A/N: Well, this is my first story, so first thing's first: Batman does not belong to me, nor do any of the characters associated with it. Read and review!

As he descended, Batman realized that the van had stopped quite conveniently right beneath him; and yet, Crane hadn't made a run for it.

Why?

Too late, he recognized the Scarecrow's plan.

With a deafening crash, he landed, puncturing the van's roof… and the tank of Fear Toxin beneath it.

Scarecrow had refined the mixture during his time in exile, and now the familiar rush of terror through Batman's veins was even worse than before.

He felt his own suit turn traitor, biting him and scratching him with its claws, squealing in his ears and reducing him to the same frightened Bruce Wayne that had fallen into the caverns so many years ago.

And now, as he lay amidst wheeling swarms of imaginary bats and the animated ghost of his armour, he felt a cold hand tear the mask from his face.

Laughter, now. So much laughter that it hurt his ears, as Scarecrow loomed overhead, a long knife in his hand; he was saying something, calling to the mobsters that watched overhead, the thugs that now screamed for his blood.

Then the knife descended, as surely as the Batman had.

"I believe in Joseph Kerr."

That was what they said now.

He was the new district attorney, the Avenging Angel who cried for the blood of those who had murdered Gotham's Golden Boy.

Even the Batman hadn't been able to save Harvey Dent from the penthouse massacre. And now the people didn't want a vigilante to fight for justice and freedom:

Joseph Kerr could bring more than justice. He could bring them vengeance.

And after that, they would have him ascend the political ladder, into higher circles of power, until the Avenging Angel had the authority to punish even the sinners and evildoers that cowered in the dark corners of the world.

Behind his new prosthetics, the Joker smiled.

It was good to be in charge.

He couldn't wait to see their faces.

It was rare for a vigilante of Batman's calibre to attend a hospital, even if it was only to visit. But then again, this was a particularly rare day - the kind of rare day in which everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

The patient had refused the skin grafts, and the anaesthesia.

The patient had stopped crying long ago.

The patient was beyond that sort of pain, now.

Beneath the mask, Bruce looked down at the crumpled figure lying on the bed, a tattered human remnant that refused out of sheer loathing to return his gaze.

After a minute, he realised that his hands were trembling.

"I'm so sorry for what happened," he began.

The patient didn't reply.

"The Joker gave us switched locations; you have to believe me."

A mirthless chuckling broke the silence, and the voice that followed it was just as humourless; it was a voice that had long since lost any vitality, for in between fire and hospitalisation, the patient had been constantly screaming.

"I've known you long enough to recognise when you're lying through your teeth," the patient whispered, "And I know right now that from the very moment Joker confessed, you were heading in my direction. And that hurts, worse than any of the other little betrayals in my life. It hurts because you, after all your promises and your talk of hope and legitimacy, you threw away Gotham's first chance at a more optimistic life. And for what?"

Bruce sighed deeply. "I made my decision on instinct, and I had faith that Gordon's men would arrive in time to rescue Harvey."

"When it was Gordon's men who kidnapped us to begin with? What does it matter, anyway? The Joker might not have killed Gotham's spirit outright, but he's come close to crippling it: I mean, if Batman and the might of the police force couldn't save Harvey Dent from one madman, what can the two of them do against the mob? And what's more, when they find out that you went for me first, their faith in you will be utterly broken."

"Rachael," and now the tone in his voice was almost pleading, "There is still hope left for Gotham. What happened last night must never reach the public - not even how Harvey died - and if that much can happen, the city might just recover. I'm sorry, but…"

The figure turned over in bed, and for the first time, Bruce saw the scars for the first time: the left side of her face had been reduced to a mask of seared muscles and raped nerves. One mad, rolling bloodshot eyeball stared back at him from beneath the few wraithlike strands of hair that remained on her head.

"No you're not," she said through ashen lips. "Not yet. Not while I'm officially dead on the left side of my body. Not while the only recoverable piece of the man I loved is his lucky coin. Not while there's a madman still on the loose and waiting for another round of carnage. Not while you're standing here, telling me that the only way to heal this cesspool's wounds is to tell its people that Harvey didn't die alone and in agony, and that the people responsible for it weren't one biased vigilante and a couple of corrupt cops. Not now."

She paused.

"Get out."

Time passed: Batman left the hospital in a daze as Rachael fell into a deep and troubled sleep, populated largely by the masked faces of the Joker's henchmen, wreathed in flame as they lunged towards her. She dreamed of unspeakable creatures made entirely of smiles, crawling down from the walls of every single building in Gotham, closer and closer to the hospital with every second.

When she finally awoke, there was the world's most unlikely nurse staring down at her.

And suddenly, Rachael Dawes realised that the final blow hadn't even hit her yet.

"You know, I wasn't lying when I said you were beautiful, and I just want you to know that there was nothing personal about what happened… and as a matter of fact, I think you might just still be beautiful enough to be tragic. And in this little line of business I'm in, tragedy means a helluva lot…"

With the same eyes, Bruce Wayne and the Batman watched in horror as one of the two ferries vanished in a fireball.

"Unless I'm mistaken," said the Joker, with great delight, "That was the prisoner's ferry. Who'd have thought that the good people of Gotham would have been so ruthless in the face of death? Not you, certainly."

"They aren't… all… like…" Bruce couldn't finish; he was choking on air. He tried again: "They won't all lose their hope from this, Joker. The man who pressed the switch will be put on trial, and they'll carry on… somehow, they'll carry on rebuilding."

Another explosion lit up the night, as the second ferry erupted, taking several hundred innocent civilians with it.

Joker laughed so hard, Bruce thought that the scar tissue around his lips might split open:

"Did you really think I'd let either side win? People forget the part they play when they have some loser to pin it on, and what better way to get rid of some loser than by blowing him up with his own detonator? And even then it's not too certain: see, when dealing with this city, when making sure it sinks all the way to the bottom, you need an ace in the hole. Mine's Harvey- the one man that nobody here can stand to lose in any way."

He dragged Bruce upright, and his smile seemed to widen as surely as Bruce's heart sank. "And above all, when you're in the business of killing souls, you need to make sure that there'll be nowhere to hide, not even in the arms of their favourite saviours…"

Behind them, a police spotlight briefly illuminated the two of them. The Joker ignored it, and continued speaking, surreptitiously moving Bruce's hands to somewhere around shoulder height as he did so:

"When they see what happened to Harvey and you, I can't imagine how badly they'll shatter; but they'll probably agree with me on this point- madness is like gravity. All it takes is a little push!"

And with that, he hurled himself backward, over the edge of the precipice, leaving Batman with his arms thrust out in an almost comical "pushing" motion…

… right before the incredulous eyes of the approaching SWAT team.

The Joker was still laughing when he hit the ground ten seconds later.

Master Bruce remained silent as he read the letter, as Alfred cursed himself for not burning it sooner; he'd been approaching it with the matches when Bruce had stumbled in, and now there was no telling just how badly this would proceed.

For a time, there was silence.

Then Master Bruce began to laugh; big whooping laughs that left him clutching his stomach, sprawled across the floor in a foetal position.

Alfred stood as far away as possible; it had been a trying day, and the last thing he wanted to do was to interfere with what might be Bruce Wayne's only chance to vent his anguish.

When he finally rose, there was something noticeably different in his eyes, something inexplicably wrong. It took Alfred ten seconds to recognise it as the same kind of madness that the Joker had possessed in those few spine-jangling moments of eye-contact they had made back at the fundraiser.

"Alfred?" he asked softly.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Let's go burn down that forest. The bandit's still out there."

"Master Bruce, I think you should rest for moment. Think things over…"

His eyes smiled even wider than his mouth, and too late, Alfred saw the letter-opener that was still in his hand.

"Why so serious, Alfred?"

THE END