You arrive to... nothing at all. Crazy Quilt is sitting on the curb outside, already cuffed. He’s just... sulking? You ask the officers what Quilt was doing and... he did nothing. He left his cell in Arkham, walked here, phoned the police, and sat down to wait. He sighs and speaks up.

"I know I’m not exactly a big shot in Gotham, but we’d seen each other in the Arkham cafeteria enough that he could at least remember my gimmick! The quilt is colors, not fabrics! I control color! Give me something colorful! Not... whatever this is. At least it was nice to be out for a day."