The Ventriloquist sat down against the wall.
He held a gun in his hand like a helpless prisoner waiting for the door to slowly open.
Judging by appearance alone, no one would have guessed that this bald, frail old white man in his fifties or sixties was a notorious ventriloquist in Gotham's underworld. Frankly speaking, with his trembling hands and shrinking posture, he didn't look dangerous at all.
The hostages beside him shivered like quails.
They were all employees of the Physical Evidence Bureau. A security guard lay on the ground, panting—half of his body soaked in blood.
He had tried to resist, but the ventriloquist shot him through the hand before he could even draw his weapon.
"Oh, Mr. Socks..."
A white wool sock was pulled onto the ventriloquist's left hand. It was a substitute personality he had created in Scarface's absence.
("Is it really right to hurt others like this?")
He shrank back, murmuring cautiously to his left hand.
("Look, he's bleeding.")
("Enough, Mr. Ventriloquist, you're too cowardly.")
Though he kept his mouth shut, a deep, aggressive voice emerged from his stomach. The sock opened and closed like a talking puppet, its presence unsettling and uncanny.
("Idiot. Without the hostages, what leverage do we have to get Scarface back?")
The sock waved erratically, like a venomous snake poised to strike.
("This is the time for threats. That bastard got shot. As long as they behave, I won't hurt them. Right?")
("But, but...")
("Shut up! Don't waste energy on this nonsense. Batman could burst in at any moment—")
The Ventriloquist sobbed in grievance but dared not argue with Mr. Socks. Instead, he turned sorrowfully toward the wounded guard and muttered:
"I'm sorry..."
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
A violent knock at the door interrupted him.
The Ventriloquist instantly aimed his gun at a hostage, his voice shifting to Mr. Socks—now darker, lower, and full of crazed brutality, like a beast whose lair had been invaded:
"I said, if you dare to come in, I'll shoot—"
"Knock knock. This is Batman."
Arnold's hair stood on end. That voice—he knew it too well. It was Batman.
But something was wrong.
Batman never knocked.
Mr. Socks tensed every muscle. He dropped to the ground, raised the gun, and prepared to fire. As soon as Batman stepped inside, the muzzle would spit flames—
"Hurry up and open the door. Let Bat-Daddy pour the sweet milk of justice into you\~"
"???"
The absurd sentence coming from the normally grim and stoic Batman made the Ventriloquist freeze, and more importantly, gave Bruce just enough time to step through the door unscathed.
"Batman, you—"
The Ventriloquist snapped out of it, but the moment was gone.
"Scarface!"
The puppet appeared—blocking the muzzle of his gun and making Arnold's fingers seize up. He couldn't pull the trigger.
("Asshole! Let me go now!")
A new voice erupted. If Mr. Socks sounded like a violent thug, this voice was darker—an embodiment of the Ventriloquist's inner demons.
Malice seeped into the room like black ink.
The Ventriloquist stood up. The cowardly old man was gone. In his place stood someone whose chest puffed with a devil's pride, his back straight, like something evil had possessed his fragile frame.
His lips sealed tight. The sock opened and closed, voice trembling with rage:
("Give Mr. Scarface back to us—")
"No. Don't do this. I've talked to Batman."
The Ventriloquist froze.
The voice had come from Scarface.
Bruce didn't open his mouth. Are you the only one who can do ventriloquism?
As a trained actor, imitation was his bread and butter—including voices.
The Ventriloquist should have shot him the moment they met—but he hesitated.
So now, it was Bruce's stage.
He had never intended to treat the Ventriloquist with traditional methods.
Mr. Socks sensed the shift and shouted for Arnold to shoot.
"Don't shoot. I've talked to Batman. You're a good man. You were just forced to do bad things, weren't you?"
("No, no! That's not what Scarface just said. I want you to shoot! Shoot!")
("That's right! Listen to Scarface! Shoot—")
"No! I'm Scarface! You have to listen to—"
"Stop—!"
Four voices clashed and overlapped—Bruce's ventriloquism versus Arnold's.
They battled for control of Scarface's identity.
This was the Ventriloquist's fatal flaw: his split personality brought inner conflict, and Bruce's mastery of imitation only made the chaos worse. His mimicked voice alternated rapidly with the real Scarface's, throwing Arnold into total confusion.
Amid the verbal war, Bruce opened his satchel. Inside: dozens of hand puppets—simple toys you could insert your hand into and control.
Arnold's eyes were drawn to them.
"What... what does that mean?"
Bruce suddenly reached out.
*"Damn it!"*
In a flash, the Ventriloquist's gun pointed at Bruce's chin like a coiled spring snapping loose.
But it was too late.
Scarface gave a contradictory order at the exact same moment.
By the time Arnold's scrambled mind caught up, the sock was already in Bruce's hand.
*Disarmed.*
*"No! Mr. Socks!"*
The Ventriloquist's scream shook the room.
*"What are you doing to Mr. Socks!?"*
Without the sock, Arnold reverted to his original self—a helpless old man.
Batman ignored his cries. He kicked the man into the corner.
"You're safe now. Get out."
*"Aiya—!"*
The hostages glanced at one another—then bolted. Even the wounded guard sprang up, waved his bloodied hand for sympathy, and sprinted like a rabbit.
*...*
Batman stood silently until the room was empty. Then he approached Arnold, holding up the filthy sock, and slowly tore it in half.
*"NO!!!!"*
The Ventriloquist lunged toward the scraps, as if mourning a family member.
"Wuuuu! Socks! How can I live without you?! Take me with you—Socks!"
Before he could collapse into hysterics, Batman hoisted him by the collar and slapped him twice.
"Don't cry. Look. What's this?"
"Scarface!"
Arnold reached forward, but *crack!*—Bruce twisted the Scarface puppet into a knot and crushed it underfoot.
*"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"*
*"Get up!"*
Batman yanked Arnold off the ground and smacked him again, left and right, knocking the panic out of his head before it could explode.
Then Bruce shoved him down in front of the open satchel.
"Forget your old puppets. Try some new ones. Pick one—hell, pick all of them. There are dozens."
Arnold was stunned from the reality check. His eyes were blank, still reeling from the destruction of his two protector personalities.
Dazed, he reached into the bag and grabbed a puppet. The next second, a brand-new voice echoed from his stomach...
---
Due to extreme schizophrenia, the Ventriloquist had a tendency to create violent secondary personalities. These identities served as *protectors*, shielding his fragile main persona—Arnold.
But within moments, both of his existing protector personalities had been destroyed—brutally, irreversibly—by Bruce.
Now, in a state of overwhelming fear and psychological vulnerability, Arnold's instinct would be to seek out a new "protector."
Under normal circumstances, he would grab any object, personify it, and wear it—just as he turned an ordinary wool sock into the vicious Mr. Socks.
But what happens...
...when he's suddenly given dozens of puppets all at once?
---