James Gordon, Commissioner of the Gotham police force, seethed as he announced the results of the trial of the century. The reasons were innumerable and ever climbing, but the glaringly obvious one was that justice was not being done. Unfit to stant trial. Pfah! It took all his willpower to keep the sneer from his face. At least so long as he was in front of the reporters. Reporters. Blood hungry dogs, all of them. And of course they were loving every ounce of flesh they could peel from this new story. He wanted to scream at them, don't you understand?! The worst mass murderer this city has ever seen, who dug his claws into Gotham and tore her apart, he's been given a free pass! Oh, Gordon knew Arkham was no cakewalk, but the man deserved to fry, not show some orderly that he took his meds every day until some idiot doctor deemed him sufficiently docile to reenter society. Jim took a moment to breathe, gripping the podium he stood at until his knuckles turned white. He shouldn't even be the one giving this damned press conference in the first place. Something this big should have been the mayor's job, but of course Oswald Cobblepot couldn't be bothered, too busy with one of his mistresses, or off playing high society with his rich buddies. All of whom, Gordon personally knew, had at minimum criminal affiliations, if they weren't outright mob family heads. So, since Oz was unavailable, the responsibility fell to the commissioner to deal with the baying hounds. The last six months or so had made him resent taking this stupid promotion more than he had since he had been offered it. He missed his family.
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Bruce Wayne was equally furious, but didn't have the luxury of a press conference to let himself stew in his anger. Crime had been on the uptick since Joker's arrest, and he had to work to keep his information up to date. His base of operations had slowly grown from the card table that had been bought for the space outside his kitchen he called the dining room and had never been used, piled high with subway maps and bus routes, to two more card tables with actual city maps spread out and marked up with various gangs' territories and locations of note. He had slowly built files on all the major players in Gotham, but now, with just about every loony taking to the streets to make themselves the next Joker, it was hard to keep up. And that's not even touching on the gangs testing each other's borders in the sudden power vacuum. Joker and his gang hadn't had any real territory, more or less going where they wanted, taking what they wanted, and destroying and killing whoever and whatever they wanted. They had been more of a roving band of chaos, fire, and death than an actual gang. They weren't in on the drug trade, the only firearms they had were stolen, and they didn't play nice with anybody else on the streets. It was a wonder Joker had lasted as long as he did. Probably the only reason he did was that he and his men had over a dozen hideouts scattered across the city that Bruce knew about, probably more, and he had had a devil of a time finding any of them. The Joker's plans were all convoluted to no end, seemingly for no reason other than they could be. A plan was carried out that involved six different decoy vehicles, three men dying for no apparent reason, and a police chase on the other side of town. That last part, Bruce still wasn't entirely sure was even related, but judging by the rest of the things Joker did, it probably was. The result of such an elaborate and over engineered heist? The contents of two different kitschy antique stores, stock, decor, down to the paint, flooring, and signs hanging outside being swapped, one store to the other. Nothing stolen. Nothing rigged to explode. Only a joker playing card placed into the cash register of each. A completely pointless crime, yet it was plotted like the score of the year. This was how everything went with the Joker. Impossible to tell when something was an actual attack, an actual robbery, until it was practically over with. It was infuriating. Even more so when, like now, Pennyworth was passed out in his apartment. Bruce was grateful for the man's help, having an extra head was always a bonus when it came to sorting out the Joker's messes or keeping up with the constant back and forth of the gangs, but he really wished the old guy could give the drinking and partying s rest. This was nearly impossible without him. Bruce groaned and rubbed his eyes. He had work soon, and there was still so much to sort out. And there would be more by the time he got off. Being friends with the literal owner of the company meant he could work less hours, so long as he still got his work done, but it was still exhausting to deal with. Sleep is hard to come by when you're spending most nights beating criminals to a pulp and most days trying to pack as much work into a couple hours as possible so you can get back to planning for beating criminals to a pulp again. Bruce wasn't even running on fumes anymore, he was outright running on air. He needed to sort something out, this wasn't doable in the long run.
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Joker sat in his holding cell, thinking and awaiting his transfer back to Arkham. Everything he though made him laugh, and the more he thought, the more he laughed. His sudden and completely unforseen dismissal from court and assignment to Arkham for treatment made perfect sense in that it made no sense. It was completely unpredictable, and so was probably one of the only things he hadn't planned for. That and a meteor blowing a hole in the courthouse. Some things were just out of your control, acts of God. It was beautiful chaos, and he wouldn't have it any other way. And so he laughed. Was it annoying that none of his plans would see use? Sure, but that was the point of plans. Try to predict how things will go, and then use none of them because nothing goes as planned. Now he would get to come up with new plans that needed to be either executable by himself, or with the help of lunatics. And then he wouldn't use any of those, either! It was perfect. It was going to be worlds of fun. He would be placed in the maximum security ward, with the real whackjobs. The violent ones. The ones that had to be kept in reinforced padded cells, away from the slavering idiots that were allowed to roam the grounds. Yes, this would be terrific.
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Behind the scenes, behind closed doors, in hushed whispers and secret thoughts, plans, plots, and schemes are formed. The Joker is bad for business, we let him stick around for too long, he's changed things, he needs to be taken care of. The Joker is everything, he's the key to my new life, I love him. This vigilante could be a problem, he could get a big head, he could disrupt business, stick his nose where he isn't wanted. I need to grind him back under my heel where he belongs. Gordon seems... disenchanted with this vigilante character, maybe we can use that to get him off our backs. He doesn't understand, without his help, they never would have got Joker. Across the city, mob families meet, gangs fight for territory, the police work to get a handle on things, Bruce Wayne finally gets some sleep, and the Joker laughs. Things are different now. Changed. And they'll continue changing, for the better and for the worse.
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