Thank you to everyone who favourited, commented and watched this story, I really appreciate it! Comments (especially lengthy ones that show me all that you enjoyed) completely make my day! And I realise this story pursues a strange plot idea, but I hope you enjoy it because of that, and trust me; it's going to get weirder. Enjoy!

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Flutter – sound, temperature and fabric friction. Hard beats. Sweltering but fitfully cold. Rumble, screech and flashing lights on the ceiling. Beeps. Speech. Time's broken.

Joker did not know what exactly he had went through ever since the helicopter, but whatever it was, it made him feel awful. The tranquilizer had probably been the quantity to knock out a rhino, and that would explain the feverish shock. The beeping. Ah, ha, oopsie, we gave the clown an overdose. Protocol insists we save him – darn it. He must've lolled back into consciousness a few times, but his already shattered mind was now also filled with jagged, even smaller, pieces of memory for him to squint at and rifle through. As the effects of the drugs had taken hold in the helicopter he'd almost retched – or he might've retched anyway, he couldn't remember – the thumping of the blades, the force of the rhythmic beating of the air, had been warped. Had they put something illegal in the mixture? Because if any normal person had been in his position they would have screamed and soiled themselves in distress. If his focus hadn't been drowned and suffocated he might have shot suspicious glances at the officers around him, searching for a certain Jonathan Crane. The constant slap, almost like a throbbing bass, was all he could remember before he blacked out.

He had made a steady journey it seemed, through some sort of medical procedure. He could remember hushed tones and clinical beeping, the distinct smell of thoroughly clean surfaces and machinery. He must've been like some demon in there – getting his chaotic grime all over their stuff. A dirty, dusty, bleeding, twitching demon. He had been stripped, no doubt by abusive perverts, of his casual/formal/everyday attire, and cruelly replaced with a slightly off-colour white straightjacket; enhanced by a spiffy friction buckle. They had been respectful enough to also provide some seemingly non-tearing white pants also. But not even his socks.

At first his arms had been crushed to his chest almost brutally, causing a continuous ache to seize the muscles in cramps. After a lot of writhing and groaning, which escalated quickly into swearing and yelling, they loosened his arms a fraction. His quips bounced off the orderlies as they came and went, twisting his arms around in their captivity in hopes of wriggling them looser and looser. No chance with his spiffy little buckle.

His cell was just that; an equal quadrilateral cube. The walls were pale and padding was lined just under the surface of non-tearing….wallpapery materially stuff. A protrusion barely deserving of the name cot, much less bed, complete with wafer-thin pillow and a mattress without springs, stuck out from the left of his little room. A toilet behind a screen only a metre high (made of bullet-proof plastics, and rounded smoothly at all edges) was stationed in the corner.

He had explored all the pockmarks and nicks intricately within (what felt like) half an hour.

Boredom was a luxury he didn't have, and as soon as he could not entertain himself with raw curiosity, his mind clicked back into motion. Back to what had happened hours – maybe days – ago, on that godforsaken warehouse roof. Batman's severely uncharacteristic performance had shaken him right down to his funny bones.

The Joker. Was. Not. Crazy. Just….unorthodox. Breaking the mould. Thinking outside the box. But Batman's smirking, laughing and smiling, his thoughtless pleasantness and seemingly uncanny ability to figure Joker out was really starting to test this fact.

At first it seemed preposterous; Batman had been recognised by much of Gotham, including captured citizens and killed copycats, which were also broadcasted to thousands. They never did find that dead Batfake – the one he'd stored in the van of a celebratory service that you could send to people's work, home, all that. The driver looked elderly; maybe he had discovered it along the way to GCPD and had a heart attack. That poor guy. Little Brian Douglas had loads of publication though. Slamming his carcass against Major Garcia's office window was probably more direct than some delivery service that did a little jingle. Though the thought of a Batfake slumping like a sack of potatoes next to a few dancing deliverers among confetti onto Commissioner Gordon's threshold never ceased to ignite a chortle.

But if anything, the most catastrophic thing to happen to the Joker was for the Batman to tell him it was all in his head. Batman. And even he claimed not to be real!

Let's just say I'm a manifestation of your own doubts. Batman said himself that imaginary things could only be what the imaginer already knows. Was Joker beginning to doubt his sanity…? Of course not! His work was carefully premeditated, calculated and prepared with utmost precision! No sloppy nutjob could pull off what he had. Though getting caught was sloppy. Joker twitched hard at that betraying thought, taken aback by it. It was…true, getting caught was sloppy, but he'd been intercepted! Little Batman, claiming to be a figment of his imagination, bouncing in and quaking the ground beneath him…

Joker worked his mouth fast and agitatedly. Look what'd been done to him! This has to be a stickup, something to drive him bananas! Oooo clever Bats is being sneaky with his tactics. That had to be it, had to. But this hopeful thought did not encourage any laughter. Rather a bubbling loathing rose up like the river Styx boiling in his belly. Poke fun at the Joker, huh? Look how hard one little performance had shaken him – it was something to learn from – but it was too close for comfort. I'll explain later. What did that mean anyway?

Should any Arkham staff peer through the small viewing box on his reinforced celldoor they'd see the once smooth but jittery Joker in quite an escalating state. Rocking stiffly back and forth on the ground with his legs crossed, black eyes unendingly deep pools of obsidian as thoughts rushed and clashed behind them. Unending questions and doubts and contemplations. He'd twitch hard every so often, something writhing in his long sleeves, probably his almost constantly moving fingers. Occasionally his gaze would snap up and arrest whoever was unfortunate to meet his gaze, rendering them frozen for an instant before letting the metal slab slide back over the box and flee.

It took a very brave orderly to eventually enter the room with the standard-issued meals on wheels. He wheeled in the preheated, premade food, complete with a hard rubber spoon to eat it with. It was a very special and dangerous time indeed – Joker would have to be entrusted with his own hands. The very Joker who had been suspended in intense agitation, still burning holes in the flooring of his cell from his spot on the ground, mind whirring madly without rest. It'd been 3 hours, unbroken, since he was last conscious. He didn't even care to notice that even if he wanted to unleash upon this unfortunate Arkham employee he'd be quicky intercepted by the two burly guards stationed either side, just inside, of the door.

Joker still felt unstable, and was choking down screams and howls of rage at the man. Not because he was being nice, but because the urge was so strong he was concerned he'd never be able to stop, which wouldn't help his side on the sanity case. So he shut down each layer of himself until he reached his mind and his mind alone, and continued to fiddle with the complex Rubix cube that was the events that conspired against him and put him in this predicament.

He watched unseeingly as a dark, tall shape made its way through the slightly ajar doorway into the threshold of the cell, passing the orderly lying down the last of the pathetic meal before fleeing. Joker came to himself in a snap as he realised he recognised that big black shape, eyes flashing to the orderly – the stupid man hadn't glanced at the hulking vigilante once!

His situation hit him like an oversized hammer once again, overwhelming his seemingly unending clever mental capacity, causing him to stall. Black eyes flashed up and tried to drill into the Kevlar. This goddamn bat had skipped his way in without..!...without even the tiniest recognition! HE WAS REAL, DAMMIT!

Raves and declarations of the Batman's presence to draw in the orderlies and guards, to prove his existence, electrified the tip of his tongue with intent. To have the satisfaction of the shock on the faces of those incarcerating him, the trapped look to grace Batman's once cold eyes. Then everything would be back in motion, not in entire order, but back to how things were supposed to be.

But Joker decided, if anything, to gain his mantel in this exchange by being crafty. He had to try and calm the enormous need to justify his certainty, to leave that for a more tactile time. As much as he was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the violent surge of emotion coursing through him just from the controversial presence of his beloved Batman, he was also enraptured by curiosity. Deadly curiosity, perhaps.

Not only could he flex the limits of his control for his benefit for now, Joker had indeed had a lot of time to consider. To consider the events that had taken place, the repercussions and where it left him, and where it left the Batman. What exactly was Batman's motivation to this curious behaviour? Thoughts flashing a memory of Bat's proclamation of Joker's own inner doubts, perverting his initial thought trail into wondering if Batman had a sole motivation of his own mental making. Joker's black gaze never faltered, but his innards must've cringed. How could he be actually questioning himself?

But Joker knew how to appear unfazed; he was simply unfazed so much of the time. It required a little force, but his newfound taster of self-destructive chaos never flickered on the surface, despite the knowing glitter in the vigilantes eyes.

It finally occurred to him that they had been scrutinising each other for a few minutes now, and the silence was dragging out, almost appearing nervous. Frustratingly it was Batman who seemed comfortable enough to break the ice.

"Hope you like your room, I tried to get a welcome matt outside." Batman cracked with a goofy sneer. It almost seemed appropriate for a little jingle sound effect to a bad joke to suddenly come out of nowhere to punctuate it. And had it been any other situation, Joker would have babbled on about Batman's newfound humour, his delight at its discovery and to continually prod Batman into agitated silence about it. But he was struggling to get a certain thought in edgeways from the mess rushing furiously around in his head.

"Oh? What happen, they didn't want to alienate me from the rest of the, ah, patients?" Joker drawled smoothly, movements adopting a more fluid air. Honestly he didn't know how much more different he was being treated; was he the sole true 'nutcase' in here? Something to think about for another time. He flexed his crossed legs, working out the stiffness from his muscles. On second thought he stretched them straight out, curling his back in a stretch and wiggling his toes in satisfaction. Batman's sneer had adopted a softer look, almost empathetic. Joker fought not to thin his lips in anxiety; he got the feeling this was going to get worse.

"Something like that."

"So, why pay old me a visit, hmm? Surely you've got innocent citizens to flap off to save, or is everything really getting boring already?"

"Oh, my 'work' is on hold. You being incarcerated made me lose purpose. It's not like I can actually exist outside of Arkham now." Batman chuckled lightly.

"OH yeah," Joker exclaimed heatedly, caught in a barely contained spurt of frustration. "You're imaginary right? So, ah, gonna do some imaginary things, hmm?" A devious smile curled his lips as a thought fluttered into his mind. "If I daydream vividly enough, will you be naughty, Batman?"

Batman shuffled, Joker sure he had spotted the reflex of a swallow in the throat – but it was so hard to tell, what with all the layers of armour. Batman seemed to recover with a sigh.

"No….I came here to answer any questions you had," Seemingly to pick up comfortable ground, he smiled gently again. "No doubt you have them."

"More than you know," Joker growled with a sheepish, slightly sharp grin, edged with agitation. He rocked forward, inclining his head. "How will you be able to answer my questions, hmm, ImagiBat?" Referring to the running joke of his non-existence. Batman seemed to pick it up immediately.

"Oh it's really very simple," Batman began cheerfully, starting to subtly gesture with his hands. "Being utterly created by your own conscious and subconscious, I have, let's say, 'access' to pretty much everything. Deep down, somewhere in that fractured mind, you know the answers; you just don't want to admit it. Out loud, to yourself, to others, to me; it'd ruin the illusion. I'm just like a voice piece, really."

Somewhere at the very beginning of this brief explanation, Joker had furiously snapped 'nonsense!' in hopes of illustrating some normality into this bizarre situation. Now, he was leant back, away, face blank and creased with bafflement. None of it made relevant sense to reality, but the certain, confident way in which Batman had explained it had now totally thrown him. Batman noticed, gesturing a hand diplomatically – a gesture you'd give to the fragile. Joker could tell he was about to offer some question time.

"Stop bullshitting me," His tone had dropped, signifying he was tired of this particular game, and had resorted to being blatant, but tone lifting as his excitement suddenly grew. "How could you possibly be all in my head, you stupid bat! The whole of Gotham are buzzing about the masked, mean ol' vigilante by the alias of 'The Batman'. Do you watch the news? I sure do. It's depressing for most because of all the death, but it's basically an awards ceremony when your own work is up. So what about that, Bat? Need me to request some tapes of GCN to jog your memory of your own damn existence? Tell me, is this just an elaborate plan for you to shift your own, ah, issues onto me? Is it my fault, Batsy? Did I make you upset?"

Batman looked exasperated, smiling, as if the questioning was genuinely too much, too many to answer. Bizarrely Joker waited for him to start up with something along the lines of 'hold you're horses, there, cowboy!'. His high began to dip as his own enthusiasm hadn't ignited anything interesting, Batman descending into that pleasant calm that Joker was beginning to detest with every cell in his body. He was holding up his hands to ward of further questions. Bastard.

"Well, even if you did stand a chance getting tapes by request, you wouldn't get anything. There aren't any tapes with any mentioning of me, and there's no way police and the news corporation will waste their time on you. What makes you think I was ever mentioned on the news?" His tone was changing again; not entirely empathetic anymore, steely. "Look, it's an elaborate auditory and optical hallucination, created by your own deprived, psychotic mind. Who could've talked about me, other than you? Your henchclowns? Maybe you weaved them bedtimes stories about the Man in the Batsuit, and you had a little fanclub of lunatics for me, all of you babbling on about 'Batman, Batman, Batman'…"

Joker wasn't giving up. Batman couldn't make up excuses forever, there were a lot more flaws to this game.

"How about that little playtime we had down at the new Commissioner's prison? The, hehe, interrogation?"

"Hallucination. The Commissioner never mentioned me, remember? And I just appear in this high security holding cell and interrogation room? For all you know he was getting coffee. Or when your episode got noticed, no one wanted to interfere. And when that cop came inside, he was probably checking you wouldn't headbutt anymore of the screens."

"The fucking bat-signal!"

Batman paused, and Joker leant forward sharply in triumph. How are you gonna worm your way out of that one, Batsy boy?

A wry smile twitched onto Batman's lips. "Faulty equipment… and seeing what you wanted to see. Or maybe you made it by yourself, another part to solidify your little fantasy."

Joker was running out of excuses, he was running out of excuses, he was running out, out of Arkham, Arkham Asylum! He tugged bound hands and inclined his head, gesturing to the left side, to the 3 clean scars made by the gauntlets on Batman's arms, the ones whose wonderful bladed barbs just shot out.

"What about these, hmm? What about these little numbers?"

Batman simply shrugged, sniffing nonchalantly. "Self-inflicted. Just like the ones on your mouth."

There was a shocked silence. Then unchecked rage, disbelief and furious indignation rose up like surging, high-pressured magma from the deepest pits of his body, steadily escalating – taken aback and insulted.

"How dare you." Hissed through grinding, gritted yellow teeth.

But his deadly threatening, quaking demeanour went ignored, because Batman seemed to have lost interest. Like it was a lost cause. Like he was done for the day.

"You've got a lot to think about. A lot to digest. I'll be back soon to explain the rest." Batman added softly with what must've been intended to be a reassuring nod, before seeing himself out, closing the thick security door behind him. And then he was gone.

Joker's gaze flickered down, body tense but boneless from a sudden fatigue, his entire frame trembling from the mass of unchecked emotional uproar and mayhem brimming and spilling over, unable to express it in its intensity and magnitude.

His food lay forgotten and cold on the ground a few feet in front of him. The employee had even forgotten to undo his straightjacket to eat it in his haste to leave. Though his appetite had long since abandoned him.

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There are an estimated two more chapters to this story, and don't worry, all shall be explained in the last chapter. Please Read and Review!