Gotham City. Midnight. Jude's apartment in Otisburg.
Jude was awakened from deep sleep by a presence in his room—not a sound, not movement, just the sudden awareness that he was no longer alone.
His eyes opened immediately, fully alert despite having been in REM sleep three seconds earlier.
That was the special effect of the Deep Sleep skill: greatly improved rest quality while maintaining hair-trigger awareness for threats. You slept like the dead but woke like a soldier.
Useful in Gotham, where being a heavy sleeper could get you killed.
Batman stood at the foot of his bed, cape settling into stillness, cowl making his expression unreadable in the darkness.
Jude stared at him for a long moment.
Then sighed.
"Do you believe," he said flatly, "that I will glue this window shut tomorrow?"
Batman didn't answer. Just stood there in that particular way he had—perfectly still, perfectly silent, radiating judgment.
"Seriously," Jude continued, pulling himself into a sitting position and rubbing his eyes. "I'm going to brick it up. Fill it with concrete. Install bars. Maybe add some razor wire for good measure."
Still no response.
"Because apparently in Gotham, having a window means random vigilantes can just—"
"There was a super-fast wheelchair in Gotham City," Batman said, voice carrying that particular gravelly quality that suggested this was an accusation rather than an observation.
Jude paused mid-complaint.
Looked at Batman.
Looked at the window.
Calculated his options: deny everything, claim mistaken identity, feign ignorance, play dumb—
"I'm driving it," Jude said instead, admitting it at lightspeed. "What's wrong with that? I'm the one who's been doing all the vigilante work lately while you were away."
He even sounded a little proud.
Batman paused for half a second, clearly not expecting immediate confession.
"What are you proud of?" His tone suggested genuine confusion beneath the intimidation. "Vigilante work is dangerous. You shouldn't—"
"Stop." Jude immediately waved his hand, cutting him off. "Stop right there. Who told you I want to be a volunteer police officer?"
He swung his legs out of bed, stood up, began pacing with the energy of someone who'd been waiting to have this argument.
"Who would go out and fight crime in the middle of the night if they could just stay home and sleep? Do you think that's fun for me? You think I enjoy hanging naked criminals from windows?"
Batman looked at Jude—red-faced, gesturing emphatically, trying hard to keep his mouth from twitching into a smile despite his serious expression.
The constipated look of someone protesting too much.
Batman remained silent.
Because honestly, Jude might actually be enjoying it a little bit. The psychological warfare aspect. The creative humiliation techniques. The fact that he'd become Gotham's most feared vigilante using nothing but tranquilizer darts and public nudity.
"The key is," Jude continued, warming to his theme, "in the middle of the night, there are always plants and animals yelling in my ears!"
He made dramatic gestures around his head, as if swatting away invisible voices.
"There's a gunfight over here! Drug dealer over there! Robbery somewhere else! Criminals trying to murder people! It's constant! Twenty-four seven! Every bird, every tree, every rat in the sewers—they're all reporting crimes directly into my brain!"
Batman's expression didn't change, but he pulled out a small notebook and began writing.
Can communicate with animals. Prepare countermeasures. Possible weaknesses: ultrasonic frequencies? Animal repellent?
"I want to sleep," Jude said, voice rising with genuine frustration. "But who can sleep in that situation? It's not like I can just turn it off!"
He collapsed back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"And those sounds aren't even loud. That's what makes it worse. They're not screaming. They're just... constant low-level noise. You know what's on the list of most annoying sounds? Not the loudest ones. The ones that are just persistent enough to keep you awake."
Jude turned his head to look at Batman directly.
"There's this thing people say: 'It's not the loudest noise that's considered noise pollution, it's the noise that's annoying.' You ever had a roommate who got up in the middle of the night and flipped through a book? That soft rustling sound? If that same volume was keyboard typing, I could sleep through it until noon the next day. But book pages? Drives you insane."
Batman fell silent.
"Anyway," Jude concluded, sitting up again with finality, "since you're back, I don't have to get up in the middle of the night anymore. Now I'm going to sleep. And you should go to work—go work!"
"One more thing," Batman said.
Jude groaned. "Of course there is."
"That quick regeneration ability you used when fighting the Joker." Batman's tone shifted slightly—still commanding, but with an edge of something that might have been request rather than demand. "I need it for a plan."
Jude blinked, processing that.
Then shrugged, reached into his pajama pants pocket, pulled out several pieces of Horn of Plenty fruit, and tossed them to Batman.
The Dark Knight caught them with practiced ease.
"Fruit," Jude explained. "Eat one when you're injured. They'll heal you up pretty quick. Not instant, but faster than normal." He paused. "Who are you planning to fight that you're making preparations like this?"
"You also have a cross," Batman said, ignoring the question.
"That one's gone." Jude's expression darkened slightly.
"I'll tell you when the plan is almost underway," Batman said.
And just like that, he disappeared into the darkness.
No footsteps. No cape swirl. Just there one second, gone the next.
Jude stared at the empty space where Batman had been standing.
"I hate it when he does that," he muttered.
Then he lay back down, pulled the blankets over his head, and activated Deep Sleep again.
Tomorrow he was bricking up that damn window.
Commissioner Gordon sat at his desk in GCPD headquarters, reviewing incident reports from the past week.
Something strange was happening.
The prisoners who'd been arrested recently—the ones with broken bones, the ones Batman had personally apprehended—all seemed to have a sense of peace about them. Joy, even. Tranquility.
They cherished their time in holding cells. Asked politely for medical treatment. Thanked officers for processing their paperwork.
It was deeply unsettling.
Criminals in Gotham didn't thank people. They cursed, they threatened, they demanded lawyers and made bail and walked free within hours to commit more crimes.
But these recent arrests were different. The prisoners acted like they'd been rescued rather than captured.
Like they were grateful to Batman for breaking their bones and putting them in prison.
Gordon didn't understand it.
He was afraid to ask.
On the bright side, the Wheelchair Stripper who'd been hanging naked criminals all over the city had finally disappeared. Gotham had returned to its former state of chaos—which was bad, obviously, but at least it was familiar chaos.
Gordon could handle familiar chaos.
The wheelchair situation had been new chaos, and new chaos was always worse.
He'd just started to relax when his office door opened without knocking.
Batman stepped inside, cape settling around him like smoke.
Gordon didn't even flinch anymore. Just set down his coffee and waited.
"I have some ideas about the Holiday Killer," Batman said without preamble. "It's June. Father's Day is coming. I have a plan."
Gordon took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly.
"Thank God," he said with genuine feeling. "That's the least upsetting news I've heard in days."
Batman nodded once. "I'll need your cooperation. And discretion. No one can know. Not Harvey. Not anyone in the DA's office."
Gordon's stomach clenched. "You think it's someone internal."
"I know it is." Batman's voice was flat, certain, terrible. "I'll explain everything when it's time. For now, just trust me."
Gordon looked at the Dark Knight—at Gotham's greatest protector, the man who'd saved the city a hundred times, who'd never lied to him, never betrayed his trust.
"Okay," Gordon said quietly. "What do you need?"
The night before Father's Day in Gotham City, it rained.
Heavy sheets of water poured from black clouds, washing the streets clean for approximately three hours before the city's accumulated grime made them filthy again. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flickered. The kind of dramatic weather Gotham specialized in.
By morning, the rain had stopped, leaving everything wet and glistening.
Maroni family orchard. Just outside Gotham proper.
Two figures walked through rows of fruit trees—apples and pears and cherries, all heavy with late spring harvest. After last night's rain, the red and green colors looked more vivid, more alive. Drops of water clung to leaves and fruit, catching the morning light.
"Carmine Falcone."
The burly, white-haired old man reached out and plucked a bright red apple from a nearby branch. Water droplets rolled down its surface like tears.
"I should have killed that idiot years ago." His voice carried the rough edge of old age and older grudges. "Shot him five times in the chest, and he still managed to survive. If he'd died back then, things would be very different now."
Luigi Maroni—former head of the Maroni crime family, father of Sal Maroni, one of the two men who'd controlled Gotham's underworld in his prime—turned the apple over in his weathered hands.
He was old now. Retired, officially. Had passed control of the family to Sal years ago.
But he still had influence. Still had wisdom. Still had the kind of ruthless strategic thinking that had built the Maroni empire in the first place.
Sal Maroni stood beside him, showing the deference a son showed his father. Even if Sal was the official boss now, even if Luigi had technically stepped down—in this family, the old man's word still carried weight.
"Because of that idiot Holiday Killer," Sal said, voice tight with frustration, "all my trusted men are dead. Father, how should I deal with this mess?"
"You have to act like a man," Luigi said, his face hardening into the expression that had made him feared across three decades of organized crime.
Murderous intent radiated from him like heat.
"The key to this situation is still Falcone. Before he can move against you, you must strike first. Kill the Roman. Destroy his family. Take everything."
He bit into the apple, chewed thoughtfully.
"That's how you survive in Gotham. That's how you win."
At that moment, the hyena that roamed the orchard as a guard dog suddenly raised its head.
It sniffed at a nearby bush, hackles rising, lips pulling back from teeth.
Something was wrong.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four gunshots rang out from the bushes—sharp, precise, professional.
Luigi and Sal immediately clutched their chests, faces contorting in shock and pain.
The shooter's accuracy was terrifying. Four bullets, four direct hits to the heart, so fast that neither man had time to draw their own weapons. So fast they barely had time to process what was happening.
Luigi Maroni—the old boss, the legend, the man who'd survived fifty years in Gotham's underworld—dropped to his knees.
Sal Maroni—the current head of the family, the Roman's greatest rival—collapsed beside him.
Both men hit the wet ground simultaneously, blood blooming across their shirts like dark flowers.
The black guard dogs howled, charging toward the orchard entrance where a figure in a coat and wide-brimmed hat was already fleeing.
Behind the bushes where the shots had come from, evidence remained:
A necktie—the kind fathers wore. Father's Day gift.
A .22 caliber pistol—Holiday Killer's signature weapon.
A baby's pacifier on its chain—Holiday Killer's calling card.
Four metal bullet casings—still warm, still smoking slightly.
The Holiday Killer was already running.
The man fleeing the Maroni family orchard thought: I've finally killed them.
Easy. Expected. Perfectly executed.
The plan had worked flawlessly.
Luigi and Sal Maroni—both dead. And with them, most of the Maroni family's core leadership. The organization would collapse within days. Soldiers would scatter. Territory would be absorbed.
From today on, the Maroni family would be officially erased from Gotham's history.
I finally ended the family feud that lasted for generations, the killer thought, boots pounding against wet grass as he ran. For my father. For the family. For everything.
From now on, the Falcone family would unify Gotham's underworld. The Roman would become the most powerful name in the city. Undisputed. Unchallenged.
And he had made it happen.
He'd stirred up chaos in Gotham City. Attracted the attention of thousands. Directly destroyed an entire criminal dynasty.
This is the life I wanted, he thought, almost laughing with triumph. This is what I was meant to do.
He could see the orchard gate ahead. Freedom. Escape. Victory.
Then—
A sound.
Strange. High-pitched. Getting louder.
Hmm? What's that?
He turned his head.
A dazzling display of colorful lights was coming toward him at impossible speed.
Multicolored LEDs. Neon blues and greens and reds. Spinning, flashing, creating a disco-ball effect against the grey morning.
And with the lights—cheers.
Actual cheering sounds, like someone had set their vehicle's horn to play celebration music.
The cheers seemed to contain: four parts excitement, three parts happiness, two parts relaxation, and one part...
Nostalgia?
What the hell is there to be nostalgic about?!
The Holiday Killer's mind raced, trying to process what he was seeing.
The colorful lights resolved into a shape as they got closer.
A wheelchair.
A glowing, LED-covered, impossibly fast wheelchair.
"That's a glowing wheelchair?!" he screamed.