AN: This is my first Batman fanfic. Please review. Thank you.

One

If he was being honest with himself, he knew that he had never expected to win. But something about driving humanity to peaks of madness was so… satisfying. The Joker stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, grinning at himself.

"What's next?" he asked, waiting for an answer to drop into his scheming brain. "C'mon, you've gotta have some ideas." Winging it had been easy while his demented mind had an ongoing list of fun experiments to test. Over the last few months, the Joker had created a collection of masterpieces. Beautiful works of art, that's what his past actions had been. Watching an entire city crumble to the whims of one makeup wearing man, either because of an inexplicable passivity or an irrational fear, was so much fun. And the Joker loved fun.

But now, with his success in driving Gotham's political hero to madness, playing mind games with an entire city, and luring the Batman into a cavern of mental and physical difficulties, his fun was over. He really did miss it. On that night, the night when the Joker lost the game, he had watched humans make the "right" decision. He had expected both of those ships to be blown to hell by morning. It was disappointing to not watch two desperate groups of people kill each other. It was disappointing, with that delicious idea of death hovering so close, to be allowed to live. He had played the game, and obviously hadn't rigged the deck well enough, and he wasn't interested in continuing to live. But no, the Batman was too good, too damn good, for the sake of just being good. Mr. Goodness would never kill a man, no matter how sinister, no matter how psychotic. So the Joker just had to hang there from a building till he accepted the fact that he wasn't going to die. And he cut himself down.

His calm smile never faltered, but his eyes were madly dashing around. They had recently started twitching, something that the Joker found amusing yet irritating. He would have to visit a doctor about it. That would be fun. For a few hours. He could give the doc a good scare, get some laughs. Maybe kill a few nurses, he wasn't sure. The Joker was never sure of anything, except that he wasn't ever sure of things.

He thought about his upcoming doctor's visit for a moment, still eyeing himself in the smudged and broken glass mirror that hung crookedly on the wall. The wall was crudely patched with wallpaper, only semi covered by the floral pattern. The Joker's current home was a shabby one room apartment, with a small kitchen, a couch that doubled as a bed, and a toilet sitting alone in a corner. It was dirty and unkempt. Just like my soul, he thought, laughing loudly.

Slowly lowering himself onto the couch, the Joker contemplated his possibilities. "No," he said to himself, "No… I want the Batman. No, the game isn't over… it's… it's just starting! Are you ready, Batman? Are you ready to play?" A crazed laugh erupted, thick and cruel. The Joker was far from finished, and he was now preparing his deck.

"We are gathered here today to reflect on the short but meaningful life of Rachel Dawes," the minister spoke, voice laced with a pious kind of sadness. Bruce clenched his fists. This minister didn't care, he was just reciting an empty speech written by a secretary. "She was one of many innocent people to die in the tragic events Gotham faced within the past few months. Her life was so valuable, but the forces of evil snuffed it, in its prime."

What was this? Was this a political speech or a eulogy? The billionaire's heart was aching, memories with Rachel flashing through his mind. She was so perfect, she deserved so much more than these useless words. She deserved to be alive.

"We will never forget her drive, her willpower, her sense of morality in the face of corruption," he continued, "She was a light, a beacon, someone to follow when no other leader would stand."

The other people gathered around the grave nodded, sniffling and wiping away streams of tears. Bruce stayed for another few minutes, adding so much to the minister's speech inside his heart. He didn't realized how much he had loved Rachel, how willing he was to change for her, until she suddenly wasn't there anymore. He couldn't stand right beside her grave for so long. The regret, the grief, the guilt, it would all kill him if he stayed. So he went home.

"Sir," Alfred greeted upon his arrival to his home, "I hope the service was… acceptable." Bruce grunted in reply, tossing his wet coat to the side. The rain had also added to the dreariness and sadness of the day. "I'm very sorry about Miss Dawes."

"I thought we were beyond this kind of conversation, Alfred," Bruce muttered, walking towards his bedroom.

"Your limp, sir, is very obvious. You scrunch your face in pain with every step you take," the loyal butler commented, "You'll make it worse if you don't see someone about it."

"And explain to a doctor how it happened. You explain to one person, you might as well broadcast it through the radio." Bruce winced as he lowered himself onto his bed. Alfred busied himself straightening up the room before responding.

"And how did you explain the pained limping to the funeral guests? How will you continue to explain this? Just see a doctor… please." Bruce chuckled, burying his face in the plush abundance of pillows. "I'm scheduling and appointment."

"Go ahead, but I won't be there," Bruce whispered, done with the conversation. It seemed so wrong, so unjust, to be talking about anyone or anything other than Rachel. Alfred sensed Bruce's thoughts, and left to go schedule an appointment.

"You'll be there," he whispered, "You're too good to stand someone up, even if you're paying them. You'll be there."

Bruce didn't sleep well. His body was tired from months of stress, but his mind was awake with thoughts of Rachel. Thoughts of all the horrors wrought by the Joker's recent reign of terror. Thoughts of all the innocent people he was supposed to protect, dying. And if not dying, suffering. And if not suffering, watching others suffer. His mind was awake, and torturing him. Is this what the Joker wanted?

Did that hellion want everyone in pain, everyone living in sorrow? For someone as good as Bruce, that was difficult to understand. So he laid awake, trying to dream up something, some reason for the Joker's actions. Something to justify his intentions, if not the actual actions. Because to someone as good as Bruce, it didn't cross his mind that maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there who simply hurt and killed for the fun of it. He wasn't naïve. He was just too good. He was so good, that sometimes it took a while for him to accept that someone else wasn't good.

Which was why, in his little one room hideout, all alone and plotting his next bout of fun, the Joker was sure that this time he would win. Because in pure fun against pure good, the one who wasn't above rigging the deck was always the one with the upper hand.