You Know My Name: A Tale of Gotham Nights

[Publius]

Clearly, Publius is writing on a whole other level. Well-done!

P.S. Its 'Keister', not 'keyster'.

So it is. Thank you.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Clearly, Publius is writing on a whole other level. Well-done!

P.S. Its 'Keister', not 'keyster'.

So it is. Thank you.

No problem. "Keyster" sounds like one of the Flash's arch enemies.

[Publius]

Chapter 13: I Don't Want to Miss a Thing

The Mad Hatter's tea parties were like those occasions no one really wants to go to but everyone attends, for fear of missing an important opportunity to put in an appearance and for fear of offending someone important. It was not necessarily the Hatter himself — his reputation in Gotham was suitably ambivalent for some to regard him as a big time player and others to regard him as a dangerous curiosity. The knowledge that other underbosses would be there made attendance more or less mandatory. Gotham's underground was a lot like high society (and by extension, high school) in that it was vital to see and be seen. Networking had been the key to success long before the Internet and modern business seminars had made it a buzzword.

Tonight's party-goers were a motley crew of Triads, Yakuza, Irish mobsters, Cartel men, and some of the syndicate's Mafiosi defectors. Their only common bond was that they were currently part of the syndicate, and they were all considering doing away with that common bond. The Mad Hatter, once again the chief enforcer for the entire syndicate, had invited them all to tea.

He smiled — as usual, the expression put no one at ease, regardless of how friendly he tried to make it. He made his sales pitch, complete with thinly-veiled threats of retribution should they leave without the Czaritsa's permission. Frank opinions were exchanged and the situation discussed. It was all very friendly. Very friendly.

"Friends, all I wish to say is that protection is what truly matters these days. Who can offer you better protection than the Czaritsa?" He grinned. People no longer questioned what the Mad Hatter could do for them... or to them. The late and unlamented Lucky Jimmy O'Neill had seen to that... with his good eye.

"Nobody doubts that you can kill businessmen," said one of the Escabedo men. "But let's face it, Kosov's people were hit as hard as Scarface's these past months, and that was with you on hand already."

"There's a certain amount of risk in every endeavor," the Mad Hatter said, running his gloved finger along the rim of his tea cup. "But I hardly think — "

The skylight shattered into a million jagged fragments and smoke grenades plunged the room into confusion and chaos. There was a flash and a bang, and then a flutter of red, and the Red Death was among them.

He was fast, there was no doubt about that. The shuriken found their mark, disarming the already-disoriented underbosses who'd had the presence of mind to produce their guns. And then the blade...

"That's quite enough out of you," the Mad Hatter said through a feral grin, his hand going to the brim of his top hat.

Red Riding Hood slowed noticeably, clearly struggling with the Hatter's mind control. A well-placed shuriken drove the Hatter to dodge, affording some relief from the overwhelming psychic pressure. An inconvenient truth: The Mad Hatter's control was not entirely irresistible when it was broadcast without a receiver. When his victim was not wearing one of his hats or price tags, there was always the possibility that willpower could overcome the mind control waves.

More smoke grenades. Apparently it was well known that the broadcast method was most effective with a clear line of sight. The blade was out again, and slashed at a few of the underbosses who had not yet found a place to take cover. But the Mad Hatter was keeping the Red Death back, limiting the range of his attack. Like the chess queen, he dominated the board so long as he was in play; Red Riding Hood could not venture far from his protective smoke screen without falling prey to his mind control once again.

All things considered, he couldn't have arranged a more effective demonstration of why staying with the syndicate would be a good career move.

The Hatter advanced on the Hood, his left hand firmly affixed to the brim of his hat. His teeth were gritted, but his lips twisted into a nasty grin. He'd not had such fun in ages.

"One, two! one, two! and through and through," he said in a sing-song voice, "The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!"

The Hood retreated, the wakizashi out and at the ready but his body language clearly showing signs of struggle. The Hatter was close enough now that he simply deflected a flash-bang with his free hand, letting it tumble back to bamboozle some of the hapless underbosses.

"He left it dead, and with its head," he said nastily, drawing a pistol from his pocket — Red Riding Hood was backed up against a window now —

The hammer fell, the thunder sounded. Red Riding Hood shuddered. Again. Again. The window shattered, and the Red Death fell with the glass.

The Mad Hatter doffed his hat and swept it around, the pistol still smoking as he turned back to his audience with a flourish and a bow, grinning from ear to ear: "He went galumphing back!"

* * * * * * * *

Tim was, at this point, willing to admit that his recovery had not been as thorough as he'd liked to think. Red Riding Hood was (he repeatedly reminded himself) only so so at swinglining, probably as a result of having been "dead" for so long. There was no reason the alleged Boy Wonder should have been so far behind in tracking him.

He'd arrived at the scene of the attack after it had already come and gone. The Mad Hatter's guests were not in terrific shape; about five of them were dead, more were bleeding. All, however, were suitably impressed that the strange little man had fought off the Masked Red Death. Nothing terribly impressive about that, Tim harrumphed, when you considered that he'd only recently had the tar beaten out of him by Two-Face. Since no lives were in imminent danger, Bruce's edict on Tim's inactivity applied. He observed the scene for a few minutes, deployed a listening device, and set out to try to find the now twice-chastened Red Riding Hood. He'd double back and scope out the crime scene later.

Pursuit was surprisingly straightforward. It hadn't snowed tonight, so the Hood's footprints were crisply preserved. Given that he was only so so at swinglining, it made it a lot easier to follow his tracks; he was more likely to require frequent stops to re-position and re-orient himself. Which was good, really; Tim's side was already aching.

There — just up ahead. The Red Death was heading to the edge, where there was waiting for him what looked like a powered glider. Interesting. His movements were sluggish, and it looked like he was having some breathing problems. Not surprising at all; he'd just suffered a two storey fall, and if the scene of the attack was any indication, he may well have been shot. Tim was in an unfortunate position to commiserate in that regard. Being shot did not feel good, even without the penetrative trauma.

"That's a pretty sweet rig you've got there," Tim said, narrowing his eyes.

The Hood turned slowly and eyed him, apparently sizing him up. He was definitely breathing hard, hunched over. It looked as though the fall had scraped off some of the paint on his bodysuit. From the looks of things, he was in no condition for a fight. Well, that was good — neither was Tim.

"I've got one like it," he continued. "Where'd you get yours?"

The Hood turned back and continued to don the glider, having evidently decided that Tim was no threat. He made some kind of noise deep in his throat, and paused to rub at his temples.

"Something wrong, Jason?"

The Hood's breathing increased its pace; it sounded like he was almost strangling inside his mask. "Stay back," he rasped. "I... don't want — You're not on my list."

"So you have a list, then," Tim said warily. He was careful not to draw any closer. "Where did you get it? Same place you got all your gear? Who's paying for all this?" He hesitated. "Who's making you do this, Jason?"

"You... you don't know anything," the Hood said, finishing with the glider. He turned back to face Tim. "Stay away. You're not on my list."

"Why are you doing this?"

The Hood was silent for a long time, staring at him through his unchanging mask. "It is who I am now."

"Is it really?" Tim shook his head. "It doesn't have to be. You have a choice."

The Hood shuddered, his breathing increased, and he rubbed at his temples again. "It is who I am," he repeated, his voice growing harsher. "Now."

"That's the second time you've said that," Tim said, narrowing his eyes again. There was something not right here. The elephant in the room. "I don't think this is who you are. Not really. Someone is making you do this. Who?"

"It is who I am!" His body language was getting hostile.

"No," Tim shook his head emphatically. "Jason, please listen to me. I know this isn't you, not really. Let me help you."

"You don't know anything."

"I know this isn't — "

"Stop following me. You don't know anything. It is who I am."

"Do you even know who you are anymore?"

"You're not on my list," the Hood said again, visibly straining. He seemed pretty out of it. The Mad Hatter must have hurt him pretty badly; internal bleeding, probably. "Stay away. This is who I am now. Stop following me."

"It doesn't have to be."

"I don't want to hurt you," the Hood said, one hand firmly clasped to his face, covering one eye. Tim would have to scrounge and see if he'd had a history of migraines.

"Then don't," he said. "Who did this to you? Why are you doing this?"

"It is who I am," he hissed, a strangling noise in his throat. "I have no choice. It is who I am."

"Tell me who is making you do this. I can help you."

"You don't know anything. Stay away. You're not on my list. I don't want to hurt you." It was like talking to a computer. He was repeating himself.

"I don't understand," Tim said, shaking his head. "Why are you doing this?"

"You know who I am," said Red Riding Hood, his voice like a cold wind on a tombstone. "You know my name."

He turned and jumped.

And then he was gone with the wind.

[Gullible Jones]

Umm. If Wikipedia is correct, this plot has appeared in the comics, and Red Riding Hood is indeed Jason Todd. Is this supposed to be a retelling of the story from Tim Drake's perspective, or is there something different going on?

[Publius]

This plot has not appeared in the comics. You are probably thinking of the Red Hood, whom Robin mentions in chapter 11 ("Send in the Clowns"), noting the similarity of the name with Red Riding Hood. You Know My Name: A Tale of Gotham Nights is not a retelling or re-imagining of Batman: Under the Hood; in fact, the two stories are incompatible.

[LadyTevar]

So it is Jason Todd... and someone is mind-controlling him.

Which leads back to a master of Mind Control, the Mad Hatter.

[Publius]

Chapter Fourteen: Here's to the Night

It had been a grueling few months, but the payoff was worth it. All the maneuvering, the killings, the untidiness. It had been decidedly unpleasant work, the Czaritsa decided, but then, what is easily gained is prized cheaply, and easily lost again. Anything worth having is worth working for, and her throne as the empress of the Gotham undergound was very much worth having. She now controlled or had direct influence over two-thirds of all organized crime in the city. And unlike her immediate predecessor, the Black Mask, her syndicate had not been haphazardly thrown together from existing parts, a Frankenstein's monster of crime; no, thanks to Scarface's preliminary work and her own further edicts, along with the Mad Hatter's assiduous efforts at enforcement, the syndicate was now a thoroughly modernized, organic business. Even if the syndicate's size did not translate directly to absolute control of two-thirds of all the territories, it did mean that she was the undisputed most powerful crime boss since the death of Big Boy Caprice in 1938.

It was no small achievement for a woman who'd grown up in the shadow of her big brother Viktor, whose ambitions had never extended higher than being some day the boss of the whole of the Odessa mob in the West End of the city. As she stood at the expansive windows of her huge office, overlooking the city below, she saw that it was good. As she stood at the windows of what had once been the office of Carmine "The Roman" Falcone, who had once been the most powerful boss Gotham had seen in decades, but whose power was much less than her own, she saw that it was good. She smiled. It was good to be tsaritsa.

The Gotham she now ruled — or at least dominated — was different from the Roman's Gotham. That had been back in the Cold War, before the great changes that had re-shaped the world. Many of the new outfits had either been modestly-sized operations subservient to the Five Families, or else had not existed at all. The Gotham Yakuza, the Burnley Town Massive, the Escabedo Cartel, the Latino Unified Gang... None of them had even been on the map back then. Nor had there been any of the freaks in those days, with the exception of Albert Wesker, whose severe personality disorders had not yet become so acute. The Five Families had been the alpha and the omega of organized crime, and the Roman had been a giant among men — but even then he'd had to share power with Sal "The Boss" Maroni. Today it was a different world, and a different Gotham; the Czaritsa was a giant among giants. The stakes were higher — the players much rougher — than ever before. And yet she had triumphed. Comparing her to the Roman was like comparing Stalin to Mussolini.

"Your car is ready, Alexandra Fyodorovna," said one of her bodyguards, a man who had served her family since before she was born. It was for this reason she permitted him to call in such familiar terms. Business was one thing, but one had always to look after family.

She smiled and allowed him to help her with her coat of luxurious mink fur. It was good to be tsaritsa.

The ride to the parking garage was uneventful; her personal security detachment was well-paid to ensure that it was always uneventful. Likewise the car ride. No one in Gotham had a more extensive or better financed corps of bodyguards — no one, not even the mayor, not even the corpulent 'aristocrat of crime' Oswald Cobblepot. It may be good to be tsaritsa, but she certainly had no illusions of imperial sacrosanctity. She knew all too well what had happened to the last Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias.

The Czaritsa was not a terribly devout person, but she'd been raised Russian Orthodox, and much like the Italian mafiosi and the Roman Catholic Church, a part of her retained that lifelong obedience. Only part, of course — her religion did nothing to regulate her business practices, but she was a believer and she gave generously to the Church. Every year, in addition to the usual solemnities and occasions to be seen, she made her way down to the St. Athanasius's Cathedral in the West End — built with Kosov money — to mark the anniversary of her father's death. This year would be no different. The regularity of the trip made heightened security a priority.

The arrival, as so much else, was uneventful. It was a truly beautiful church — easily on the same scale as St. Thomas Aquinas's, the Catholic cathedral downtown. That was important. The Romans had to be reminded of their place every now and then. She headed to the analogion near the iconostasion, where she was to meet her spiritual father. The Romans would call him a confessor.

To her great surprise, it was not her spiritual father who arrived.

"How did you get in here?" she demanded.

"I walked through the door," the man said in accented Russian — accented, but nevertheless quite fluent. "Knock, and the door is opened. That is what you believe, is it not so?"

"What do you want?" she was decidedly angry at this unexpected turn of events. Her head of security was going to receive a visit from the Mad Hatter. "Where is Father Grigori?"

"He is in good company. I am here to talk business."

"You profane this church with your — "

"Please. Do you often lie before your God? I am no more profane than you."

"You are not even Christian!"

He shrugged. "How often do you wash before you pray? If my presence offends you so much, why don't we step outside?"

The Czaritsa snorted. "And be gunned down by your men? I think not."

"If I wanted you dead," he said, his breathing coming in steadily and with a strange rasp to it, "I would have killed you already. As you said, I am not Christian. This building is not sacred to me."

She glanced at her personal bodyguard, the man who had been with her family for decades. He was looking at her visitor with surprise and outright hostility. She waved him off. As he said, if he'd wanted her dead... "Very well. We will go outside. But not the door, no. Come. We will go upstairs. There is a balcony on the third floor."

He followed her up the stairs, making no comment as they walked. He was all business, no fuss. There was a kind of steely charisma to him, an aura of naked power. It was easy to see why he had done so well in the last few months.

"Your Russian is excellent, for an Iraqi," she said casually once they'd reached the balcony. "Where did you learn?"

"Leningrad, 1979. Are you done with small talk?" All business, indeed.

"What do you want?"

"I want the killings to stop."

"And I want President Ryan to die a humiliating death. We do not always get what we want."

"Do not insult me by feigning ignorance, woman," he said, his voice as raspy as ever. "This Joker, this Red Riding Hood. Both were inflicted on us by your man. I have endured their outrages as long as I will endure them. Seven times they have made attempts on my life. They have threatened my men. They have threatened my business. It stops. Now. Or I will show you pampered Americans what war is."

"Pampered? American? If you think — "

He grunted. "You are American citizen, with American rights, and American comforts."

"My... dear sir," she said, her anger solidified into an icy ball in her stomach, "If you think you will intimidate me, you are mistaken. If you think me ill-equipped to settle accounts with you, by all means, please try."

They glared at one another, each calm, confident, dangerous. Despite the drastic differences in age, gender, nationality, and culture, they were distinctly cut from the same cloth.

He shook his head slightly. "I have said what I came to say. The killings stop. Or the killings will start in earnest. It is your — "

The shuriken came in at lightning speed, carefully aimed directly for his throat. But the man's reflexes were fast — far faster than anyone the Czaritsa had ever seen; what should have torn his throat wide open instead was deflected by the sleeve of his coat.

She had her pistol out in an instant, scanning the horizon for — there! A flutter of red, a figure dressed in black. The Masked Red Death, here? A whuff of air as the grapnel gun latched onto the wall just above where they stood. It would be only seconds before the killer was among them.

"Faithless drab," he hissed, as his fist crashed into her side, just beneath the ribs. Her chic business suit offered no protection from the blow.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, scrabbling away from him and trying to straighten herself out. "He's coming, you idiot!"

He plucked her pistol from her hands.

"I come in good faith," he growled, his face an ugly mask of blackest anger, as he. His white leather glove closed around the pistol's grip. "And again you send your killer! Again you send your Red Riding Hood after me! No more. I warned you."

The last thing Alexandra Fyodorovna Kosova, Czaritsa of Gotham, ever saw was the barrel of her own pistol being pressed against her good eye.

* * * * * * * *

The door of the executive suite in the Iceberg Lounge swung open with unaccustomed speed as the raspy-voiced man entered, and eyed his fellow tetrarchs. Well, strictly speaking, two of his fellow tetrarchs, and the third's representative. The Penguin, Two-Face, and the Tally Man, representing the Great White Shark. Together they represented less than one-third of Gotham's organized crime. At the same time, however, they represented the best-funded, best-organized, and best-equipped networks in the tristate area, and what they lacked in quantity was more than made up in quality. Not for them the gaudy shows of power that befitted a Black Mask or a Czaritsa. Let them run Gotham; this shadow tetrarchy owned the city itself, and the county, and more beyond. Let the boss of bosses intimidate the mayor; this shadow tetrarchy now owned the speaker, the governor, four congressmen, and both senators.

"Peace be upon you," said the Penguin in Arabic, the cigarette lighter making its way from one side of his mouth to the other as he spoke. The Mullah had been surprised to find that he spoke surprisingly literate Arabic, as well as a fair amount of Turkish, Kurdish, and Farsi. It should have not been surprising, in retrospect; the Penguin was nothing if not a man of culture. His family had conquered Qurac for the British Empire, after all.

"And upon you be peace," he said, tossing a pair of white leather gloves to Two-Face. "A souvenir," he rasped. "If anyone was less fond of her than I, it was you."

Two-Face took a generous puff of his cigar as he examined the gloves. "This is blood," he said.

"Sometimes a man has to get his hands dirty," said the Tally Man, examining one of the bottles he'd retrieved from the mini-bar's exquisitely stocked inventory. "De la Vega '42? Who'd you have to kill to get ahold of this, Penguin?

"As you say, Tally Man, sometimes a man has to get his hands dirty," the aristocrat said, wiping his monocle on a silk handkerchief and screwing it back into his eye socket. "I take it your meeting with our beloved imperatritsa was infelicitous, effendi?"

"There is no honor among the Russians," he said, shaking his head.

The Penguin arched an eyebrow at this. "Some things never change, my friend." Long ago, Oswald Cobblepot had been refused military service in Viet Nam due to his weight, despite the plethora of letters of recommendation from general officers from six different countries. He had instead served as a spymaster for the CIA across the Iron Curtain, covered as the third secretary in the American embassy in Markovia. Perhaps more than any other among the first rank of Gotham's criminal elite, he understood the Mullah's hostile opinion of Mother Russia.

He held up his coat sleeve and pointed to the tear in the fabric from Red Riding Hood's shuriken. "She brought her pet assassin. It is fortunate I have learned from other men's mistakes. No doubt the weapon was laced with poison."

Two-Face removed the cigar from his mouth and regarded the Mullah with a wry look. "I take it this is not your blood, then."

"What is it your Marion Barry said? B— set me up."

The Tally Man allowed a thin smile. "For a man who hasn't spent much time in America, Salih, you seem to know an awful lot about our culture."

He shrugged. "I have had reason to become familiar with it."

Two-Face stood and turned so he was actually facing the other three. "Well, gentlemen, as glad as I am to hear that jewel-eyed tart won't be bothering us anymore, that doesn't solve our immediate problem."

"Do you think the Hatter will take control? Or another of Kosov's inner circle?"

"Difficult to say. The Hatter is definitely responsible for some of the troubles of late. He's one of us, though. If possible, he should be spared."

"If possible," Two-Face agreed, exhaling smoke. "Ball's in his court on that one."

"I disagree," said the Mullah. "As he sows, let him reap."

"Two in favor, one against. Tally Man?"

"My employer feels the Hatter is too valuable to lose, if the loss can be avoided."

"Very well. The question before us, then, is twofold. Who will succeed Kosov, and what shall be done about the killings?"

"This Joker is your friend, Oswald bey. Can you not speak to him?"

"A friend of sorts, I'm afraid. You know what he's like. He has done the courtesy of sparing Two-Face and me too much trouble," said the Penguin, ejecting his extinguished cigarette from its long holder. "He won't extend the courtesy to you or the Great White, nor will he tell me what he's up to. Notoriously difficult man."

"We should kill him and be done with it," said the Mullah.

"Not a good idea," the Tally Man said, shaking his head. "The last time someone deliberately tried to rub out the Joker... well, they're still finding pieces of him all over the city."

"It's usually best to leave him alone," Two-Face said, gesturing vaguely with his cigar. "The bat'll get him eventually."

The Mullah grunted. "'The bat.' I am not impressed."

"You haven't met him yet," the Tally Man shook his head again. "Just wait. You'll see."

"Keep your eyes on the prize, boys," Two-Face interrupted. "Leave the clown to the bat. Kill the kid in the red cape. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Inelegantly phrased, but nevertheless I concur."

"Agreed."

"And the syndicate?"

"We need more information before we can act," said the Tally Man. "My employer is uneasy with the lack of actionable intelligence in this matter. The Hatter is our only lead."

"I haven't got anything," said Two-Face. "The street's still talking about that Holiday garbage Scarface was touting."

"To that end," said the Penguin, walking to his magnificently-appointed desk. "I have taken the liberty of inviting a guest to join us for tonight's session." He touched a switch to activate the intercom. "Please find my guest and show him in, Miss Horton." The Penguin's mild language did nothing to reduce the absolute power in his voice. For a man of such corpulent build, he contained a surprising amount of steel.

"And who's your guest?"

"Come, Two-Face, do you really have to ask? Who, indeed?"

The door opened and the guest entered, bowler and cane in hand. "Riddle me this, gentlemen: When is a door not a door?"

The Riddler grinned. "When it's ajar."

[Publius]

Chapter Fifteen: Hips Don't Lie

There was a whuff of compressed air as Red Riding Hood fired his grapnel gun at the cathedral's balcony, clearly intent on finishing the job. The Mullah would die, whether by shuriken or by wakizashi. One way or another. He was on the list.

Before he could so much as shift his weight, the razor-sharp Batarang sliced through the jumpline like a hot knife through butter. Tim may have been too late to stop the shuriken, but he certainly wasn't going to let the Hood take a second shot.

The Red Death's pattern had simplified tremendously of late, and had come to focus quite heavily on outskirts of the city — not coincidentally where he was more likely to strike at the Mullah's growing outfit. The pattern had also taken on an increased attention on the upper levels, to the point he'd actually made several attacks on the Mullah himself. Like Catwoman and others before him, he'd learned not to underestimate the Kurdish boss. Though the Mullah himself had proven impervious to the assassin's attacks thus far, he was one of the few; the attacks had been coming quickly and almost regularly, creating intolerable pressure.

And so Tim had realized that he could track Red Riding Hood's movements and attacks much more closely if he cross-referenced the movements of the Mullah and his underbosses. Thus leading him here, to St. Athanasius's in the West End. The bulwark of the Odessa mob, where Red Riding Hood had made yet another attempt on the Iraqi Kurd's life.

The Hood turned to face him, partially crouched, his weight evenly balanced on the balls of his feet. Whatever he'd said before about not wanting to hurt Tim, his body language was definitely hostile. There was the sound of a gunshot, and the Hood shifted his attention slightly. That moment's distraction was all Tim needed.

The flashbang caught him by surprise, and Tim's fist found its way into his gut. The Hood's immediate response was to retaliate in kind, driving an elbow blindly into Tim's sternum — only to find it protected by his cuirass. The lenses in the Hood's mask must have been pretty good, because the flashbang's disorientation didn't seem to last very long. Tim caught a second punch to the ribs — Sweet fancy Moses, that hurts! — and repaid him with a jab to the jaw.

The Hood retreated a few steps, then advanced with a feint to the right, and a sidekick from the left. Deflected, and riposted neatly. Tim's attacks were mostly probing at this point; he hadn't yet had occasion to engage in too much hand-to-hand with the Red Death, and needed to sound out his defenses first. He had fists like steel and a mean sidekick, and his posture showed definite signs of a few different martial arts; it was a bit unclear as to which one was dominant. There was a scrape of metal against leather, and the envenomed wakizashi made its appearance.

"What happened to 'I don't want to hurt you,' Jason?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Or what?"

The Hood made no response, slashing at him without hesitation. Tim's earlier suspicions were confirmed; he clearly knew how to handle the blade, even if he wasn't using a formal style. Unfortunately, he was also fast.

The blade made a distinct snap as it collided with Tim's bo staff. "Ceramic-coated magnesium alloy. Don't bother trying to cut through it, Jason," he said.

"You don't know anything!" The Hood hissed. He slashed again and again, with increasing vigor. Even with Tim's advantage in reach, it was by no means easy to hold him off.

"No?" He seemed to react badly to being engaged in conversation. "I know you had Poison Ivy produce the tetrodotoxin you've been using to kill people, for starters."

No response. Even with his N/K bodysuit being proof against most cuts, Tim needed to get rid of the wakizashi, and fast. Even the slightest cut could be potentially deadly.

"I know you've been deliberately targeting the Mullah and his goons," he said, wiping aside another blow. The Hood's grip was — unsurprisingly — quite strong. Didn't seem like knocking it out of his hands was very likely. "I know you and the Mad Hatter faked the attack in Five Points — the whole site was littered with .45 and 9mm shells, but wouldn't you know it? I found three 2mm Kolibri shells. Now I know for a fact that none of the Hatter's guests were carrying pieces chambered for 2mm cartridges, and I know for a fact you were shot precisely three times. Do you think I missed anything, Jason?"

"Stop calling me that," he repeated, his voice definitely sounding angry. The wakizashi flew like a silver sheet of fire. "You don't know anything."

"Really? I know you're wearing a suit of Nomex/Kevlar armorweave that happens to have the same structural makeup as mine. I know your bodysuit can take 2mm rounds. I know you use gas grenades and flashbangs to disorient skels the same way I do. And I know you throw shuriken the same way I throw Batarangs. I know you use I know a lot more than you think I do, Jason."

"Stop calling me that! You know my name!"

"That is your name, you lunatic!" Tim caught yet another attack and wiped it aside so that it slashed into the masonry nearby. The Hood's carefully considered and reasoned response was to tear it away violently and clock Tim in the side of the head with the pommel of the blade. He stumbled back and dodged another blow. Well, mission accomplished. Red Riding Hood was definitely losing control.

"Stop following me! I don't want to hurt you!" he shouted, his voice distorter starting to show signs of strain.

"You make that really hard to believe when you're trying to kill me," Tim managed, scoring a glancing blow on the Hood's temple.

"You're not on my list! Stay away from me!"

He lunged suddenly, and only years of experience fencing with Bruce saved Tim. The value of training; as Bruce and Dick had done a thousand times to him, he now did to the Red Death. While his foe was thus extended and off-balance, Tim leaned in and struck at the pressure point in the Hood's wrist. A deft movement later, and the deadly wakizashi was at last out of his hands.

The Hood's reaction was... not quite what he'd expected.

He screamed incoherently and went directly for Tim's throat with both hands. It sounded like the voice distorter was malfunctioning.

"Jesus, Jason, what the hell's wrong with you?" Tim used the Hood's imbalance to throw him forward, stepping back and away.

"STOP CALLING ME JASON!" the Hood roared, lunging at him again. "YOU KNOW MY NAME!"

Tim turned to roll —

Oh Jesus —

The Hood had inadvertently kneed him directly in the ribs, where he'd been shot. Even now, he was still tender there, and it hurt like hell. In fact, it pretty much incapacitated him altogether for a few seconds, resulting in the Red Death colliding with him rather gracelessly.

"YOU KNOW MY NAME!"

"Fine, Red Riding Hood! God, what are you, a kindergartener?" Tim managed with a tremendous amount of effort to throw him off, and managed to get back to his knees before the Hood was back, tackling into him from the side. Apparently he'd figured out that Tim was favoring his ribs.

Red Riding Hood was on top of him now, going straight for his throat, his fingers like steel vices. Tim's reinforced gorget had been torn open by an unfortunate blow, and the fact of the matter was that he wasn't terribly keen on being choked to death by his predecessor, now fortuitously alive and unfortuitously completely insane. He grabbed wildly at the Hood's utility belt, finally grabbing the Sam Browne near the hip and yanking him to the side. Inelegant, but at least it bought him some air.

Only a brief respite. A heartbeat or two and they were locked again in mortal combat, Red Death and Boy Wonder. Oddly, both of them were gargling inarticulately; the one raving, the other choking. Left with little choice, Tim plucked the 'R' from his breast and jammed it as hard as he could into the Hood's wrist. The resulting scream was... off, somehow. It certainly didn't sound right. Tim was sure he'd be able to place the irregularity with more oxygen in his brain.

But once the Hood had lost the advantage, it suddenly became a much more equal contest. Tim struck at the 'R' shuriken lodged in the Hood's wrist, and caught him with a jab to the jaw. Suddenly they were once again in the same place they'd left so long ago atop the Sprang Mission in the East End, a breathless struggle, each trying to find purchase and deny it to the other, each trying to defend himself and beat his opponent senseless.

Tim found himself straddling the Hood, his fist cocked for a knockout blow — when it suddenly occurred to him that he seemed to have found purchase where there really shouldn't have been any. He looked down and discovered to his great shock that his left hand was gripping rather tightly on a... er... protuberance.

Red Riding Hood was a girl.

[Publius]

Chapter Sixteen: You Know My Name

Tim Drake froze.

Suddenly a lot of things started to make sense. That was why he'd been unable to line up anybody who fit the profile and MO of the Red Death; simple cognitive bias. He'd assumed that, er, she was a he, and he'd been screening for a male. When he'd noticed peculiar or confusing body language, he'd written it off as his own exhaustion. That was what was wrong with his — her scream when he'd stabbed her wrist; it was a girl's scream, not a boy's. For God's sake, he'd just spent months thinking a girl was a boy. What a ridiculous, elementary mistake. Stupid! It destroyed everything. Red Riding Hood was a girl. Jason Todd was not a girl. Therefore, Jason Todd was not Red Riding Hood.

Well, just who the hell was she?

And while he was at it, did that mean he'd just been punching the hell out of a girl?

While he thus pondered the implications for his manliness, she took the opportunity to retaliate, catching him across the jaw with a roundhouse right that nearly took his head off.

Tim stumbled back, and had the presence of mind to take the opportunity to finally put some distance between them. Somehow, he managed to make it back to his feet. "Jesus, I'm sorry, lady," he said, somehow feeling bad about hitting her. Even if she was a serial killer, there was something hardwired into him against hitting girls.

"You know my name." Well, at least if he was a she instead of a he, he or she still had the same six lines of dialogue.

She was trying to advance on him, but he kept the distance between them, wiping blood from his mouth and nose. "Ok, I give up. If you're not Jason, then who the hell are you?"

"You know my name!"

All right. Even if she was a she instead of a he, she was still prone to repeating herself even when it didn't make sense.

"Look, I already called you Red Riding Hood," he said, sidestepping a very unfriendly-looking punch.

"You know my name!"

She came in again, and he caught her, turned his hip, and turned her own weight against her. Elementary hip toss. She was already recovering, rolling on her right shoulder —

Oh my God.

She'd rolled on her right shoulder.

She always rolled on her right shoulder.

"Oh my God," Tim managed, his throat threatening to choke him all on its own. His heart was racing. His mind was racing. No. No. It was impossible.

She always rolled on her right shoulder.

She was... oh, God. Oh, God. He was frozen completely. It was like his whole world had just been shattered.

You know my name.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

The bodysuit, utility belt, and Sam Browne. The wakizashi. The mediocrity at swinglining. The aikidō. The roundhouse right. The familiar body language. The blue eyes.

You know my name.

"St—Stephanie?"

Red Riding Hood screamed, a heart-wrenching wail as both her hands went to her temples. It sounded like something was tearing her soul apart.

"God damn it, Tim, stay away," her voice finally came out, tiny and weak, between sobs of agony. Whatever had been done to her, she had broken through, however briefly, and at whatever price. "Stay away from me. I don't want to hurt you. God, please don't make me hurt you."

She was crying. He was crying, too.

"I have no choice. It is who I am now."

She screamed again, and whatever control she'd regained was gone. A moment later, she was gone, too.

Tim felt the strength drain from his body, dropped to his knees. His mouth trembled, his whole body trembled. Tears fell down his face freely.

He'd spent so long trying not to think about her. He'd struggled mightily to keep her from his thoughts. It hurt so badly. He had trained his mind to stop seeing her, to stop reminding him of what he'd lost. He'd seen the costume, basically a color swap, and ignored it. He'd seen the wakizashi — the same weapon he'd given her, and trained her to use — and refused to recognize it. He'd seen the martial arts training he'd helped her hone, and written it off as obtainable anywhere. He'd felt the roundhouse right — her favorite attack — and pretended not to know it. He'd seen the way she moved, and never really thought about why it seemed so familiar. He'd seen the crystal blue eyes and wondered what color Jason Todd's had been.

The first time they'd ever met, he'd tackled her, thinking she was a boy. He'd pulled off her mask and been so surprised to find a beautiful girl that he'd left himself wide open. She'd hit him in the head with a brick.

Then she'd done it again on top of the Sprang Mission.

And he'd refused to see it. He had worked so long, so hard not to think about her, that when he was looking right at her, he didn't see her.

But it was there. It was her. The elephant in the room. He finally saw it. Everything about her. It had been there all along. It was her.

You know my name.

Red Riding Hood was Stephanie Brown.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Sweet tapdancing zombie Jesus, Publius! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!

[LadyTevar]

I WAS RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*tapdances*

When is a Virgin like Miss Muffett? WHEN SHE'S A GIRL

[CaptainChewbacca]

I WAS RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*tapdances*

When is a Virgin like Miss Muffett? WHEN SHE'S A GIRL

Wait, what? I don't get it. Are you and I the only ones reading this?

[Publius]

When is a Virgin like Miss Muffett? WHEN SHE'S A GIRL

Stephanie Brown isn't a virgin. She gave birth in "A Blessed Event" (Robin #65), although it wasn't identified as a girl until a few moments before her death in "No Going Back" (Batman #633).

[LadyTevar]

The Riddler's Riddle was When is a virgin like Miss Muffett.

Tim was going off on the various things virgin could relate to, but missing the fact that 'virgin' may refer to men or women who've never married/had sex. To compare 'a virgin' to 'Miss Muffett' was to make the link of what was the same about them: FEMALE. Thus the answer: Red Riding Hood is a GIRL.

And it also hits up the other little comment Riddler had made: "Children. You never once think about where your toys come from." Robin gave Stephanie the toys she was using as Red Riding Hood. He trained her, he taught her. It's all his doing. I'm sure the Riddler was highly amused that Robin didn't realize the truth.

We should all be smacked for missing this: Publius made the whole deal clear with the name from the start. Red Riding Hood. Yes, we thought it was applied to a guy, but all this time the truth was in the name given, a FEMALE character from fairy-tales. Robin's not the only blind one.

[LadyTevar]

Publius, you posted just before I did, but you're right. That was one of the things I hated about how the comics treated her.

The big question is how is Stephanie alive again?

[CaptainChewbacca]

I thought it was just a weird name, especially since I kept getting RRH and Red Mask confused.

Good multilayered riddle, Publius. Worthy of Mister Nygma.

[Publius]

Are you certain you've solved it?

[CaptainChewbacca]

That depends,

"I wasn't finished," the Riddler said, placing his hands flat on his desk. "Children. You worry so much about your toys and never think about what makes them. When is the virgin like Miss Muffet?"

Is this the totality of the riddle?

edit: Is he referring to the creator of the toys? What is a 'toy' in this context?

[LadyTevar]

Are you certain you've solved it?

No. There's still another layer to it. Cui bono is still unanswered, as is who is in control of Red Riding Hood and providing her with the equipment.

Robin found a few more interesting pieces in the meeting's aftermath. The low-caliber bullets the Hatter shoot Stephanie with. The Hatter's ability to push her away with his Mind Control... and her actions afterwards which show that she *is* being controlled by someone. The Hatter himself is a possibility, as that is his MOD. With the Csaritsa dead (a mistake?) it puts him at the top of the Syndicate, and on equal footing with Two-Face and Penquin. To have the Underworld lead completely by Freaks would be a coup of its own. Cui bono?

Poison Ivy gave up the poison. Another Freak into the mix, but why would she help out? What link is there? Cui Bono

The only one that hasn't been starring in this story? The one whose actions have shaped it, but other than a brief cameo has not moved 'openly' in the story?
a chi il buon, il clown

[Publius]

Chapter Seventeen: I Can See Clearly Now

Tim was a blur as he paced up and down the cave. He hadn't slept in two days. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was — But no. She was alive. She was alive! He didn't know how, he didn't know why. But she was. There was no mistaking that now. It was her, it was really her. Once he'd actually opened his eyes and seen, he'd known it without a shadow of a doubt. He'd heard her voice — her real voice — he'd seen her body language, the way she moved. There was no question. It was really her.

His brain tried to rationalize his failure to recognize her. True, he'd once mistaken her for a boy. In fact, so had her father. That was one of the effects of her cape and cowl; it helped conceal her more feminine attributes. As a matter of fact, she was frequently mistaken for a boy until she'd taken to wearing her hood down, with her ponytail hanging from the back of her mask. It must have been a thrill for her as Robin, with nobody ever questioning what gender she was.

But that was all excuses. He should have seen it from the beginning. Her mix of martial arts and lack of a dominant form was characteristic of family members, even if her training had never advanced nearly as far as his or Cass's or Dick's. For God's sake, she'd been pretty much wearing her old costume. He'd even seen some of the black paint scraped off after the Mad Hatter had shot her and she'd fallen through the window.

He'd attributed her body language to having just been shot. It was becoming increasingly clear that she'd been struggling against the Mad Hatter's mind control. That explained the apparent migraines and the bizarre quality of her voice. Her answers had been attempts to warn him away, to tell him the truth. He screwed his eyes shut and rubbed at his forehead. How much more obvious did she need to be? She warned him that she had a list of victims, and he wasn't on it. That was how she'd gotten away with not trying to kill him. He'd called her Jason, and she'd said he didn't know anything. She'd practically managed to tell him she was being mind-controlled.

The Riddler's tripartite answer. Part 1: Cui bono? To whom the good? At first he'd been inclined to think the Czaritsa and the Mullah, but with Stephanie in the thrall of the Mad Hatter, the real answer had become increasingly clear. When the Red Death cut Black Mask's head in half — he'd not coincidentally been the murderous bastard who'd tortured her to death — it had created a vacuum in leadership, primarily filled by Scarface and Kosov, the Hatter serving the latter as her chief enforcer. As the killings had continued, the syndicate had tightened its control of its operations, and eliminated much of the slapdash organization left over from Black Mask. The fall of Scarface at the Joker's hands had left Kosov in control, with the Hatter as her éminence grise.

Kosov hadn't known about Red Riding Hood, he was pretty sure about that. The Mad Hatter had staged a meeting with wavering underbosses, and 'fought off' the Hood after she'd killed those underbosses whom he'd determined wouldn't play ball. He was engineering his own rise to prominence by manufacturing a bogeyman. Cui bono? The Mad Hatter.

Part 2: Children worry about their toys, not where they come from. The Riddler must have known, somehow, that Red Riding Hood was a teenage girl, hence "children." Tim had been focused so much on trying to find the Hood's suppliers; he didn't pay enough attention to the Hood herself. He'd been looking at shuriken and wakizashi and jumplines without looking at what they were coming from — a teenage girl wearing a utility belt and a Sam Browne — for God's sake, a Sam Browne! she always wore a Sam Browne! — and wearing a hooded cloak. Tim was worrying about her toys, but not where they came from. The toys he'd given her in the first place. The toys he'd helped train her to use. Once he'd taken a good look, it had been the elephant in the room. Red Riding Hood was Steph, had been Steph all along.

Did the Riddler know her name? He'd certainly known her father, having alternately tried to kill and worked with him. The fact that he'd never acted on her true identity didn't mean he didn't know it; Tim was pretty sure Edward Nigma knew the Batman's secret identity, but had certainly never acted on that.

God. No wonder the man was always smirking.

So he knew now that the Mad Hatter was controlling Steph as part of his game. But why? This was definitely not the Hatter's usual modus operandi. The last time something this bizarre had happened, it had all turned out to be part of a plot by the Riddler himself, with the help of Hush. Was the Riddler up to his old tricks? Tim didn't think so. There was still the last riddle to solve.

Part 3: When is a virgin like Miss Muffet? Who did he mean by 'a virgin'? When is a virgin like Miss Muffet? When she's a girl? Well, yes, but that couldn't possibly be right. He didn't know who the Riddler had in mind for 'a virgin,' but it certainly wasn't Steph. An historical reference, maybe? Queen Elizabeth I, the so-called "Virgin Queen"? The Commonwealth of Virginia, named for the same? Religion, maybe? The Blessed Virgin Mary? Artemis, the virgin of the hunt? He was covering old ground. None of it had made any sense then, and it still didn't make any sense now. Virgin. Untouched. And little Miss Muffet? Where did she fit into this? Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet. A tuffet is a three-legged stool. The First Triumvirate? The Second? The XYZ? Tricorner? Eating curds and whey. The Condiment King? The Milk Man? None of this was new.

He was a bustle of nervous energy. He consigned the Riddler to the flames of perdition. Why couldn't the man ever come right out and say anything? When is a virgin like Miss Muffet? Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet... sat on a tuffet... When she sits around and does nothing? Catwoman had only recently resurfaced after the Mullah had broken both of her arms. No, that didn't make any sense. What did that have to do with anything? Eating her curds and whey... along came a spider... hm. A spider. The Spider, Master of Men, perhaps? No, Richard Wentworth was long dead by now. Tarantula, the Blüdhaven vigilante and leader of the Arañas? Well, that didn't make any sense either. And he'd already been over all of this.

Along came a spider, who sat down beside her... Is a virgin like Miss Muffet when she's snared in a web of conspiracy? Steph? No, she wasn't a virgin. Also, Miss Muffet had never been touched by the spider's web. She'd fled. Untouched. Is a virgin like Miss Muffet when she runs away untouched? No, that's pointless. A virgin is like a virgin when she's untouched? That's idiotic; it'd be like repeating the definition of the first term. Then again... Tim knew Steph wasn't a virgin, but did the Riddler? Still further calumnies upon that man's head.

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Curds and wh— Oh, Jesus.

And just like that, he'd solved it.

The Riddler had not asked when is a virgin like Miss Muffet, he'd asked when is the virgin like Miss Muffet. That narrowed it down tremendously. Ask any classical Athenian and you'd get only one answer. The Virgin? The temple's right over there. The Parthenon — Temple of the Parthenos, that is to say, Temple of the Virgin. Who is the Virgin? Athena.

And that brought him to Celia "Athena" Kazantkakis, the corrupt businesswoman who'd attempted a quiet takeover of part of the Gotham underground. She'd used her agent provocateur (The Tracker) to apply pressure to an existing power structure (The Rossetti family, an affiliate of the Falcone crime family), leading to her stalking horse (The Suicide King) gaining credibility and influence as he rose within the very power structure he was infiltrating. She'd engineered his rise by making him the solution to the problem she herself had created in the first place. Sound familiar? Substitute Red Riding Hood, the Black Mask syndicate, and the Mad Hatter for the previous terms, and it made perfect sense.

Athena had the money and the resources and the intelligence to arrange the whole plot. She'd previously manipulated Steph into playing an unwitting part in her schemes. She must have come looking for her old catspaw, and not finding her, snooped around. Gulliver Carson, a professional heistman now working for the syndicate, had known Steph's secret identity. He couldn't begin to guess at what had happened next. All he knew was that Steph was alive, and enthralled by the Mad Hatter. It wasn't the first time someone had returned from the dead. They must have recovered her stash of gear, including at least one N/K bodysuit. No wonder he'd been unable to find a supplier. It had been Bruce himself who'd provided the suit; it had merely been painted black.

And Gully Carson had been one of the earliest victims of the Red Death. Coincidence? Unlikely. He'd known too much.

That was it. Athena and the Mad Hatter had arranged the Joker's release, somehow convinced him to play along. Not unprecedented. Two-Face and the Penguin had both done it on a number of occasions. There had been a few sightings of the Phantasm lately; maybe that tied into it somehow. Something for Bruce and Dick to look into. That was their case, anyway. Then again, the Athena connection explained how the Joker was able to elude Bruce for so long this time, despite being quite active: He had a great deal more logistical support than normal, not limited to just his gang members.

It was so clear.

Omar Salih, the Iraqi Kurd, was not part of Athena's scenario. He'd simply arrived and started building his outfit, carving it from the syndicate and whatever else was available. He was a tumor, a cancerous growth that needed to be excised for things to work properly. The Hood had made repeated attacks on the Mullah himself, entirely out of proportion to the kind of attacks other bosses were seeing. He'd been a thorn in the Czaritsa's side, and had probably wrecked the scenario altogether when he'd killed her on top of St. Athanasius's.

Gotham had narrowly escaped a full-on gang war when the Joker had seen to Scarface. That was two freaks fighting; happened all the time. But now one crime boss had killed another. And a ruthless old woman's best laid plans had been disrupted. This could get ugly, and fast. He turned to the Bat-computer and brought up the file he wanted. Yes. Oh, yes, indeed. From the look of things, it was about to get very ugly.

From the look of things, there would be blood tonight.

And it had all been there in the Riddler's riddle. The Mad Hatter. Red Riding Hood. Athena.

When is the virgin like Miss Muffet? When she has Kurds in her way.

[CaptainChewbacca]

God. No wonder the man was always smirking.

When is the virgin like Miss Muffet? When she has Kurds in her way.

Oh, BRAVO! You magnificent, magnificent bastard. I am in awe, truly. How can you possibly write this fast?

[LadyTevar]

When is the virgin like Miss Muffet? When she has Kurds in her way.

GROOOOOOOOOOAANNNNNN!!!
HOW LONG WERE YOU HOLDING THIS PUN!?!?!

Congrats, Publius, you have just nailed the Riddler's personality on the head, complete with the worst puns available.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Be honest, Publius, how much of the story was crafted to make the pun and riddle work?

[Darth Smiley]

Ok, that was brilliant.

Writing about geniuses is really hard, because you have to be as or more intelligent than the characters you write about (or be able to fake it very well). But you've done an awesome job of it.

[Alan Bolte]

I should have known we could could rely on Publius to write such excellent Riddler.