Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing ever remotely affiliated with the rights of Batman. Yeehaw.

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Chapter 2. "Sit Down. Stand Up. (Snakes and Ladders)."

"We can wipe you out anytime (sit down, stand up).
We can wipe you out (sit down, stand up).
Anytime.
Anytime.

Stand up, sit down."

It is with no small amount of chagrin that, despite not being a morning person in the least, I awaken at six o'clock every day. When my alarm goes off it is nearly always still dark outside. Never pitch black, but just dark enough to be slightly disorienting. People have a lot of quirks and more than a few irrational fears of varying degrees. One of mine is sleeping through the entire day, of waking up during the twilight hours the next night and wondering just what the hell happened. Wondering where I am. I've tried to link this to a few things in order to explain it—and thusly come to terms with it—several times to little avail.

The first explanation would be that sleeping through the day would mean that I had not only missed classes, but that I'd also be late to work. Very late. And without working there is no way I could ever afford to keep going to school. I'm a year away from graduation. And even with the financial aid I receive on behalf of the federal government, I just barely get by. It's very by-the-skin-of-my-teeth. I live in a shitty studio apartment in a sketchy building across town to save costs on tuition and end up paying nearly the same amount regardless. And not going to classes means that my student aid gets dropped. Needless to say, I'm quite adamant about maintaining my schedule.

The second explanation would be that there is a distinct possibility that I'm anal retentive. I could very well have this hidden need to keep everything going strictly according to plan. It's got a bit of merit, I suppose. Missing out on my daily routine wouldn't just be a huge inconvenience, it would be a break in the mantra. And there wouldn't be much of a place for that under such rigid discipline.

The third, and final, explanation is that I'm fucking ridiculous. That everyone has some nonsense that throws them into an anxious fit. That it's a natural, albeit silly, expression of the subconscious in our everyday lives.

Whatever the reason, when I awaken two hours late at eight o'clock in the morning, with a grand total of thirty minutes until my first class begins, I flip. I curse, I throw off the blankets. I run into my cubicle-sized bathroom and I don't even have the time to let the water warm up. And after my heinously cold shower, I throw on the nearest clothes I can find, nondescript blue jeans, a tank top and a black sweater for good measure, and I run out the door. I have to run back inside for 

my backpack and my bicycle. That's how scatterbrained I am. We all have our routines, and interrupting them equates to little in the way of good.

So I'm sure you can only imagine just how hard it hits me when I finally get on campus at Gotham State University an exhausting twenty minutes later, with barely enough time to lock up my bike and get to class, and I look at the newspaper stands bolted in beside the bike racks. You see, it's been a good five or six days since my bogus afternoon shift at La Dolce Vita. At this stage in the game, I've written the entire day off as just another example of the series of misadventures my life has become since I moved to this godforsaken city. Water under the bridge, dust off my shoulder, etc. And I'd been in such a rush to get here, I rode my ass off. I'm covered in sweat. I almost got hit four or five times. I was utterly convinced that I would be able to make my Multicultural Psychology class. Now that I've seen the front page of The Gotham Times, however, it's obvious that I won't. That I can't.

I don't even think. I rummage some change out of my pocket and slip the obligatory fifty cents into the slot. I open the dispenser mechanically. My eyes never leave the front page. The words have yet to broach my mind; they're just blurred distractions surrounding the photograph at its center. Static on the proverbial airwaves.

It's him. The nut from the alley. The quality of the picture is grainy, a close-up shot of his face, but you can tell it's him. No one else looks like that, not even in Gotham. It looks almost as though it were taken with someone's camera phone or an out of date home video recording device. This does not detach from the impact of it. It only enhances the atmosphere. Frozen, the laugh on his face is nothing short of feral. Finally I glance down at the words below the photograph, my breath held still and fast in my lungs despite my winded state. "A man known only as the Joker terrorized downtown Gotham yesterday afternoon..." My eyes roam over the text. And oh, it's bad. It's really, really bad; the torture and death of a Batman impostor, his delivery to the Mayor's office and the video that showcased it all. The threat of continued violence should the real Batman fail to come forth. I just stand there, looking down at the paper in stunned disbelief.

My judge of character must be completely fucked. I cannot believe that I thought this man was fucking retarded.

I tear my eyes away from the Times for a moment, looking around me jerkily. There is a level of sudden exposure one feels when they read something like this in a public place. It's as though whatever anonymity I'd had mere seconds ago has been completely eclipsed by my sudden and horrified reaction. For a moment, I'm not quite certain what to do, save glance about me wildly. To visually secure a perimeter. I met this motherfucker. We chatted in the alley next to my job. I have a warped, muddy textbook—much obliged—because of this man. Oh, hindsight. Now I know that a hundred and twenty six dollars was a small price to pay. I could be like this guy, this Brian, mutilated, made-up and strung-up outside the windows of public servants and elected officials. Literally all dressed-up with nowhere to go ever again. I look around me for the umpteenth time. Sweet christ, I'm actually beginning to freak out next to the Human Sciences building.

There is absolutely no way I can attend a lecture and a class discussion like this. I need to get out of here, to take some time and calm myself before work tonight. A clear head is imperative, noting my clientele. Grabbing my bicycle again, I hop on and take off down the busy streets. I'm not really paying attention to where I'm going at this point; I ride as fast as I can, manically and without direction. The newspaper stuffed into my backpack weighs more than it should. I can't stop considering all of the horrible scenarios. This man, The Joker. He knows where I work. Good god, the fact that he even knows what I look like, the fact that we've even spoke appalls me.

After pedaling for a good twenty minutes longer I finally stop off somewhere in mid-town. My throat burns and my shirt sticks to me where my backpack presses against it. Breathing heavily, I chain my bike up to a parking meter and make my way into a nearby café. Tony was right; I should have just grabbed a cup of fucking coffee that day.

While I wait at the counter for my latte and bagel, my breathing begins to slow. I begin to relax. The atmosphere within the small shop is cozy and welcoming, over-stuffed chairs and warm, cheerful light. It's a little clichéd in the intellectual sense, though ultimately comforting. I make my way over to a small love seat and take a sip of my drink. There are a few things that I have to consider at the moment, panicking aside. Unlike his last—likely his latest, actually. There's no way that bastard is a rookie—victim, I have absolutely no reason whatsoever to be of any relevance to the Joker. None. I'm a waitress in an Italian restaurant. Not a single part of me factors into the grand scheme of things insofar as Gotham's hierarchy and vigilante heroes are concerned. In short, I'm a nobody. I am faceless.

Rationality having been momentarily restored, I take a bite of my bagel. It's moments like this that truly give perspective, where one sinks within oneself and is able to find some semblance of completion for a window of time. Unconsciously, I touch the corner of my mouth and my moment of peace unravels. I take a sip of my warm drink, hoping to soothe away the ball of tension that has knotted itself tightly within my stomach. The futility of the gesture alarms me.

I feel like a child terrified of their own closet. And, moreover, I am ashamed for feeling so. I am not seven years old. There is no monster lurking between neatly hung dresses and boxes of toys. Yet this notion of a restless disquiet, of dangerous forces outside my control brewing off in the distance, is comparable to that of a creeping ghoul waiting to snatch me up the moment I turn off my bedside lamp.

The real question is; how long can I stand it before I start screaming for my parents?

Inside the café I munch on my bagel. I sip my coffee. I stew and I wait. All the while, the newspaper coiled in my backpack peels back its lips and gnashes its teeth.

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A/N: A bit of a short chapter, I know. Their lengths will undoubtedly vary as the story goes on. Reviews and feedback are still much appreciated, and I will love you to pieces for them (therein lies the inscentive, one might hope).