Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If we don't face our fears, our fears will chase us forever.” — Paulo Coelho

“Sorry!” Prentiss called, speeding into the conference room. “There was a pile-up; traffic was backed up for miles.”

Hotch sent her a nod. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get started,” he said.

“It’s a big one,” JJ said grimly, handing out files while Garcia turned on the tv. “Yesterday, a mall in Philadelphia was the target of a chemical attack. Gas canisters were found in the air vents. Mass casualties: twenty-seven dead and over a hundred injured, with forty of those in critical condition.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Anthrax?” Morgan asked finally.

“No, thankfully,” JJ said, and the room exhaled a little.

“These injuries look both defensive and offensive,” Rossi pointed out, frowning at the screen.

“The gas led to extreme hallucinations and fear,” JJ explained. “Most of the injuries were caused by people either trying to flee from their hallucinations or fight them off.”

“So we’re looking for a sadistic unsub,” Prentiss said.

“Not an unsub,” JJ corrected. “We actually know exactly who’s behind it.” She turned and clicked the remote, pulling up new pictures on the screen. They had been pulled from security cameras in the mall and showed a number of figures in ragged brown clothes, armed with guns and heavy-duty gas masks. “The M.O. and uniforms fit Jonathan Crane.” A mugshot of a thin man with glasses appeared on the screen. “Crane is native to Gotham City, New Jersey,” JJ explained, glancing around the room. “Up until two weeks ago, he was imprisoned in Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He escaped and fell off the radar.”

JJ clicked the remote and newspaper headlines filled the screen. “This is not the first time he’s done this. We have records going back two decades of similar breakouts and attacks.”

“Why haven’t we been called in before?” Prentiss demanded, flipping through her thick file.

“He never crossed state lines,” JJ said. “That makes it a state matter, and we were never called in.”

“Gotham is notorious for keeping to itself,” Reid reported. “It relies on its vigilante population to keep its less conventional criminals under control.”

“Vigilantes like the Red Hood,” Hotch said stonily. There was a moment of silence as they all exchanged looks.

“The Red Hood?” Rossi asked, looking from person to person.

“It was before you came out of retirement,” Morgan said. “Mass murders in three different states. We managed to tie it back to a territory feud between rival crime lords from Gotham. We caught Hood and interrogated him, but he escaped in transit to prison.”

“Our profile was almost completely wrong,” Reid added. “It was a fascinating case.”

“And he slipped through our fingers and back into Gotham,” Hotch said. He looked at Rossi, expression hard. “He left a gift basket in my office. Evidence couldn’t find any tampering. It was just there to mock us, to make sure we knew he’d escaped and could do whatever he wanted.” Hotch tapped his fingers against the table. “We need to approach this case with caution. Hood could react negatively to our presence in the city.”

Jim Gordon looked like a man who’d seen war. That was the first thing Rossi thought when they climbed out of the SUVs and found the man waiting for them. There was an exhausted determination in his eyes, the kind of grim acceptance people got after seeing one too many dead bodies.

He also looked like a man who wasn’t happy to see them.

“Jim Gordon,” he said tersely after they introduced themselves. “Police Commissioner. Follow me.”

The team exchanged glances and followed him inside. The GCPD building was conspicuously modern compared to the gothic architecture they’d seen on their drive through the city. Reid mentioned as much, and Gordon grunted. “Two years back it was almost completely destroyed when Ivy threw a tantrum over some lab dumping toxins in the river. Wayne Enterprises provided the funding for a new building.”

He said it so casually that the team faltered, staring at him. “Is that common?” Hotch asked.

“We need moderate repairs at least once a year,” Gordon confirmed. “Here.” He opened the door to a conference room. It was a decent size, brightly lit, with a white board and a large table that was covered in boxes. More sat on the floor. “These are the case files for Crane,” Gordon said, folding his arms.

“All of this?” Prentiss asked.

“Some files were lost when the building was destroyed, but yes. This is everything we have.”

“Jesus,” Prentiss murmured.

Gordon shut the conference room door with a decisive click. “Look,” he said gruffly. “I was overridden by the state. I didn’t want you coming here.”

JJ stepped forward. “Commissioner, we understand that this is your case. We’re just here to help.”

Gordon shook his head. “I know this is a federal case now. It’s out of my hands. Just be aware. Gotham is different. It’s not like other cities you’ve worked in. And it doesn’t take kindly to outsiders. I tried to warn both of our superiors of that, offered to catch Crane on our own terms and then send him into federal custody, but they didn’t go for it.” He met their eyes one by one. “Just be careful. I don’t need a bunch of federal agents dying on me.”

There was a tense moment of silence. “Of course,” JJ finally said, smiling professionally. “You know your city best. We’ll defer to your expertise.”

“You will?” Gordon challenged.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason we shouldn’t?”

Gordon met his eyes steadily, searching for something. “I’m sure you’re aware of our…unorthodox approach to stopping crime.”

“You mean your alliance with the vigilante known as Batman?” Reid asked.

“That’s the one,” Gordon said, not looking away from Hotch.

“We’re aware,” Hotch said neutrally. There had been uproar when the news got out that police were actively working with a vigilante, had actually installed a batsignal so they could more easily call said vigilante. The state had tried to shut it down, but had given up after several months when they realized crime had gone down dramatically since the police started working with Batman instead of trying to catch him. Now it was something that everyone knew, but no one discussed.

“Would you defer to my expertise on that matter as well?”

“What are you suggesting?”

Gordon huffed and rolled his eyes, apparently sick of dancing around the matter. “Batman is our best shot of catching Crane with minimal casualties,” he said bluntly. “Are you willing to work with him and his team without arresting them?”

“Commissioner-”

“I know it’s a big request,” Gordon cut him off. “But like I said, Gotham is different. The Bats have resources and information that we don’t. They know these guys better than anyone.”

There was a long moment of silence as Hotch considered. “I’m sure there would be no issues if we worked with GCPD consultants,” he said finally.

Gordon nodded, some of the worry lines on his face softening. “Good. They’re usually out and about by nine. I can call them then.”

“Guess we’re becoming nocturnal,” Morgan murmured.

Gordon shot him a grim smile. “Welcome to Gotham.”

By the time nine o’clock rolled around, they’d gone through a large chunk of the files—mostly thanks to Reid—and started working up a profile.

“He’s gotta be a sadistic psychopath,” Morgan said, flipping another file closed and tossing it onto the table. “No signs of psychosis and if there was abuse it was never reported.”

“I’ve got some bullying reports,” Prentiss interjected. “Nothing too extreme, if the reports cover the extent of it. But we all know how easy it is for kids to hide bullying.”

“He’s obsessed with fear,” Rossi said, frowning. “Perhaps because he can’t feel it himself. His records from Arkham Asylum say that he views these attacks as experiments, a way for him to study fear. That certainly lends credence to the psychopath theory.”

“But wouldn’t that stem from feeling afraid for a long time?” Prentiss asked. “Wanting to understand how it works and inflict it on other people, rather than himself?”

“So, what, he’s bullied and afraid, and then it gets to be too much so he strikes back, makes his attackers feel afraid, and that’s the trigger for him?” Morgan asked thoughtfully, spinning a pen between his fingers. “He’s hooked on their fear and has been chasing that initial high ever since?”

“Either way, he’s clearly not going to stop,” Hotch said grimly. “His experiments haven’t satisfied him so far.”

“And Arkham Asylum clearly can’t hold him,” JJ added, looking up from her own file. Normally she’d be out making contact with local media outlets, building rapport with Gordon, or interviewing witnesses, but Gordon had warned her that it’d be safer to stay with her team. The more she read about Gotham, the more inclined she was to stay put.

“Arkham Asylum can’t really hold anyone,” Reid said, sticking another index card on their timeline. “It has the worst containment and recovery rates of any asylum for the criminally insane in the United States. Despite the money that’s been poured into it and constant efforts to reduce corruption—most notably led by Bruce Wayne, a local billionaire—nothing seems to work.”

A knock sounded on the door and Gordon glanced around the room. “If you’re ready, our ‘consultant’ is upstairs.”

The team looked to Hotch. He paused for a moment, recognizing this as his last chance to back out of a situation that would definitely breach protocol. Sure, he’d made exceptions and pushed the line in the past, but this was taking it to a new level. Hotch glanced around at his team, gaze snagging on the pictures tacked to the whiteboard, smiling faces and bloodied injuries and body bags. His jaw set and he nodded once. “Let’s go.”

By ‘upstairs’, Gordon meant the roof. It was a relatively pleasant night, the heat of the day dissipating now that the sun had set. Clouds blotted out the stars, but there wasn’t an impending threat of rain. A bright light shone across those clouds, forming the shape of a bat. For a moment, the spotlight and the signal on the clouds was all they could see. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the roof, and the team spread out a little way from the door, looking around with varying levels of anxiety and excitement.

“Agents,” a deep, gravelly voice said from directly behind them.

They all whipped around, hands going to their guns.

“Woah, do not shoot!” Gordon yelled, throwing his arms out. “Hold your fire!”

Hotch held up his own hand and the team froze.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose and dug in the pocket of his trench coat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I told you that spooking them was a bad idea,” he muttered to the shadows.

Gordon sparked his lighter, leaning in to light his cigarette, and a tall figure stepped forward, the light from the small flame flickering off his armor and cowl.

Gordon snapped his lighter shut and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘always so dramatic’ and waved a hand absently between the team and the person who could only be Batman. “Batman, BAU. BAU, Batman.” He squinted at Batman. “They’ve agreed to work with you and your team as consultants. Try to avoid incriminating yourselves.”

Batman grunted.

Gordon huffed, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Go on, then. I’m sure the FBI would like to sleep at some point tonight.”

Batman turned his gaze on the team, the blank lenses of his cowl sweeping over them with a heavy intensity. Hotch resisted the urge to draw his gun. “Jonathan Crane,” the vigilante began, each word heavy and deliberate, “is a psychopathic mass murderer and serial killer. He is obsessed with the study of fear and attacks people with a neurochemical compound he calls ‘fear toxin’ or ‘fear gas’, depending on whether it's in liquid or gaseous form. This neurochemical causes the body to produce dangerously high levels of cortisol and adrenaline. There are also hallucinogenic qualities in some versions.”

Batman held out a file to Hotch. Hotch took it cautiously and flipped it open.

“That is a record of Crane’s base recipe, as well as a few recent variations,” Batman explained gruffly. “We’ve synthesized antidotes for all these variations. The police have stocks, as do hospitals and clinics. I recommend you keep at least two vials of the base antidote on you at all times. It will at least mitigate the effects of the other variations. You should also get fitted for gas masks.”

“We’ve got a tech coming,” Gordon confirmed.

There was a moment of silence as the team digested that information. “Thank you,” Hotch said stiffly.

Batman nodded, just as stiff.

Prentiss cleared her throat. “You said Crane is both a mass murderer and a serial killer. Could you elaborate on that?”

Batman’s face didn’t shift, but his gaze felt suddenly unimpressed. “You have the files,” he said.

“Yes,” Prentiss agreed, heart in her throat. This man was just as dangerous as the unsubs they dealt with. They could only be thankful he worked with the police. “But I’d like to hear your analysis.”

Batman stared at her for a moment longer. “You’ve witnessed one of Crane’s mass attacks,” he finally said. “News reports of his previous attacks are easily available. They’re obvious and dramatic, causing as much fear as possible.” He folded his arms under his cape. “However, he also displays hedonistic serial killer behavior.”

“What kind?” Rossi asked, matching Batman’s businesslike tone.

“Thrill. He experiments to understand fear, but he also enjoys it. He has told me that the fear victims feel before they die is the best kind.”

Batman let them digest that for a moment before continuing: “He kidnaps individuals and experiments on them, usually while building up to one of his major attacks. He exposes these victims to different levels of his toxin, usually in increasing doses until the victims die. I believe the deaths are a byproduct of his experiments or a secondary goal. Causing fear is the primary goal.”

“So there may be victims we’re unaware of that he took to practice for his most recent attack?” Morgan demanded.

Batman’s head tilted just the slightest bit in Morgan’s direction. “Yes.”

Morgan cursed under his breath.

“This M.O. is not unusual for Crane,” Batman continued. Prentiss wondered how he could talk so much that deeply without hurting his throat. Either his voice was naturally that deep or the man had already fried his vocal cords forcing it deeper. “He often sends his men with cameras to carry out his attacks, while he remains behind to observe and make notes. He is not physically imposing.”

“The location of this attack was weird, though,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in. The team looked sharply to the side. There was a young man perched on the edge of the building, arms resting casually on his knees as if he weren’t crouching above a deadly drop. He was dressed in black, with a blue symbol stretching across his chest and down his arms that looked sort of like a bird in flight. A blue domino mask was plastered to his face, white lenses turning his smile eerie.

“You’re Nightwing,” Reid said, startled. “A vigilante from Bludhaven who works closely with Batman, widely theorized to have been the first Robin.”

“I can confirm three out of four,” Nightwing said cheerfully, walking over to stand beside Batman. “Nice to meet you.”

“What makes this attack strange?” Rossi asked, sending the newcomer a quick nod.

Nightwing put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to the side. Compared to Batman, he was almost startlingly expressive. “Crane’s never left Gotham before. I don’t know why he’d go to Philly.”

“Maybe he thought it was getting too hot here,” Morgan proposed. “He got sick of you stopping his plans?”

Batman grunted.

Nightwing nodded, as if that grunt was enough to convey information. “For people like Crane, the chase is half the fun,” he said. “Crane…doesn’t focus on that as much as some of the other Rogues-”

Batman cleared his throat sharply.

Nightwing tilted his head, managing to convey an eye roll without his eyes being visible. “It’s handy having a collective noun for them,” he said, exasperated as if this was a well-tread argument. “Besides, they didn’t come up with it, and they hate being referred to as a collective, so it’s not like calling them the Rogues is giving them power.”

“This city caters to their gimmicks enough,” Batman growled. JJ blinked, startled. That was surprisingly similar to the BAU’s policy. Encouraging the names and gimmicks of serial killers caused panic and diverted focus from the victims to the killers. She hadn’t expected a vigilante to believe the same.

“Does it, Batman?” Nightwing asked pointedly. Batman’s jaw tightened. Nightwing rolled his eyes again. “Crane doesn’t chase Batman’s attention as much as Nygma or Joker,” he continued, turning back to the team, “but he does enjoy taunting us and trying to make us succumb to our fears.”

“Crane hasn’t left Gotham in twenty years,” Batman cut in. “Something triggered this change in the pattern.”

“You think he’s devolving?” Hotch asked.

Nightwing snorted. “He’s been devolving. He started operating, what”—he looked at Batman—“two years before I came on the scene?”

“Hn,” Batman said.

“Yeah,” Nightwing confirmed. “Year and a half or two years before I came on the scene, and he’s been getting more violent and obsessed ever since.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You said he’s been operating for twenty years,” Rossi said.

Nightwing tilted his head to the side. There was no way he was over 30. “Yes.”

“Implying that you’ve been a vigilante for 18 years,” Hotch gritted out. “Meaning you were, what, twelve at the oldest when you started?” The idea that anyone could willingly put their child in that kind of danger…it was unthinkable. He imagined Jack in that position and his stomach twisted.

Nightwing smiled and didn’t reply. Batman was stiff and silent beside him.

“Alright,” JJ said when the silence stretched, flashing her press smile. “Is there anything else you can tell us-”

She broke off as Batman and Nightwing simultaneously held up a hand and tilted their heads, white lenses staring at her. JJ resisted the urge to take a step back.

After a few long, uncomfortable moments, they straightened up. “We have to go,” Nightwing said, sending them an apologetic smile. Batman had already turned away, reaching for his belt as he headed for the edge of the rooftop. “We’ll touch base again later.”

“Is it Crane?” Hotch demanded.

He didn’t get a reply. Batman and Nightwing leapt from the roof, swinging into the darkness without so much as looking back.

“They do that,” Gordon said dryly from over by the door. He flicked the bat signal off, plunging them further into darkness. “They’ll be back when they’re done.”

“Done with what?” Morgan demanded.

Gordon shrugged, pulling the door open. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

They did find out soon enough. As soon as they made it down the stairs, a rookie ran up to them with the news that there’d been an Arkham breakout, with three criminals managing to escape.

“It’s Firefly, Mad Hatter, and”—Gordon frowned at the report Arkham had sent over—“oh come on!” He huffed angrily and tossed the report on the desk. “Who the hell decided to take Nygma off his meds again?” He grabbed his radio. “All units, Riddler policy in place.”

A number of voices replied, “Copy that,” and Gordon put the radio down.

“Riddler policy?” Rossi asked.

“If you see Riddler, watch your step and focus on containment,” Gordon said briskly. “Don’t escalate any violence and wait for one of the Bats to arrive and talk him down. Riddler’s one of our relatively successful rehabilitation cases. We don’t see him very often these days. He stays in Arkham because of his past crimes and because he’s not great at remembering to take his meds, but as long as he stays on them, he minds his own business and spends his time being an asshole about the daily crossword instead of putting people in death traps.”

The team stared at him silently. Gordon defined relatively successful rehabilitation as only occasionally setting death traps?

Gordon’s mustache twitched a little. “You get used to it.” He sighed and scratched his chin. “Some damn therapist probably decided taking him off his meds would be a good test. Can hardly blame the guy in that case. God knows we’ve warned the staff enough. Our people will focus on keeping him contained and moving civilians out of the way without upsetting him more. The Bats’ll talk him down easy enough, or they’ll tranq him if he’s really agitated.”

“And the other two?” Hotch asked.

“Firefly-”

“We’d prefer to use their real names, if possible,” Hotch interrupted. “It keeps us from mythologizing the perpetrators.”

Gordon huffed a laugh. “Batman insists on the same thing. I told him it was too late to worry about that now—the whole city calls them by their aliases.”

“Still.”

“Right.” Gordon led the way down the bustling hall, back to their conference room. “The Riddler’s real name is Edward Nygma. We probably don’t have to worry about him. Garfield Lynns is a pyro. He built himself a flying suit and has flame throwers. His main goal is destruction. We’ve scrambled the fire department and they’re following Oracle’s directions so they’re close at hand.”

Morgan opened his mouth to ask who Oracle was, but Reid beat him to it, saying quietly, “Oracle is a hacker and information broker. Kind of like Batman’s Garcia.”

Morgan nodded slowly. Maybe that was how Batman operated so much faster and more efficiently than the police—this ‘Oracle’ was getting him all the information he needed. And probably in highly illegal ways.

Gordon ignored their little aside, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. “Jervis Tetch is delusional. He thinks he’s the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, and he’s obsessed with finding the perfect Alice and setting up the perfect Wonderland. He uses mind control to do it.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say mind control?” Prentiss demanded. “Do you mean brainwashing? Manipulation?”

“No, literal mind control. If he gets one of his hats on you, he can control you completely. Like a puppet.” Gordon shrugged. “He used to be a neuroscientist. I don’t know how it works. Fortunately for us, he’s too neurotic to let any of those hats out of his sight or control. They all self-destruct if he loses connection to them, so we haven’t had to worry about other criminals getting their hands on them.”

“Well at least there’s that,” Prentiss said, only half sarcastic.

“Do you think this is because of Crane?” Hotch asked. “Or somehow connected?”

Gordon thought about that for a moment. “It’s possible,” he said finally. “Rogues have been known to team up in the past. But I think this timing is more coincidence on Nygma’s part and hope that Batman will be too busy dealing with Crane to worry about them on the other two’s part.” He inclined his head a little to them. “They may have even been right. If you guys weren’t here to focus on Crane, I doubt Batman would be out there right now.”

The team exchanged glances. The way Batman operated hit uncomfortably close to home. Refusing to mythologize the perps, prioritizing the most serious threats, analyzing the patterns and behaviors of suspects. Of course, there was also all the extrajudicial violence, impeding official investigations, and tampering with evidence. It was a miracle any of Gordon’s cases resulted in convictions at all.

Gordon apparently took their silence as a criticism because he bristled a little and said, “I’m not saying he’d just leave the city to burn. He has a big enough team now that they could’ve handled the breakout while he focused on Crane. Take it as a compliment that he trusts your skills enough to be out there himself.”

“Of course,” JJ said, putting on a smile. “We’ll start working up a geographical profile and looking at the case with fresh eyes. The sooner we catch Crane, the better.”

Gordon nodded and left. The team looked at each other in silence for a moment.

“Gotham,” Morgan muttered. Prentiss and Rossi made noises of agreement.

“Reid, get started on a geographical profile,” Hotch said. “Morgan, call Garcia and see how far she’s made it through analyzing the video. Then get a copy for yourself and start going through it too—it’s our best intel so far and I don’t want us missing anything. JJ, keep an eye on the news and see what the chatter is. This breakout could be good for us by distracting people from Crane or it could cause more panic. And check in with Philadelphia—see if there’s any updates there. Rossi, I want you to talk to some of the officers in the station, see how much they know about Crane. Prentiss, you and I will go back over the case notes and make sure we didn’t miss anything. Look especially for anything that might have triggered his change in location.”

The team scattered to their respective tasks. Reid turned on the coffee machine on his way over to the board. One thing was for sure: It was going to be a long night.

Reid frowned at the maps he’d stuck to the board. “There’s no meaningful geographical profile to be found,” he said, “but I found something interesting about the timeline.” He turned to face the rest of the team. “I divided the profile by years because there were too many data points for a single map. This map”—he gestured to the map on the left—“covers the first fourteen years of his attacks. They increased and became more extreme over time, but averaged at one or two attacks per year.” He pointed to the second map. “This one shows the attacks from the past six years.”

“That’s a lot of attacks,” Prentiss breathed.

“An average of three to four times a year,” Reid agreed. “The rate’s dropped since then, as Arkham upgrades its security, but Crane would likely be attacking much more frequently if that wasn’t an obstacle.”

“When did the escalation start?” Hotch asked, arms folded.

“The first unusually short cool-down period occurred in June six years ago, when Crane only waited three months between attacks instead of his usual six to twelve. That attack was notably less violent than his standard at the time, and didn’t last as long either. It’s also notable that he was brought in by the police on that occasion, not Batman.”

“Well the decrease of violence makes sense,” Prentiss said. “He was getting used to his new schedule and didn’t have as much time to prepare.”

“And that lack of preparation allowed the police to catch him,” Rossi agreed.

“So something happened in those three months to trigger the escalation,” Hotch said. “Get Garcia on the line, have her look into what may have caused it.”

Before Reid could finish dialing, Gordon entered the room. “Consultants are upstairs,” he said.

“The escapees?” Rossi inquired.

“In custody. Ri- Nygma was brought in peacefully, and they got to Lynns and Tetch before they could cause too much damage.”

“In three hours?” Morgan asked. “That’s impressive.”

Gordon’s mustache twitched as he smiled a little. “Our consultants do good work,” he said proudly.

“Clearly,” Hotch murmured. “Alright, let’s see if they can add anything new to our findings.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to stay down here and help square the escapees away,” Gordon said. “Now that you’ve been introduced, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about, but just give me a holler if you need me.”

The team trooped back up to the roof, coffee cups and files clutched in their hands.

Prentiss was first through the door, and she pulled to a stop fast enough that Morgan almost ran into her. “Sorry,” she murmured, stepping quickly to the side. The rest of the team emerged slowly, staring.

Batman and Nightwing were back, but they weren’t alone. A whole group of people were standing on the roof, all dressed in colorful tactical gear. Most of them looked like teenagers, but there was one person who was small enough that they had to be pre-pubescent. Batman and the teenager with bandoliers looked like they’d been in or near a fire, ash dusting their costumes and the teenager’s hair. The blonde girl had a bruise growing on her chin and a bright grin, while Nightwing and the youngest looked windswept but unharmed. The final figure, covered head-to-toe in black, was impossible to read.

There was a moment of tense silence before JJ stepped forward. “Hi there,” she said. “We’re the BAU. I’m Agent Jareau, and these are Agents Hotchner, Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Doctor Reid.” She flashed an apologetic smile toward Batman and Nightwing. “We skipped proper introductions before.”

Nightwing waved her off. “No worries. You know Batman and me.” He gestured down the cluster of vigilantes. “Red Robin, Batgirl, Black Bat, and Robin.”

“Nice to meet you all.” JJ managed a smile. These were teenagers and children, they shouldn’t be out here facing pyromaniacs and psychopaths.

“We do not require outside aid,” Robin said, tilting his nose in the air. “We have managed Crane for years.”

JJ paused for a moment before deciding to treat the vigilantes professionally, like any other assisting officers. Doing otherwise wouldn’t help them solve the case. They could worry about child endangerment and extrajudicial activities after Crane was caught. “We don’t doubt your abilities,” she said, unable to stop her voice from softening a little as Robin met her gaze defiantly. “We’re just here to help.”

“He crossed state lines, gremlin,” Red Robin said distractedly, tapping on his gauntlet. There must be a computer or controls of some kind built in. “That makes it a federal case. They have jurisdiction. Just be grateful they’re not booting us from the case or trying to arrest us.”

Robin hissed, but Black Bat poked him and he quieted down.

Hotch cleared his throat. “We put together a timeline of attacks, and we noticed an unusual spike in activity. We were hoping you’d have some insight.”

Reid took a half-step forward. “Crane drastically increased the rate of his attacks six years ago. Did anything significant happen between March and June of that year that might have triggered the increase?”

The vigilantes stiffened, the casual intensity of highly trained individuals shifting into something more focused and dangerous.

“I take it you have something in mind,” Reid said, glancing nervously at Hotch.

As one, the vigilantes turned to look at Batman. Batman stared straight ahead, fists clenched.

“Anything you can tell us will be helpful in determining Crane’s next moves,” Rossi encouraged.

Nightwing tilted his head toward Batman, then looked back at the team. He wetted his lips. “That was when….” He hesitated, grimacing, before finally spitting it out: “Robin died.”

Hotch took that news like a punch to the gut. The horror of it turned quickly into anger. A child had died doing this, and here were more children in the line of fire? Had they learned nothing?

Batman wasn’t moving. The younger vigilantes shifted awkwardly. Nightwing sighed and folded his arms, looking suddenly older as his shoulders slumped. “I guess Crane took it personally that he wasn’t…involved. That he didn’t get to…see how”—a tiny twitch toward Batman, as if he’d glanced at the man behind his white lenses—“we reacted. The… fear it caused.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did we not make the connection?” he muttered.

“You can’t expect yourself to pay attention to Crane when- with all of what happened,” Batgirl argued. “And we don’t know for sure if that was the cause. Something else could have triggered him.”

“So,” Reid said hesitantly, shooting a quick look at Batman. The man seemed to have shut down. Reid hoped it wasn’t in a ‘calm before the storm’ way. “Let me see if I’m understanding. Crane may have been triggered by the feeling that he was denied something? He was denied your fear and lashed out?”

“Potentially,” Nightwing agreed, fists clenched.

“So something similar may have happened here,” Reid suggested. “We should look for something that would have made Crane feel denied fear.”

“It hasn’t been an unusual amount of time since his last attack,” Red Robin said, looking back down at his gauntlet. “And he’s been in Arkham up until two weeks ago. Start with news reports, things he could’ve had access to in Arkham that would’ve inspired the attacks.” He spoke with the easy command of someone used to leading. A moment later he glanced up, looking a bit sheepish, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. “That’s what I’d do at least.”

“That’s a good idea,” JJ said, smiling. “I’ll get right on that.”

“We should also check out his cell,” Morgan said. “He might have left a clue as to his motivation.”

The vigilantes exchanged looks. “You want to go inside Arkham?” Batgirl asked doubtfully.

“Is that a problem?” Rossi asked, raising an eyebrow.

Batgirl hooked her thumbs in her utility belt. “I guess not. You should probably take one of us with you, though, just in case.”

Hotch frowned. His team was perfectly capable of handling themselves, and he didn’t like the idea of the vigilantes being more involved with their investigation.

Batgirl noticed his reluctance. “At the very least, don’t announce that you’re feds,” she advised. “Might as well strap a sign to you saying ‘fresh meat’.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “We weren’t planning to join gen pop.”

Batgirl smiled grimly. “It’s Arkham. They’re creative when motivated.”

“We’ll take that under advisement,” Hotch said. “Now, we were hoping-”

“What are you guys all doing here?” an uncomfortably familiar voice interrupted. A figure leapt off the neighboring building, landing on the GCPD’s roof with a neat roll. Hotch drew his gun, aiming for center mass as the Red Hood popped to his feet.

Batman moved for the first time in fifteen minutes, materializing between the team and Hood. “The Red Hood is a member of my team,” he growled, straightening his posture into a dangerous loom. “He is under my protection.”

“He’s a mass murderer,” Hotch snapped.

Hood poked his head around Batman, studying them. “Waaait a minute,” he said, the modulator unable to hide the way his voice pitched higher in glee. He pulled off his helmet and grinned at them, a domino mask covering his eyes. “I know you guys! Grumpy-Fed, Lady-Fed, Young-Fed, and”—his grin shifted to something a bit more suggestive—“Sexy-Fed! How ya been?”

“How-?” Nightwing started, but Batman cut him off.

“Put the guns down,” he growled, “or I will do it for you.”

Hotch stared at Batman for a long few moments. Finally, he returned his gun to its holster. They couldn’t afford to pick a fight with seven vigilantes on their own turf. The rest of the team slowly stowed their own weapons. Batman’s gaze became less intense, though the air still prickled with tension.

“Batman is notorious for his distaste for lethal force,” Reid said, uncertain if speaking would ease the tension or make it worse. “Why are you working with the Red Hood? If you don’t mind me asking,” he added quickly.

“Haven’t you heard?” Hood asked. His smug grin looked the same as it had almost two years ago. “I’m on the side of the angels now.”

“Hood hasn’t killed anyone in ten months!” Nightwing said, as if that was a reasonable thing to be proud of.

“Yeah, I’m about to get my one-year chip,” Hood agreed dryly.

“That doesn’t excuse your past actions,” Hotch said coldly.

“Oh, I’m serving my time,” Hood said. His grin sharpened. “Community service, supervised by Batman himself.” He clapped Batman on the shoulder.

“How about we focus on catching Crane,” Red Robin said warily, eyeing the team.

“Hold up, I wanna know how the fuck you” —Batgirl pointed an accusing finger at Hood—“know them.” She moved her finger to the team.

“Yeah!” Nightwing agreed.

Hood folded his arms with a cocky grin. “FBI got word I was fucking with Mask’s men—you remember when he sent them outta state after I busted his trafficking operation?” he asked. When he got several nods, he continued: “Well, after several riveting days of them chasing their tails and me swanning around finishing the job, they got close to catching me and chucking me in jail. But I got away, of course, left them a lovely gift basket too if I recall correctly.” He sent a devious smile toward Hotch. “Did you like it?”

“That’s not what I remember happening,” Morgan interjected, sending a quick glance toward Hotch.

The other young vigilantes perked up. “Do tell,” Red Robin said eagerly.

“Well,” Morgan said, sending a smirk toward Hood. The vigilante’s escape was still a sore spot in the department, and he didn’t mind the chance to put him in his place. “We figured out that Hood was killing off Sionis’s men, so we tracked them, assuming Hood would show up to finish them off. We set up a perimeter and Hood here”—his smirk sharpened— “swanned right into our trap. He didn’t even hear us coming until I had a gun to his head.”

Hood was scowling now, hunching his shoulders. The other vigilantes looked absolutely delighted.

“Oho!” Batgirl crowed. “The truth comes out!”

“Tt,” Robin scoffed. “Trust Hood to be foiled by federal agents.”

“We held him for 24 hours,” Prentiss picked up the story.

“Oho !” Batgirl cheered even more emphatically.

“They had you for 24 hours?” Nightwing asked. “What is this, amateur hour?”

“Can’t escape a measly interrogation room?” Red Robin asked.

“Lame,” Black Bat contributed.

Hood was bright red by this point. The team exchanged amused, thoughtful looks. They hadn’t expected this team dynamic that seemed a lot more like a family dynamic. If they were a family, it would explain why Batman was defending Hood despite his crimes.

“I’m going to break my streak and it’s gonna be fucking worth it,” Hood muttered.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Nightwing asked. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your reputation shattering.”

“Focus,” Batman’s deep voice said, cutting through the hilarity. “We still have work to do.” He paused for a moment, meeting everyone’s eyes to ensure they were paying attention. “We can revisit Hood’s environmental awareness and escapology training later.”

Hood’s offended squawk was drowned out by the others’ shouts of laughter.

“What’s going on out here?” Gordon asked, opening the door. “No one’s Joker gassed, right?”

“No, Commissioner, we’re fine,” Nightwing said.

Gordon ignored him, having caught sight of Hood. “Oy!” he shouted.

“Oh shit,” Hood muttered, yanking his helmet back on.

“Get out of here!” Gordon yelled, stomping forward.

The other vigilantes ‘ooh’ed as Hood sprinted for the edge of the roof.

“First caught by the feds, now running from the cops, I think you’re losing your edge, Hood!” Red Robin yelled after him.

Hood didn’t pause to reply, disappearing into the darkness.

Gordon came to a stop in the middle of the roof. He put his hands on his hips and scowled around at the vigilantes, landing on Batman. “I told you I don’t want him near my station,” he growled. “I don’t care if he’s working with you now; if I catch him here, I will arrest him.”

“Understood,” Batman said, not changing expression.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Everything’s cleaned up from the escapees and I’m sending people home.”

“Aren’t you worried about looting?” Reid asked. “Looting rates typically go up significantly after a disaster of some kind.”

Gordon shook his head. “Not here, not after a Rogue attack. They tend to take it personal if anyone ends up in the news at the same time as them. Most won’t risk that kind of attention, so the streets are always quiet after a breakout or attack.” he glanced around the group once more before addressing the team. “I can have an officer show you to your motel.”

“Good idea,” Hotch agreed. “We’ve made some good progress. Let’s come back at it fresh in the morning.” He paused for a moment before nodding stiffly to Batman. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” Batman said simply.

“See you later; thanks for your help,” Nightwing chimed in, and the other vigilantes echoed the sentiment.

The roof access door clanged, a gust of wind catching it as Gordon pulled it open, and the team instinctively turned to look at the source of the noise. When they turned back around, the roof was empty.

“What the hell-?” Morgan muttered, looking around.

Gordon sighed. “They do that too.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the team gathered in the conference room, cups of coffee scattered around the table as they tried to wake up after their late night.

“Alright,” JJ said, entering the room with a box. An officer trailed behind her, carrying two more. “These are all the news reports from the two months before Crane broke out of Arkham. I’ve got Garcia running through the televised stuff. According to Arkham staff, televisions and newspapers are allowed for patients depending on their behavior and their therapists’ suggestions. Crane had access to both.”

“And the interview with his therapist?” Hotch asked.

“He’ll be here in two hours.”

“Alright. Rossi, I want you to handle the interview. Focus on combing through the newspapers with JJ before the therapist arrives—try to find anything specific you can ask them about. Prentiss, Reid, I want you two to head to the mall in Philly; figure out why he chose that location. When you get back, I want you to check his previous attack sites, see if you can find any similarities. Morgan and I are going to Arkham with the Commissioner.”

The team scattered, Rossi and JJ starting to dig through boxes while the others headed for the cars.

Gordon met them there, leaning against the driver’s door of the police cruiser and stamping out a cigarette.

“Morning,” he said. He slid into the car and Hotch and Morgan followed suit, Morgan getting stuck in the barred backseat. “Sorry about the accommodations,” Gordon said, glancing at Morgan through the rear view mirror. “We’re trying to keep your involvement on the downlow, and that means no FBI vehicles.”

Morgan waved the apology off and flipped open his file, scanning the information Garcia had compiled on Arkham one more time.

“At least it’s a short drive,” Gordon offered, pulling away from the curb. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

This seemed like an optimistic estimate to Morgan—they were on the south side of Gotham, while Arkham was toward the north, and Gotham‘s drivers were terrible, from his experience entering the city yesterday. He would have estimated at least twenty minutes, probably more.

He quickly revised this estimation once they got onto the road. Gordon, as it turned out, was one of Gotham’s terrible drivers. He dodged around cars and slipped through yellow intersections with less than a second to spare, never bothering to turn on his lights or siren and never dipping below ten miles over the speed limit.

They arrived at the bridge to Arkham Island fourteen minutes later, and Morgan resolved not to get behind a wheel until they were out of the city.

Gordon greeted the guards at the gatehouse familiarly, handing over his badge. Hotch and Morgan handed over their driver's licenses, rather than their badges, in the interest of remaining under the radar. Gordon had agreed with Batgirl’s suggestion when Hotch brought it up. It didn’t sit quite right with him—he’d been in plenty of prisons and locations hostile to FBI agents without hiding his identity, he could handle it—but he wasn’t going to ignore the locals’ advice either.

The guard handed their IDs back and waved them through, his partner relaxing his grip on his rifle.

“They’ll bring dogs and scanners around the car once we’re over the bridge,” Gordon explained. “Standard procedure.”

Morgan glanced at Hotch. “Tight security.”

“Never tight enough,” Gordon sighed, pulling to a stop at the gate on the other side of the bridge. They showed their IDs again, and one of the guards at the gatehouse called the previous guard to confirm their arrival, while the other watched them warily.

“You’re clear,” the guard said, handing their IDs back. “Pull into the box for a car search.”

‘The box’ was the area directly beyond the massive, spiked black fence that circled the island. Another fence, this one smaller and topped with barbed wire, formed three sides sticking out from the main fence, forming a box just big enough for a supply truck to fit with room for the search teams to walk around it. Their cruiser fit just fine, and Gordon rolled down all the windows once he parked, forearm resting on the windowsill.

“Open windows make it easier for the dogs,” he explained as four guards entered the box. One of them held a scanner, another a dog, and the remaining two had rifles at the ready.

The search took less than ten minutes, thankfully, and soon they were rolling into the parking lot. Arkham loomed above them. A tall clock tower rose above the main building, while wings branched out to either side. The bricks may have once been a cheery red, but they were worn and dulled from years of grime. The gothic influence that permeated the city was present here too, in the tall pointed roofs, the spires, and the decorative lintels above doors and windows. It didn’t look terribly secure, if Morgan was being honest.

“Is the inside as secure as the outside?” he asked as they climbed out of the car.

“More,” Gordon said, leading the way to the front door. “Bruce Wayne held a couple charity galas to raise renovation money a few years ago. They maintained the original building, but the inside’s been completely redone. In stages, of course. They couldn’t exactly let the prisoners loose while they renovated.” He scoffed quietly. “You should have seen the security when we had a bunch of people with power tools running around.”

Morgan hummed. “With this much security, how do breakouts still occur so frequently?”

“It’s better than it used to be,” Gordon said, pulling the door open. “Now it’s not so much incompetence as corruption that causes problems.”

They stepped inside and Morgan whistled quietly. Gordon hadn’t been kidding, the inside was completely modern, with clean white walls, security cameras everywhere, and a single, metal door behind a guard post. 

“We have regular screenings and try to rotate staff so they don’t have time to form any connections with a particular inmate, but it’s impossible to stop it all,” Gordon continued as they crossed the lobby. “Though we have seen some promising improvement since Wayne Enterprises got involved in increasing employee salaries and benefits. They’re not so easily bribed now.”

“Wayne has a lot of interest in improving Arkham, huh?”

“Thankfully, yes,” Gordon sighed. “Some days it feels like he and Batman are all that’s holding this city together.”

They showed their IDs a third time, waited for confirmation from the other two sets of guards, and walked through a metal detector.

“Do the employees have to do this every morning?” Morgan asked.

“Yes,” Gordon nodded. “Their union negotiated for their shifts to start when they check-in at the first guard house, so they get paid for the time at least.”

“Over here, sir,” a guard said, holding a camera.

“A picture?” Hotch asked, moving to stand in front of the wall. The guard snapped a picture, studied the camera for a moment, then nodded and motioned for Morgan to take Hotch’s place.

“So they know what to look for on the cameras,” Gordon said. Apparently his picture was already in the system, as the guard waved him on.

One guard tagged and locked their guns in a safe, along with everything in their pockets and even their belts. Another guard handed them visitor’s badges made of paper on flimsy strings. The third pressed a button. An alarm sounded, and a moment later the metal door swung open. It was a foot thick, and Morgan caught no less than six cameras pointed at it from the other side, making it impossible for someone to hide behind it. Beyond the door, one hallway led straight back, deeper into the main building, with two others branching out to either side, leading to the other wings. Brightly printed signs informed them that General Population was to their right, Mid-Security to the left, and Max-Security straight ahead.

Gordon put the string of his visitor’s badge over his head, settling it against his chest. Hotch and Morgan exchanged dubious looks before following suit.

“These seem…surprisingly low-tech, considering the rest of the security measures,” Hotch observed.

Gordon grimaced. “Used to be clips, then Zsasz got a hold of one and slashed an orderly’s throat. Then it was those retractable badge holders; Joker used one to strangle two other orderlies. These”—he gestured at the badge—“can’t hurt anyone beyond maybe a paper cut, and the strings are thin enough that they’ll snap before being usable as a weapon.”

“I see,” Hotch said, eyebrows raising a little.

“Commissioner Gordon.” A tall, muscular orderly in scrubs walked up to them. “You wanted to see Crane’s cell?”

“Yes,” Gordon confirmed.

“Follow me.” The orderly started down the hall. “You understand that it’s been two weeks?” she confirmed. “His belongings have already been searched and the room cleaned; it’s protocol.”

“Were his belongings returned to his cell?” Hotch asked.

“Some of them. Others were given to his therapist. We do have pictures of the entire room as it was after his escape, though,” the orderly added.

“Can we see those?”

“Of course.”

The conversation trailed off as they continued down the hall. It was empty, no doors or windows, just security cameras and panels on the walls every few yards.

“Can I ask what those are for?” Morgan asked, gesturing at one of the panels.

The orderly glanced over. “Intercoms,” she explained. “We don’t carry radios, only panic buttons.” She gestured at a small black box clipped to her waistband. “The intercoms let us communicate without providing a potential weapon.”

Morgan grimaced a little and nodded.

The hallway ended in another metal door, an intercom beside it. The orderly turned to look at them. “Don’t speak to the inmates, don’t make eye contact, don’t touch anything unless I say it’s okay. Stay with me at all times, and if I tell you to do something, you do it immediately, no questions. Capisce?”

They agreed, and the orderly pressed the button on the intercom, saying, “Orderly Lena Daniels, Commissioner James Gordon, Aaron Hotchner, and Derek Morgan for the Max-Security wing.”

“Hold,” someone replied.

They waited a moment.

“Confirmed, opening Max-Security.”

An alarm went off and the door swung open. Once again, there were hallways branching out on either side and one down the middle. “Therapy rooms and medical,” the orderly said briskly, gesturing at the hallways on the left and right. She led them down the center. “We’re about to start hitting the cells, so remember the rules.”

Sure enough, a few moments later they started passing doors. Morgan had half-expected these doors to be metal too, but instead they were made of what looked like bullet-proof glass. He could see the inmates stalking around their cells from the corners of his eyes, and the inmates could clearly see them too.

A large man walked up to his door. He turned his head to watch them pass and Morgan could see, even with just his peripheral vision, that half the man’s face was destroyed, mangled and discolored. He slammed a hand against the door. “What do we have here?” he growled.

“The Knave!” another voice shrilled from the other side of the hall. “The Knave and his accomplices! Off with their heads!”

“I could make you perfect,” another inmate said mournfully as they walked past. “Wouldn’t you like to be perfect? It would be worth the pain.”

Someone started laughing wildly, further down the hall.

Finally, they reached an empty cell. The orderly tapped the intercom on the outside of the cell and said, “Orderly Lena Daniels, Commissioner James Gordon, Aaron Hotchner, and Derek Morgan at Cell X7. Engage sound dampening but keep locks disengaged.”

A moment’s silence, then a voice replied, “Confirmed, Orderly Daniels. Sound dampening on, locks disengaged.” The door clicked.

Orderly Daniels pulled open the door, letting Hotch, Morgan, and Gordon enter first. When she closed the door, the shouting from outside became muffled enough that the cell was almost quiet.

“That’s handy,” Morgan said.

“Yeah. We’re not allowed to use it very often, legally,” she explained. “Still a hospital, and isolation like that is a bad idea. But it gives us at least a few hours free from Joker’s laughing.”

Gordon nodded sagely at this last piece of information.

“Right,” Morgan said, not sure what else to say. He pulled on his gloves and peered around the cell. It was plain, with padded walls and a bed bolted to the floor. A desk was against the opposite wall, also bolted down. A box was on top of the bed, neatly filled with a few basic belongings.

“May we?” Hotch asked, gesturing at the box.

“Go ahead,” the orderly said, waving at the room in general. “It’s all been checked.”

“Thank you.” Hotch dug through the box as Morgan walked around the cell. Toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, a spare set of clothes. “I assume his more personal possessions are with his therapist?” he asked, glancing at Daniels. He hoped that was the case because if not, these inmates were seriously deprived of any kind of entertainment or enrichment.

Daniels inclined her head. “Yes. He had a few books, a notebook, newspapers.” She eyed him for a moment before adding, “They also have the communal entertainment rooms which are open from 10 to 6. They can choose whether and when to go, if they behave.” She folded her arms and sighed a little. “We know this is a hospital, and we want to help. We don’t purposely deprive our patients. Sometimes we have to, though, for everyone’s safety.”

“Of course,” Hotch said.

“No marks on the walls or any of the furniture,” Morgan reported. “Nothing showing what might have inspired a breakout.”

“He’d have to grind down his toothbrush or hairbrush to leave marks,” Daniels said. “We search the room and examine his belongings once a week when we clean. No sign of him attempting to make a shiv or mark anything.”

“He had a notebook, you said?” Hotch asked. “He could have just written in there.”

“His therapist had access to his notebook to make sure he’s not plotting anything,” Daniels said. “It’s in his office now.”

Hotch glanced at the inset, barred clock high on the wall. “The therapist will be at the station being interviewed right now. Can we still get access?”

Daniels glanced at Gordon.

“It’s important to the case,” Gordon confirmed. “We’re trying to figure out why he left the city.”

Daniels nodded. “Alright, then. I can get you the pictures, too.”

“Thank you.”

She pushed the cell door open and they were once more surrounded by heckling and jeering and that terrible, echoing laughter.

Reid and Prentiss pulled up to the mall. There was still police tape blocking it off and cop cars surrounding the area, but any onlookers had gotten bored in the days since the attack and dispersed.

A quick introduction and flash of their badges, and they were allowed inside. Reid pulled on his gloves as he looked around. There probably wasn’t much left to preserve at this point, but you couldn’t be too careful.

“It’s an open area,” Prentiss observed, looking around the high ceilings and the open walkways on the upper floors. “It would take a lot of contaminant to affect people this severely.”

“Police recovered dozens of gas canisters throughout the building,” Reid pointed out. “They were small enough to be carried under the coats the attackers were wearing.”

“And once a lot of people were contaminated, they probably wouldn’t even need to affect the rest,” Prentiss mused. “They’d be terrified enough seeing what was around them and getting attacked by the people who were drugged.”

“It also depends on how concentrated the toxin was,” Reid added. “Crane has been doing this for decades; I’m sure he’s become very efficient with his tech.”

“Alright, so the space itself doesn’t necessarily explain his choice,” Prentiss said, frowning around the room. “If his gas can do its job just as well in an open or enclosed space.”

“I think this location was chosen for convenience,” Reid said, looking up from his phone where he was scrolling through his emails. “Garcia couldn’t find anything in its history related to Crane or anything particularly fear-inducing. It’s only an hour from Gotham, almost a straight line west and barely over state lines. They may have gotten just far enough to cross and then attacked the first crowded place they saw.”

“So if they didn’t know what location they were attacking, they’d probably have to have a lot of fear toxin with them, so they could adapt to whatever location they found.”

Prentiss and Reid stared at each other for a moment before Prentiss grabbed her phone.

“Fount of all knowledge, state your request.”

“Garcia, it’s Emily. I need you to try and find the vehicle the attackers used.”

“Way ahead of you darling, the local PD already identified it as a black utility van with stolen plates.”

“Can you track it through security cameras?”

“I’ll certainly try. Catch you when I’ve got something.”

“Thanks, Garcia.”

Prentiss put her phone away. “She’s going to follow the van through cameras.”

“It’s unlikely she’ll be able to find where they left it, considering the number of blind spots between traffic cameras and the nature of dense city streets,” Reid mused. “There’s a thousand routes they could take, and that’s only if they’re heading back to Gotham.”

“You think they might not be?”

“If Crane needs to attack outside his normal boundaries, it’s a solid assumption,” Reid replied. “Though the amount of toxin used here might belie that: they probably have to restock, and the only place to do that is Gotham.”

“Unless they have more than one van,” Prentiss said grimly.

“You’ve been in charge of Crane’s therapy for three years now,” Rossi said.

“That’s correct.” Sebastian Aguilar was a short, stocky man with curly hair and kind eyes. He sat straight in his chair but wasn’t overly stiff. Rossi supposed he must be used to interacting with police, given the institution he worked at.

“Have you made much progress with him in that time?”

Aguilar hummed. “It’s difficult with a patient such as Jonathan. He was a psychologist himself, you know, before his license was revoked. He knows all the tricks and he doesn’t like them being used on him. I’ve found approaching him as a colleague, rather than a patient, has had the most success in connecting with him.”

“Does he share any plans or desires when you do that?”

“Some. We’ve had many discussions on fear and what makes it so compelling, but as I said, he recognizes when I’m pushing or digging, so it’s a delicate balance to keep him from pulling away.”

“What has he told you?”

Aguilar folded his hands. “From what I’ve gathered, Jonathan finds fear fascinating because of its primal nature and the way it can turn off the higher functions of a human’s brain. He sees it as reducing humans to an animalistic state, showing who we really are. From what my colleague, Dr. Heizer, has said, this is a mindset that closely mirrors another patient: John Doe, alias the Joker.”

“Is it possible they influenced each other’s beliefs?” Rossi asked, writing down a few notes.

Aguilar bobbed his head from side to side. “It’s definitely possible. They’re in the same wing and they can talk to each other through their cells or in the common areas. But Jonathan’s mindset is unique in that he also believes people can find strength in fear.”

“Strength?” Rossi asked. “Wouldn’t that point toward an abusive childhood, him trying to find strength through fear because he experienced so much of it himself? Our records didn’t show any reports of that.”

“I suspect he may have been abused,” Aguilar confirmed. “While he refuses to discuss his childhood in general, he shuts down the conversation especially quickly whenever I mention his father. If there was abuse, it wasn’t noticed, which makes me think it might not have been physical in nature.”

“So does he think he’s helping people by exposing them to their fears?” Rossi asked.

Aguilar shook his head immediately. “No, his motivations are entirely selfish. He wants to understand it for himself, rather than to help others.”

“You’re sure?” Rossi probed.

“As sure as I can be after three years,” Aguilar confirmed with a wry smile. “Jonathan doesn’t care much about other people. In our time together, he discusses them solely as test subjects, myself included.”

Rossi hummed. “Were there any signs leading up to his escape? Anything that particularly agitated him?”

Aguilar frowned in thought. “He seemed normal in the days leading up to his escape. I didn’t suspect a thing—otherwise I would have put him under heavier guard.”

“Anything further back? It would have taken some time to plan this escape,” Rossi urged.

Aguilar tapped his chin. “A few weeks before the escape…yes, there was something….” He broke off and pulled a tablet out of his satchel. “My files,” he explained. Rossi waved him on, and a few minutes passed in silence as the therapist tapped away. “Ah,” he said finally. “Here we are.”

Aguilar looked up at Rossi. “Two and a half weeks before he broke out, Jonathan came to his session very agitated. He made several comments about my work and how no one would remember someone as insignificant as I. I wasn’t overly concerned; I’ve heard much worse and I assumed he was projecting. It was nearing a year since he was last recommitted, so I thought the timing was agitating him. I hadn’t considered it may be an outside source.”

“When was this?” Rossi asked.

Aguilar gave him the date, and Rossi stood up, extending a hand to shake. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Aguilar. We’ll be in contact if we need anything more from you.”

“Of course.” Aguilar collected his things and stood. “Happy to help however I can.”

“Let’s compare notes,” Hotch said, folding his arms. The team plus Gordon were once more gathered in the conference room.

“We didn’t find anything in Crane’s cell,” Morgan reported. “But the pictures the staff had taken show that he was extremely agitated before he left. His belongings were strewn around carelessly and his notebook was full of angry ranting but no actual plans.”

“It was almost too disorganized,” Hotch continued. “Crane is a psychologist, and a talented one. He’d know what we were looking for.”

“And Arkham has some of the tightest security I’ve ever seen,” Morgan added. “He’d have to be highly organized to plan a breakout from there.”

“So you think he’s trying to throw us off the scent, make us think this was just another crazy breaking out of Arkham when he’s really got a plan,” Gordon said.

“Yes. We need to find out what that plan was.”

“I think we can help with that,” Rossi said. He tossed a newspaper on the table. “Crane’s psychologist said he came to a session agitated a couple weeks before he broke out. This was the paper that ran that day. Check out page three.”

“‘Has Gotham Finally Faced Its Fears?’” Reid read. He scanned down the page quickly. “It’s an article talking about how Crane hasn’t been seen in almost a year, and how Gotham may be free from his influence permanently.”

“Not only that, but the entire article has a triumphant, almost mocking tone to it,” Rossi added. “The journalist insinuates that it wouldn’t matter if Crane broke out again because Gotham’s not afraid of him anymore.”

“‘Face your fears enough times and you defeat them’,” Reid quoted, “‘and it seems that Gotham has defeated the Scarecrow.’”

“Well that certainly fits the bill for a stressor,” Prentiss said.

“But why did he leave the city?” Gordon asked. “Wouldn’t he want to attack here harder than ever before to prove that Gotham is still afraid of him?”

The team looked at each other.

“It could be that he’s subconsciously afraid that they’re right,” Morgan offered. “He doesn’t want to risk attacking and people not being afraid of him, so he attacks somewhere they’re not prepared for him.”

“No, the Commissioner's right,” Hotch said, frowning. “This city has been his focus for two decades, he wouldn’t be able to change M.O. that quickly.”

“It could be a diversion,” Reid offered. “He’s trying to distract us from something else.”

“That matches with the location of the attack,” Prentiss agreed. “We think it was just the first place they saw with enough people to make an attack worthwhile.”

“And Garcia said the van seemed to be heading back to Gotham before she lost track of it,” Reid added, sitting up straighter. “They could be preparing for another attack right now!”

“Did you find anything in his other attack sites?” Hotch asked.

“Nothing useful,” Prentiss said.

“He’s covered nearly the whole city at this point,” Reid elaborated. “There’s no commonality we could find other than large groups of people being present.”

The phone rang and JJ grabbed it. “Hey Garcia, you’re on speaker,” she said.

“Hello my lovelies,” Garcia said. “I looked into the reporter like Rossi requested and oh boy do I have news for you. Melissa Peabody, 27, journalist for the Gotham Times. Her parents died in one of Crane’s attacks five years ago, and her brother ended up in a mental hospital a county over.” Her voice sped up as she continued, not pausing for breath: “She goes to visit him every weekend, so I took a peek at his files and it is not pretty my sweets, not pretty at all, I had to look at kitten videos for a while because this poor boy is 18 years old and for the last five years he’s been almost constantly sedated or restrained because when he’s not”—her voice broke, but she forged on—“he tries to claw his own eyes out.”

The room was silent for a moment before Gordon sighed. “There’s always a few,” he said. “We make gas masks and antidotes as widely available as possible, but there’s always a few that are unlucky.”

“Well that explains the triumphant tone,” Rossi said. “She got ahead of herself because of her past; she was elated at the thought that he was locked up for good.”

“That’s not all,” Garcia said. “She didn’t show up for work yesterday.”

Everyone jumped to their feet.

“Garcia,” Hotch said.

“Her address is already in your phones.”

“Good. We need a SWAT team,” Hotch told Gordon.

Gordon nodded and strode out the door, barking orders into his radio.

They made it to the apartment in ten minutes. The SWAT team broke down the door and spread out through the building, guns at the ready. The team followed on their heels, new gas masks firmly in place. The apartment was empty and dark, glass strewn across the floor and scuffs on the walls.

“Clear!” echoed through the apartment.

Morgan holstered his gun, frowning around the living room. “There was definitely a struggle,” he said. “A violent one.”

“She’s a Gothamite,” Gordon sighed, holstering his own gun. “One who’s lost family to Crane before. I’d be surprised if we didn’t find foreign blood somewhere.”

“I might have just found it,” Prentiss said, grimacing at the red smear on the edge of the coffee table.

“So we’re probably looking at a team,” Morgan said. “With a hit to the head like that, you’d need help getting out of the building, let alone kidnapping someone.”

 “Unless that’s Peabody’s blood, in which case one assailant could easily remove her from the premises,” Hotch said grimly.

“I’ve put a rush on the blood,” someone chimed in from the back. Rossi jumped, spinning away from the wall that had been empty a second ago. Red Robin gave them a little wave. “We should have the results soon.”

“How did you open the window without me noticing?” Rossi demanded.

Red Robin glanced at the window behind him. “I didn’t,” he said. “I’ve been in here this whole time.”

The team exchanged consternated looks behind their gas masks. Even if that didn’t point to a dangerous hole in their security and observation, the teenager could’ve been shot.

“That was dangerous,” Hotch said. There was an edge to his voice, but he didn’t outright reprimand the vigilante. He seemed just as unsure how to handle Red Robin as the rest of the team.

“You’re not wearing a gas mask,” Reid pointed out. “This is a potentially contaminated area-”

“I’ve run tests on the air already,” Red Robin interrupted, waving him off. “No traces of fear gas. It’s possible they used the toxin instead, which could be dangerous if your skin comes in contact with it, but I haven’t found any syringes either, and they’re not exactly conscientious about cleaning up after themselves.”

“Meaning?” Prentiss asked.

“I think they took her conscious. Crane’ll want to take his time with her,” Red Robin explained, unfazed by the horrific nature of the information he was sharing. “He’ll start with low doses, recording her every reaction, and slowly graduate to larger doses. He wouldn’t want previous contamination to affect his results. And he’d want her awake so he can start right away.”

“That means we have some time to save her,” Prentiss said, looking at Hotch.

“How long do you think we have?” Hotch asked Gordon.

Gordon held up one finger and looked at Red Robin. “You tested the whole apartment?”

“The whole building,” Red Robin corrected.

Hotch frowned. How long were the vigilantes aware of this location? How long had they been withholding this information from the team? Long enough that they could have saved Peabody?

Gordon nodded and tapped his radio. “All clear for fear gas,” he said. The Commissioner pulled his gas mask off and turned back to Hotch. The team exchanged glances and then slowly pulled off their own masks. “He usually keeps a single victim for a day or two. What do you think, Red?”

“Yeah, at least a day. Probably more like two or three, given how much she pissed him off.”

“And we don’t know when they took her, only that she didn’t show up to work yesterday,” Prentiss said.

Red Robin’s mouth went thin. “Unfortunately, yes. Oracle’s looking through security cameras, but we should assume we don’t have long. And our chances of finding her mentally sound or alive decrease over time.” Red Robin tapped his ear. “Oracle, can you get me Peabody’s records? Yeah, thanks.”

Red Robin frowned down at his gauntlet for a moment, then hummed. “Okay,” he said. “Peabody doesn’t have a particular susceptibility to fear gas, as far as we can tell. That’s good, it means we have more time-”

“They have access to private citizens’ medical records?” Hotch demanded, turning to Gordon.

Gordon huffed. “Oracle has access to everything. If it’s on a computer, they know about it.”

“As I was saying,” Red Robin said, looking a bit impatient, “given Peabody’s history with Crane, her natural trauma response could make her reaction to the toxin worse.”

“She’ll already be afraid of Crane, more than someone who hasn’t been directly affected by him, so the fear toxin will have to do less work to make her mind and body give out,” Reid said, looking to the vigilante for confirmation.

Red Robin nodded. “Right. Normally, the toxin would be doing most of the work. For Peabody, her body will be doing a lot of it before he even exposes her.”

“So we have to work fast,” Rossi said grimly.

Red Robin nodded again. “And for the sake of that speed, I recommend we reconvene at the station while the techs process the scene.” He walked toward the window, not waiting for them to agree. “I’ll see you there.”

Before any of them could make a move to stop him or demand more information, Red Robin was gone, the open window the only sign he’d ever been there. Gordon was already radioing the techs to come up and take over.

Hotch sighed. There wasn’t much to see here, but he didn’t like how the vigilantes were walking over his team and expecting them to follow orders. Unfortunately, they didn’t have many other options. If there was a chance working with the vigilantes would save Peabody’s life, they had to take it. “Alright, we’re on a deadline,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Red Robin was waiting for them in the conference room, flipping through a file and muttering to himself.

“Oh good, you’re here,” he said as they filed into the room. “Please, take a seat.”

Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, and Reid sat down, while Gordon, Hotch, and Rossi remained standing. Red Robin shrugged and stood up, tossing the file back on the table.

“Right, so first off, the blood results came back: It’s not Peabody.”

The whole room relaxed a little.

“She managed to get that good of a hit in, that means she’s a fighter,” Morgan said. “That should help her hold out.”

“Right, so let’s talk location.” Red Robin clicked a small remote and the projector hanging from the ceiling lit up, casting a map of Gotham on the wall.

“Crane follows the same pattern as the majority of the Rogues, when it comes to hideouts,” the vigilante said, putting his hands on his hips. “Abandoned warehouses and buildings.”

“Which Gotham has in spades,” Gordon said grimly.

Red Robin inclined his head in agreement and clicked the remote again. A significant portion of the map lit up, and Prentiss’s heart sank.

“Luckily for us,” Red Robin said, “Crane is also a scientist. He wants a specific set of characteristics: cleanliness, weatherproofing, privacy, and most importantly, proximity to lab equipment.”

Over a dozen red and blue dots appeared on the map. Even as she watched, one of the blue dots turned red.

“This is a map of buildings that fit the standards Crane is looking for,” Red Robin said. “Red marks ones that are most likely, blue marks ones that are less likely but possible. Oracle is updating the maps in real time as they research the buildings.”

“That’s far too many locations to search,” Hotch said. “We need to narrow it down.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Red Robin said. “You need to wait for warrants and SWAT, we’re faster and more flexible.” He tilted his head as if listening to something. The corner of his mouth turned up a little. “And that’s another location cleared.” A red dot vanished from the map. “You guys should just sit tight and let us get the list down.”

“This is a federal investigation,” Hotch said firmly. This was a line too far. He could appreciate that protocol sometimes got in the way of solving a case, but they had a job to do and they’d be doing it, vigilantes or no vigilantes. “And waiting around isn’t how we operate.”

“We appreciate your assistance,” JJ interjected, “but we have a responsibility to see this case through.”

Red Robin looked between them for a long moment. “Listen, Agent Hotchner,” he said. “I respect you and your team a lot. But this is what we do; this is our turf. We’ll tell you as soon as we have the location. We’ll wait for you and you’ll make the arrest, I swear. Just let us do our job and then you can do yours, and hopefully no one will get hurt.”

They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills. Prentiss noticed another blue dot appear on the screen.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “I can’t stop you,” he said.

Red Robin nodded and dug into his belt. “Communicators,” he said, putting a handful of earbuds on the table. “So we can keep you updated. They’re already on the right channel, push the button on the side to turn it on, hold it to talk, or double click it to keep the mic open. Try not to keep it open, though, there’s a lot of people on the channel. Oracle will be your primary liaison, and we’ve already connected with your technical analyst.” He met each of their gazes and gave them a tight smile. “See you on the other side.”

He dove out the window.

Hotch turned to face the team. “We’re not going to sit around waiting for them to do our jobs,” he said. “They are a resource, but we still need to do this properly. Rossi, you and I will give the profile to the locals. The rest of you, start researching the buildings. Keep an eye out for anything they might have missed.”

“I’ll start working on geographical profiles for the locations, try and narrow them down that way,” Reid offered.

Hotch nodded. “Good.” He picked up an earbud, fitting it into his ear, and the rest of the team followed suit.

“Good work, Nightwing,” a roboticized voice was saying. It paused. “Guests on the line. Welcome, agents. I’m Oracle, and I’ll be coordinating the teams and working with Ms. Garcia to get you all the information you need. Red Robin says he updated you on the current situation. Does anyone have any questions?”

“I have a question,” Hood’s brash voice said. Hotch twitched a little, hearing it.

“Is it a relevant question?” Oracle asked, sounding tired even through their modulation.

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Yo, feds, what happened to the other old guy? Agent Gideon?”

There was a moment of tense silence as the team looked at each other. Rossi mouthed ‘other old guy’ to himself.

“He retired,” Morgan finally said.

“Huh. Good for him, I guess. Shame, though. He wasn’t bad, for a fed.”

“Okay-” Oracle started, but Hood cut them off.

“Who’s the new old guy, then?”

Rossi was practiced enough that his annoyance didn’t leak into his voice as he said, “My name is David Rossi.”

“Rossi,” Hood muttered. “Why do I know that name?”

“The author,” Nightwing said. There was a faint whistling behind his voice. Hotch imagined Nightwing standing on top of a skyscraper, nothing between him and the ground but a grapple gun, and grimaced. He’d be keeping his feet firmly on the ground, thank you.

“Ugh,” Hood said, disgusted. “You.”

Hotch and Rossi exchanged glances, wondering if Rossi had just made himself a target of a prolific killer.

“Your books are a big part of our training,” Nightwing explained. “B’s a huge fan.”

Batman cleared his throat pointedly.

Hotch glanced at Rossi, who’s annoyed expression had become dumbfounded. “Oh. Thank you.”

“ I once spent summer vacation reading your books instead of going to camp,” Hood complained.

“That was your choice,” Batman said, tone shifting a little. If he was more expressive, Hotch might guess that he was wounded by Hood’s complaint.

Wait, did that mean Batman had trained Hood? The ‘Hood and Batman are related’ theory was growing more probable by the moment.

“I have found your writing of acceptable quality,” Robin’s high-pitched voice said primly. “I recently completed Eyes of a Predator and am partway through Sex Kills: The Sexual Motivations of Serial Killers.”

Hotch stiffened. Rossi’s jaw dropped, horrified at the thought of a child reading those books. Before they could say anything, Batman and Nightwing beat them to it.

“Robin,” Batman said sharply. “I told you those books were above your level.”

Nightwing groaned. “Robin, we talked about this.”

Robin sniffed. “I fail to see the problem. You said I could learn and advance at my own pace. I advanced to the stage where reading those books was necessary, so I did.”

“There are also age restrictions,” Nightwing pointed out. “Which you knew, because I told you two weeks ago.”

Hotch could hear the scowl in Robin’s voice as he said, “Age is irrelevant.” He couldn’t help imagining Jack’s angry pout. Robin was so young. How could anyone willingly bring a child into this mess?

“It’s really, really not,” Nightwing started. He paused and sighed. “We’ll talk about it later, though, when we don’t have company.”

There was a long, awkward moment of silence.

“15 Acorn is clear,” Batgirl reported.

“Copy,” Oracle said. “I’ve sent new coordinates to your gauntlet.”

“Rodger dodger!”

Children. They were working with children. They needed to wrap this case up and fast, before one of those children were injured. Then Hotch could look into bringing a CPS investigation against Batman.

“I’d like to give the profile,” Hotch told Gordon, who hadn’t gotten an earpiece and seemed perfectly content with that.

“I’ll gather the troops,” the Commissioner said.

“As you all know, we’re looking for Jonathan Crane, also known as the Scarecrow,” Hotch said, looking out over the gathered officers. They all had the same, hardened eyes as Gordon, as if they’d seen war. After seeing Gotham up close, Hotch understood the look even more.

“Crane is a sadistic psychopath,” he continued. “He enjoys inflicting pain, and he sees himself as a scientist, studying what makes people tick and how far they can be pushed by fear before they lose their humanity. We believe Crane was abused as a child, which led to this fixation on fear.”

“Crane broke out of Arkham because of an article written by Melissa Peabody, a journalist for the Gotham Times,” Rossi took over. “The attack on the mall was likely a diversion while he captured her. We believe he is experimenting on her, so we have a very limited window to recover her alive and well.”

“What makes you think she’s not dead or insane already?” someone called.

“Since Peabody was such a serious stressor for Crane, we believe he’ll take his time with her,” Hotch replied. “We must operate under the assumption that she’s alive.”

“Crane will likely be extremely agitated,” Rossi warned. “His pride’s been hurt, and that makes him even more dangerous than he usually would be.”

Someone muttered something in the back, and Hotch frowned. “What was that?”

There was a moment’s pause, then an officer stepped forward, folding his arms. “What good does this do us? We already know he’s a dangerous freak obsessed with fear. What exactly are you lot doing that we aren’t doing ourselves?”

The gathered officers muttered in agreement.

Gordon cleared his throat loudly, but he didn’t contradict the man. “We’re working with the Bats to narrow down locations,” he said. “This does not mean we can afford to be sloppy with this. You’ll be splitting into teams and clearing civilians from the most high-risk areas. Discreetly. We don’t want to tip Crane off or cause a panic. Report to your sergeants; they’ll give you your assignments.”

With a few final mutters and resentful looks, the officers dispersed. Gordon turned to Hotch and Rossi. “I can manage them. Just keep me updated on the locations.” He tapped his radio.

“Will do,” Hotch nodded.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Rossi murmured as they headed back to the conference room.

“We knew he didn’t want us here,” Hotch said, turning his earpiece back on. “I’m just glad he’s not stonewalling us.”

“Amen to that,” Rossi agreed, tapping his own earpiece.

“Crime Alley is clear,” Hood said as Hotch opened the door to the conference room. He sounded annoyed, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it. “I’d know if Crane was shacking up here.”

“It’s important to be sure,” Oracle argued. Hotch raised an eyebrow at JJ, and got a grimace in response. Apparently, Batman’s team wasn’t as well-oiled as rumors suggested. Unsurprising, given Hotch’s own knowledge of Hood.

Hood made an aggrieved noise. “I am sure. You think I don’t keep an eye on the abandoned buildings in my territory?”

“It’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“I have a lot of eyes and ears, all of whom would be thrilled to rat Crane out. No unusual activity, no missing people, no break-ins at labs or pharmacies.”

Oracle hesitated.

“We’ve got too many locations to waste time, Oracle,” Hood pushed.

Oracle sighed, a noise turned to static by their modulator. “Alright,” they said. “Then I’ve got a potential informant near you. Matthew Waller, 47, lives at 56 Shanelly Road. He worked with Crane in the past, and isn’t legally employed at the moment. See if he’s gone back to his old boss.”

“ETA six minutes,” Hood reported.

“He has a number of assault and drug possession charges as well,” Oracle added. “Seems like he has a taste for violence, so be aware.”

Garcia made a noise of disgusted agreement. “Three years ago he was accused of raping a ten year old,” she said, “but the charges were dropped because of a lack of evidence.”

The comms went dead silent. Hotch tensed. Two years ago, Hood had begged them to let him kill a rapist. Hotch remembered the sheer rage that had filled the vigilante every time the man was brought up and grimaced. Waller was in extreme danger.

“Hood?” Nightwing’s voice asked after a moment. “Hood, are you there?”

Hood didn’t reply.

“Hood, remember your streak,” Nightwing pleaded.

“Hood’s notorious for hating rapists,” Reid murmured, thankfully not into his earpiece.

Hotch clenched his teeth. They didn’t have the manpower or time to track Hood down or stop him from murdering someone. This was why they didn’t work with vigilantes!

“Hood-” Batman began.

“Don’t even start.” Hood’s voice was low and furious. “How much intel have you all been keeping from me, huh? Pretending to trust me when you clearly don’t.”

“Hood, we just wanted to make life easier for you,” Nightwing soothed, his calm voice edged with worry. “We haven’t kept any important details from you, but we didn’t want to throw you in a situation with that kind of…temptation.”

“Fuck off.”

The comms went silent, and Hood didn’t reply to further calls of his name.

“Oracle,” Batman growled.

“He’s arriving at the address,” Oracle reported.

“I’m headi-”

“No,” Oracle cut him off sharply. “You’re too far away, you wouldn’t make it in time to stop Hood from doing anything, and you all have your own missions. We’ll just have to trust Hood. Focus on saving Peabody.”

After a moment of tense silence, Batman grunted.

Hotch did not trust Hood, and he would not just wait to find out if the vigilante murdered someone while on comms with them. He made sure his earpiece was turned off before picking up the radio. “Commissioner,” he said. “We need officers at 56 Shanelly Road. The Red Hood is there and we have reason to believe he is going to murder the resident Matthew Waller.”

There was a pause, then Gordon said, “I’ll see who we have in the area.” He sounded tired. “But I’m not putting my men in a situation I know they can’t walk out of, not when we’ve got a major Rogue attack brewing.”

Hotch and Rossi exchanged looks. “Thank you, Commissioner,” Hotch said. They’d just have to arrest Hood later. Batman might even be more accommodating if Hood killed someone on his watch. 

He put the radio down and looked over at Morgan, who was answering his phone.

“Is Hood going to kill that man?” Garcia’s voice shook through the speaker. “Is someone going to die because of me?”

“Babygirl, what Hood does is not your fault,” Morgan said. “You were just doing your job.”

“I should have known Oracle wasn’t mentioning it for a reason,” Garcia fretted. “They’re one of the best hackers in the world, of course they wouldn’t have missed it. And I just opened my big mouth and-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Morgan said, taking the phone off speaker and pressing it to his ear as he walked over to the corner. “Garcia, listen to me.”

“Progress?” Hotch asked the rest of the group.

“They work fast, I’ll give them that,” Prentiss said, shoving a folder to the side and picking up another.

“But not fast enough,” Reid said. “If we continue at our current rate, we won’t be able to narrow down the location for hours, unless we get lucky. And that’s only if he’s in one of the most likely locations.”

“Hours Peabody doesn’t have,” Rossi said.

“Exactly.” Reid frowned as he flipped through his own file. “There’s something we’re missing,” he murmured.

“What?” Hotch asked.

“I don’t know.” Reid rubbed his temples, looking frustrated. “I just have a feeling.”

Hotch studied Reid for a moment. He had learned over the years that Reid’s feelings were usually right. “Is it a viable feeling?” he asked.

Reid met his eyes, considering. “Yes,” he said.

Hotch nodded sharply. “Run it down.”

Chapter Text

It had been a quiet twenty minutes. It had been somewhat productive, as Garcia was able to confirm that there was no sign of other vans being prepped for an attack, but only one location had been reported clear. Batman’s team had worked quickly to eliminate all the locations in the center of the city, so now they had to spend more time traveling to each location. The time constraint was dangerous, but the silence was helpful. Reid knew they were missing something, so he’d been going back over the timeline, searching for any location that could have specific meaning. There were a few: Crane’s childhood home, the university he’d taught at, Arkham Asylum. But they’d researched each one, and Crane had never had a particular vendetta against or attachment to any of the locations. He didn’t shy away from attacking them, but he didn’t target them either.

But Reid had learned to trust his instincts.

“Waller was a dead end,” Hood’s voice said abruptly. JJ jumped a little, broken out of her concentration. “He was working for Two Face, not Crane.”

“...was?” Oracle asked carefully.

“I dissuaded him.”

After a long moment, Red Robin finally said, “So, how literal of a dead end are we talking here?”

Morgan made a strangled noise.

Hood scoffed angrily. “Batman’s precious rule remains intact. The fuckwad’s alive. Though if you want him to stay that way, Oracle might want to send an ambulance to his address.”

“Copy that,” Oracle agreed.

Hotch looked approximately two seconds from arresting the whole group. Since that would make catching Crane and saving Peabody much harder, Reid decided now was a good time to share his theory.

“I have a theory,” he said, double-tapping his earpiece to keep it on. “I was looking back through locations that are meaningful to Crane. I think he might be at Gotham City University.” He gestured at the whiteboard even though half his audience couldn’t see it. “The university was the place Crane began seriously conducting his experiments. He had power and respect there, before he was fired. It would make sense for him to return there when his ego is threatened.”

“That doesn’t fit his M.O.,” Batman said. “He only attacked the university once, directly after he was fired. While the university has been damaged in other attacks, it’s only been incidental or collateral damage. Peabody has no connections to the university, and they haven’t done anything to draw his ire.”

“True, but he’s been devolving for twenty years,” Reid pointed out. “Serial killers’ egos tend to become more sensitive over time, leading them to escalate. It’s possible Crane’s experiencing a new level of insecurity because of Peabody’s article, so he’s seeking out a location where he feels powerful. Even if it’s not part of his M.O., it makes sense for someone who’s devolved as far as Crane has.”

“But wouldn’t the university no longer represent power to him?” Batgirl asked. “He was fired, and that's what started the police investigating him.”

Reid nodded before remembering they couldn’t see him. “Right,” he said hastily. “But being fired and pursued also pushed him to test and refine his formulas into more effective weapons. You could argue that the university is where he evolved into the Scarecrow, and that’s where his power was first born.”

Batgirl hummed thoughtfully.

“The university’s on its summer schedule,” Garcia said. She still sounded a little timid, but her voice strengthened as she continued: “Several buildings are currently shut down, and the others are running on a reduced schedule of summer classes.”

“The Thomas Wayne Medical Building is one of the buildings that shut down for the summer,” Oracle added. “There weren’t enough med students taking summer classes to justify it.”

“Gotham doesn’t breed many doctors,” Nightwing murmured.

“Not when most of the Rogues have doctorates, no,” Oracle agreed. “The med students they do have spend their summers interning at local hospitals. The location would have relative privacy and access to high-quality equipment. Security guards would look for disturbances around the outside of buildings and through windows, but if he’s in one of the basement labs…it’s possible.”

“And you’ll never guess what’s happening tonight!” Garcia added, picking up speed in her excitement. “It’s the annual faculty dinner. It was set for right after the semester ended, but had to be postponed due to a Joker attack. They’re giving out awards, fancy catering, the works.”

“That’d be the perfect opportunity to not only return to a place he feels powerful, but to reinforce his power over the people that fired him,” Prentiss said, looking around the room wide-eyed.

Hotch grabbed his radio. “Commissioner, we need SWAT at Gotham City University,” he said. “Let’s move!” he ordered the team. They all jumped to their feet, hurrying out of the room toward the cars.

“Black Bat, Red Robin, redirect to the university,” Batman growled. “Search the Thomas Wayne Medical Building. If you find Crane, do not engage until backup arrives.”

“Copy,” Red Robin said. “I’m already in New Gotham. ETA three minutes.”

“Cape Carmine,” Black Bat said. “Five.”

“We’re en route with SWAT,” Reid updated the vigilantes, remembering that Hotch hadn’t turned on his earpiece. He slid into the backseat of the SUV and caught the bulletproof vest JJ tossed him. “ETA…” he glanced at Gordon, who was sliding into the passenger seat.

“With Officer Holden driving?” Gordon asked. He clapped the woman in the driver’s seat on the shoulder. “Ten minutes, tops.” Officer Holden sent Reid an alarming grin through the rearview mirror.

“ETA Ten minutes,” Reid repeated. He fitted a police earpiece into his free ear and tightened his seat belt.

Officer Holden flicked on the siren and slammed her foot on the gas. The wheels spun for a second, squealing, before they found traction and the car shot forward. Reid was very glad that he wasn’t prone to motion sickness as they rocketed through the busy city streets, swerving around cars, blasting through intersections, and taking a corner so sharply Reid could have sworn their wheels left the ground.

“Approaching the Thomas Wayne Medical Building from the north side,” Red Robin reported. “All quiet from the outside, no sign of lights or movement.”

“Wait,” Black Bat reprimanded.

“Peabody doesn’t have time for me to wait around,” Red Robin hissed. “She’s already been captured for two days, maybe longer, and-”

“Here.”

There was a moment of silence, then Black Bat said, “Together. Going in.”

“Be careful,” Nightwing said, sounding a little winded. Running around the city must’ve finally been catching up with him.

“I’m heading that way,” Hood said, still sounding annoyed. “Crossing Madison Bridge.”

“Hood, Commissioner Gordon-” Oracle started.

“Commissioner Gordon can go fuck himself,” Hood snapped. “His turf’s the station, not GCU.”

Oracle sighed, their voice modulator turning it to static. “I’ll alert the PD that you’ll be there. Do not shoot anyone.”

“Hey,” Hood protested. “I’ve never shot a-” He paused, apparently thinking about it. “I’ve never shot a non-corrupt cop,” he amended. Then he grunted. “Okay, I’ve never shot a non-corrupt cop that wasn’t actively trying to kill me, but that only happened once and they didn’t even die-”

“Stop helping, Hood,” Batgirl groaned.

Reid swallowed hard, meeting JJ’s alarmed look. He wasn’t sure if her green complexion was from Hood’s words or the chaotic driving. Both, perhaps. In their line of work, they met many different kinds of killers. There were killers who bragged about their work, ones who clammed up, ones who justified themselves, and ones that treated the whole thing as a non-issue. In Reid’s experience, the latter were often the most dangerous.

The earpiece in Reid’s other ear crackled a little. “GCPD, be advised, Red Robin and Black Bat are on scene sweeping the Thomas Wayne Medical Building,” Oracle said. They paused. “The Red Hood will also be present. He’s operating as an ally; refrain from friendly fire.”

“Fucking hell,” Gordon muttered. He activated his earpiece. “Acknowledged. Don’t shoot Hood unless he shoots first.”

Reid had a feeling that wasn’t the answer Oracle was hoping for. He didn’t envy their position: He knew from listening to JJ how complicated and difficult it sometimes was for the FBI to coordinate with local police, and they were at least operating on the same side of the law.

“First floor of the north wing is clear,” Red Robin reported. “We’re heading to the basement level.”

Almost as if he’d heard the vigilante, Gordon lifted his radio. “Approaching the campus,” he said. “Cut lights and sirens. We want to take this bastard by surprise.”

They finally reached the campus, racing past a tall sign proudly proclaiming ‘Gotham City University’ in tall white letters.

“Thomas Wayne Medical Building is to the right,” Gordon told Officer Holden, “past the quad.”

“Yessir,” she said, and jerked the wheel to the right.

Reid glanced back and saw the other vehicles following close on their tail, lights dark and sirens off as requested. It wouldn’t help much if Crane had stationed lookouts, but it might give them a few extra seconds. In their line of work, a few extra seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

Officer Holden hit the breaks, pulling them to an abrupt stop in front of a tall brick building with clean white trim. ‘Thomas Wayne Medical Building’ was emblazoned across its side. It looked quiet and empty, but Reid knew that looks could be deceiving.

“Arriving on scene,” Hood said through the comms—Reid was gradually becoming more impressed with Oracle’s ability to monitor all the lines of communication at once, especially since he’d switched from a handheld radio to two earpieces. And they were probably monitoring other conversations Reid wasn’t privy to.

“Copy,” Oracle said. “Black Bat and Red Robin have the medical building covered. Head to the conference center: that’s where they’re holding the faculty dinner.”

“Copy,” Hood agreed briskly.

A black motorcycle shot past them, Hood’s signature helmet making its owner unmistakable as he headed to the other side of campus.

Gordon looked a bit disgruntled that Hood had actually shown up, but he just shook his head and rattled off orders: “Squad A, take the east side. Squad B, west. Meet in the middle, then A will head down while B heads up. Squads C and D will head over to the conference center.”

Reid was assigned Squad A. It really was impressive, he mused as he fell into place at the back of the group, gun at the ready and gas mask firmly in place, that Gordon’s SWAT team was so large; not many cities had 50 SWAT members available at the drop of a dime. Though in a city like Gotham, it seemed necessary.

Reid sent JJ a quick nod as she joined him in Squad A. Prentiss was heading for the west side of the building. He hadn’t seen Morgan, Rossi, or Hotch, so they’d probably gone to the conference center. It was a good call on Gordon’s part, making sure there were agents available in all the squads. That way, no matter which group encountered Crane first, they could take him into federal custody.

The building faced east, and Squad A burst through the large front doors, fanning out to cover the hallway, the beams of their flashlights darting across classroom doors and corkboards.

The back of Reid’s neck prickled as they made their way down the hall. He resisted the urge to turn around. He knew there wasn’t anyone behind him; it was just nerves. He’d spent so long studying Crane’s movements and history that he’d become very familiar with fear gas and its effects, and now his mind was tricking him, simulating the anxiety caused by the gas. It couldn’t be real: He’d only received his mask a few days ago, and he’d double-checked it every day since.

The comm in his ear clicked as someone activated their end. “Found Peabody,” Red Robin breathed, so quietly Reid paused mid-step to hear. “Basement level. Lab 3. Five armed henchmen. No sign of Crane.”

“Copy,” Oracle said. “Hold position, do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.”

JJ glanced toward him, and Reid shrugged a little. If they needed to, they could update the PD, but it wouldn’t be his first choice. They were still on thin ice with the whole department. Oracle would probably relay the information themself.

About a minute later, Reid was proven right as Gordon’s voice came over the police earpiece. “Red Robin has found the hostage in the basement, Lab 3, five armed henchmen. Crane is still unaccounted for; proceed with extreme caution.”

The Thomas Wayne Medical Building was built around a central open space. The first floor boasted a small cafe with plenty of seating, probably so students could refuel without interrupting their studying. It also featured an elevator and two sets of stairs. The squads arrived from opposite sides of the space within minutes of each other. Squad A’s leader nodded to his counterpart, motioning with a flick of his fingers that they’d take the staircase on the left.

Prentiss nodded to Reid and JJ as she passed and he nodded back, unable to give her a smile with the gas mask in the way.

“Squad A,” Oracle’s voice said over their police earpieces. “Reminder that Red Robin and Black Bat are currently watching Lab 3. Refrain from friendly fire.”

It was interesting, the protocols they had for when Oracle would directly contact law enforcement. So far, it seemed like Oracle deferred to Gordon, but they weren’t afraid to take the reins when they had a particularly important or time-sensitive piece of information to share. In turn, the PD seemed to have no issue taking the occasional order from the information broker. It was an impressive collaboration, and Reid wondered how long it had taken for them to build that trust.

“Understood,” their squad leader murmured. He pulled open the door to the stairway, and Reid tried to quiet the thrill of excitement that joined his anxiety as they headed down. He might get to see Gotham’s vigilantes in combat up close! But those vigilantes were children who shouldn’t be in that position at all, and their goal was to secure the scene as quickly as possible with a minimum of violence.

The basement’s open space was a sitting area with couches, armchairs, and tables scattered around. It looked eerie in the darkness, like people could be hiding behind the furniture.

Something moved on the east side of the room, and a dozen guns were instantly pointed in that direction.

“Woah, Red Robin here,” the vigilante said quietly, stepping out of the hallway. He had a gas mask of his own fastened to the lower half of his face, leaving only his forehead visible. Reid privately thought the addition was much more practical for protecting yourself and your secret identity than a small mask that only covered the eyes. Then again, Robin had been around for almost two decades, and no one had figured out their identities yet.

“Black Bat’s watching them,” Red Robin continued, coming closer so they could hear him better. “They don’t seem to know we’re here, so I don’t think Crane set any lookouts. But they do have automatics, and while it’s a decent-sized room, there’s only one door.”

Their squad leader hummed. “Peabody?”

“She’s strapped to a table in the middle of the room,” Red Robin reported, brow furrowing. “They’re not currently harming her, but she’s definitely suffering from toxin overdose.”

There was a brief moment of silence as the squad leader thought over the situation. He gave Red Robin a long look. “What do you suggest?” he asked, gun held low at his side. Reid marveled at this next example of the GCPD’s strange, symbiotic relationship with the city’s vigilantes.

“Let us provide a distraction,” Red Robin replied immediately. “We’ll draw their attention away from the door and give you a chance to get inside and surround them.”

“That’ll put you right in the path of a lot of bullets,” the man said, though he sounded less like he was arguing and more like he just wanted to make sure Red Robin understood the position he was about to put himself in.

“I know,” Red Robin said, meeting the man’s gaze steadily.

“Alright,” their squad leader agreed. “Let’s do it.”

Hotch slid out of the SWAT vehicle, gun drawn but pointing at the ground. While the rest of campus was almost abandoned, the parking lot in front of the conference center was filled with cars. There was no way to tell if any of them belonged to Crane and his followers, rather than faculty.

The conference center itself was a large building, but fortunately they knew exactly where the faculty dinner was being held: in the largest of the conference rooms, which took up a large portion of the first floor and extended up to the second floor as well, where there was a gallery for extra seating. Garcia had provided the information, finding blueprints of the building and highlighting the shortest path to the faculty members. Hotch had immediately shared this information with his squad leader. Hopefully they could safely evacuate the faculty and catch Crane without any casualties.

“Listen up, folks!” a woman announced, turning to face the group. A man stepped up beside her. “I’m Sergeant Fidek and this is Sergeant Moorson. As most of you know, we’re your squad leaders. Once we’re through the doors, Squad C will circle around the west side with me,”—she gestured to the left side of the building—“while Squad D takes the east.” She put her hands on her hips and looked around the group. “It’s been a while since we had to use Scarecrow Protocol and we’ve got some new faces, so I’ll break it down. Lock and bar all doors except one line of escape. Today, that’s going to be the main doors here and the doors in the back of the conference room. Squad C will be controlling the main doors, and Squad D will be responsible for the internal doors.”

Hotch exchanged incredulous looks with Morgan and Rossi. Usually, they didn’t block off exits when there were civilians still needing to be evacuated.

“Once the exits are blocked, we’ll sweep the areas immediately around the conference room and check for Scarecrow or his men,” Fidek continued. “Maintain stealth. Take out any perps quietly. If you can’t do that, radio it in and the door guards will begin the evacuation process while the rest of us take out the perps.” She sighed a little, looking just as put out as Gordon as she added, “And remember that the Red Hood is in the building. Maintain caution, but he’ll be focused on Scarecrow and his guys, so he shouldn’t bother you.”

Both squads were agreeing and pulling on their gas masks without a fuss, but Hotch couldn’t keep quiet. This was a massive breach in protocol, and he’d like to know the reason for it before he participated in a plan that could easily cause mass casualties.

“Isn’t evacuation usually the first step before sealing off a building?” he asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard. He didn’t want to come off as aggressive or dismissive of the squad leader.

Fidek didn’t look upset at the question. On the contrary, she looked pleased, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “You’re right,” she said loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Normally, evacuation is the first priority. But when we’re dealing with Scarecrow, we don’t want to make him attack any earlier than he’s already planning to. If he or his men are in the wings and we start evacuating, they’ll release his fear gas, which will make evacuation and controlling the situation more difficult and dangerous. We want to minimize the time between them attacking and us taking them down. And if they do release the gas, we don’t want any victims getting out of that room; they could hurt someone or hide somewhere and die of toxin overdose.”

Hotch nodded, turning the new information over in his mind. It made sense, given Crane’s M.O. and the risk his fear gas posed.

Fidek nodded back. “Remember,” she said, facing the crowd and latching onto a few faces in particular. Those were probably the new faces she’d mentioned. “I’d rather you ask questions than be unsure when you’re inside.” She paused for a moment, letting that sink in, before adding, “Any more questions?”

No one had questions, and she nodded. “Then move out. Quietly.” She pulled on her gas mask and raised her gun to the ready position, leading Squad C toward the doors. Rossi and Morgan followed at the back of that group, and Hotch joined Squad D.

The building was quiet enough that they could hear the music and faint chatter coming from the conference room as they crept through the halls. No screaming, thankfully. Two of their squad stayed at the conference room’s main doors. They didn’t open them, just stationed themselves at the ready to either throw the doors open or defend them. The rest of the squad kept following the hallway to the right, quickly clearing any rooms and closets they came across. There were several doors leading to the conference room, and they barred each one shut. It still made Hotch’s stomach twist, knowing there were innocents inside, but he had to trust that Gotham SWAT knew what they were doing.

“First floor cleared,” Moorson murmured into his radio once they’d reached the back of the building.

“Copy,” Fidek replied. “Hold-” the radio went dead for a moment, and everyone stiffened.

“Copy,” the woman repeated after a tense minute. “First floor cleared on our side. Move to second.”

Hotch was halfway up the stairs to the second floor, still at the back of the squad, when someone made a sharp, startled sound up above. It was followed by the click of ten safeties being disengaged, and Hotch followed suit, every muscle tense as he strained his ears to hear.

“The Red Hood’s in the rear east stairwell,” Moorson said over the radio a second later. “Non-hostile.”

Safeties clicked back on above him, and Hotch grimaced, finger hesitating over the switch before he finally flicked it on. Of course Hood ran into his squad. He seemed to have some rapport with—or at least interest in—Morgan, but Hood and Hotch’s interactions had never been anything but aggressive.

“Hey,” Hood’s voice said in his ear, and it took Hotch a moment to realize it was coming through the police earpiece rather than the comm Red Robin had given him. “Oracle patched me in so I could update you guys. I count twenty-three goons stationed around the gallery, all of them with automatics and gas canisters at the ready. Haven’t seen Crane, though. My guess is he’s downstairs, planning to make a dramatic entrance on the stage with a few goons.”

Crane couldn’t be downstairs, they’d searched the whole first floor…unless he and his men were already inside the conference room. Hotch didn’t know what the inside looked like, aside from some blueprints, but if there was a stage, there were probably also curtains and a backstage.

Alright, Crane and maybe twenty-six men. Those weren’t…terrible numbers. They had twenty-four SWAT members, plus Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi. And Hood. However, two of those SWAT members were guarding the outer doors, and while law enforcement had to worry about protecting the faculty, Crane’s men were free to throw their gas canisters and shoot as they pleased. So the equal numbers weren’t exactly balanced.

“Since all his men are up top, does that mean Scarecrow locked the doors to the conference center to keep the faculty inside?” Fidek asked.

“I’d assume so,” Hood said. “Crane’s pretty smart about that shit.”

His squad finally started moving again, and Hotch kept a sharp eye out as he climbed the stairs. He wanted to see Hood before the crime lord saw him.

“Whoever’s guarding the internal doors, gently see if they’re locked,” Fidek ordered. “I don’t want anyone to see them opening or shaking.”

There was a moment of silence. Hotch finally made it into the second floor hallway, where his squad was clustered. Hood was standing near Moorson, arms folded over his chest and head tilted to the side as they all waited to hear back from the men downstairs. Calm and collected, as if he hadn’t tortured a potentially innocent man less than an hour ago.

“Locked,” a voice murmured through the earpiece.

Hotch grimaced. There went the chance to evacuate quietly.

“Alright,” Fidek said over the radio. “I want three men from each team to meet at the back of the gallery. Everyone else, spread out to cover the rest of the doors. On my signal, the group at the back will enter and start clearing the gallery, half driving right and half left, shooting forward toward the stage. The rest of you, maintain cover behind the doors and pick off who you can. Remember, this is an active terrorist attack and we don’t want them opening those canisters. Make your shots count. Downstairs guards, you’ll kick in the doors at the same time and evacuate as fast as possible. Everyone be aware of your fellow agents’ positions; we don’t want any friendly fire.”

“I’ll take care of Crane,” Hood said.

“Copy,” Fidek agreed, resigned.

There were several doors leading to the gallery along the hallway. Hood stationed himself by the first door, which would put him closest to the stage, and the rest of their squad spread out, following Fidek’s orders.

Hotch exhaled quietly and crouched by his door, planning to shoot on an upward angle to further lessen the chances of friendly fire.

“Ready,” Moorson reported, casting a final glance down the hallway.

“Ready at the doors.”

Hood didn’t reply. Apparently, his cooperation didn’t cover status updates.

“Copy,” Fidek said. “On my count. Three…two… one.”

All the rumors Reid had heard about the Gotham vigilantes were true: They were absolutely terrifying and amazing. Reid had never seen someone move like Red Robin was, and he wasn’t even sure where Black Bat was. She seemed to teleport from one side of the room to the other, melting out of the shadows just long enough to get the attention of Crane’s followers.

SWAT entered the room without firing a single bullet. The perps didn’t even notice them at first, too distracted searching the opposite wall for the flutter of a cape or the glint of a bo staff.

“Freeze,” their squad leader said.

The men whipped around, guns raised, but they paused when they saw how outnumbered they were.

“Drop your weapons.”

The perps hesitated. Reid and JJ were over by the door, behind a couple of SWAT members. He didn’t exactly feel bad for their position—the SWAT team was much better equipped to take a bullet in their full gear, while he and JJ only had a kevlar vests—but it did make it harder to pick up on smaller tells, to know if the men were going to surrender peacefully or if any of them had an itchy trigger finger.

Black Black appeared beside one of the men, knocking his gun from his grip and sending him to the ground in a single smooth motion. Then she disappeared again.

The other men dropped their guns and raised their hands above their heads.

Reid saw Black Bat pop up next to Red Robin as the men were handcuffed and a couple team members went over to assess Peabody. Did Black Bat know that taking out that particular man would diffuse the situation? It was a risky move: Seeing their coworker fall could have spooked the rest of the group, prompting them to shoot and causing casualties. Was he the one with the itchy trigger finger, about to escalate the situation himself? Reid hadn’t had a good enough view to tell, but if so, her actions pointed to Black Bat having a superb grasp on body language.

She’d make a hell of a profiler, if you ignored her propensity toward extrajudicial violence.

Reid holstered his gun, feeling a little useless. Crane’s men didn’t fall under their federal jurisdiction, and there were plenty of SWAT members to secure the room. He headed over to Peabody, morbidly curious about seeing the effects of prolonged fear toxin exposure firsthand.

Peabody’s eyes were blown wide, her pupils dilated and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she hyperventilated. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably, and her mouth moved silently. She made a weak gasping noise when one of the SWAT members touched her, but couldn’t seem to control her body enough to flinch away.

“Oh my god,” JJ said softly from beside him, barely audible through her gas mask.

“We need an ambulance, ASAP,” the SWAT member said into his radio while his partner pulled two vials and a needle from her belt. “Patient is a twenty-seven year old female, approximately 150 pounds. Severe prolonged fear toxin exposure. Hyperventilating, muscle spasms, likely in hypertensive crisis. Administering a double dose of base antidote intravenously.”

“Copy,” a voice replied. “We’re already en route, ETA two minutes.”

“Aren’t you going to untie her?” JJ asked when the SWAT members stepped back.

“No,” the woman said, tucking her empty vials back into her belt. “She could become violent once she’s released. It’s safer to keep her restrained until paramedics arrive and can safely sedate her.”

“Oh,” JJ said, taking a step back.

Reid glanced from Peabody to JJ, then fell back alongside her. “We found her,” he said. “She can get the help she needs now.”

“Yeah,” JJ said. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I just hope she doesn’t end up in a hospital bed next to her brother.”

Reid grimaced at the thought and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Upper floors cleared,” Squad B’s leader reported through the radio. “No sign of Crane or his other men.”

“They must be at the conference center,” Red Robin said. He exchanged a quick look with Black Bat, then looked back at the SWAT team. “Make sure Peabody gets to that ambulance. We’ll go provide backup.”

Without waiting for a response, the vigilantes ran out of the room.

Under the cover of the main doors splintering, Hotch cracked his door open. He could see one of Crane’s men from his position. The man had been standing close to the wall to avoid being seen by the people below, but he jerked forward as SWAT burst through the doors, grabbing the gas canister off his belt. Hotch shot him twice and he collapsed, the gas canister rolling out of his hand but thankfully remaining sealed.

Hotch made sure the man wasn’t moving, then panned across the gallery for other threats. A bullet slammed into the wall nearby and he pulled the door a little further closed. Crane’s men were fighting back, but the element of surprise was working in their favor. Fidek’s plan was clever—if they’d all just burst in through individual doors, it would’ve been a nightmare of friendly fire. By directing the main attack to come from one direction, SWAT was herding Crane’s men toward the front of the room, forcing them together like fish in a barrel. Then Hotch and the others could attack from the side, taking them off guard.

There was a shout and a thump, and Hotch pulled back from the door, looking down the hallway. One of Crane’s men had managed to force his way through a door. He shot the two closest SWAT members before they could even turn around, then aimed for a third.

Hotch didn’t let him get that far.

The man staggered as Hotch’s bullet slammed into his shoulder. The momentum was enough to push him closer to the opposite wall. That meant when the terrorist reached for his belt, Hotch had enough room to shoot him center mass without risking any other SWAT members.

The man who’d been next in line to get shot gave Hotch a nod before turning back to the gallery. Hotch did the same, but by that point there didn’t seem to be much left to do. The gallery was clear, the last few terrorists surrendering when they realized they’d been backed into a corner. There were several SWAT agents sprawled on the ground with the terrorists, but at least one of them was still moving, and it looked like they’d manage to prevent most of the canisters from being set off.

Hotch knew better than to think that was the end of it, though, not with the screams coming from the lower level.

“Crane brought reinforcements,” Moorson said through the radio. “They’re on the lower levels.”

“Get your squad downstairs,” Fidek replied. “We’ll support from here.”

“Squad D,” Moorson barked. “Move to the first floor. Maintain single entry point.”

Hotch’s squad raced down the stairs and around to the main doors. Hotch scanned the room. There were about ten more of Crane’s men scattered throughout the room, though between Squad C firing from the gallery and now Squad D spreading through the room, SWAT was making quick work of them. It looked like one or two gas canisters had been opened despite their efforts—there were a few pockets of people screaming and writhing on the floor, neglected for now as SWAT focused on eliminating the active threats.

It only took a few minutes for SWAT to neutralize the last of the terrorists and shift from combat to containment and triage. Most were focused on evacuating faculty, though there were a good number re-sweeping the building and standing guard. They hadn’t found Crane, after all, but they’d secured the building well enough that Hotch was reasonably sure he was still inside. It wasn’t like the man was subtle.

Hotch spotted two faculty members crouched next to an overturned table near the front of the room. He started making his way over, but froze when a tall figure emerged from the shadows next to the stage.

Speak of the devil.

Hotch knew Crane went by ‘Scarecrow’, he’d even seen pictures of the man’s costume, but seeing it in person was…something else. It made Crane look impossibly tall and thin, like there was really nothing to him but a stick and some half-hearted padding. His mask was fraying and torn, visible stitches holding it together. It was tight enough to almost look like skin, but loose enough to distort the shape of his head, the stitching stretching his face in ways no actual skin could manage. The stitching over the mouth pointed to Crane feeling silenced, ignored, likely because his ‘research’ was dismissed by the larger psychiatric community. Of course, it could also be because the thought of having one’s mouth sewn shut was instinctively terrifying.

By all rights, Crane should have looked ridiculous. He was a grown man dressed like a scarecrow, for crying out loud. But the costume managed to hit every uncanny valley nerve Hotch had, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle and a deep unease settle in his gut, something in the back of his mind shrieking that that thing should not be moving.

Hotch raised his gun. “Back away from the table,” he ordered.

The faculty members froze, staring at him. One of them closed her eyes and rested the back of her head against the table, horribly resigned. The other followed his line of sight and slowly peeked around the edge of the table. He caught sight of Crane and jerked back, clapping a hand over his mouth, tears streaming down his face as he looked desperately at Hotch.

Hotch did a quick scan of the area, his aim never wavering from Crane.

Haley had told him once that he got this look in his eye when he was working a case or watching a news report of some disaster. A look that said he was doing math with people’s lives. She’d hated it, and Hotch hadn’t known how to explain that it was part of the job, that you got good at seeing facts and numbers and patterns, at taking the emotions out of it until the danger passed and you could collapse in the privacy of your motel room.

The math was not looking good for the faculty members. The only cover nearby was their table, no SWAT members were close enough to help, and Hood was nowhere to be found. Hotch was closest, but he was still too far away to engage properly, and Crane was close enough to the faculty members that he might reach them before Hotch could take him down.

“Back away from the table,” Hotch repeated.

Crane didn’t so much as glance at him, eyes fixed on the faculty members. His hands flexed, the long needles attached to his gloves glinting. Hotch readied himself to move.

“Give it up, Crane,” a robotized voice rasped. Hood stepped through the curtains onstage. His guns were missing from their holsters and he was limping slightly, but he leapt down from the stage without hesitation, circling to stand opposite Hotch.

Hotch exhaled slowly. Having Hood there was good, but Crane was still closer to the faculty members than either of them.

“We all know how this is going to end,” Hood said. He shrugged, arms dangling lazily and head tilting to the side in a way that somehow conveyed a smirk.

Then the helmet tilted just a hair more, enough for Hotch to catch the corner of one blank eye lens.

Suddenly, Hotch knew exactly what Hood was going to do.

If it had been anyone else, Hotch wouldn’t have been surprised. It was the natural conclusion, the solution to the math problem: hostages plus no cover plus psychopath equals distract. Hotch was just surprised to see that same careful, calculated logic reflected in Hood’s posture.

He shouldn’t be, though, and Hotch mentally shook himself. The profile pointed to calculated, ruthless efficiency and a sharp intellect. He couldn’t ignore that just because Hood was also cocky and violent.

“It will end with everyone in this building succumbing to their fears,” Crane said, only looking away from the cornered faculty members for a moment. His mask scrunched a little, and Hotch couldn’t tell if he was smiling or frowning when he added, “Don’t worry, you’ll have your turn, Red Hood.”

“It’ll end with you behind bars,” Hood corrected, “and Gotham having faced its fears.”

Hotch raised his eyebrows a little. Hood had gone right for the throat, quoting the article that had set off this whole mess. Normally they tried to build their way up, find the lowest provocation that still provided the necessary results.

It was a bit of a nuclear option, but it worked: Crane whipped around, faculty members forgotten as he howled in rage.

Crane looked like a strong wind might knock him over, but the long, toxin-tipped needles extending from his gloves made him difficult to fight. Regardless, Hood met him blow for blow, backing the fight away from the faculty members with each twist and block and punch. If Hotch’d had any doubts about the vigilante’s intentions in taunting Crane, that would’ve disproved them.

He rushed forward, keeping one eye on the fight and his gun at the ready. Hood was holding his own, despite whatever injury was causing his limp.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here,” he said, lowering his gun so he could pull the faculty members to their feet. The man staggered a little but stayed upright, arms wrapped tightly around himself. The woman smiled dimly, but then her eyes darted over his shoulder and she screamed, flinging herself backward.

Hotch whipped around and found Crane lunging for him, gloved hand raised to plunge those long needles into his neck. Even as Hotch raised his gun, he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

Hood slammed into Crane in a flying tackle, sending them both crashing to the ground.

“Move!” Hotch barked at the faculty members. They sprinted for the door and Hotch turned back, gun raised. He would not make the mistake of letting his guard down again.

Crane and Hood were rolling around on the floor, fighting for control. Hood had one of Crane’s wrists in a tight grip, his other hand grasping the psychopath’s elbow as Crane tried to force his arm forward so his needles could make contact.

Hotch edged closer, watching carefully. He couldn’t risk shooting while they were so close together, and he didn’t want to distract Hood. He had to wait for the right moment to jump in.

While Hood was busy restraining his arms, Crane managed to bring his leg up enough to knee the vigilante in the gut, where his armor had to lessen for mobility. Hood grunted and twisted his legs around Crane’s, pinning them in a secure hold. The momentum sent them rolling a little, and Crane must’ve had some grappling training because he jerked his body along with the movement.

Hotch barely had time to notice the jagged piece of metal sticking up from the floor—probably the remnant of a gas canister—before Hood was rolling directly on top of it. Crane used the momentum of the roll to situate himself firmly on top of the vigilante, pushing him further down on the debris.

Hood made a low grunt of pain, his grip on Crane’s elbow wavering, and that was enough for Crane to throw his weight forward and slam his needles into Hood’s neck.

Hotch lunged the last few steps forward and slammed the butt of his pistol into Crane’s skull. Faster than Crane could react, he turned the safety back off and pressed the barrel to the man’s head.

“Put your hands up,” he ordered.

Normally, he wouldn’t pistol-whip a perpetrator. It was sloppy, could injure the perpetrator more than intended, and put their conviction at risk with an unnecessary violence charge. Normally, he’d have either shot Crane or just put the gun to his head and ordered him to surrender. Neither of those were an option here: it was too risky to shoot with Crane sitting on top of Hood, and Hotch had seen how fast the psychopath was. He wasn’t about to risk Crane lashing out and getting him with the needles.

“Put. Your hands. Up,” he repeated when Crane didn’t move. Hood had gone stiff, minute tremors running through his body. He needed an antidote now.

“I will shoot,” he warned.

“You heard the man,” Morgan’s familiar voice said, and Hotch relaxed a little as his teammates and a few SWAT members stepped into his peripheral vision. “Hands up, nice and slow.”

Crane glanced around. “You can’t stop fear,” he hissed, low and furious, even as he slowly lifted his hands in the air.

Hotch carefully grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back, avoiding the needles as he tightened the handcuffs.

“Oh yeah? Seems like we managed today,” Morgan said.

Hands grabbed Crane, yanking him up and away, and Morgan began rattling off the man’s Miranda Rights.

“Make sure you get those needles off of him,” Hotch warned as he crouched next to Hood’s trembling body. He wasn’t screaming or thrashing like the other victims had been, but Hotch didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. It could mean he was handling the toxin better, or it could mean he’d gotten such a big dose that his body skipped straight to shutting down.

“What happened?” Rossi asked, crouching on the other side of the vigilante.

“Crane was about to inject me. Hood took the hit,” Hotch said grimly. “Help me roll him; there might be debris in his back.”

Fortunately, it looked like Hood’s armor had done its job. There was only a small hole in the armor, with an equally small amount of blood around it. It looked like surprise had given Crane the upper hand, rather than a serious injury. That was good; if Hood’s body was shutting down from the toxin, Hotch didn’t have time to treat another wound.

They got Hood settled on a clean patch of floor, and Hotch pulled a needle and his two vials of antidote from his belt. “The rest of Crane’s people?”

“Taken care of,” Rossi said. “Reid, JJ, and Prentiss checked in as well. They got Peabody without any casualties.”

“Good.” Hotch flicked the syringe once to make sure there weren’t any air bubbles before examining Hood’s neck. It looked like the vigilante had gotten lucky: Crane had stuck him in the side of the neck instead of the front, missing the trachea and the arteries. Or maybe Crane had done that on purpose to avoid killing the vigilante before he could study him. Either way, Hotch made sure to inject the antidotes on the other side of his neck. No need to compound any damage Crane might have caused.

Fortunately, it seemed like the antidote was just as potent as the toxin. It only took a couple minutes for Hood to stop trembling, his body going limp.

Hotch exchanged a look with Rossi, then carefully leaned over the vigilante. “Hood?”

Hood whimpered.

“Hood, can you hear us?” Rossi asked. “It’s Agents Rossi and Hotchner.”

“No,” Hood whispered.

Hotch cursed internally. It was beginning to look like the dose had been so high that the antidote was just bringing Hood down to a normal reaction.

“No,” Hood murmured again, louder, lifting his arms.

“Rossi,” Hotch said, grabbing one of Hood’s arms and holding it down. He’d seen the injuries ordinary people had inflicted under the effects of fear toxin: he didn’t want to know what damage a vigilante killer could do.

Rossi quickly pinned Hood’s other arm.

Hood started panicking in earnest.

“No!” he yelled, body lurching as he tried to get up. Hotch quickly shifted so he was kneeling on Hood’s legs. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it got the job done. Hotch had no doubt Hood could normally throw him off with ease, but the vigilante wasn’t very coordinated right now.

“Let me out!” Hood screamed, throat raw even though the helmet. “Let me out!”

“Medic! We need a medic!” Rossi yelled.

Hood made a keening noise, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he started to hyperventilate.

Rossi looked up and said, “Incoming.”

A moment later, Red Robin and Black Bat fell to their knees beside them.

“What’s the situation?” Red Robin demanded, yanking off a glove and pressing his fingers to Hood’s pulse. Black Bat nudged Hotch away from Hood’s arm. Despite her small size, Hood couldn’t budge her. Hotch settled back, getting a better grip on Hood’s legs.

“Hood was injected with one of Crane’s gloves in the right side of his neck,” he reported. “He was completely unresponsive at first, but I gave him two vials of the base antidote and he started panicking.”

Hood had fallen silent now, only desperate, wheezing gasps making it through his helmet, as if he was struggling to breathe.

“What’s he been doing?” Red Robin demanded, keeping two fingers pressed to Hood’s neck even as he looked up at Hotch. “What’s his reaction been?”

“He’s trapped somewhere,” Rossi supplied. “He’s been calling for help; reacted very badly when we pinned him down.”

Red Robin nodded, activating his comm. “Hood’s hit, graveyard protocol.”

“Copy,” Oracle said grimly. “Batman’s en route.”

Hood writhed, jerking his head around, and Red Robin moved to hold Hood’s head in his lap, keeping him from concussing himself.

Hood was saying something, too low for his vocoder to pick up on it properly. His voice got louder, though, and Hotch made out a breathless, “B,” before Hood screamed. “Dad! Get me out!”

Red Robin hit his comm. “Cut Hood’s external mic now.”

“Dad,” Hood sobbed before abruptly going silent. His body didn’t relax though, so Oracle must’ve cut his mic. He was probably still screaming, they just couldn’t hear him any more.

Red Robin sent them both wary looks, and Hotch politely pretended that he hadn’t heard anything. He imagined Jack screaming for him like that and slammed a door on that train of thought, his stomach twisting violently.

He’d stopped thinking of Hood as a kid who could be rehabilitated when he found that gift basket. It had been too cruel, calculated to hit every one of his buttons while proving that even his office wasn’t secure. And in Hotch’s experience, people who enjoyed destroying the security of others weren’t usually the kind of people who could be rehabilitated.

But now, hearing him call for his dad after taking a hit in Hotch’s stead…he wasn’t so sure.

Hood was angry and volatile and dangerous, but he’d put himself in harm’s way to protect a man whom he didn’t like and who didn’t like him. He ruled his territory with an iron fist, but he’d been sending people to the hospital instead of the morgue. He tortured a man for a years-old alleged crime, but he hadn’t killed him, when Hotch was certain he wouldn’t have hesitated two years ago.

Hood should be in a cell. But by all accounts keeping him in a cell was nigh-impossible. And he’d changed for the better here, working with Batman, however slightly.

Hotch shook his head. What was he thinking? He couldn’t just leave Hood here to keep wreaking havoc while he slowly inched his way to rehabilitation. Even if he ignored the illegality of vigilantism, leaving Hood in the same city as Batman would be like putting a cult member in a cell with the cult leader. There’d be no rehabilitation, just more indoctrination.

And even if he ignored both of those points, Hood owed a debt to society for the lives he took, a debt that couldn’t be paid here.

“Don’t worry,” Black Bat said.

Hotch looked over at her. She met his gaze, her mask moving in what looked like a smile. “Won’t let you take him,” she said.

The absolute confidence in her voice made the hairs on the back of Hotch’s neck prickle. So young and so accustomed to violence that confronting the FBI didn’t even make her hesitate. “Why would that stop me from worrying?” he asked.

“Don’t have to choose,” she replied.

Hotch frowned. That didn’t solve the problem, just switched confliction with impotence.

A shadow fell over them and Hotch looked up to find Batman looming overhead. He tensed, hand itching for his gun. He was in an awfully vulnerable position right now, if Batman decided to blame him for Hood’s condition.

Batman dropped to his knees, taking Hood’s hand and squeezing.

“I’m here,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

If Hotch’d had any doubts about Hood’s relationship with Batman and the other Gotham vigilantes, that would have settled them. But that didn’t change anything; he’d seen enough abusive parents that ‘loved’ their children to know that.

“I’ve got him,” Batman told them, his voice back to its customary growl.

Hotch and Rossi exchanged looks. Hotch had a feeling Batman wasn’t taking Hood to a hospital—yet another way to isolate him and force him to rely on the vigilante. But just like on the rooftop, there was nothing he could do. Batman held all the power in this situation. He released Hood’s legs. Hood immediately started thrashing again, but Batman scooped him up, holding the crime lord tight to his chest. Hotch wondered if it was more to restrain Hood’s limbs or to provide comfort.

Batman stood easily, as if Hood wasn’t six feet tall and at least 200 pounds. He turned to go, but paused, his cape settling around him and turning his form into something less human.

Hotch did not allow himself to reach for his gun.

Batman nodded.

Hotch could see Rossi nodding back in his peripheral vision.

He half-expected Batman to pull another one of his vanishing tricks, but the vigilante just strode from the room, SWAT members parting for him.

“You’re lucky,” Red Robin said.

Hotch looked over at him. The vigilante was sitting back on his heels, staring off after Batman and Hood.

“Hood has a high toxin immunity,” he elaborated, “and Crane’s attack almost killed him. For someone with no immunity?” He shook his head and looked at Hotch, expression inscrutable. “That much toxin would have killed you in minutes.”

Red Robin didn’t wait for a response, rising to his feet and walking away, his cape swishing behind him. Black Bat gave them a wave before bounding after him.

Rossi blew out a heavy breath. “Well,” he said. “That was interesting.”

“It’s not over yet,” Hotch said, standing much less gracefully than the vigilantes. He offered Rossi a hand. “With how often Crane’s broken out of Arkham, I’m not going to consider him caught until he’s locked up properly.”

“Then we’d better get moving so we can escort him ourselves,” Rossi said, clapping him on the shoulder.

They did get Crane locked up properly. Because of his high-risk status, he’d remain in FBI holding until his trial—in a facility a healthy distance from Gotham. After that, there wasn’t much left to do but pack up their paperwork.

Hotch glared down at the file in his hands. Technically, he didn’t have jurisdiction here any more, not since catching Crane. Local authorities hadn’t requested their help with anything else. Their job was done.

Hotch dropped the file into a box and strode from the conference room. He couldn’t just leave.

Commissioner Gordon was talking to one of his officers in the bullpen, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand.

“Commissioner, could I have a word with you?” Hotch asked.

Gordon gave him a considering look and nodded. “My office?”

“If you don’t mind.” Hotch didn’t want the officers hearing this conversation.

Gordon waved for Hotch to follow as he headed across the bullpen. “How can I help you?” he asked once they were situated on either side of his desk.

“Where is the Red Hood?” Hotch asked.

Gordon huffed. “Should’ve expected that,” he muttered. He took a long sip of his coffee, eyeing Hotch over the rim of his mug. “He’s wherever Batman and his crew go,” he said, putting the mug on the desk. “Probably a cave or something, with their dedication to the theme.”

Hotch did not appreciate the humor. “He’s a fugitive.”

“He’s one of Batman’s.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s wanted for murder in several states and that he tortured a man a matter of hours ago,” Hotch said.

“Ah, yeah. Waller, right?” Gordon dug around in the mass of files on his desk. “Here,” he said, tossing one over to Hotch. Hotch opened it, scanning the report inside. “He’s fine. Had some cuts and lost his left testicle, but nothing too serious.”

Hotch closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. “Permanent mutilation is not ‘nothing too serious’,” he said.

“It is for Hood.”

“Which is why he should be in prison.”

Gordon sighed, gesturing with his mug. “I agree with you. But he’s one of Batman’s, so I take what I can get. He’s not killing any more, and that’s a major improvement.”

“Batman has that much power over you,” Hotch said flatly, unable to remain diplomatic in the face of such blatant corruption.

Gordon’s expression hardened. “Like I told you before. Batman is one of the only things holding this city together.”

“And you’re willing to sacrifice the lives of children for that?” Hotch challenged, changing gears.

Gordon blanched. “What?”

“Batman’s ‘team’,” Hotch gritted. “They’re children, and they’re being manipulated into being vigilantes, into putting themselves in constant danger, not to mention how they’re assaulting people every day. One of them died, and they’re still operating freely in your city.”

“You think Batman’s the one manipulating them,” Gordon said neutrally.

“Yes.” Hotch narrowed his eyes. “Is it someone else?” It was possible that there was someone behind the scenes pulling the strings, but Batman was culpable regardless.

Gordon scoffed. “If anything it’s the other way around. Look,” he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desk. “I thought the same thing when they first started showing up. I tore Batman a new one. And you know what he did?”

“What?” Hotch asked, suspicious.

“He said, ‘Do you think Robin would agree to stop if you give him that speech?’” Gordon met his gaze squarely. “He was genuine. Practically begged me. He didn't want that kid out there. So I gave Robin the same speech. I laid it all out, all the ways he could be hurt or killed, because God knows the kid would see it anyway if he didn’t stop. And it worked.” Gordon leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug between his hands, gaze never leaving Hotch. “For two weeks there was no Robin.”

“And then?” Hotch asked, wondering what excuse Gordon would feed him.

“And then Batman showed up, out of his mind because his kid was missing. Took us five hours to find him.” Gordon sipped his coffee. “He’d snuck out. Wore a hoodie and painted a mask on his face. Washable kid’s paint; we could tell because of the tear tracks.”

Hotch clenched his jaw.

“He went out by himself,” Gordon said. “And he got caught. And he got beaten within an inch of his life by some sick bastard who didn’t care that he was a child.” The mug hit the desk with a thud. “He didn’t have armor, he didn’t have weapons, he didn’t have comms or trackers or backup. And as soon as he was physically able, he did the same damn thing all over again. And again, and again, until Batman finally agreed to train him so he’d actually have a chance.”

Hotch felt sick. He imagined Jack pulling on his Thomas the Tank Engine hoodie and climbing out his window. That didn’t mean he’d take him on cases. “Batman should’ve had better security,” he said.

Gordon scoffed. “He did. His upgrades only ever worked for a little while. The first Robin wasn’t a normal kid, and neither were the others.” Gordon leaned over the desk, eyes blazing. “So don’t tell me that I’m willing to put those kids’ lives on the line. I’ve done everything in my power short of arresting them to get them to stop, and every time they come back more determined. The only reason I haven’t arrested them is because I know if their identities were exposed they’d be in a hell of a lot more danger, in prison or out.”

He sat back a little, still glaring. “If that’s all, agent,” he said coldly, “your case is closed. Get out of my city.”

Hotch stood and strode from the room, fists clenched.

Morgan glanced over at Hotch, where he was sitting apart from everyone else, frowning into a file. “Anyone know what happened to Hotch?” he asked quietly.

“Probably just the case,” Rossi said. “He saw Hood get injected with a lethal dose of the toxin. It was disturbing, and I wasn’t even there when it actually happened.”

“Yeah, the descriptions don’t really do it justice,” JJ agreed, folding her arms tightly across her middle. “Seeing Peabody was…horrifying.”

“That’s probably because seeing her was triggering your own sympathetic nervous system,” Reid said. “We’re very sensitive to other people’s fear responses; it’s a defense mechanism so if one member of a group recognizes a threat the whole group has a better chance of escaping.”

“Glad I missed that,” Prentiss said, grimacing.

“At least she’s okay,” JJ sighed. “Doctors said she should make a full recovery.”

“I just hope we never have to go to Gotham again,” Rossi said, raising his glass and taking a swig.

“Yeah but with our luck, what are the odds of that?” Morgan asked.

“Considering the crime levels in the city-” Reid started.

Hotch tuned them out. It would only be an hour until they landed back at Quantico, and he had work to do. FBI reports were easy to fill out—at least for someone who’d been doing it as long as he had—but if he wanted that report to actually be taken seriously and result in action, he had to include many details in very precise wording.

He jotted down Robin’s approximate height and weight, as well as his estimated age and the books he’d mentioned reading, whatever references the vigilantes had made about their training.

Someone would listen to him; he’d make sure of it. This wasn’t over.

“You have to do the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result.” — Mahatma Gandhi