The Ventriloquist sat down against the wall.
He held a gun in his hand like a helpless prisoner waiting for the door to slowly open.
Judging by appearance alone, no one would have guessed that this bald, frail old white man in his fifties was a notorious figure in Gotham's underworld.
With his trembling hands and shrinking posture, he looked entirely harmless—more terrified, in fact, than the hostages shivering behind him, as if he were trying to disappear completely inside his own oversized suit.
But the terrified employees of the Evidence Bureau huddled in the corner knew exactly what he was capable of.
On the floor lay a security guard, clutching a shattered, bloodied hand—the brutal result of trying to disarm Wesker just an hour ago.
He had tried to resist, but the ventriloquist shot him through the hand before he could even draw his weapon.
"Oh, Mr. Socks..."
A white wool sock was pulled onto the ventriloquist's left hand. It was a substitute personality he had created in Scarface's absence.
"Is it really right to hurt others like this?"
He shrank back, murmuring cautiously to the guard's left hand.
"Look, he's bleeding."
("Enough, Mr. Ventriloquist, you're too cowardly.")
Though he kept his mouth shut, a deep, aggressive voice emerged from his stomach. The sock opened and closed like a talking puppet, its presence unsettling and uncanny.
("Idiot. Without the hostages, what leverage do we have to get Scarface back?")
The sock waved erratically, like a venomous snake poised to strike.
("This is the time for threats. That bastard got shot. As long as they behave, I won't hurt them. Right?")
"But, but..."
("Shut up! Don't waste energy on this nonsense. Batman could burst in at any moment—")
The Ventriloquist sobbed in grievance but dared not argue with Mr. Socks. Instead, he turned sorrowfully toward the wounded guard and muttered:
"I'm sorry..."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A sharp, firm knock at the door interrupted him.
The Ventriloquist instantly aimed his gun at a hostage, his voice shifting to Mr. Socks—now darker, lower, and full of crazed brutality, like a beast whose lair had been invaded:
"I said, if you dare to come in, I'll shoot—"
"Wesker. Open the door," a voice called out calmly from the hallway. "The police are setting up a tactical entry. They don't care about the hostages. I do. Let's talk."
Arnold's hair stood on end. That voice—he knew it too well. It was Batman.
But something was wrong.
Batman never knocked. He never tried to negotiate through the door.
This unexpected, calm behavior completely scrambled the old man's thoughts. While Mr. Socks was trying to process the confusion, the door swung open smoothly, and Bruce Wayne stepped into the room unscathed.
"Batman, you—"
The Ventriloquist snapped out of it, but the moment was gone.
"Hey, Garnold." Bruce said.
(Scarface calls arnold as Garnold,dummy, idiot etc.)
He didn't move his lips, but a pitch-perfect imitation of the Scarface puppet's raspy, gangster voice echoed right from his throat. As a trained actor from his past life, voice mimicry was his bread and butter.
Before entering, Batman had already quietly slipped his gloved hand into the wooden puppet, throwing the plastic evidence bag aside. Now, he extended his arm, thrusting the scarred wooden face directly into the dim light.
("No, no! That's a trick! Shoot him!")
the sock screamed from his left hand.
("Put the gun down, Garnold!")
Bruce's mimicked Scarface voice barked, the puppet's wooden jaw snapping open and shut with aggressive precision.
("The Bat and I made a deal. Lower the piece!")
Seeing his beloved boss physically sitting on Batman's hand made Arnold's fingers seize up in pure reflex. His brain short-circuited.
But then, something horrifying happened.
("Asshole! Let me go now!")
A new voice erupted from Arnold's locked jaws. If Mr. Socks sounded like a petty, violent thug, this voice was darker—the absolute embodiment of the Ventriloquist's inner demons. It was the real Scarface persona, waking up inside Arnold's mind to fight for control.
Malice seeped into the room like black ink.
The Ventriloquist stood up. The cowardly old man was completely gone. In his place stood someone whose chest puffed with a devil's pride, his back straight, as if something truly evil had possessed his fragile frame.
Even though Batman held the wooden dummy, Arnold's severe split personality was so powerful that he was projecting the boss's voice without the puppet.
The sock on his left hand dropped limp, trembling not with rage, but with absolute terror. Mr. Socks—the cheap, aggressive substitute—instantly whimpered and fell completely silent, bowing to the supreme authority of the true boss waking up inside Arnold's head.
The old man's eyes locked onto Batman, his lips sealed tight as the terrifying inner voice of Scarface took full command, demanding with cold, absolute malice:
("Give my body back to me, you cape-wearing freak—")
He had never intended to treat the Ventriloquist with traditional methods.
Faced with the terrifying, awakened presence of the inner Scarface, Bruce didn't back down. Instead, he leaned completely into his performance. He tightened his grip on the wooden puppet, snapped its jaw open, and let out a roar using that exact same raspy gangster tone.
("You think you can replace me, you psychological freak?!")
Bruce's fake Scarface shouted, staring directly at Arnold.
("I'm the only real boss in this room, dummy! Arnold, shoot that imposter in your head! Shoot him now!")
The internal voice of Scarface shrieked back from Arnold's locked jaws, absolute fury vibrating in his chest.
("Don't listen to him, Garnold! He's a fake! I'm the real boss! Shoot the Bat-brain!")
"No, I'm the boss!" Bruce countered instantly, overlapping his voice seamlessly with Arnold's. "Listen to me, dummy! Shoot the sock! Shoot yourself! Drop the piece!"
("Shut up! Shut up! Shoot the Bat!")
This was the Ventriloquist's ultimate, fatal flaw. His mind was built on absolute obedience to a single dominant personality. But now, with Bruce delivering flawless imitation lines at lightning speed, Arnold's brain could no longer distinguish between his internal demon and the puppet on Batman's hand.
It was a total psychological civil war. Four voices—Arnold's whimpers, the terrified whimpering of Mr. Socks, the inner devil Scarface, and Bruce's perfect mimicry—clashed and crashed in a deafening mental echo chamber.
"Stop... please, just stop!" Arnold shrieked.
His eyes darted frantically between the wooden puppet in front of him and his own trembling hands. His mind went into complete cognitive overload, completely paralyzing his reflexes.
Before his scrambled thoughts could reboot, Bruce dropped the act. Moving with silent, brutal efficiency, he snapped his hand forward, wrenching the revolver cleanly out of Arnold's frozen grip. In the same motion, his heavy, armor-clad fingers clamped onto Arnold's left wrist, violently ripping the limp white wool sock away.
Disarmed.
"No! Mr. Socks!" Arnold screamed, his straight back instantly collapsing as he dropped to his knees, completely resetting into a helpless old man. "What are you doing to him?!"
Batman completely ignored his cries. He stepped back, keeping his imposing shadow over the defeated villain, and looked toward the corner of the room.
"You're safe," Batman rumbled in his deep, natural rasp. "Get out."
The hostages didn't need to be told twice. Supporting the wounded guard, they bolted through the open door and sprinted down the hallway into the rainy night, leaving the room completely silent.
Arnold lay curled on the floor, weeping hysterically. But Bruce wasn't done. To completely cure the immediate threat, he had to execute the final stage of his psychological trap.
He held up the filthy white sock and tore the fabric completely in half, dropping the scraps right in front of the old man's face.
"NOOOO!" Arnold wailed, reaching out as if mourning a family member. "Mr. Socks! How can I live without you?!"
Before the hysterics could completely take over, Batman hoisted the old man up by his collar, forcing him to face the wooden puppet still attached to his right hand. With a sudden, violent twist, Bruce snapped the wooden neck of the Scarface puppet, splintering the gears inside, before throwing the broken pieces to the floor and crushing them flat under his heavy combat boot.
The physical destruction of both anchors acted as a massive psychological shockwave. Inside Arnold's head, the illusion completely shattered. The inner demon of Scarface, stripped of its physical body and drowned out by the chaos, went entirely dark.
"AHHHHHHHHHH!" Arnold screamed, staring at the empty floor, his mind a completely blank, terrified vacuum.
Because of his severe schizophrenia, he physically could not function without an aggressive protector personality to shield him from reality. By destroying both of his mental anchors, Bruce had left his soul completely naked.
Normally, Arnold would desperately grab the nearest object—a shoe, a bullet casing, a pen—to turn it into a new tyrant.
But Bruce was already a step ahead.
He shoved the dazed, weeping old man down in front of his open tactical satchel, revealing dozens of simple, colorful hand puppets—cheap toys shaped like lions, bears, and monkeys.
"Forget your old partners, Arnold," Batman rumbled, his voice cold and commanding. "Look. You have options now. Pick one. Pick all of them."
Arnold was entirely stunned. His eyes were completely blank, his mind desperately screaming at him to find a new protector to shield him from the terrifying Dark Knight standing above him.
Dazed, his trembling hand reached into the bag, his fingers closing around the first plush toy they touched. The next second, a brand-new voice began to echo from his stomach...
Due to extreme schizophrenia, the Ventriloquist had a tendency to create violent secondary personalities. These identities served as protectors, shielding his fragile main persona—Arnold.
But within moments, both of his existing protector personalities had been destroyed—brutally, irreversibly—by Bruce's calculated psychological warfare.
Now, in a state of overwhelming fear and psychological vulnerability, Arnold's instinct would be to seek out a new "protector."
Under normal circumstances, he would grab any object, personify it, and wear it—just as he turned an ordinary wool sock into Mr. Socks.
But what happens...
...when he's suddenly given dozens of puppets all at once?