you should be careful with the things you say in dark alleys

the walls have eyes and ears

didn't you know that?

[ A ]

Alistair wasn't sure how it was that he hadn't figured out, in the space of four years, where he knew The Joker from; but Alistair's memory had never been a sure fire thing, so he couldn't say he was too appalled by himself. His mind's behaviours was not a thing he concerned himself with.

Such power he held now that he was the only person in Gotham to know The Joker's real name.

Besides the clown himself, and possibly Harley Quinn, of course. Alistair sighed, dragging his hand first down his cheek, and then violently rubbing the palm up over the rest of his face. He ignored the light, uncomfortable burning sensation his own stubble had left on his hand. It was odd to even think, but the tattoo he'd had done on the skin mapping the back of his hand had hurt less than the sensation of the stubble scratching across his palm. It registered very distantly. Alistair was still staring at the news. The screen had frozen, The Joker's deliberately alarming visage had paused in an angle that was so frustratingly familiar to Alistair that at first he thought he'd gone mad. Well, madder. It couldn't be said Alistair had ever been all there.

Now he knew why.

Huh.

Alistair's memory had been so here and there after the most recent almost fatal incident that he'd all but completely forgotten everyone who'd ever fostered or adopted him. He could never forget him, though.

A man couldn't forget his own twin.

It was weird to put The Clown Prince Of Crime into a familial context - especially in relation to himself - but the more Alistair stared at the frozen screen, the jittery picture made more and more sense to him. With longer, brown hair and actual eyebrows - with skin the same shade and without the makeup and the tattoos... well, there would be no denying that The Joker looked just like him. It was uncanny, once he had the picture in his mind. The similarities began to list themselves off inside his mind as he paced about the room, taking long strides to cross from one side of the vast, expensive space to the other. His feet touched upon his silky, fur rug, and the tips of his fingers brushed past a gold and velveteen lamp. His apartment was filled with these bizarre, hybrid luxuries. He supposed that the winning factor concerning a likeness between himself and the man he was 98% certain to be his twin brother, was the fact that they were both crime... kings. Top of the chain. They shared a keen taste in exquisite, crazy things - and that was also how they both liked their women. Both were certifiably... disturbed, to say the least, and...

The TV unfroze all by itself, flickering back to life with a burst of disrupted sound that would have caused Alistair to jump were he not a man so accustomed to being on his guard all the time. He swiveled slowly to face the screen again, hands tucked resolutely into his pockets. The footage of his brother should have caused him concern - he thrashed about and bucked and rocketed about - the guards barely managing to keep him within their grasp. Alistair cocked his head dumbly at the screen. He didn't feel anything... particular about it at all. He simply was. His brother was. They existed. As twins, they had shared a womb, they had been born within the same hour - and had even been raised together for a short while. The memories of the abuse and the rest of it were all so blurry and inconsequential to him now. They were so loud and unwanted. He didn't want them. Alistair had done his best to block them out, just like he had with the majority of everything else. His twin had never done anything to wrong him beyond pushing him over a few times when they were younger, so Alistair had allowed remnants of him to remain within his head. He'd cared for his brother. He remembered that much.

Alistair tried to let the thoughts go and go back to work with all the paperwork he had yet to do, concerning various transactions and legal... loopholes, but... he couldn't. The Joker's face plagued him and prevented him from sleeping for so long that night that eventually he sat up, like a shot fired right from a gun, and said aloud:

"It was the system."

The system had separated them. Raised together until they were old enough to hit back at their father when he lost his temper with them or their useless mother, and torn apart when social services came swooping in to 'rescue' them from their hell-home. The day the agency had come to take them away had been the first time their mother had attempted to fight for them - but it was too late and Alistair had already grown too disdainful to care. At first, they'd been placed in homes together, the adoption/fostering agency held the initiative that twins should never be separated.

That was until twins like them came along and shook things up. In Alistair's eyes, they hadn't even done anything bad enough to warrant the reaction. The birds they'd spent hours dissecting hadn't been spectacles of horror. Alistair and J had simply brought excitement to the table; and it was not their fault the family fostering them failed to see it the same way.

Three more occasions where their being together caused incidents so damaging the both of them nearly got sent to juvy, and the agency dropped their initiative like a nasty sack of shit, and placed them in different homes. Things changed. Alistair refused to talk. He remained mute until the age of 17, when he calmly informed the family across the road that he was suing them for damage done to his car while parked in the driveway. He did, too. Alistair kept to himself and didn't bother with personal or familial relationships. He focused, instead, on honing his skills. He trained himself to fight, speak eight different languages, to drive, to manipulate, to be good with money...

What appeared to his adoptive parents as their son taking the initiative to apply his talent to a vast array of skills, was really just Alistair grooming himself for a life of crime. He had plans, he had drive, he had motivation, and most of all... he was damaged enough.

He didn't have a surname. He'd dropped it a while ago, along with all and any ties to his adoptive family. They were unimportant now that he didn't depend on them for finance and shelter and food.

Alistair was just Alistair, and he liked it that way - preferred it that way. In fact, he wanted to be less than that, whilst also being more. The Joker had achieved that. The Joker was the better twin.

He felt an unexpected, prickling surge of jealousy rear it's ugly head, and he cracked at his neck, grimacing as he protruded his jaw, jerking it away from his neck like he was a rabid hyena with a chain around it's neck. He'd seen his brother do the same. It wasn't something he copied - it was just another thing they shared.

Sharing. His memory didn't serve him well enough to tell him if his brother had ever been very good at it. Alistair really had to stop with all the head based injuries.

Unable to sleep for the rest of the night (which was dwindling in the daylight hours) - Alistair went for a drive. The term was a loose one as really he was just accelerating in various directions - no goal in mind. He needed a kick. He needed something to get his adrenaline going. He drove for another hour or so until something finally caught his attention. A blazing ball of flame engulfed the shop that used to be Henning's gun emporium.

Emporium. Alistair hated that word. It was so pretentious and condescending. He hated it.

His hatred of the word was what spurred him on to pull up alongside the inferno and jump out of his car, heading straight for the burning emporium. He took no notice of Vicki Vale or her camera crew. She ran up to him, obviously under the impression that he was on his way to save something from the flames and become Gotham's next hero.

She was sorely mistaken.

A camera was being shoved into his side, and when he turned on instinct to look at it - it was promptly shoved into his face as well. With an aggravated sigh, he carried on and finally lost them when he got close enough to the building to feel the heat on his skin so harshly that it felt like he was already burning. Alistair shrugged off his expensive new trench coat and brought the hood up from his hoodie to cover his head. Here goes anarchy.

He darted inside the building, nimble and fast enough to duck and weave through the collapsing structure around him. There was the sound of someone softly sobbing somewhere further into the building, but the only thing to wash over Alistair was more apathy. Quickly, he zeroed in on what he was looking for and finally grinned at the blessed sight of the untouched cash register. It was clear the owner had been trying to grab all of the money out of it when he realised the building was on fire, but the amount of money still left in the thing indicated her didn't get very far with that endeavour. Alistair sidled over, and promptly realised he didn't have anything to carry his just rewards in. He growled and kicked at a broken off part of the counter, sending it into the flames with the rest of the building. The smoke was starting to get to him now, and he didn't have too long before human need for oxygen and an atmosphere that wasn't burning would trump sheer determination and recklessness. A brief yet thorough examination of the area around him brought him nothing but the sniveling form of the shop owner. With a disdainful groan, Alistair kicked at the man - he'd clung onto Alistair's leg, begging him to save him. You've got the wrong kind of guy, pal. The kick he'd delivered had been strong enough to detach him and send him sprawling a short distance away - alarmingly close to the flames. Alistair cursed and rushed forward to save him, hoisting him up. He started to ramble aggressively, undressing the man.

"What are you-"

"Could you just shut up for one second?"

"Save me! Please! There's enough time-"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Alistair roared in his face and once he'd gotten the guy's shirt off of him, he gave him one, almighty shove straight into the fire that was licking at their heels.

And still, he felt nothing. Only apathy tinged with slight irritation. He'd only been so concerned with saving the shirt. The man inside it had been weak and annoying.

Muttering to himself about modern incompetence, he shook the shirt out and tied it up at the ends until it was suitable enough to carry his money in. The money was his by right. He'd risked his highly valuable life to get it and so he deserved it. Any murders or damages against the law he'd carried out while out on the town this morning were not things he should be held accountable for. It was his crooked twin brother's fault he was out at this time. It was his fault. He made sure to grab a gun on the way out.

Alistair had to deal with Vicki Vale and her crew again once outside. He glared at them from the point they didn't dare to cross and put his money down long enough to put his expensive black trench coat back on and pull his hood down, and then made the long, treacherous walk back to his car. Just as expected, they swarmed him, asking him questions and smothering him with the praise he didn't desire nor deserve. He'd switched himself off into his usual state of distant apathy until one of the cameramen stepped on his foot. Without hesitation, Alistair brought the gun out of his pocket and shot the man right between the eyes. That got them to shut up.

There was a stunned silence, and then suddenly there were screams and more questions. Alistair stood motionless, and then slowly he turned to address the mess around him. One by one he shot the rest of the crew, until only Vicki was left - and he had to give the woman credit - she was dedicated to her job. Even covered in her co-workers' blood and with no cameras except for the one she'd hoisted up on her shoulder to capture the bloodbath, she shoved her microphone in his face and asked the burning question:

"Who are you?"

Alistair let slip a smirk, strolling ever closer. Finally, her self preservation kicked in and she stumbled back a little, still holding the camera and microphone. Alistair closed the gap and pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple. She whimpered and shook where she stood but held herself strong in her position with all her equipment.

"Why don't you mind your own business, just this once?" Alistair snarled and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

Vicki Vale spun with the force of the blow that killed her, and fell with the least amount of grace Alistair reckoned he'd ever seen. He cocked his head at the camera, stepping over Vicki's finally silent body, and picked it up. He frowned at it, attention averting to the still blinking red light which meant it was broadcasting. For a brief, chilling moment, he stared straight down the lens and bared his soul to it.

Then he let it fall and destroyed it.

Author's note: So I had the idea for this in a dream the other night and I know I still have other stories going that I've barely just started but I had to start this one. It's stuck with me and I can't ignore it. This chapter is meant to serve mainly as an introductory one. It's short and not so sweet but hopefully it gives you a good idea of Alistair's character. Yes, Alistair is also my name. That's just the name my mind gave him in the dream and he has to have this name for reasons that will be revealed to you later on. Stay tuned as we'll meet The Joker in the next chapter and we might even have some Harley Quinn!