This is a sequel to The Games We Play. I would advise reading that first, since none of this will make any sense otherwise.

The Rules We Break

By

Godell

Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Only this plot.

Chapter One: Gordon

The Joker card is a familiar, mocking sight on my desk—the other, the 9 of Spades, is something completely different.

I look at the files the Forensics team gave me—which don't really tell me much more about where the cards came from: no prints, no DNA, nothing, as always. I slump back in my chair, looking at the clock. It's midnight, and I'm sure Barbara and the kids aren't waiting up for me. They're used to this routine by now.

Instinctively, my eyes move to the pictures on my desk—Barbara, holding our newborn daughter and smiling as a tiny, reddish-pink hand reaches out to touch her flushed face. My family watching the 4th of July fireworks last year, our smiles a little strained. Little Jim learning to walk, his blond brows furrowed in concentration.

I adjust my glasses and turn away, back to the cards. Back to my job.

I run through the details in my head: the open trapdoor, smelling of flesh and blood, the cards on the water-slicked stage, the open roof, the bag of cell phones…and the invitation found behind the curtain.

Obviously, the handwriting is Joker's—purple pen, with red "HA HA HA"s all around the edges. It looks as though he glued several Joker cards together in order to make the invitation look just right. Even the wording is weirdly elegant.

"'Joker And His Associates Formally Invite You'…in Crime Alley, that's fitting…'to a show to die for'…"

I sigh and start pacing around the room, looking at my collection of newspaper clippings—"The Hunt For Batman Continues!", "The Joker Escaped From Arkham, Doctor Harleen Quinzel Found Dead In Office", "Alfred Pennyworth Caught In Mob Shootout—Was Bruce Wayne With Him?"—on and on the clippings go, like a film reel stuck in the projector.

I close my eyes and lean against the wall, my head beginning to pound.

Okay. First things first. Where is The Batman?

The Batman has remained out-of-sight for the past two years. I figured as much. I do find the occasional thugs bound to lampposts, and maybe a few "anonymous" tips through cell phones, but other than that…nothing. Not even a "Bat-Sighting" from a civilian. Not even a "come out, come out, wherever you are!" from The Joker.

Then Bruce Wayne vanished. A mangled corpse fitting his description (and wearing the clothes he was last seen in) was found floating in the river, half-eaten by crabs. DNA tests are ongoing. I'm going to guess there isn't a match.

Everything's out of proportion—the city drops Wayne's coffin like a chipped diamond, while the criminals wail for The Batman, who is nowhere to be found.

And now this happens.

I walk back over to my desk and slump down into my chair, looking over the cards for the umpteenth time.

Just as I begin reading the rest of the invitation, Detective Stephens walks into my office, a small confident smile on his face. That's a good sign—a welcome relief from too many days of frustrated glares and empty cells.

"Everything's quiet outside, sir. There's nothing going on anywhere. Got any theories as to why?"

I point to the invitation in my hand.

Stephens snorts and runs a hand through his graying hair (I'm no better off). "That damn clown. I hope we're ahead of him sometime soon."

"If we catch The Batman, we will be. It seems that you can't find one without the other." I open the drawer in my desk and place the evidence bags inside.

"There's been no sign of Joker's goons, either. Think he's up to something?"

"When is he not?" I adjust my glasses and stand up, heading for the door. "C'mon. Let's take the night off."

"Let me buy you a beer," Stephens says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and following me out the door. "It could do you some good. And let's not talk shop anymore tonight."

I nod and lock the office door, forcing the image the 9 of Spades lying in my desk drawer aside…for now.