ARKHAM ASYLUM

GOTHAM CITY

“Ms. Yamashiro.”

Bethanie Ravencroft was everything that the Japanese woman had expected to find in a psychiatrist. Her lips were thin and tense, her blonde hair was over-curled and her attire was a dowdy mixture of violet and lavender. From a quick observation, Tatsu Yamashiro could identify that this woman wasn’t a threat. In her line of work, she had learned the necessity of assessing everyone she encountered. A wolf could come in sheep’s clothing, Tatsu was proof of that herself. It had been just over a week since she had begun her most recent assignment and she had spent over an hour of that in the waiting room of the dreary asylum. Bethanie had seen two patients before her: a silver haired woman and a man with more nose hairs than he had teeth. Tatsu had watched as they had come and gone, impatiently waiting her opportunity to speak to the doctor. Tatsu was not insane, at least she believed she couldn’t be categorised as criminally so, but as a bounty hunter, she had been led to office of Doctor Ravencroft. Whatever her connection to the missing child, Tatsu knew there was one.

“If you’d like to come this way, I won’t be a second longer,” said Bethanie with a broad smile. It was false, intended to be reassuring, but falsehoods had always made the former samurai uncomfortable. She could feel her skin crawling at the interaction. As Tatsu entered the room, Bethanie spoke coolly to her assistant. “Cassie, make sure these are with the gentlemen downstairs before the top of the hour. We can’t keep progress waiting.”

Tatsu’s ears pricked at the last sentence.

Bethanie took a seat behind her desk, folding her hands as she leaned forward. It was an attempt to build rapport with Tatsu but it was a bond that could never be forged. It had been a long time since she had found her life torn apart and personal connections, professional or otherwise, were a low priority. “As you know I’m Doctor Ravencroft, one of the leading physicians here at the asylum. I heard you asked for me specifically so I’m curious as to how I may help you, Ms. Yamashiro?”

“I’m looking for someone,” replied the bounty hunter. She brushed her severely chopped black hair behind her ear as she reached into the pocket of her leather jacket. She hated being without her mask, it made her feel vulnerable, more so than even having to leave her katana behind had. Tatsu placed a picture face up on the table. “The CCTV footage that I’ve traced from across the street shows me that she was here four days ago and that she was greeted at the door by you.” Tatsu cleared her throat. “It’s of the utmost important that I locate her, Doctor Ravencroft. Her family is very worried and will be more than willing to compensate you generously for your help.”

Bethanie inhaled, lifting the image and toying it in her fingers. It seemed to Tatsu that it was a stalling mechanism, a chance to warp the truth to her own design, but she remained quiet and observed. Her eyes narrowed and focused on the image in the woman’s hands. Tara Markov, sixteen-years-old, and almost the princess of Markovia, if only her bloodline had been purer. There was a sweetness to her face, still childlike with only the faintest hints of having entered womanhood. Her sandy-coloured hair was even drawn into girlish pigtails. She was less innocent than she appeared. Tatsu’s information told her that Tara Markov was more than just an almost-princess. She had a temper, an inability to keep her calm in the face of insult, and she was prone to violence. Brion Markov, her brother and the full-blooded Crown Prince of Markovia, sported a black eye that attested to that. Still, somehow the hothead had made her way to Gotham and then she’d found herself at the Arkham Asylum.

It was the last place one would expect to find a royal, estranged from the throne or otherwise.

“Well?” continued Tatsu, her patience was growing thin and it had never been her finest quality. Bethanie had stalled quite enough. Although, it surprised her that the ‘generous reward’ hadn’t piqued her interest more. Digging into the psychiatrist’s background had taught Tatsu that she was in dire need of money.

Bethanie sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m afraid that I can’t be of more assistance. If I spoke to the girl then it was in the name of doctor-patient confidentiality. It’s more than my job is worth to divulge any information. In fact, it would cost me my job and my licence.”

“Under Markovian and America law, Tara Markov is under the age of consent,” Tatsu reminded her. “A doctor must inform those who care for her of any treatment she’s undertaking until she turns eighteen years of age. We’re just under two years shy of that hallmark moment. So, I ask again, do you know where Tara Markov is?” Bethanie broke eye contact. “Is she in the facility?” Eye contact was restored, a negative on that. It would have been too easy, Tatsu was sure Tara was interested in giving her more of a challenge.

“I do wish I could be of more help, Ms. Yamashiro,” replied the doctor. “However, this is not a matter that the standard law considers to be of use to your argument. Firstly, forgive me if I’m wrong, but you’re neither guardian nor kin to Miss Markov. Secondly, this isn’t a hospital or a practice. This is a detainment centre for the criminally insane. We do have day patients that lived in sheltered communities but most of the people we see here are locked in cells, day in and day out.”

Bethanie shrugged.

“If Miss Markov came to see me and if she’d requested my advice, I’m not sure there’s much I could have done with her. Unless you’re saying madness runs in the genes of the Markovian royal family,” she offered a smile that was shot down. “It was a joke, Ms. Yamashiro. Unfortunately I can’t be of assistance to you and I can’t keep the patients who need me waiting any longer. I’m sorry.”

She stood. Tatsu lifted the picture.

“Besides, isn’t Miss Markov an American citizen?” she enquired. “It seems to me that you’re chasing after her as if she’s run away. In my professional opinion, spoiled little rich girls always go crawling back to daddy when the going gets tough. When Miss Markov is starving and tired, she’ll make herself known.” Bethanie moved towards the door and held it open. “I wish you luck, Ms. Yamashiro.”

“Doctor Ravencroft,” Tatsu replied curtly as she exited into the waiting room. A scientist in a lab coat was leaning on the desk next to her, flirting loudly and awkwardly with the bubbleheaded receptionist.

Doctor Ravencroft may not have been any use, clinging to her oath like the dying cling to their faith, but Tatsu was not a woman that was so easily deterred. She would find Tara Markov and, if it transpired that she had in fact run away as the doctor suggested, Tatsu would drag the spoiled royal back to Markovia kicking and screaming. There was a lot of money and a distraught Markovian prince to think about. Pragmatic and ruthless, Tatsu focused more on the former than the latter but even she had felt for the prince when she’d met him. Hastily, she moved towards the hallway that led to the foyer but her destination was much different.

The doctor had been hiding something from her and, even if it wasn’t associated with Tara’s disappearance, it had piqued the former samurai’s attention. She exited through the foyer and made her way towards the hired car. The smog-filled city of Gotham stretched out before her. It was one of the saddest places she’d ever had the misfortune to visit and every breath seemed to threaten her respiratory health. Still, the words Ravencroft had said to the receptionist, the quip about ‘progress’, needed to be investigated. If Tatsu Yamashiro couldn’t get the answers she was looking for then it was time to don the mask so that Katana, armed with the Soultaker sword, could. Masked and dangerous, Katana turned back towards the building and kicked the door open.

She had expected to be the ruckus, to cause the fervour and commotion, but armed guards were already running across the hallway at the top of the staircase as she entered. Quickly, she fell into pursuit. In the rush of the stampede, Katana was unnoticed and security protocols seemed to lapse. Doors remained open long enough for her to slip into the underbelly of the asylum. Screams were mixed with maniacal laughter and sobbing. It was almost insanity inducing just bearing witness to the truth of the asylum but that was nothing compared to the sight that now stood before her. Standing at over seven-foot, a crocodile reared and gnashed its teeth at the guards who attempted to subdue it. Blood splattered with several of them got too close.

Katana tightened her grasp as she moved forward, swinging the Soultaker vehemently. She struck the thick hide of the creature to little avail. This wasn’t animal testing, this creature seemed to be a metahuman and it was beyond angry. Its tail swung, catching her off-guard and knocking her to her ass, as it rushed towards a wall. Before their eyes, it tore and tore until every brick in its path was nothing more than rubble and the creature had escaped into the openness of the night sky. Moments passed in a blur as the asylum struggled to reset itself, to care for the wounded with little regard for the monster that was now unleashed on Gotham City.

She jumped up, bolting through the gaping hole in the asylum’s defences, and looked around in hopes of finding a track mark. She was in luck, the crocodile still seemed to be struggling from whatever medications had been pumped into its body. Tara Markov would have to wait. It was hunting season. She’d taken several steps, entering the chase, when she heard it.

A bloodcurdling scream.

OUTSIDER

By Paige McMahon

GOTHAM CITY

Katana followed the girlish scream. Her heart was racing at the sight that might lay ahead of her. She could still smell the coppery traces of blood from the crocodile’s onslaught on the guardsmen in the asylum. She slid the Soultaker into its sheath as she approached a low hanging branch and used it to propel herself into the air and over the spiked fence that surrounded the institution. Her landing was elegant and composed, she may have left the order of her people behind but she would always carry the skills she had learned as a samurai. It was why she retained the crest of Japan upon her mask, a reminder of who she was and where she had come from. Katana marched onward, drawing the sword as she watched a svelte figure in a black hoodie run along the damp streets of Gotham City. Katana was ready to pounce at the sight of the crocodile but then she realised, he was stalking his prey.

“Don’t!”

Katana’s words were lost on the wind, ignored by the figure as the female in the black hoodie slipped into the manhole and descended into a sewer. The bounty hunter had to think rationally. The sewers would give the beast the upper-hand if its physiology, mainly the eyesight, matched the grotesque physique. However, there was also someone in need of saving and, as she had been trained, Katana paced forward seconds after the crocodile had dropped into the sewers after its target. She looked down into the grimy darkness and frowned.

“I hate the sewers.”

She jumped, landing with a splash and trying not to allow the stench to overwhelm her. At least when she’d been hunting the Yakuza, she’d never been in a situation such as this. She moved as quietly as she could without losing too much speed. Katana was waiting for another scream that never seemed to come. Finally, she rounded a corner and saw the crocodile release a guttural cry. The young woman in the black hoodie was standing with her back to the wall, but there was no look of terror on her face. Rather, the woman’s heart-shaped lips were parted in a smile. Katana held back, her curiosity piqued at the interaction. Was this an accomplice of the beast indulging in amateur dramatics?

“Oh Waylon,” cooed the woman. “You honestly thought I was the prey?” The creature, apparently named Waylon, roared again as phlegm and spittle hit the back wall. The girl in the hoodie rubbed her face and the smile faded. “Gross.” Her eyes suddenly exploded with light as she hovered above the sewage. She extended her arms as an orange light emitted from them. Without warning, energy beams shot forward as Waylon was thrown several feet into the sewage. Like an animal that had be scalded, he bounced and rushed into the darkness.

Katana stepped forward. “You let him get away.”

The girl seemed surprised. Her ethereal features showing the faintest sign of emotion. “He won’t escape. This is Gotham. There’s always help on every corner.”

With that, the girl shot forward. Katana followed as quickly as she could. The light faded in front of her and she found herself staring up into an empty manhole, or what remained of it after Waylon had torn through it in his search for freedom. Katana hoisted herself upwards and found the girl in the hoodie stood quietly rather than in pursuit. This kid was seriously starting to annoy Katana, if she didn’t have what it took to end the beast then she needed to step out of the way and allow the adults to work.

“The crocodile from the sewers. Beware,” something hissed from above Katana as she turned to see another monster from the depths of some Z-list horror movie.

Katana spun. A grinning yellow face with a wash of emerald green hair looked down on her. He was clung to the wall without assistance and upside down at that. There was something menacing about him in a way that she hadn’t felt about Waylon. The crocodile was aggression personified but the yellow-skinned man was lurking just beneath the surface with only a faint sense of sanity keeping him from launching upon her. His red mane, spread across his shoulders, reminded her of the circus and she had never enjoyed the circus.

Her eyes narrowed as she grasped the helm of the Soultaker. “This place really is crawling with creeps.”

“Creeps, creeps, creeps,” hissed the yellow-skinned creature before bursting into a riotous laugh. He bounced from the wall, landing in front of her. The light of the street lamps made him an all-the-more horrifying vision to behold. “The Creeper.” His tongue lashed as his spoke, smacking against his pointed teeth.

Katana raised her sword.

“Don’t hurt him,” warned the hooded girl. She drew back the hood, golden locks of hair fell lose as she stepped between the creature and the former samurai. “He’s not much to look at but he’s one of us. A good guy.” She shrugged. “Most of the time.”

“He’s with you?” Katana had seen a lot in her life, she’d bore witness to horrors she wasn’t inclined to recount, but the bombshell and the beast was new even for her.

“Halo,” the blonde said as she extended her hand. She quickly retracted it when it became clear the sword-wielding woman had no desire to shake it. She indicated to the man who had returned to scaling the walls of the building. “And as he said, he’s the Creeper. He saved me once. Managed to bust me out of Arkham when they’d abducted me. Thankfully, they hadn’t managed to find a way to remove the Aurakle.” She pointed towards her chest as if it gave explanation to her statement.

“Katana,” she replied reluctantly. This was turning into a party and she worked alone. “And in case you two haven’t noticed, there’s still a giant crocodile on the loose. We might want to deal with that before we start exchanging pleasantries and braiding each other’s hair.”

The two women turned to follow Killer Croc’s roar, as the Creeper snaked his way up the wall, but they were stopped by the broad accent of the man ahead of them.

“I heard the sewers were spitting the trash back up.”

Killer Croc was several feet between the women and the man when the latter stormed forward. He was more in line with what Katana had imagined when she’d though of vigilantes. Yet, it caused her to wonder, just how many vigilantes did Gotham City really need? Between the Batman, the glow stick, the circus freak and now the man rushing headfirst into a fray with a humanoid crocodile, it seemed to be oversaturated with heroes. Before a physical collision, the African American man dropped to a stoop and shot a surge of electricity through the puddles that surrounded them. Killer Croc screamed and rushed off, taking a sharp left.

“And what about him? Is he with you too?” Katana jabbed her thumb towards the man that stood ahead of them, electrical arcs still bouncing from his body.

Halo shrugged. “Nah. He’s new. I like his style though, very illuminating.” Her eyes shone again, and she took flight in pursuit of Killer Croc without further conversation.

Katana fell in line with the blue-and-black clad hero, her eyes catching the disappearing form of the Creeper onto the rooftops. “Who are you supposed to be then?”

He smiled. “You must be new around here, I’m Black Lightning.”

“There are so many of you that I’m starting to lose track,” she quipped.

Killer Croc was cornered as Katana and Black Lightning rushed into the alleyway. Halo had beaten them to it and the hissing of the Creeper was echoing from above them. The orange energy was once again dancing between Halo’s fingertips. Katana grasped at her sword whilst electrical currents flooded Black Lightning’s body. If Katana was weary of the gathering of vigilantes, Black Lightning seemed almost excited at the prospect of a team-up. It seemed as if they were about to strike when the wall that Killer Croc had been resting his claws on suddenly punched him. Black Lightning’s jaw dropped as the wall swirled into the shaped of a multi-coloured man.

“This is taking the piss,” grunted Katana.

“Amateur hour is over,” came a voice from the shadows of the fire escape above them.

Katana wanted to roll her eyes. She’d been chasing the so-called Killer Croc for no more than twenty minutes and Gotham City was high above the quota for vigilantes. She’d expected a run-in with the Batman but, as she strained her eyes to see clearer, the figure in the shadows was ridiculously dressed but not as a bat. He landed, wearing the brown and grey costume of an owl, and launched a netting pistol that caught and bound the unconscious Killer Croc.

She sighed. “And you two are?”

“Metamorpho.”

“Owlman.”

She nodded. “Katana.” Exhaling heavily, she continued. “Now would someone like to tell me what exactly is going on here? Should I be expecting anyone else to crawl out of the woodwork? Maybe a bin could turn into a hero next.”

“Good idea,” smiled Metamorpho. “Haven’t tried that one yet.” He observed her look of disdain before she closed her eyes and rubbed at her nose. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” she snapped. “I’m just tripping over vigilantes. Look, I was at Arkham Asylum when this guy broke out. That one, the girl, said that she was broken out of Arkham by the freak up in the rafters before they conducted experiments on her. As I’m looking for a kid who was last sighted there and looks very like the girl here, I’d appreciate if you let me know what was going on in that place.”

“We don’t know you,” said Owlman simply.

Katana glared. “Are the goings on at Arkham a trade secret suddenly?”

“Black Lightning,” he introduced himself before continuing. “Look, I know you guys have this . . . well, whatever it is going one, but maybe we could help. Two extra set of hands to deal with whatever’s happening on the house on the haunted hill. What do you say?”

“I like the haunted house,” hissed the Creeper in his ear as Black Lightning jumped with an unbecoming shriek. The Creeper laughed as he crawled towards the fire escape. Halo offered only a smug smirk as Black Lightning attempted to regain his dignity.

Katana retained her composure, eyes coolly focusing on the outline of Owlman as he moved in and out of the shadows, pacing around them in circles. She continued, ignoring the interruptions. “Look, cut the shit and lets just talk about what’s going on here? I need to find my missing person and you clearly haven’t been able to gain control over at Arkham Asylum, so why don’t we just cut to the chase. Starting with who you actually are?”

He paused, a moment of contemplation.

“Three months ago, I formed this little group. We’re the unwanted but the willing,” said Owlman. “Metamorpho, Halo, the Creeper and myself form what we call the Outsiders. We were all operating as individuals, each of our investigations or agendas leading us right back to Arkham Asylum. Time after time. Much as you’ve suggested, Black Lightning, I decided it was time to get organised and we have done Moving forward, we have resources at our command that we previously didn’t. We can end the reign of terror at Arkham.”

Halo stepped forward. “People are coming out of that place more insane than when they went in. I should know. If the Creeper hadn’t spotted them taking me a few months back and rescued me, I’m not sure where I would be.” She exhaled. “Or what I would be.”

“Exactly,” continued Owlman. “This is about more than Gotham, more than Arkham, it’s about protecting the world from whatever is going on in there because we’re the only one’s willing to do it. The Batman is preoccupied and those other heroes that are roaming America are so focused on towns and cities that they can’t see the bigger picture.”

Black Lightning folded his arms. “Arkham does provide a decent service.” He noticed all the glares. “Beyond this bad instance. For a long time Arkham was excellent as a detainment centre.”

Owlman frowned. “And now it’s not and someone has to do something about it.”

“Look, I have a mission to be getting on with,” scowled Katana. “Do you want our help or not?”

QUEENSLAND PARK

METROPOLIS

She looked at the rows of idyllic brownstones. It was hard to imagine that anywhere seemed to have retained its tranquillity in a world, in a city, that relied so heavily on the protection of the alien Superman. It had taken her months but as Emily Sung observed the street, her hood hiding her swathes of fuchsia hair, she had finally made the first step in understanding her role in the cosmos. Finding the others like her had been difficult at first. She had been forced to make the connections of single names, some as difficult to comprehend as Algon, and the isolated region of Egypt that housed the Pyramid of Ahk-Ton. Now, she stood on the doorstep of Urania Blackwell.

She entered the building, amazed at the lack of security, and made her way to apartment 206. Her research had indicated this was the last known address of Urania and with cross fingers and a silent prayer, Emily hoped that her journey had turned up more than a dead-end this time. Detective Singh of the Central City Police Department had been more than willing to assist her when he’d discovered her adventure would answer his questions about the recent death of his nephew Sunil. It was a grief that she still carried but Emily was determined not to become a walking tragedy, that would serve no purpose. She had to find Algon, Urania and Rex so that they could find a way to undo their curse. After that, she would save Kelsey.

She wrapped her knuckles on the door. “Urania?” she called softly through the wood. Silence. “Ms. Blackwell? I just want to talk, can you let me in?” Still nothing. “My name is Emily and I was at Ahk-Ton, and I touched the orb thing. It’s changed me and I need your help. Urania?” It was no use, Urania seemed unwilling to communicate with her. She transformed her hand as she reached for the doorknob, combining charcoal and magnesium to spark a reaction that melted the handle and let it swing.

Emily stepped in, lowering her hood.

“Get out!” screeched a woman from the shadows as balls of acid launched across the room. A lamp disintegrated before the one-time medical student’s eyes. The woman’s voice was shrill. “How did you find me?”

“Please,” Emily ducked beneath another acid bomb as she stepped into the remaining sunlight through the half-cracked blinds. “I’m not here to hurt you. I am you. I’m just like you.” She slid forward, catching Urania by the wrists and trying to calm her. “Just take a breath and I’ll explain everything.”

Urania shrugged her off. “I don’t need you to explain everything, child. I’ve been living this life for seventy-five years. I need you to explain how you found me.”

“A detective in Central City helped me track the record of a Urania in a previously classified region near the pyramid. After we had your surname we could search the country, moving outwards from Central City until we reached Metropolis and–”

A bang occurred.

“What?” asked Emily.

Urania’s eyes were wide with fear. “They found me. You’ve led them here. There was a reason I didn’t want to be found.”

The door burst from the hinges as a dark-haired woman, flanked with several armed agents, flooded the apartment. Their weapons were trained on the women.

“Blackwell,” smiled the woman. “It’s been awhile. My grandmother used to tell me the stories of the Element Girl of the Company. Their personal chemical doll. Unfortunately, you bit the hand that feeds you. Really? Rainie Blackwell? You could have tried a little harder to hide if that’s what you were gonna do. Now, we’re gonna bring you in.”

Urania pleaded. “Please, Della. Don’t do this.”

Her eyes trained on Emily.

“You,” Della commanded. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the Element Woman.”

C₂HBrCIF₃. Emily’s body exploded into a gas, she rushed over the room like a tidal wave. Della Kariakas collapsed to the floor and the masked men that flanked her began to fire indiscriminately into the cloud. Gas masks, she thought in her dispersed form. Urania whimpered in the corner, a shell of a once brave and courageous woman. There was a flurry of movement as the agents tried to prevent her assault. However, Element Woman wasn’t as easily incapacitated as they would have liked. Mask sealants were effective in a generalised explosion but the gas produced by Element Woman was sentient, it was her, and she searched each of their masks with care until she slipped through and knocked each of them out.

Della’s eyes opened groggily. She shook her head, rustling the raven shuck of hair, as she placed her hands and pushed herself upright. Slowly, Della looked around the room and noted that both Urania Blackwell and the so-called Element Woman where nowhere to be seen. Frantically, the agent jumped to her feet as she screamed several crude expletives.

MARKOVBURG

MARKOVIA

Brion Markov, the red-haired Crowned Prince of Markovia, slumped through the streets of the capital in a state of drunken stupor. His vision was groggy. The rainfall had been fresh and his battered converse, a remnant of a long abandoned American occupation in the sixties, were damp through to his socks. It was no fit state for a prince to be in but, as his mind had been wandering to the sad topic of Tara’s disappearance, it had been a sense of immediate escape. The streets were abnormally cold, even for a brisk January morning. Rubbish and debris lined the streets, a testament to the continued parties of Markovburg since the New Year. It had been easy for the prince to drown his sorrows at a time when the entire world, the people who worshipped his father as a saviour, were willing to pay the fee. Not that the prince had ever been short of money to spend on questionable choices.

Reluctantly, Brion fell back against a wall for support but his aim was misdirected and the royal found himself collapsing between two foul smelling trash bins. One tipped, scattering its contents, and he groaned as the stench crashed over him. Immediately, the prince emptied his stomach on the sidewalk. Perhaps callously, his first thought was that someone else would clean his mess, but his second was that he could happily have rested his legs for longer. If only time had been on his side. A man of his stature was sure to make headlines if passed out on the street and, rather than to save his kingdom’s reputation, Brion didn’t want to detract attention from the missing Tara.

Tara had been ill-tempered and reckless, the dark sheep of the family and only claiming half of their lineage. Brion was no more sensible. A party boy through and through, known more for his extravagant lifestyle than for his diplomatic missions. He was afforded leeway as a full-blooded Markovian. The true heir of their kingdom, the diplomatic and politically minded Gregor, was the epitome of what he should be. Gregor was what Brion and Tara had always been compared to. Brion had spent the most of his life attempting to laugh off the pressure but, for now, he was content to drink all his sorrows away.

The red-headed prince pulled himself to his feet, digging his fingers into the ridges of the brick wall, and held himself upright, preparing for another vomit should it come. He barely noticed the screeching of wheels behind him until four pairs of hands caught hold of him. Brion yelled and thrashed as they overpowered the drunken prince and dragged him into the back of a pick-up truck. As three of the men held him down, a fourth administered an injection of a green liquid. He slowly began to lose control of his mind; the room was spinning as it often had after heavy drinking but this was unlike that.

His muscles felt limp and he passed out before he could offer any further attack.

“He’s awake.”

Brion awoke with a shock. He was spread eagle, metallic manacles restraining his hands and feet. As the panic settled, Brion’s eyes fell upon the gnarled, stern features of an elderly woman. Her long grey hair pulled into a bun. A bespectacled scientist tapped her on the shoulder and whispered as the woman slowly moved towards him.

“Welcome back, Prince Brion,” said the older woman. “Your brother sends his regards.”

Next in the Outsiders: The Outsiders begin their assault on Arkham Asylum as the mysteries of the sanitorium shed light on the case of the missing princess!