I felt a feeling of intense, cold nothingness enter my office. A clunk of metal hitting wood soon followed. My back was turned, but I didn't need to look.

"Victor Fries won't be terrorizing Ace Chemical or its employees for a while, I take it?" I put out my cigarette on the window sill, then sat in the old, leather chair of my older, wooden desk.

The Batman didn't nod, because he wasn't the type. I imagine that he was conflicted, because he wasn't the talking type either. Finally one of the two won out, and his monotonous voice spilled from beneath his mask.

"He was building a weapon. A modified ballistic freeze gun for mass production. Similar guns appeared at an Intergang auction in Metropolis." Batman pointed down to my desk, where one of the guns was sitting, partially blocking a stack of papers I'd been reading only a moment before.

In one night, a man dressed like a bat destabilized a major gangland arms deal by punching a depressed scientist wearing a glass bubble. Nights like these make me wish I'd picked a better career path after high-school. Like interpretive dance.

"I'll have the boys take a look at it. Nice work, Batman." I knew better than to compliment him, he was never flattered. Every failure was the Rapture, and every success was Tuesday. Still, I do it anyway. I secretly hope it pisses him off.

He didn't leave. I swallowed my pride and turned to the window.

"Lovely moonlight tonight, don't you agree?" When he didn't respond, I turned back around. But Batman was still there.

I sighed. This was going to be as fun as Barb's rants about my male ego. "Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

"You haven't asked me about the Minstrel," he replied.

I shrugged my shoulders, "That's not how this usually works. Aren't I supposed to wait for you to have news?"

He didn't answer the question. "Jim, don't tell me that you aren't worried about his next move."

I shrugged again. I wanted to play off my annoyance. The way he asked sounded rude, like he was insulting my intelligence. I folded my arms.

"I will admit that it's crossed my mind, but there's been no news or leads on the guy since his last public appearance. He hasn't even hacked the TV feeds again. Regardless, when you compare him to someone like Professor Pyg..."

"His UNCLE is worse than Pyg," Batman forced.

I held up a disarming hand, "You're right. His ties to Joker are worrisome. But so are Harley Quinn's. I think Minstrel might just be a fanboy with a political axe to grind. A public nuisance that Bullock can handle, if not another mask in Gotham."

That man was the only person that could pack so much nuance in a grumble that I could immediately tell he both agreed and disagreed with me.

"I've learned not to ask for a minor criminal in Gotham," he explained.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ever think Joker is just one sick son of a bitch that no one can match crazy with no matter how much they want to?"

He had seen all the same copycats as I. Career criminals trying out a new schtick. Depressed men that wanted a girl that didn't want them back. Military vets that thought murderous nihilism was a personality trait. Kids that listened to trash music while taking too many drugs. Sometimes they came close, but no one could ever be as horrific as the laughing enigma that all of Gotham had long accepted would likely be the death of us.

"Every day. But that doesn't make his people any less dangerous. Gotham is in a precarious situation, Jim. How well are you monitoring it?"

I picked up a file that a rosy-cheeked intern had sat on my desk. I didn't have to be the world's greatest detective to figure out that he was talking about the Namzmiren trial.

"The Feds sent a dossier on all of Gotham's street activists. Mostly clout chasers and scam preachers, but with strong followings. There aren't any protests underway now, but they're preparing for one when his trial concludes in a few days."

Batman looked at me for a drawn out minute. I could tell that he was expecting more, and I knew exactly what he was about to ask, so I answered before he had a chance, "That's all they sent. I've had some of my men monitor internet chatter in known white supremacist circles, but so far nothing."

"There's going to be a counter protest," Batman said. The way he spoke made me feel like it was more of an order rather than a helpful tip.

I shook my head, "You're probably right about that. But as it is now, there's no evidence that--"

"Minstrel is going to strike in the coming week. Be prepared."

I knew that he was probably right, so I didn't argue. But dammit, what did he expect me to do? I couldn't just tell my men to be prepared for an attack that may happen, one that may result in deaths of innocents. I needed more before I went into the bullpen and started barking out orders, and the Batman knew that.

"I'll put my men on alert," was all I could respond with.

He didn't answer or give any indication there was anything else he wanted to say. I played my role. I turned my head away and took a long, pensive look out the open window to my office. The city beneath me was aglow with the light of a metropolis, but the heavy condensation scattered the light. It looked like I was looking down into the first cavern of Hell, with a strange glow being the key sign of a blazing inferno far below. Course, Gotham had been turned into Hell so many times that I honestly had no trouble believing that somewhere far below, Satan himself was sitting on a throne and waiting anxiously for me to turn on the Bat Signal so he could do battle with our dark night. Was that who Minstrel was? I wasn't sure, but Batman seemed to be much more certain than I. Because that's the only way he knew how to see these psychos, and I honestly couldn't blame him for that. If he was even half as dangerous as fucking Condiment King, Minstrel was a threat to the city.

I sighed, then turned back around. Of course, Batman was gone.

End Chapter 8