166-168

Chapter 166: A Familiar Face Returns 

"That escapee, Riddler, is reportedly leaving his signature question mark on walls across Gotham Plaza. Experts are calling this mark highly unusual for Riddler—and joining us today is a guest from the Gotham Institute of Criminology, Kiel Castro." 

Listening to the TV show playing on the radio, Commissioner Gordon's face was grim. It had been a year, and in that time, Riddler had tried to break out three times, finally succeeding. Now, leaving his mark in the plaza… everything pointed to him starting his criminal activities in Gotham City all over again. 

He immediately left the hospital, gathering other officers and heading straight for Gotham Plaza. 

In Gotham's East End, Cody looked around the room with satisfaction. His negotiation with the landlord had gone smoothly. Since he had the business card, and the comedian had already called the landlord, even though he was a cop, the landlord didn't mind renting to him. Cody figured the landlord and that actor must be really close. 

For a landlord who valued safety, a tenant's identity and background were a big deal. This building's order was kept by the mob, so naturally, it had its share of gangsters and a lot of folks living outside the law, working shady jobs. 

Even though GCPD had plenty of dirty cops, the landlord couldn't be sure Cody wasn't one of them. So, before he moved in, the landlord had laid down the law pretty bluntly. 

"Listen up. Falcone family runs this block. Don't start trouble in here. When you're off duty, you ain't a cop. You pull a gun or try arresting anyone in this building, you're outta here, got it?" 

Alright, Cody thought, pretty polite, actually. Way better than the landlord at Drake's place, who warned tenants by putting buckshot through the stone walls with a shotgun. 

He didn't have much luggage. The furniture in the small room was enough for a regular guy's daily needs, so he just sat on the bed and pulled up the police internal radio frequency on his phone – he'd hacked into it, his own radio had been confiscated. 

Oh well, he shrugged mentally. Batman's definitely done worse anyway. 

"All units, attention. The wall at Gotham Plaza is currently secured for forensics. We've covered it with a tarp. Everyone in nearby areas, keep an eye out for Riddler. He just left a mark there, so he might not have gotten far yet." 

"?" Cody, listening to the radio, was totally lost. "What do you mean, 'Riddler might not have gotten far yet'?" 

Wasn't Riddler locked up in the hospital? 

Did he really run away again?! 

Thinking about it, Arkham couldn't really hold back a super-criminal like Riddler from breaking out, but three escape attempts in just two days, with two successful? That still left Cody feeling a bit helpless. 

Then again, if prisons could hold people, super-criminals wouldn't be able to break out and keep causing trouble, right? Comic book writers would probably have a serious headache with that. 

On his phone, the officers' conversation continued. 

"Understood. Any victims at the plaza?" 

"None found yet, but that question mark and the message look like they were written in blood. We can't completely rule out the possibility of a victim nearby. We're still searching." 

"Copy that—what was the message?" 

"'I'm going to kill you, Joker. And then I'm going to laugh out loud, Ha, Ha, Ha.'" 

"Huh?" 

"Yeah, that's exactly what he wrote." 

"But what about the riddle? Wasn't he supposed to leave a riddle this time? Or... is that message some kind of deep, cryptic riddle?" 

No, Cody thought to himself. That message doesn't sound like a riddle at all. It sounds like a straight-up taunt. 

Other people might not fully grasp how serious it is when Joker can't laugh, but he'd seen Joker without a smile back at the theater. The guy genuinely didn't seem to be having a good time. 

Right now, he could already imagine this hitting the news. If Joker heard that message, especially those three words "Ha, Ha, Ha" at the end... there was a high chance his mood would get way worse. Because he really wanted to laugh but just couldn't. 

"Kiel, what's your take?" 

"Andrew, it's hard to say. This situation is very peculiar. Riddler usually leaves a riddle at the scene hinting at the next crime, but this is different. Completely different—look, all he wrote was: 'I'm going to kill you, Joker. And then I'm going to laugh out loud, Ha, Ha, Ha.'" 

Wearing a tuxedo, Joker stood before a mirror, carefully examining his face, the sound of the news program drifting in from the TV. 

"That's unusual?" 

"That's very unusual. And very direct." 

"But for nuts like Joker, Riddler, or Batman, what's the point of being so direct?" 

He tried on various smiles in the mirror – subtly confident, openly cheerful, finally even reaching up and manipulating his entire face, pulling the corners of his mouth up by force—but unfortunately, his face wasn't modeling clay; it wouldn't just hold whatever shape he sculpted. 

Every attempt at a smile looked incredibly stiff and unnatural. This just made Joker even more annoyed and frustrated. As soon as he let go, the corners of his mouth naturally drooped back down. It was clear: he couldn't force a smile when he wasn't happy. 

"I don't know, Andrew. Their minds work differently than ours. Normal people can't understand them. All I can say is, I keep tabs on them. These guys aren't just insane, they're smart. They could kill any one of us, maybe even all of us—and sometimes, I really think they want to." 

In the mirror, Joker's face shifted from various stiff smiles to dejection, then to anger, finally becoming dark and quiet. 

"Thanks for your analysis, Kiel Castro. Tonight, we'll continue—" 

Click! 

The TV was suddenly turned off. Joker, his face still dark, pulled out his phone. 

Meanwhile, in the suburbs of the Diamond District. 

Today was a rare good day in Gotham. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, the sky was clear, the sun was out. On a hilltop nestled among lush green trees sat a luxurious white villa. 

Sunlight hit the tall double oak doors, bathed the natural limestone exterior, sparkled on the shimmering pool, shone on the statue of a girl by the pool—and fell upon the man by the pool, surrounded by several bodyguards in black suits. 

He wore a white suit, sitting in a comfortable velvet chair, leisurely soaking up the sun. 

Sunlight—something he hadn't gotten to enjoy much in Gotham before. It sounded funny, but it was true. Rich or poor, if you lived in Gotham City, you understood how precious sunlight was. 

The ringing of a phone suddenly broke the quiet. He looked at the number he'd never seen before, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, which quickly turned to shock and anger. But in the end, he answered the call. 

"Carmine, it's Joker. I need you to do something for me." 

"I need you to kill Riddler." 

Chapter 167: A Second Familiar Face Returns 

Carmine Falcone. Gotham City's top crime boss. A guy who could make or break you just by lifting a finger. While his empire had started to shrink a bit, that didn't mean he was some pushover now. 

A year ago, that bat started showing up in the Gotham nights, hitting every kind of crime hard. At the same time, the city's most powerful force, the Wayne Group, started coming at him with business deals and legal maneuvers. That had forced him to shut down a lot of profitable ventures, but it was clearly because his enemies were just that powerful, not because there was anything wrong with Carmine's own skills. 

Just thinking about that bat and that screw-up from the Wayne family always ticked Falcone off. The first was a nightmare he couldn't shake, but the second – he'd gone to that Gotham playboy countless times trying to make nice. But the two of them were practically strangers, their families had no history together, so naturally, he'd gotten the cold shoulder more times than he could count. Eventually, he just gave up on the idea of getting chummy with Wayne. 

The playboy was too useless, which somehow made him totally unapproachable. 

Luckily, Gotham had been having some rare nice weather these past few days. Clear skies, sun high in the sky. So, Carmine had come out to his mansion in the suburbs to chill, soak up some long-overdue sun, and shake off the frustration he'd piled up over the past year. 

Even on vacation, his white hair was slicked back perfectly. That, paired with an expensive white suit, a black shirt, and the aura he'd built up over years at the top of the mob food chain, made the crime boss look imposing and steady, even while relaxing. 

However, that steady look turned to panic the very next second. 

Carmine answered a strange phone call that came out of nowhere. The voice on the other end was weird and high-pitched, sounding exactly like the villains in those old cartoons he watched as a kid. 

"Carmine. It's Joker. I need you to help me kill Riddler." 

Hearing the voice on the phone, the man by the pool was absolutely livid. 

"What the...? How'd you get this number?!" 

He never let go of this phone. Even though it hadn't rung in maybe fifteen years, he'd always kept it close, waiting for someone to finally dial it. 

This number was his private line, totally secret, known only to a handful of people – people he'd never tell anyone else about. 

The only folks who knew this number were his mother and his brothers. 

A short, stocky bodyguard in a trench coat standing nearby, who looked a lot like a fat penguin, instantly knew something was wrong. He held a black umbrella and looked at Falcone with a serious expression. The others might not have caught on to how serious things were, but this guy was smart, and he was close to Falcone. He sensed right away that something big was going down. 

His name was Cobblepot. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. Of course, his other name wasn't known yet – it wouldn't spread across Gotham until later. 

That name was The Penguin. 

He saw Falcone holding the phone, demanding answers aggressively. Falcone's sharp blue eyes, the color he inherited from his mother and often bragged about, were wide and now glowed with a fierce, ruthless light. 

However, the guy on the other end seemed in a bad mood and wasn't up for chit-chat. He just said curtly, "You have one hour. Thanks." 

"I'll hang you out to dry and string you up! You hear me?! Doesn't matter who you are, all I need to do is lift a finger over this phone, and your life will be in my hands, squeezed like an ant!" 

All that came back was a busy signal. 

Beep—beep— 

Joker had hung up. 

Carmine didn't even react at first. As the boss of Gotham, who'd been calling the shots for years, no one had ever dared hang up on him. 

He stared at the phone for a second, then finally got what had happened. But in that brief moment of talking, his fury had quickly been shoved down by cold calculation, making him even more dangerous. 

He immediately spun around and snarled at the black-suited bodyguards around him: "What are you standing around for? Just standing there? Doing nothing?!" 

"Find that damn Riddler! Kill him! You've got one hour!" 

The guys around him scattered instantly like startled birds. 

Over in Gotham's Botanical Gardens, Poison Ivy, Ivy, and Riddler were taking a walk. 

Ever since he'd carved that giant question mark on his chest back at the hospital, Riddler seemed totally fine wearing his suit open like this. Sure, he'd had his collar loose when he got out of prison, but not quite this much. 

Cody's first thought at the time was that if it weren't for his abs, wearing it like that would just look trashy, not edgy. 

Right now, that question mark wound was mostly healed, but tiny beads of blood were still oozing out. Riddler didn't care; he was talking calmly with Poison Ivy, cool as a cucumber. 

"What's bothering me are facts, not possibilities – possibilities about 'Scorched Earth'." 

When he said that, his expression showed a hint of worry: "Because, he once promised to make this world burn, turn it into scorched earth." 

Poison Ivy walked beside him. She wore a brown coat over a white sweater, dark green jeans. Her gloves and triangular scarf were her favorite colors. Her long red hair floated in the wind like a burning fire. 

She didn't agree or disagree with Riddler's words and didn't show any particular emotion. 

Riddler kept talking: "I know, I know, they're just promises, nothing you can hold onto. Could he really go that far? But besides that promise, what else can we judge him by? What he's done so far? Yeah, that works too. But all his actions only show one thing: he keeps his word." 

"Joker. He keeps his word." 

Hearing this, Poison Ivy's expression finally changed a little. She raised an eyebrow slightly, her green eyes flicked over to Riddler, and then a small smile played on her lips, as if she could see right through what Riddler was up to. 

Riddler, seeing her studying him, still didn't flinch. "Of course, by all accounts, I'm not exactly a perfect guy either, but I have a plan..." 

As he said that, heavy footsteps suddenly sounded behind them. Interrupted, they turned around to see a bunch of guys in black clothes swarming into the botanical garden, having tracked them down. 

"Oh," Riddler said, looking surprised, and spoke first. 

"Uh, hey friends – who are you looking for? Can I help you with something?" 

Chapter 168: After the Electric Wheelchair, Is it a Bike? Hajime, You Guy! 

Riddler's question hung in the air, unanswered. Clearly, these guys weren't here for a chat. 

They were all decked out in matching black suits, ties, and slacks, with crisp white shirts. In their hands, they held automatic rifles and handguns. The second they stopped, the dark muzzles of their weapons were pointed straight at Riddler. Anyone with eyes could tell these guys were typical mob muscle, and they meant business. 

One redhead, dual-wielding handguns, even offered a polite greeting: "Ma'am, would you mind stepping a few feet to the left, then closing your eyes and covering your ears?" 

Poison Ivy turned her head, sizing up the group. Her green eyes flickered slightly. It seemed Gotham City really wasn't familiar with them these days. Fine, maybe the average joes on the street wouldn't recognize a super-villain, but even the mob was this out of touch? That was news to her. 

More importantly, this was her domain, the Botanical Gardens. These goons showing up, guns blazing, really rubbed her the wrong way. And all those long guns and handguns firing indiscriminately in here? No telling how many plants they'd trash. 

The redhead saw Poison Ivy wasn't moving, so he prompted her again: "Ma'am, I don't have time to explain things here." 

Poison Ivy ignored him. The thought of Joker and the mob not caring about any of this started to make her angry. 

"A burning world?" she mused, her eyes still fixed on the trigger-happy thugs. 

"Without a doubt—besides, I'm not one to stop seeking answers. My conclusion is, Joker is who he is right now, and his way of doing things is just how it is right now." 

Seeing the two of them chatting away like they were the only ones there, a bald, heavyset guy next to the redhead finally couldn't hold back. "You either leave now, or you're never leaving—Alright, fine, suit yourself—you asked for it." 

"Alright, pal," another goon shrugged. "We tried talking them out of it. Let's just get this done." 

Hearing that, a look of disdain crossed Poison Ivy's face. She waved a hand, and vines surged out from the woods all around them. 

The Botanical Gardens? That was Poison Ivy's turf. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Cody was cruising down a Gotham street on his beloved bicycle. 

He couldn't help it. The electric wheelchair was just too... extra. He didn't dare ride it around casually. He'd only bust that thing out if there was a specific need for the Psycho Wheelchair Guy to make an appearance down the line. 

As for the bike he was on now—he'd picked it up at a second-hand spot the landlord told him about. Why not a motorcycle or a car? Mostly because parking was a total nightmare. 

This Gotham City didn't seem to have legendary, hassle-free rides like the Deathmobile. Buying a cheap bike meant he could just carry it back up to his room when he got home. If he needed to haul ass at super-speed, he could just fold it up and shove it in the trunk of a taxi. It was all about convenience, speed, and serious mobility. 

Besides, with his physical conditioning, plus the ten-thousand-dollar 'Master Bicycle Riding Proficiency' skill, this bike—which he'd dropped five hundred asset points hot-rodding—was more than capable of being the coolest ride on the road. 

"Hey, hey, John, you see that thing?" 

"Huh? What?" 

John, driving his Chevy, was yanked by his buddy in the passenger seat. He glanced over, confused. "Jimmy, I'm driving. You don't want us ending up like roadkill, do you?" 

"No, man, look at that guy by the side of the road!" 

It wasn't until Jimmy yelled a second time that John finally looked over towards the right window. "There's nothing there, what are you yelling about—wait, what?" 

Right beside them, a guy was leisurely pedaling a bicycle, looking like he was just out for an easy ride. He wasn't sweating, wasn't even breathing hard. This kind of ride clearly wasn't for exercise. 

He saw John and Jimmy looking, gave them a friendly wave, and then just pedaled past the right window and kept going. It all seemed so natural. 

However, the stunned John looked down, checked his speed... Yep, 70 km/h. 

He kept looking down, then back up, his gaze darting between the speedometer and the guy who had just casually overtaken him. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. 

"How... how fast?" 

"Does his bike have boosters?" 

With no answers, the two of them could only watch the ridiculously fast bicycle disappear down the road, fading into the distance. 

"Jimmy, I think I was hallucinating just now." 

"John, I think I was hallucinating too..." 

Just how fast can a traditional bicycle race go? 

Eighty kilometers per hour. 

In the 2009 Tour de France, the world's top cyclist, British athlete Mark Cavendish, riding the Scyther 1 bicycle designed by Dutch engineer Tom Mills, hit a speed of 83 km/h on flat ground. 

Sprinting downhill, they could reach over 100 km/h, true heroes of cycling. 

After him, countless bicycles continued to break records – using cars to break the wind, being towed by motorcycles, having motors and streamlined fairings. But for Cody, eighty kilometers per hour was more than enough. 

Of course, his current speed wasn't the limit for this souped-up bike, nor was it his own limit, but there was no need to push it yet. 

Cody was mentally plotting where to find Kite Man next when he suddenly furrowed his brow. Thanks to his Intermediate Natural Language Proficiency, he sensed something strange was happening. 

It was a vague feeling he'd had since arriving in Gotham. It seemed this world was a little different from his original Gotham. In this Gotham City, the Natural Language Proficiency ability seemed to connect him more deeply with nature itself. He could even vaguely sense specific information from far away, almost instinctively. 

Just now, a corner of Gotham City seemed to have experienced some kind of unnatural fluctuation. Cody could vaguely feel that it might be an unusual activity related to "Poison Ivy" and "vines." 

"The Green, the force of nature," Cody murmured to himself. He had a basic understanding of the "elemental" logic in DC Comics. Concepts like "plants," "animals," and "metal" in this world weren't just scientific classifications; they also represented different types of supernatural power. 

He was certain that Natural Language Proficiency had connected him to several of these supernatural forces, like vast interconnected networks that had brought him in and shared information about others within the networks. 

"That place seems to have a lot of plants... maybe the Botanical Gardens?" 

Just then, the system notification sounded again. 

[Ding] 

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