Never told you what I do for a living...

Harvey Dent was crouched on his bunk in his cell, the moon light the only illumination in his stone prison.  Absently he thumbed a double headed coin, his signature.  One side was as shiny as the day it was minted, the other charred black and scarred.  He adjusted the collar to his bright orange jump suit.  An enveloped slid under his door.  He gave it a side long glance, flipping the coin.

Beneath Arkham lay the flooded basement.  Once a boiler room it was repurposed into a containment cell for a prisoner so dangerous that not even Blackgate prison could hold him.  Something large and powerful stirred the black water, causing a few bubbles to surface.  From a grate above, a black envelope fell onto the concrete landing at the edge of the murky, man made swamp.  A vaguely man shaped head surfaced, two red eyes peered that the letter.

Deula Dent bounced a tennisball off the walls of her cell.  She’d been placed at the end of the hall to avoid disturbing the other “patients” but allowing her the tennisball often kept her calm and complacent with the guards.  Her short, spikey hair was cropped and pulled away from her thin, pale face.  She giggled quietly to herself as she bounced the ball, her pixie like frame pulled inward at odd angles.  A knock came to her door and she caught the ball.  “Who is it?” she asked.  It was too late at night for an orderly, certainly nowhere near feeding time.  Her feeding slot slid open and a black envelope was pushed through with a flat black box tied with a green ribbon.  She took the box and envelope quickly and the slot closed shut.  She opened the box and, upon seeing it’s contents gave a wide, wild eyed grin.

Dr. Johnathan Crane paced his cell.  Given his former stature as head of the asylum, he was afforded a few liberties.  His cell was not the same cold stone as the others.  His had a thin layer of carpet and tiled walls that he kept pristine.  Still, not even the cold comfort of his obcessive compulsive disorder could calm his nerves.  His wriy body was hunched over as he moved his hand furitively.  An envelope slid under his door.  Nervously he picked up the envelope and opened it.  It contained a carefully folded white paper.  As he unfolded it, numbers appeared.  “Three...” he said aloud.  “Two...one...” the lights all across the asylum flickered off replaced by red emergency lights.  Claxion alarms sounded as the heavy bolts that secured the cell doors released.  Guards began racing about as screams of rage and roars of pain emerged from the inmates.  Crane smiled.  “Its about time.”

                “Mr. Wayne!” Carrie called, skidding to a halt outside his study.  “You need to see this!” she snatched up the remote off the end table and flicked on the big screen television.  A blonde woman came onto the screen with a severe expression on her face “We bring you to the outside of Arkham Asylum where a massive riot has erupted within the walls.  Police and asylum security staff are struggling to push back the building’s dangerous inmate population.  The seige has been going on for approximately an hour now...”

Carrie ran out of the room.  “Carrie, where are you going?” Bruce called after her.  “Arming up, sir.  It takes an hour to get from Arkham to here.”

With that, the front doors of the manor burst open and ten men in inmate uniforms burst in wielding makeshift knives and clubs.  Five tore up the stairwell upon seeing Bruce.  Slashing outward with his shive, Bruce deftly caught his wrist and twisted him around, planting a foot square in his sternum, where he heard a satisfying crack.  For good measure, Bruce struck down on the inmate’s forarm with his elbow, snapping the bones within.

He kicked outward and sent the unconcious assailant sprawling into the one behind him.  He saw three advancing on Carrie, but now had two more to deal with, each of them calling out and cursing the name “Wayne.”

Carrie hadn’t made it to her firearm yet, but she didn’t need it.  She was a graduate of Charles MacPherson Academy for Butlers and Household Managers, but prior to that had served four years in the USMC.  “Lets get the maid!” one of the inmates shouted.  Carrie, to her credit, saw red and caught the speaker in the throat with an open palm.  Gagging, he staggerd back and fell unconcious, unable to breath.  The next one she tore into with a hard forward kick, catching him in the chest and sending him backwards down the stairwell.  One lashed out with a makeshift club, which she snatched away, spun, and plowed into the side of his skull, causing his nose to explode blood over the far wall.

Wayne moved with speed that belied his age, snatching away weapons and rendering foes unconcious without regard to how they would function when they woke.  If they woke.  One came up behind him bringing a kitchen knife to his throat.  Bruce rocked his head back, throwing the assailant off balance, allowing him to spin in place and crash his forehead into the thug’s nose.  Temporarily blinded, the thug stumbled back and down the stairs.  The comotion brought the others from the ground level up to fill the ranks of the fallen, but even then they were no match for the combined might.  When one was left semi alert, he looked blearily at Carrie.  “Thats a hell of a maid.” He muttered.  Carrie leaned into his face, anger twisting her face.  “I’m the goddamn butler.”

Straightening her shirt, Carrie turned to Bruce.  “Sir...there is a crisis in the city.  I’m afraid I’m going to have to disclose to you, I know you are the Batman.”

“Was...Carrie.  I was the Batman.”

She looked past him to the pile of half dead lunatics.  “I’d say, sir, that you are still very much the Batman.  Gotham needs you.”  She walked into the study and turned the grandfather clock hands to 10:47.  The clock gave a small click and a panel on the wall groaned to life, pulling to the right and exposing a dark tunnel leading down.  Bruce’s eyes darkened.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne.  I know I should not have pried, but I had my suspicions and after some investigation, well...”

“Why?”

Carrie didn’t bother asking for clarification.  The dark tone in his voice made the intent of the question very clear.  “You stopped the Joker, sir, but not before he killed my mother and crippled my father with the Smilex gas.  We lived off the parade route, my parents wanted nothing to do with the parade, but that didn’t stop the gas from spreading out before you destroyed the balloons.”

Bruce led her down the tunnel.  “There should be more cobwebs here.” He noted.

“About that.  I’ve been cleaning.  I was hired to ensure the whole house was clean.  The crew took care of the rest of the manor.  I handled the cave.”

“All by yourself?”

“What did you think I did while you were at Wayne Enterprises all day?”

“Honestly I thought you slept.”  She smiled at that, and the sound of their foot falls echoed off the thick rock walls.  The tunnel swelled out into a massive caveren.  A bank of computer monitors dominated the far wall.  A motorcycle rested in the center of the chamber, on a massive turntable that bridged the command center with a long narrow stretch of rock that led into another tunnel.  “We’ll need a new car.” Bruce mused.

“In the meantime, the cycle will suffice.  We don’t really have time to re-equip the heavier stuff, but your belt and your suit are cleaned and ready.  I can coordinate from here.”  She danced her fingers across the keyboard and a red light appeared on the control panel.  “The manor is secured.  No more unexpected visitors.”

The Batman spoke from the shadows in a cold voice that it sent chills up her spine.  “Then we need to go to work.”