the end of the operation, his total assets came to one million and ninety thousand dollars.
Is it enough? It's not nothing. It is also not five hundred million dollars.
He was still staring at the number when the next notification arrived.
[SYSTEM — BUSINESS TRIP STATUS] This business trip has concluded. You will be returned to your original universe in ten minutes. Please prepare accordingly.
Jude finished his orange juice in one long pull and set the glass on the counter.
Chuck looked at him. Something in the change of atmosphere had reached him without needing to be explained. He put his bottle down.
"Already?"
"Already." Jude stood, rolled his shoulders. "Take care of yourself. Get your son back. Don't do anything that requires a kite unless you genuinely have to."
"Good luck, Jude."
"Lend it to me — I've earned a borrow."
He gave a short wave, walked around the corner of the bar, and found the exterior wall of the building next door. He was on the rooftop in eleven seconds.
The city spread out beneath him under a sky going from black to the particular dark blue that preceded dawn. Construction cranes dotted the skyline. Some lights were on; others were still out. The streets were quiet in the specific way of cities that have been through something and haven't quite decided yet how to talk about it.
He stood there and watched it until the light in the east began to change.
Then he was gone.
[SYSTEM — PERFORMANCE REVIEW] Business trip in Gotham City: Complete. Employee privileges upgraded. Work and business trip access now extended beyond Gotham City limits. Asset points may now be acquired in other cities.
[Performance Rating: Excellent]
[End-of-Phase Skills Awarded:]
Advanced Mechanical Mastery Note: Want to be the next Tony Stark? Powered armor, sonic booms, a mechanical army that answers to you alone? Note 2: Forget it. That costs extra.
Master-Level Aerodynamics
Master-Level Kite Mastery
[Special Reward: The Friendship of the Kite Man]
Note: If Chuck Brown were asked what changed the course of his life — what turned him from a man with a novelty act into something closer to a hero — his answer would probably be simple. Two people and two gusts of wind. For him, that was enough.
Jude skimmed past the aerodynamics and kite entries. He'd seen their practical effects firsthand on the rooftops and war zones of Gotham, which made the skill descriptions feel redundant.
He looked at the new city around him.
The system had done it again.
The skyline was wrong for Gotham. The architecture was wrong. The cars were driving on the wrong side of the road, and there was a light drizzle — the Gotham kind — but this wasn't Gotham's drizzle. Something about the quality of the gray was different. The streets were busy in the way of a city that had been busy for several centuries before anyone thought to plan the traffic.
A man on the pavement below, soaked to the knees, stared up at the sky with naked contempt.
"Bloody airplane food," he announced to nobody in particular. "Bloody rain. Bloody England."
Jude looked out at the wet streets and the red buses and the Thames somewhere in the distance, and then he looked back at the system notification still visible in his peripheral vision.
Work and business trip access now extended beyond Gotham City limits.
"Of course," he said.
He was in London.