Prologue:

As the clatter of rain struck the aluminum roof, the sound echoed in his head. Batman peered over the roof edge again looking down the alley. He had been on the same roof every night for a week and he was getting irritated. The information he had received was from a good source, a very good source. Gunther Harkness, street punk and sometime pot dealer, had his ear out for any tips. He would relay them via a loose brick behind the Pornotpia Theater. Batman grabbed Gunther as he fell from a rooftop running from rival dealers. He paid The Bat back with information. Batman slowly turned and slid to a sitting position. He spoke out loud to himself.

"Rain. All it ever does here is rain. It's like something is trying to wash away the filth, the scum, with no success."

He retrieved his Starbucks cup and sipped the Komodo Dragon blend. Placing the cup under a roof vent to save it from the rain, Batman again read the note Harkness had left.

"The alley between the Branoslovski Hotel and the Creamy Eye Peep show, a big deal going down I don't know when or what."

Closing his eyes, he listened to the rain hit his cowl. The Kevlar was bullet proof and could actually deal with flames, but it wasn't water proof. He could feel dampness seeping inside the suit, soaking his body.

"I hate the damn rain."

The noise of a car, slowly cruising up the alley drew his attention. Slowly, he moved so as not to upset the aluminum roof. As he did, his Starbucks spilled on his knee. He ignored the warm feeling and watched as two men exit a small import, both with heavy garbage bags. One individual dropped his bag in a puddle, the other held his firm. From the end of the alley, the darker end, another car approached.

Batman slowly stepped over the roof edge and walked quietly down the fire escape. He smiled as he walked remembering all the media hype of him swinging from ropes and crashing through windows. He did at times, but it was a necessity. It was not something that he enjoyed doing.

Stopping at the second floor, Batman crouched and prepared to jump. The car that had been approaching stopped and turned on its lights. Batman realized he was now visible and an easy target.

"THE BAT!"

Batman jumped from the fire escape rail and landed in a run heading for the bag men. The driver opened fire with what Batman could identify as an Uzi. Both bag men ran, one in his confusion ran right into the Dark Knight. Batman was about to round house kick the thug, but bullets ripped through the man. He jerked, tripping over the bag and fell dead at Batman's feet. Then the rounds hit him, he felt each one as it slammed into the body armor.

Batman shoulder rolled into the darkness and as he came upright, he snagged one of the bags. Batman hurled it at the driver. The bag erupted as bullets tore it apart spraying the alley with blood. Batman regained his footing and was instantly blinded as blood and bits of skin hit his face. He realized the bag was full of body parts. He rubbed his mask quickly with one hand and reached for a small grenade on the small of his back. The shooter, who was half out the car window, was stunned a moment and looking at what was all over him. Then his attention was diverted as a small metal canister landed next to the car door. Batman swung his cape around him as the flash bang detonated, the flash lit the alley like daylight. The shooter began to fire blindly screaming. Batman moved behind the car as his reaction wasn't quick enough. The other bag man and all in the other car ran away.

"Well one is better then none." He said, as he approached the driver

The gunman stomped the accelerator. Batman jumped on the roof and grabbed thewindow frame, the car hurled forward into the street.

"Jeez! Ya think the night could get more difficult? "Batman said to himself.

The gunner fired the machinegun through the roof, the rounds hitting his trauma plate built into the armor. Batman reared back and smashed his fist through the damaged roof, grabbing the driver by the back of his neck. The driver pulled the trigger again, and the gun spewed its last rounds

"Get off you fucking pointed eared freak! " The gunner screamed.

The driver spun the steering wheel left, as the car slid sideways. Batman's body swung outwards, as he hung on to the hole in the roof. A mime on the street gasped as Batman's legs smashed into him, throwing the street entertainer in the air. With exaggerated arm gestures, the mime gave Batman the finger.

Batman yanked upward as hard as he could, the drivers head smashed into the roof. The roof near Batman's face dented upward, the punk was unconscious.

Looking ahead, Batman had just a moment to see the construction site the car was racing towards. The car crashed through a set of bright orange cones and dropped over a six foot ledge. Batman flew off the roof and landed hard on a pile of dirt, his momentum caused him to roll off it into a workbench. The car was now jammed at an awkward angle on the ledge.

With a grunt, Batman climbed to his feet. He staggered a moment then walked to the car. Inside, the punk was moaning and trying to grab the door handle.

Batman grabbed the door and forced it open, grabbing the driver as he fell out. "Freak is it; all I wanted was just an easy night. I spilled my Starbucks, found a new construction site and look like crap."

It would be a long walk back to the crime scene. The punk now in flexi cuffs, adding weight to the journey. It took an hour of lugging to get back to the alley. To Batman's surprise, there was no police.

"Machine gun fire, cars screaming about and nothing." He dropped the punk and looked at the debris.

In the pile, was an arm a torso and a hand. "What you guys do, put him in a blender?"

The punk struggled to a sitting position. "I aint saying nothing without a lawyer."

Batman smiled, "Do I look like I am arresting you?"

With that the punk realized what position he was in.

"You see I only help the police. Actually, I feel it's better to just kill trash like you and drop it in the river." Batman whispered.

The punk's face became ashen, "You can't do that. You're like a good guy. You're like a fucking hero."

Batman moved close to the punk's face. "I can do anything, and who will stop me."

The punk began to cry. It only took several minutes till the punk revealed the victims name.

Batman called Detective Sergeant Prescott. "Yes, the alley next to the….yes that place. Well this fine upstanding citizen says its crime boss Giovanni Mannetti. Ok…and make sure the meat wagon brings a lot of bags."

It was another victim of a major gang war that was going on, something so large, Batman could do nothing but watch and deal with what he could.

Batman waited till the first police unit arrived, then he climbed back up the fire escape.

Walking across several roofs, he called Alfred. "Come get me, I will be near Prescott Park in an hour. Is the car fixed yet?"

Alfred Pennyworth sighed on the phone. "Not yet. You know I have a dickens of a time with the fuel balance."

Batman smiled, "Well you will get it eventually. Just come get me as soon as you can."

Batman walked down a stairwell on a roof to an elevator. As he waited, his reflection in the brass elevator door took him aback. He was covered in blood from head to toe and dirt had matted on his suit. On his arm, small pieces of skin and other matter was stuck. He slowly closed the Razr phone and fell slightly backwards against a wall. Sliding to the floor, he closed his eyes and tried to bury the image. As he opened them and looked at the reflection again, his father stood in the image.

"Why are you doing this Bruce?"

Batman gasped; closing his eyes he shook his head violently and looked again. The image was gone.

Fighting the urge to cry, he stood.

He rode the elevator down and went home.

Bernie

Bernedette Smalley carefully prepared her tea. Her body was being ravaged by Parkinson's disease and her hands trembled. She poured the steaming liquid into her favorite tea cup, and dropped a cube of sugar into it. "Now the hard part, getting to the couch." She said to herself.

"OK Bernie, you can do this." She said out loud.

Putting the small china cup on the saucer, she walked to her living room. Her frail body shook uncontrollably and she bit her lip as some of the tea splashed her hand. A few more uneasy steps and she would be there. Barry Shimkis was on TV in a while and she never missed Barry. Placing the saucer on an end table, she exhaled in relief. Shuffling in her pink fluffy slippers she fell backwards into her new couch. The couch had been another gift in a series of items sent to her by a mysterious benefactor. When she was low on money, it came in the mail. When the Boys Home needed repair and the city dragged its feet, it would be repaired. Who it was intrigued her, it was nice to know who ever it was, was there.

She smiled and adjusted her bottom on the new couch. .

"Ooooo, yes soft and nice!"

Glancing at the wall behind her television, hundreds of black and white pictures, all somewhat looking like mug shots, covered the dull flowered wall.

"My boys my dear dear boys, what will I ever do now." She shook her gray haired head. "I am jobless well retired but still jobless." She turned her head slightly and looked at the plaque the mayor had given her for "service to the community" and "selfless tasks." All those year's she had felt like she meant something, not so now, she was alone. No one even came to see her anymore. Her life as the director of "Gotham Home for Wayward Boys" was over.

Remote now in hand, she turned up the volume of her television. Behind her, unseen, something moved. It approached stealth, walking with care to remain silent. Bernie placed the tea cup back on its dish as something jumped on her. She screamed as her cat Shamus landed in her lap.

"Damn it Shamus, you like to scare the crap out of me!"

The cat climbed on the back of the couch just behind her head. Its attention now on another object. The backdoor of the house slowly opened the silhouette placed lock pick tools back in a pouch and dropped it in its pocket. Each step was placed slowly. The floor creaked and the figure stopped. With no reaction from the woman, it continued forward. Bernie continued to watch her television not hearing the figure as it moved closer to her. Shamus watched curious, a glint of something shiny in the figures hand caught the feline's eyes. The cat ran and hid beneath a book shelf. It wore black and dark gray camouflage from head to toe, its eyes only visible through a mask.

"What's wrong you old coot, you seem in a weird mood and no your not getting fed yet."

The figure now stood behind Bernie, it looked down at her, beneath its mask, a smile.

It grabbed Bernie by the chin and forced her head back. She gasped and looked upside-down at the attacker. "Hi Bernie!" It muffled under the mask. A scream began but was cut short as the attacker sliced her throat from ear to ear. The arterial spray splashed the black and white photos covering them in red. Her hand gripped the remote in a death lock, the channels switching rapidly.

The attacker held her head firm, actually aiming the blood so it hit the photos, certain photos. Bernedette shook, her hand smashing the tea cup, a gurgle sound from her lips. She stared at the photos, eyes unblinking. The blood sprayed, and then slowly ebbed. The attacker let go, the head fell backwards, held to the body by several sinews of muscle.

It walked towards the wall of pictures, footsteps making gurgling sounds on the blood soaked carpet. Shamus, now covered in blood, watched the attacker and attempted to clean himself.

The attacker sung as he walked. "Memories, hmmmm, hmmmm, from the pages of my mind….misty mmmmm"

Looking at the photos, he focused on one, and scraped the blood aside to see it closer. The boy in the picture smiled broadly. A light of glee on his face.

"The way we where……."

With a loud laugh, the attacker began to dance in the blood. He stopped and slowly leaned into an elaborate bow for Bernie. Jumping, he danced again, zeal in his step, he laughed uncontrollably.
Reaching without looking, the attacker flipped the phone receiver off the hook and dialed 911.

"911 dispatch, what is your emergency."

"A murder has taken place at 95 Bushnell Terrace, a horrible murder…"

"Your name please…"

The attacker smiled beneath his mask. "Name…I am Memories, and I have just begun."

"What, Memories… can you say that again?"

He grabbed her head and looked into her eyes. "All you had to do was pay attention to me, that's all I wanted." With a twist, he separated the head from the body and continued to speak.
"So pretty, so so pretty." He placed the head on the bookshelf and stood back. With a quick snap, he snatched Shamus by the neck and lifted it eye level, the cat hissed and began to scratch against the glove. "Little cat, look, look and see." Memories put the cats face against the smudged photo. "That's him, see how he smiles, he smiles all the time." Twisting in a dance spin, Memories put the cat's nose against a clean picture. "This is me, see, no smile, no hope, nothing."

Shamus swung both his legs up and scratched Memories exposed wrist. The killer glared in anger and threw the cat at the wall. With a thud the cat hit a painting and landed on its paws. Memories made a motion to grab it again, but the cat ran into another room.

Memories walked toward the back door. Behind him, Bernadette stared at him as he exited. Her eyes glazed over, a small drip of blood fell from her lips. Memories walked into the night.

The Bentley Limo slowly stopped behind Bruce Wayne's mansion. Alfred exited quickly and opened the door for his employer, his friend. Batman carefully climbed out as not to mess up the car further. As he walked, a bullet slug came loose from his belt and fell to the ground. The butler picked it up and looked at it.

"If I may say sir, er… You look a fright."

Batman walked dragging his feet towards a small set of stairs. He looked over his shoulder as he spoke.

"Well true I have looked better; the job seems to get messier as time goes."

Alfred followed down the stairs to an old door, its windows musty and brown. Batman opened it and walked down the long dark hall to his wine cellar. Alfred casually turned the spout on a huge wine barrel activating the door release. With a hiss, air locks released the wall Batman walked through the opening with out hesitation. The wine cellar lit brightly as the wall opened, behind it, the cave.

Batman slid his thumbs under the jaw section of his cowl. Alfred had seen him do this a million times but each time; his friend seemed to look more disappointed. Alfred heard a click as the cowl released from the combat chest section. Batman pulled the mask off and dropped it on a table. As he did, Alfred removed the cape; more bullet slugs fell to the floor.

"To bad used ammunition is not valuable."

Bruce looked at Alfred with a smile.

"Yes we would be rich, well richer. Alfred did you get the car fixed?"

Alfred glanced toward the car, one of six; the one he looked at was the most dangerous of them all.

"Yes sir, the fuel mix is correct now, but you know this should not be driven in the city, the jet is much too powerful for such an area."

"Well the others have some sort of flaw, that one is to slow, that one smells of fuel and that one squeaks"
Alfred smiled, "Squeak's, my my how the city would shudder if they knew their protector hated squeaks."

Bruce stood and retrieved a robe on a hook. "I don't like squeaks."

Alfred began to pick up the parts of his suit. It would easily take him a week to clean and repair it. Bruce stood and looked in a full length mirror, his robe slightly open. Opening it further, he groaned as muscles ached. Across his chest, several large bruises.

Bruce walked towards the elevator. "Alfred can you bring me some Tylenol and a glass of Merlot."

Alfred popped a bullet from the chest emblem. "Yes sir, right away."

Several days would pass. The police would investigate the murder of a retired city employee, but the gang wars took most of the authority's attention. The file was placed in the "to be investigated ASAP" basket on the Chief Detectives desk. At Arkum Asylum, a clown began his daily recreation.

The paint was non toxic and more for a child but Jack Napier didn't care, he loved art and it was his only time through the day to relax. On the canvas, a small child stood on a balcony crying. A nerve twitch stopped Jack cold, his face, a continual smile, never did heal correctly. Jack sat a moment, dizzy from the pain.

"I need my meds god damn it, where the hell is that stupid orderly?"

Doctor Heinrich Muller sat behind a large antique desk. His glasses had fallen down his nose a bit as he woke suddenly from an unauthorized nap. He sat upright and stretched his weary muscles.

"Jack, relax they will be here in a second. That's a nice painting you have there, but why is there always someone suffering in your paintings?"

Jack shook his head trying to subdue the facial pain. "I paint what I feel, and don't patronize me Doctor, it's below you. Why is it you just can't talk to me, a little conversation, something other than to analyze me."

Napier flexed his jaw, the pain subsided. He tried to force his mouth back into position now out of sheer normality, but it failed. He would be like this forever.

Napier glanced at the doctor. He watched as the psychiatrist fell asleep again, his face hidden from the prison camera's behind the newspaper. Jack pinched a page from the newspaper the doctor held and placed it under his painting. "Gotta be neat, or they will take my freaking art privileges." He began to paint again, this time with more elaborate strokes. Paint dripped from his brush to the newsprint. Joker glanced at the page, the obituary section. "How nice, the dead section, my favorite, its like the comics, always makes me smile." Jack glanced at the listings and stopped painting as he recognized a name. Tears fell from Jokers green eyes. He stumbled backwards into a chair and brought the paper with him, his art fell to the table. He read the article further on how Bernedette Smalley was murdered.

"No, not you…not you, oh god not you."

Joker brought the paper to his face and cried, his head fell in his arms on the table.

Doctor Muller mumbled something and burped. Joker's head rose slowly, rage in his eyes. He was aware of the camera coverage. He forced a smile and stood with his paintbrush. Walking with a swagger, Joker sat on the edge of the Doctors desk and leaned toward him. Slowly, Joker pushed the paintbrush through the newspaper and toward the Doctors eye. When the point made contact, he forced it into the Doctors brain. Muller gasped and almost fell from his chair. Joker grabbed the back of the doctor's head and held him upright, shoving the brush further in.

Joker stood and danced, acting like he was talking to the doctor. Stopping, he leaned towards the dead physician and retrieved his cell phone. "Ah yes, I knew you wouldn't give this to the guards. So precious is your practice, you need to hear from all your patients." Joker returned to his art table and picked up his painting. Propping it up again, he used it to block the view of the camera. With ease, he thumbed the number to the one person he could count on. "Helloooooo Harleen!"

"YES OF COURSE ITS ME YOU DITZ!" He yelled.

"Yes, just like we discussed, yes, an hour, ok, toddles sweets." Joker closed the phone and dropped it into a can of paint. He stood and curtsied to the dead Doctor, and exited the art department. Walking quickly, he passed several inmates. As he did, he whispered to each. "Escape in one hour, west wall by the cafeteria." Most smiled, and made their way to the west section of Arkam. Some just looked at the white faced clown and ignored him. Joker would remember them, he knew he would end up back in the asylum, and he would make those not participating suffer. After telling as many inmates as he could, he hurried back to the art department.

Guard Brendan Smith struggled up the metal ladder. He slipped now and then due to the rungs being wet. The rain would not let up and Arkum was ancient. No elevators, just ladders. With a grunt, he pushed open the hatch and pulled himself up into the tower. Barkawi Shinzdeep, a large Fiji guard sat asleep in the tower. Brendan shook him slightly. "Hey you're relieved, wake up asshole."

Barkawi yawned and smacked his lips. "Ok, thanks, it's been all quiet, nothing to report."

Brendan turned from the half awake guard as he heard a vehicle outside the West wall. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from the desk and peered through them.

Outside the wall a large panel truck struggled against the mud road. Brendan focused on the driver, but the windows where tinted. "What the hell, it's a truck."

Barkawi grabbed his M-16 and charged it, putting a round into the chamber.

Brendan concentrated on the trucks side. He saw a picture of a bouquet of flower and some writing, which he read aloud. "When you care to send…the very…blast?"

He looked at Barkawi with an eyebrow raised. A moment later, the truck exploded. Both guards and the tower disintegrated. The West wall collapsed inward, inmates too close to the wall where crushed. Those that survived climbed over the debris and ran to freedom.

Joker entered the art section as the explosion occurred. He stopped a second and grinned. "Ah Harley, always so punctual." Joker glanced up at the camera and laughed. With a quick snap, he grabbed two colors of paint and poured them into an empty can. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he splashed the can on his face. The paint, light tan gave his skin a more normal appearance.

"The things I do for my public."

He walked towards the art section door grabbing the doctor's coat and hat. He stopped and looked at the doctor, the brush still protruding from his face. "Now you don't go anywhere, you…keep an eye on my art ok." At that the Joker walked out, down the stairs and exited the main gate. No guard stopped him.

Bruce Wayne spun on the dance floor, his arms around an unknown woman. He laughed and let her go causing her to nearly fall into a table. She caught her balance and glared at him.

"Look just because you're rich, doesn't mean you can be rude."

Bruce stopped dancing, the club was packed and the laser lights where flashing everywhere. He snatched a drink off a waiter as he walked by and downed it. He dropped the glass on the floor breaking it and smiled to his dance partner.

"You can leave anytime; I think I can find another piece of ass to keep me happy tonight."

The girl gasped, she tried to respond but could not seem to find the words. Finally she screamed. "Look mother fucker, money or not, kicking your ass would be a pleasure if I wouldn't get tossed out of the club."

Bruce motioned to a bouncer, and then pointed to the woman. "You don't have to worry, your out."

The bouncer grabbed the girl and lifted her off her feet. She kicked wildly but to no avail. Her screams could be heard in the club as the bouncer literally tossed her in the air, out of the club.

Bruce walked to the side door and out to his Bentley. Alfred stood outside with an umbrella waiting.

"I hope you had fun sir, I saw the young lady land in the dumpster. I would say, good throw, thank god it had refuse in it."

Bruce climbed in the limo. Yes I had fun, although the rich playboy booze womanizer put on I do gets irritating. I do need to talk to the bouncers, that's not called for." Bruce closed his eyes a moment, and then felt the vibration of his cell phone. Not his normal one, a cell phone only certain people had the number of. He opened it and answered.

"Batman."

The voice on the speaker was Bill Shuster, the night morgue attendant. "Bat's you asked me to call you if I had any weird stuff happen at the morgue, well this guy walked in passed me and well he looks... like a clown. Should I call the bulls?" Bruce pulled open the seat compartment next to him. Inside was a Bat suit.

"No, I will take care of it, don't get in his way, and don't make him angry. And above all…don't shake his hand."

"OK Bat's, I think its time for a long coffee break, I'll see ya."

The Bentley roared across town as Bruce changed into Batman.

Alfred lowered the limo passenger divider.

"Joker?"

Bruce pulled the cowl over his head, the locking clips latched with a loud click. "Yes, but why the morgue, he only goes there when he needs to cheer up. He just escaped; I would think he would hide somewhere. Oh well, I have been to busy with the gang wars this may be fun. "

Joker had never been to the morgue. He walked in and immediately smelled the decay. He adjusted the dark purple coat and turquoise bow tie. Harleen had picked him up outside Arkam and was well prepared for him. He looked at his reflection in a window pane. "A ham sandwich, my clothes and a long wet kiss. Ahhh yes life is good." His pace was still wary; he walked past a corpse on a gurney parked along a wall. Looking at it closer, he brought his hand to his mouth. "Gus?" Joker grabbed the toe tag and lifted it to read, the leg came loose and dangled. Joker read. "Benidito Gustov Sartuchio." He dropped the leg and shook his head. "Wow Gus, you're looking good, you lost some weight I see. Still running the Benson Hill gang? Well you relax; you just look dead on your foot."

Ahead, Joker focused on the freezer door. On the door, he noticed a list of names in alphabetical order. Running a gloved finger down the list, he found her name, closed his eyes and leaned his head on the cold metal door and remembered.

He was six years old and arrived at the Home. He had a bag made from a quilt blanket his Aunt had made. In it, was everything he owned, a pair of pants, a shirt and a picture of his mother. He retrieved the picture and looked at it. Her smile was so bright; it was still bright when she died. He put the picture away and lugged the bag up the large granite steps. On the top of the steps, she stood. Her hair was black as coal and her lips bright red. Jack first thought it was Betty Davis. He scowled and tried to put on a tough guy look. She looked close and laughed. "You can look all tough, but the quilt bag sort of kills the image." He dropped the bag and laughed. She reached down and took his hand. The feeling of being touched made him miss his mother. He began to cry.

Joker wept. Opening the door filled the hallway with white mist. He raised his head and walked in slowly. She was the only one on a table, the others hung from hooks on the ceiling. The macabre scene would have normally made him laugh, but nothing could do that now. He walked almost like a child to her. Small steps, stopping every so often. As he got next to her, he moved the white sheet down and gasped. He looked at what had been done to her and screamed.

To be continued…