Hey, I'm back! I also can say that I'm really loving all of the reviews for this. If I had more time I would discuss them even more, but unfortunately I'm racing the clock as it is to type this. So I'll save any discussion for next time.

Sorry this next installment is so short. I started a new class this week—that raises my total to 8 classes per day, or a 10 hour workday. Ouch. So this is of course going to be very brief, as all the time I had to type it was around 2 hours.

Unfortunately, you guys probably aren't going to hear from me again for a little over a week. This is because my parents are coming to visit me here in South Korea tomorrow. As a result, I will be unbelievably busy, as well as probably moving up to Seoul for vacation (man, I so need to de-stress). I'll try and see if I can post another installment of this story, even a small one, around Wednesday next week or so. We'll see. This project can probably be done in small chunks.

On to the story...

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TDKR: Rewritten

Part III

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Once he had a sizable number of goons, the Joker moved on to the next phase.

They were called "phases," not "steps," because steps implied a rigid gridlock. Gridlocks were plans. And plans were a problem. They created more problems than they solved. Plans, formulas from which there was no deviation, were like a captain ordering his soldiers to walk ever deeper into an impenetrable swamp, never to return. The real world was chaos; there was no use pretending otherwise by sticking to some plan.

The Joker had always been like a jester at court. Jesters used to come up with skits to amuse their kings, but that skit was never the whole picture. Instead, their true talents had lain in the ability to improvise, their skills never shining so brightly as when they went on their ultimate ad lib. Although they started their shows with a brief plan, they quickly allowed it to devolve into chaos, stirred by their audience's reactions—always ever sensitive to the King, who both employed them and who was ultimately their target in jest. After all, the jester's role was to say what should not and could not be said elsewhere; to give feedback through mocking, ridicule, and mime. In this way they, and they alone, mirrored the true nature of the King.

There was only one problem with this metaphor in Gotham, though. Gotham's King was missing.

The very thought of this made the Joker's empty chest ache, and he was liable to destroy something; small objects, pens, paper, and the like. Once, in a fit, he placed a bullet in his mouth and chewed it until his teeth began to protest soundly. Nobody was there to witness these things, since he had sent all of his goons away to start everything.

In a very non-rigid fashion, the Joker knew what to do. After all, he had done this before. The situation was different but his tactics—change, change, change—were not.

He had to start small and build up. Like arson. A fire from a tiny spark...

First on the list: Theft.

Moving from one job to the next, he successfully orchestrated a series of quick and easy snatches from the mob. They weren't anything big, at first. Just basic necessities. Guns, Ammo, Food, Water, Clothing. He did not have many men yet, so he made sure to keep the designs relatively safe. Later he would improvise and get rid of the more useless ones. As it was, this situation was unlike the last time, when he had a never-ending supply of dimwits ready to sign up, but he could make due. The Joker always made due.

Still, there were a few casualties, including one idiot who ended up shooting himself in the foot. The moron was unable to escape with the rest of them and needed to be put down before blabbing away all their potential secrets to the mob. Without being prompted, one of the other men shot him. The only other witness to this act, aside from the Joker himself, made no protest on the dead man's behalf, and merely nodded sagely.

The Joker found this situation hilarious. But he didn't laugh.

He hadn't laughed, truly laughed, since the escape from Arkham. That was when Bane had announced to the whole world what he had done to the Batman:

"I have broken the Bat!"

The men that the Joker had with him were stupid enough that, when he offered that they should take all of the money found at these jobs, they accepted with eagerness, and praised him as "the best boss ever" afterwards. He didn't bother telling them that it was only pieces of paper. They would figure it out eventually... if they were the ones to live long enough.

Ten heists in three weeks. The city was gradually devolving, decaying into so many piles of disrepair. With no city workers to clean the streets, trash and filth began to accumulate. The roads, especially, were quickly becoming hazardous. The Joker guessed that they were only a few weeks away from having a major fire—one that possibly would spread far and wide, without a fire department to halt it. He adjusted his mental timetable accordingly.

They moved up to larger thefts. Bigger. More and better guns. Larger stockpiles of food. The Joker's ranks began to swell, as men brought more of their friends in. As soon as he guestimated that he held over one-hundred lives in his hands, he began to weed them out. The stealing missions that they went on began to mysteriously "go wrong." Many did not return. None of those that did return seemed to notice that the Joker had held a sword of Damocles over their heads—nor did they understand the fact that he still held it, teasingly, between his slippery fingers.

By then, he had reached a critical mass. He didn't need to worry about thinning his herd of goons; he still took in more recruits than he did away with. These men were better. Stronger, more experienced. Most were previous asylum inmates; those that weren't, should have been. They followed him with the sheer single-mindedness of ancient pagans, singularly devoted to their painted god. The Joker still talked with them, made friendly chatter, played card games, outlined his latest strategies. In the corners of unused rooms, however, he began to torment them, if he ever caught them alone, and occasionally when he fell into a fit he would personally eliminate one or two where the others could not see.

He instructed all of them to chant and cheer Bane's name, like the rest of the city folk were now forced to do, whenever the masked man stalked by. But, with glee, he noticed how they did so with hollow eyes, even though their chants were no less fervent. The insane had no room for anyone but him—they were his own devotees, and even Bane with all his charisma stood no chance.

He never revealed himself to Bane. He did not go out in daytime any more.

By coincidence, he supposed, neither did the woman.

It was during the night, on the first day of the month, when he was conducting his latest heist, that he met her again. He was observing the whole parade from a nearby rooftop. This was a standard procedure: one of his men would run out in front of a truck making a supply drop from one mobster to the next, a peace offering sent as a part of the deals the mob leaders were making to prepare for war against Bane. The truck would make a glancing blow, which, although not harming the Joker's henchman, would seem to the people driving to be a serious accident.

Occasionally, the men driving the truck would stop and see if the hit man was okay. The Joker found this hilarious; the looks on their faces, as they were cut into pieces, was priceless.

More often, the men just kept driving. When this happened, the Joker noticed, his other henchmen were likely to be even more brutal than otherwise. A small irony that they, too, continued to subconsciously cling to the standard ideas of morality.

In any case, distracted by what they had "done" to the hit man, the men driving would not see the other truck as it rammed into the driver's side, emerging quickly from a side street. Sometimes, they were killed outright; other times, they were killed by the Joker's men, who lay in hiding with everything from pistols to baseball bats.

The rest of the heist would always go smoothly, unless the Joker had a few targets amongst his own men. The goods were loaded up into a

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Author's Note

Let me know what you think about what has happened so far!

Also, if people want, I'd like to hear opinions on how you would have done the rewrite yourself. What do you want to see in this story? Give me your suggestions and I'll see what I can do. :)

alice chess