Disclaimer: All the characters used in this fic belong to DC Comics and are based on the characters in The Dark Knight. I own absolutely nothing but the plot and my characters.

Chapter 3: String

A/N: They're coming more frequently, while I'm still on a roll.

Song: Van Nuys by Sixx AM


It was horrendously amusing to see his work so widely publicized. Every news station in Gotham was covering the murders that had come to be known as "Messages." Each victim had been bled, and the blood had been used to paint cryptic messages on the wall. Twisting things was his specialty, so why not use it to send a not-so-clear message? The idiot cops would be able to figure it all out once they had all the pieces.

It was child's play, really. Everyone expected that the final message would be something elaborate and meaningful. They thought about the clues in the same manner, because nothing could be simplistic yet ingenious. Who the hell did they think he was? The fucking Zodiac Killer? No, it was nothing so cryptic as that. The end result would be so simple, no one would anticipate it. Were it written out on a worksheet in a third grade classroom, the kids themselves would have been fighting over prizes after figuring it out.

Simple as that.

As exciting as sniping the shit out of Wayne would have been, he'd had a change of heart at the last minute. No gunning down the competition. That would really kill all the fun. And it hadn't even been Gotham General to begin with. The freaking idiots he had running around had foolishly given him the name of one hospital, while Wayne had been lingering with his "dear" sister at the Thomas Wayne Hospital.

Way to get close to daddy, Bruce.

Instead, he'd gone out on a bit of a spree, taking out mobsters and using them in his not-so-cryptic little game. And what fun that had been. Until he'd gotten back...

The only real killjoy to his genius, at the moment, was Harley's erratic attempt to dance to a record of 1920's Jazz. The droning of the horn, along with all the screaming from the next room, was driving Jack up a freaking wall. He had half a mind to shoot the record player from his perch on the couch, but the sound of the gunshot would only make more noise, so he decided to deal with it and leave well enough alone.

At the dreary rate things were going, he'd die in a cloud of cigarette smoke before the police gathered the next clue. It was so damn easy. Just write down the letters on the freaking wall. Two stupid letters. Was it really all that hard to do? Write down two little letters? The boredom, and Harley's dancing, was getting old. With a groan, Jack pushed off the couch and headed out, ignoring the woman's whiny questions.

He could easily go an hour or two without her hanging on his arm.

It would be easier on Harley and his nerves, which had been shot to hell with her incessant nagging the day before. Best to get away and continue playing his little game...

How simple it would be to find a brainless mobster, willing to sell drugs to a scarred man. Simpler yet would be killing the man who, quite obviously, wouldn't be able recognize him without the ghostly mask of paint. And yet, when the victim finally came to terms with who he really was, it would already too late. The ignorance of Gotham's mobs was astounding. Even Salvatore Maroni was running scared, rumored to have hidden himself out in the slums of Chicago.

It was strange, really. Nobody wanted to die in the wasteland that would soon replace Gotham, but they didn't want to do the simple things. It was often more fun for him when they screwed themselves over. He'd let them have their way. The people would die in the valley, and lose what hope they so desperately clung to now. With bright eyes they would fade out, encompassed by the reign of anarchy.

Gotham was nothing more than a puppet on his string.

6 - 7 - 6 - 7

He awoke in pain, surrounded by nurses and doctors, all wearing those oddly scented rubber gloves. Alec squinted into the bright lamp that hung over his head, allowing the doctors to clean his wounds. But physical torment was irrelevant. He wanted to know what had happened to Amy. Had she survived? Found her mother? Or had the Joker finished her off, as a gangster had done to Meghan?

Alec shuddered, his sister's face coming into his head. How old would she have been now? Eight? He barely remembered her birthday, let alone the sound of her sweet voice. For the life of him, he couldn't even remember what she'd been wearing the day she died. Their parents had already perished with Ra's, and he had been left alive to care for her. Having been so disoriented, he stared blankly at the doctor, who had asked for his name?

When he failed to respond, she had walked out of the room, returning with a dark-haired woman who stared at him with worry. Strangely, his mother had given him that same look the day before she'd died. Why? Was it pity, or just some motherly thing that he didn't get? The woman reached down, pulling up a bright-eyed little girl.

Amy...

"You're alive! Just like Rupert said you'd be!" she shouted, shoving her bear in his face. "Now, Rupert's gonna tell you a story."

The woman, whom Alec assumed to be Amy's mother, set the girl aside, ushering someone else into the room. In an instant, Alec recognized the man. The famous Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and the son of Thomas Wayne, whom the hospital had been named for. He remembered, vaguely, stumbling into the hospital and catching a glimpse of the man before passing out in a heap.

How embarrassing...

Despite the sudden comfort he felt with having such a well-known, and powerful, man in the room, Alec knew better than to trust anyone. Amy was the exception. An innocent little girl like her wouldn't have the capabilities to conjure up some wicked scheme. Her mother and Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, were a different story. For all he knew, the two of them could be in league with the mob, or even the Joker.

This time around, he would be taking no chances. As soon as night fell, he would be long gone.

6 - 7 - 6 - 7

A horrid three weeks had passed since the Joker's break-in at the Napier residence. When the report had finally come in, Jim Gordon hadn't been able to believe his eyes. According to the officers who had arrived on the scene, Bruce Wayne had been present at the site, stated to have been there in defense of Anna Sanders and her daughter, Amy. Things were finally starting to make a little more sense.

The only plausible reason Wayne could have had for putting himself between an innocent woman and the Joker was simple: Wayne was the Batman.

Although he couldn't guarantee such a thing with solid evidence, the links that tied the vigilante to the playboy prince were certainly growing stronger. Jim grimaced, recalling the night of the Joker's capture. What stood out in his mind, aside from that wicked leer, was the sight of the Dark Knight throwing the cackling clown about the room, demanding to know the locations of Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes.

It could easily be said that he would have done such a thing even if he weren't Wayne, but the ties were just too strong. It was a well-known rumor that, while Dawes and Dent had been a public couple, Bruce Wayne was overly ambitious in his ploy to win her back. And then there had been the fire at Wayne Enterprises, where Gordon's men had found a message spray-painted upon the back wall.

Although Gordon couldn't recall each letter of the cryptic message, he did remember one particular piece. The message had been written backwards and upside down, a deliberate attempt to confuse his men. But, after careful consideration, and a bit of a gut-feeling, Gordon had concluded that the Batman's identity had been hinted at. Or, at the very least, the Joker's own idea of who Gotham's vigilante was.

With Bruce Wayne as the man behind the mask, everything just made sense. Taking him out of the puzzle would send them back to square one.

Gordon stared intently at the wall as he sat behind his desk, ignoring the blaring of the phone. At the moment, solving the puzzle was far more important than what Detective Stephens had to say. If it turned out that Wayne was indeed the Dark Knight, Gordon was determined to keep that fact to himself. Best to allow the man the freedom of making himself public, rather than tear down his image based on a mere hunch.

"Commissioner," a man from the door said, holding up a photograph, "We've found another one."

Gordon sighed heavily, running his hands through his graying hair. Surely, the Joker had put several of those in there. He stood as the man crossed the room, accepting the paper with a horrid sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sure enough, it was another piece to the puzzle. The face of the man had been brutally carved up, far beyond recognition. And the only clue as to his "job" was the black tattoo on the back of his neck.

And, as per the usual, upon the wall, written in blood was yet another clue: WsIsLaLvCiOnMgEy.

What the hell kind of riddle was entailed with clues like "AnNoIoMnAeLi" and "WsIsLaLvCiOnMgEy?"

Gordon stared solemnly at the image in his hand, taking note of the grinning man off in the distance. The longer he stared at it, the more he began to wonder. Was that the Joker's face...? Gordon laughed lightly, clenching the photo in his hand as he headed out the door, handing the photo off to one of his men.

"Find that man," he said, circling the face with a Sharpie marker. "I want to know who he is, where he comes from, and anything else you can gather. Make it happen tonight!"


If anyone can figure out the clue, feel free. Just don't post it around. Please keep it to yourself.