The following is a non-profit work of fiction. Batman: WB Interactive, DC Comics, Rocksteady, Paul Dini, and other entities that I probably missed all own Batman: Arkham Asylum, Arkham City, and Arkham Origins. OK, that looks good. Bite me, legal teams!

Alright, kiddo, so tell me, you here cuz you wanna be, or because they up and put you in this situation? You think any of them, Vale, Sharp, Bullock and his lackeys, or even that freak with the cape give two shakes of a rat's ass about what happens to you? True, they don't want you to get hurt, but really, this is all about what I have to offer. Truth is, no matter what happens, Sharp's gonna put up the walls, and us so called "low-life's" will have nothing left to do but tear each other apart, just as you all hope. Oh, spare me the look, it's written all over your face. You ain't even from here, but you couldn't be happier, knowing that Joker, Harley, and all us poor dancing clowns are gonna be locked in a high security playpen.

Well, truth is that it isn't gonna hold him. I don't know how, but it does seem kind of pathetic that everyone seems to think that that will be all it takes to get rid of him forever. Cept our buddy outside, of course, but since when did he count? Which brings us here. They told you the deal, four-eyes? Awesome. And for the record, I want to see him fry just as much as anyone. Don't let the make-up fool you, or my history. A lot of people want to see him dead, once and for all, even in his very own "army…"

Prologue

Arkham Island, five hours after initial prisoner uprising

Hector Silva sat in the master control room in the intensive treatment building, staring intently at the monitors viewing the visitor's center. His men had just finished moving the smuggled fireworks to the roof, and had finally bound the two Titan monsters next to the Joker's throne. Over the years, Hector's distaste for the arbitrary theatricality of his boss had slowly but surely boiled over to a loathing that surpassed incarceration, dealing with rival criminals like Penguin and Two-face, and putting up with that sanctimonious commissioner currently (hehe) in custody. Normally, he wouldn't pass up the chance to rub some salt into the wounded officer's pride, but an earlier chance encounter with the Dark Knight, ruined any chance of taking a long walk on the beach for at least a few months.

"Boss, you getting this?" A voice squealed out of the walkie on the panel in front of him. Ray was new meat, but he could follow orders and, for someone serving time for manslaughter and larceny, did a reasonable job towards not attracting attention. To think, the only reason he signed up with this business was so Hector wouldn't have to shank him. In his defense, Hector thought, the guy snored. "The greenhouse just collapsed in on itself! What the hell is going on?!" Hector grunted, figuring that Ivy must be slipping in her old age if it took so little time for him to stomp her into the ground, again. "It means you need to get your ass over to the visitor's center, and let everyone know he's coming."

"You're telling me that you expect me to try and stop someone who just got done fighting who-knows-what in there…" "I'm not expecting you to stop him, I know you are going to fail, and that it will be hilarious, and that the more you think you have a chance, the funnier it will be, but you have a job to do, so just do it," deadpanned Hector. To think, years ago, he had gone from thinking that he could've stopped the guy mano-a-mano, to later attempting to gang-up on him, to even later trying to land a single blow against him, to eventually hoping his coma wouldn't last of a week. Hector knew he wasn't weak, and he could brawl and street-fight with the best of them, but the Dark Knight simply defied explanation. It didn't matter how many went after him, what they were carrying, or how foolproof the trap was, he simply could not be defeated.

Ignoring the whimpering over the comm. channel, he focused back on the monitor, following black-clad figure looking at the fireworks display now commencing. He had seen this song and dance so many times that he couldn't help but tune out and divorce himself from the inevitable. He had no illusions towards what was about to happen, and he knew that whatever the Joker was going to throw at him, Batman was going to knock it out of the park. Maybe there was some deeper meaning towards what was going on between the two of them. That this was some kind of game where he was just too stupid to follow the rules, but all he could see anymore was the aftermath. Hector reckoned that there were at least a hundred dead members of the security staff, with survivors as far as he could tell scattered throughout the various facilities. The Blackgate prisoners didn't get out unscathed either, as those who weren't killed in the engagements with the security staff were either strangled or beaten to death by the native inmates of Arkham after Joker released them, or were… consumed by Poison Ivy's carnivorous plants, and he was reasonably sure that one unlucky inmate got lost in the sewers, so the poor bastard was as good as dead. In fact, looking at the security camera, it seemed that the hundred or so inmates currently residing in the visitor's center were all that was left of the initial two hundred and fifty inmates Joker brought to the asylum, and only half of those still standing were in any form of fighting condition.

After spending years repressing this single, traitorous thought, it had at long last dawned on him. This is insane. The culling, the experimentation, the meaningless sacrifices, the complete and sheer disregard towards, not only the established norms, even rules, of organized crime, but rational thought itself. To think, somehow, he had run with this crew for eight years, ever since the fall of Roman Sionis himself. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. Tiffany. Charlie. Ron. It was just him. He was the only one left, the only one who remembered the takeover, and the only one who survived the turf wars, the suicide missions, the petty tantrums, and those ridiculous mind games between two people who couldn't even remember their names!

He knew what he had to do. By now, the GCPD would realize that every single bomb was a dud. Sure enough, Gotham SWAT was on the other side of the bay getting ready to charge the bridge at a moments warning. He hoped the Riddler had shot his mouth off enough to get caught, because if not, what he was about to do was going to end up a bloodbath. He glanced around himself, confirming he was alone, and then he switched to the security feed. He could tell that the few survivors of the rampage were either holed up in the medical center, the greenhouse, and one particularly obnoxious one in the penitentiary. Next would be finding where the emergency shut down protocol was located. It shouldn't be that hard, seeing as Harley was able to bring the entire system to its knees, and sure enough, after browsing through the network, he found it. Using this, he would be able to completely shut down access to the buildings where the survivors were held up, preventing them from being used as leverage in case Joker or any of his more trigger-happy henchmen felt like staving off the inevitable just a bit longer. Now, what was that code Riddler mentioned? He gingerly typed in the digital kill switch "m4D+d0g" and exhaled when he viewed nearly all the emergency blast doors on the island slam shut.

Step one done, thought Hector, now for the cavalry. Bracing himself on a shotgun, and hoping the splint made out of duct tape and a chair leg would hold, he hobbled over towards the front desk. Ordinarily, the landline would be severed in situations like this, but considering his boss's propensity for crank calls, he had a hunch it would be intact. After ten minutes of pained hobbling, he made it to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the GCPD's number.

"This is the GCPD, what is the nature of your emergency." He thought for a second. Gordon was currently one meter away from being a monsters chew toy, so that would make… "Put Lt. Bullock on the phone on the phone."

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid…"

"Yes, I know he's currently about to charge Arkham Island, that's what this is about."

"Wait, it says that you're calling from…"

"DAMMIT, YOU PUT HIS FAT ASS ON THE LINE, NOW!"

There was a pause. For a second, he was worried that he blew his chance, until…

"Bullock, who's calling? That you, Cash?"

"Not quite."

"Wait…you…" He could practically smell the contempt on the other end of the line.

"As much as I'd like to reminisce on the old days, I just wanted to let you know that, apart from the commissioner, there are no hostages for you to worry about, so feel free to bust in"

Dead silence.

"And if it's the commissioner you are worried about, last I saw, Batman was on his way, so there is that."

Still nothing. He was about to hang up or redial when he heard.

"So tell me, what happened? You finally ready to hang it up?"

"… Yeah, I guess so."

"Too bad, you've still gotta burn for what you've done."

And finally, he heard the disconnect signal. Nothing left to do but lean back and wait. As he did, he found himself looking up at a familiar stern, make-upped face.

"Riley, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the party?"

"Don't play dumb with me. I heard the whole thing. I know what you just did. And when the boss is done with the Bat, Imma haul your sorry carcass to him. I knew you were going soft, and when I kill your ass, I…" That was the thing about Riley, he spent most of his time and energy flapping his jaw, and not enough time looking at his surroundings. As a result, he failed to take in the little details in the world around him. Like the fact that the target he was screaming at was holding a shotgun.

So there you have it, the prologue. Like it, hate it, disinterested. Feel free to let me know.