After the raid and subsequent takeover of yet another whisper outpost Nolan left Naima to her work in sorting out the aftermath and headed back to the penthouse. He felt emotionally drained, as did vey who was no quiet in his mind.
At the wide oak desk sat Nolan. The room around him was still half-in disarray from the renovation: wires coiled across the floor, sketches pinned beside surveillance photos, and a dozen notebooks fanned open like autopsy files. He held one of them now the black leather journal he'd been keeping since Arkham.
His handwriting was clean, deliberate, but edged with urgency. He wrote:
Second purposeful test run, successful.
Subject group: Whisper outpost (nine total). Two direct exposures to green variant.
Observed effects: abrupt dissociation, euphoric detachment, voluntary surrender of motor control.
Result: both subjects perished via environmental hazard no resistance, no vocal distress. They seemed to be happy?
He paused, tapping the pen against the page, then continued.
Hypothesis: "Green" induces uncontrollable bliss — neural flooding of serotonin and dopamine analogues, suppressing survival response. Not fear suppression — rather, the illusion of total safety.
Potential applications: crowd pacification, interrogation, mass manipulation.
Risks: unknown duration; emotional contagion possible. Requires further testing to confirm.
Confirmed different colors induce different levels of 'madness'. Still unclear why or how I have this power.
He drew a clean line beneath the entry, then underlined further testing.
A small glass vial sat on the table beside him. It caught the light like liquid jade, swirling when he moved, the fear gas seemed magical in a way he supposed. Nolan studied it as if it might whisper its own secrets back.
His reflection in the window behind it looked tired. Haunted. But his eyes gleamed with the same sharp intelligence that had carried him through every hardship.
He murmured to himself, "Bliss… too much of it, and they forget they're alive."
A slow exhale left his lungs. He closed the journal, locking the strap in place, and slid it beneath the drawer lined with others.
He needed further testing.
***
The rain had just started to fall, thin and steady, the kind that slicked the old streets of Gotham until they gleamed like black glass. Across from the crumbling hulk of Solomon Wayne Courthouse, a small crowd of men gathered in the shadow of an abandoned deli. The courthouse loomed across the intersection — its broken pillars scarred with graffiti, its once-grand stone lions missing their jaws.
It had become someone's fortress now. Through the shattered windows, faint orange light flickered fires burning in oil drums, shadows moving against the walls. Spray paint tagged the marble: LoBoys in block letters, with crude skulls stenciled beneath it.
Standing at the front of the group was a man in a long, charcoal-gray coat broad-shouldered, expression calm but dangerous. The streetlight overhead reflected faintly off the silver coin he rolled between his fingers. The coin.
Behind him, his crew waited rough men, most of them ex-Blackgate, armed with tommy guns and short-barrel shotguns. Their suits didn't match, their ties were loose, but they looked ready to spill blood for him.
One of them, a younger enforcer with a jagged scar along his jaw — stepped up beside him, "Boss," he said, "word from the east side. Underpass hit the Whispers again. Took another block clean."
Two-Face smiled, just a thin twist of his mouth, but the madness behind it flashed in his eyes, "He sure is busy," he said quietly, "We should play chess again."
He looked back to the courthouse his courthouse, once. Before the fire, before the acid, before the split. His thumb flicked the coin high into the air. It spun, catching the dim light, flashing silver and black, silver and black—
He caught it. Looked down.
Scarred side up.
"Let's go," he said simply.
The men surged forward.
They crossed the street in formation, the rain slicking their jackets, boots splashing through puddles. The first shots cracked out a moment later — tommy guns roaring, echoing off the courthouse steps. The Odessa thugs inside scrambled for cover, shouting in Russian, but Two-Face's men were already through the doors.
Gunfire turned the air white with muzzle flashes. Glass exploded outward. Shells rattled on marble floors. The courthouse that once served Gotham's law became a killing ground again, its echoes filled with the sound of vengeance and coin-flipped justice.
Two-Face walked through the chaos with the steady calm of a man who'd already accepted what side of the coin ruled his life.
He stepped over a bleeding Odessa soldier, smoke curling from the muzzle of his tommy gun, and smiled faintly.
"Balance restored," he murmured, holstering the weapon. Then, glancing toward the cracked emblem of the Wayne family carved above the main doors, he added, almost to himself
"Maybe the city just needs better judges."
***
The old Trask Chemical Depot hadn't seen legitimate use in decades, but its massive tanks still loomed over the Gotham waterfront like silent sentinels. Inside one of its gutted warehouses, flickering fluorescent lights buzzed above a makeshift laboratory — a chaotic sprawl of glass beakers, rusted centrifuges, and tanks of murky liquid.
At the center of it all, Dr. Jonathan Crane — the Scarecrow, worked quietly, his burlap mask pulled tight over his face, goggles glinting orange in the dim light. He hummed softly to himself as he adjusted the flame beneath a vial, the sickly green gas swirling inside.
Around him, armed men kept their distance — mercenaries, ex-Arkham muscle, and smugglers on Falcone's payroll. They didn't like being near him, but they liked the pay. One of them shifted uneasily as a bubbling beaker released a faint hiss.
Crane straightened, gloved fingers turning a dial as he watched the vapor change color from green to a shimmering yellow. A satisfied hum escaped him.
A mercenary stepped in to his lab area. flanked by two others carrying rifles. The man looked uncomfortable even standing in the same room as the doctor, "Dr. Crane," he said carefully. "We found somethin' you'll want to hear."
Crane's movements didn't stop.
"Everything you bring me," he murmured, "I want to hear. Speak."
The man swallowed, unfolding a file from his jacket, "We found some reports about the guy you were asking us to find."
Crane paused, "The theater mask?" He asked dangerously anger bubbling in his chest
The mercenary swallowed, "Yes sir, it appears he is running with the underpass. Multiple people have spotted him near the rails."
Scarecrow smile dangerously under his mask, "Tell me more."