Yeah, there's a big long author's note for you next chapter.

'Kill you? Why would I want to kill you?' –The Joker

PROLOGUE: THE TRIAL

Bruce was lost in a sea of camera flashes. The effect was rather dizzying, and had a sense of déjà-vu about it- and a sense of something to come as well. His eyes were dazzled.

Blinking furiously, he cleared his eyes. He had to see this, he just had to. Just had to prove to himself that the man was really, truly being taken to Arkham to be locked up. Because that would be a relief. Bruce wasn't sure if they would give him the death penalty: he'd certainly killed enough people, but then Bruce remembered that it wasn't legal here in good 'ol Gotham, which was a relief, in a way. His head was full of relief. If they had killed the criminal, that would have been maybe what he had wanted.

Something about the flashbulbs was doing something to his head. Sleep deprivation, too. That must be what was causing him to think in leaps and bounds, to flutter from idea to idea like a bird searching frantically for a perch. Calm yourself, Bruce.

His gaze finally focused on the bobbing dirty-blond head that jerked through the sea of people. There was a small empty space around it, save for the two guards that held each arm. Everyone was giving him a wide berth.

The scars were barely visible under the curtain of hair hiding the face from the legions of photographers.

With a police officer on each arm, the prisoner wasn't getting time to linger. Bruce glared at the man, watching him come closer and closer. Thoughts flipped through his head acrobatically, changing by the second. I have to see him; I don't want to see him; why should I care?; go to hell. Oh, god, he needed to get out of here and get to bed.

Just as the guards and the convict passed by, a sudden step flipped a lock of the man's hair off of his face. The criminal's eyes shifted up, and he stared into Bruce's own.

Bruce and the Joker's fierce looks met, collided, seemed to spark in midair and give birth to something invisible. Cool blankness poured over Bruce while mirth sprung from the Joker. He laughed, a terribly joyful sound, and smacked his lips.

'Why so serious, Bruce?' he called, grinning widely. Then the officers yanked him off down the steps, and the connection was broken, and the echo of the statement vanished from the air. Feet clopped on the stairs and Bruce couldn't follow. All he could do was watch, horrified (or, rather, confused, as Bruce tried to stay away from horror as much as he could during the day), as they bustled away.

The last thing he heard was the Joker's final words before being shoved into the back of the cruiser.

'Don't worry.'



Relief flipped in his throat for some reason. It must have been the sleep deprivation. The lights. They flashed away and then puttered out, snapping a few photos of the bizarre look on his face. Yeah, it was the cameras; it was the cameras and his tired mind.