(Gotham - Present)
He jumped from the roof, swooping down into a tuck and roll, and then popped up next to the car. He clicked the remote, got inside and revved the engine, peeling down the alleyway. His jaw hurt from clenching it so hard, and he needed to thank Lucius once again for making a sturdy vehicle; he'd have broken the steering wheel of any other car.
He'd been too late, again. The boarded-up building had been full of left-over, busted-up crates, some empty ammo shells, and several dark stains of recently dried blood next to many more, much older, stains. His hunch had been right; the joker-mimic had used one of Joker's old hideouts, but they had at least a three day head start. He glanced to the seat next to him and tossed over two small jars that he'd been clenching in one fist, then punched the steering wheel. He ignored the tightness in his chest, and the beginnings of another pounding headache, and glared at the jars. White and black residue was smeared all over the inside of them, and glancing at his black glove, he shuddered when he noticed a smudge of white greasepaint. Whoever this was had gone as far as using Joker's makeup, and it made him sick.
It was almost dawn when he trudged upstairs, having spent the rest of the night confirming what he already knew: the empty shell casings were similar to those found in the recent joker-crimes, and the makeup was the same cheap greasepaint Joker used. He found no fingerprints on the casings or the makeup-jars, and he rubbed his eyes, frustrated but not surprised. Obviously they were dealing with somebody very familiar with the Joker's ways, and who was proving to be just as adept at hiding.
Bruce angrily rolled over on his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head, but sleep evaded him. His brain refused to relinquish memories from the past few months, as if they held the key to the current crime spree. He knew they didn't; he'd been over every single conversation he'd had with Harley, both as Batman and as Bruce, and came up empty in both cases. As Batman, he could only interrogate her about her time with Joker, and that revealed very little information. Joker hadn't shared his plans with her and instead seemed to seek her out as some kind of... vacation... some fun to be had in between his sick and twisted games. With Bruce, she'd been much more willing to talk about her time with Joker, but he learned more about Harley than gaining any insight into Joker, and that had introduced... complications.
At first, aside from getting information, his only concern had been her safety; although she'd never played an active role in Joker's reigns of terror, she would be a target for revenge, even inside the GPD. Hiding Harley in the penthouse kept her off the radar completely, and made it easier for him to keep an eye on her; he hadn't particular trusted her further than he could see her. Over time, though, he'd watched the isolation wear her down until she spent all her time hiding in the shadows or buried in her art projects. After one particularly disturbing image stood out, that of a colorful parrot laying dead in a gilded cage contrasted with a murder of crows over a harvest moon, he'd finally asked her about it and she described her work as 'art therapy'. As she deconstructed her life onto canvas, he could see she need human contact, and he only had one solution; as it turned out, Bruce Wayne served a very useful purpose for once.
He hadn't lied to her when he, as Batman, told her Bruce needed help recovering from all the destruction Joker had caused. It'd been two years since Rachel's death, and he couldn't honestly say it didn't weigh heavily on his mind every single day. Every person he saved could have been her; every person he lost was her all over again; two years of second guessing and blaming himself for not being there for Rachel when she needed him most had taken its toll. Of course, he couldn't explain any of that to Harley, but he could explain what Rachel meant to him, and how angry he still was at being cheated out of the life he'd wanted with her. He was positive if Harley could relate to one thing, it was being cheated out of the life she'd imagined for herself; he hadn't been wrong. After watching her for months, he wasn't surprised when she pushed him, as Bruce, into his own 'art therapy', but he had been surprised at how quickly she cut through everything superficial about Bruce Wayne. Sometimes he felt dangerously exposed, yet she hadn't gone deep enough to figure him out completely, and thankfully she never seemed to realize just how much she'd really figured out.
He suspected the same must be true of Joker; although he had a hard time believing a lot of what he'd learned from her about that monster. The hardest part for him to swallow was that Harley was still alive; she believed that buried deep inside that lunatic lay a man who was capable of not killing, of not destroying everything he touched, of rational thought. Joker had been extremely intelligent; a mastermind at exploiting weakness and chipping away at hope, but people were simply objects to him to be used as he saw fit, then tossed aside. Technically Joker had tossed Harley aside when he died, but then he'd left his signature cards in the rubble of the building she'd lived in, a clue, with a particular image of the Gotham skyline that took hours to track to the playground in the narrows, and another image that hadn't made any sense until he'd found Harley. The red and black Harlequin, in place of the jester on the card, had been the final piece of that puzzle, and although he couldn't fathom why, he was relieved he'd found someone alive, for once.
He dropped the pillow under his head and punched it into shape; then fell face first into it. Harley had to be the key to the clown-crimes... why else would she still be alive... but he couldn't find any connection no matter how hard he looked. If this Joker-mimic was planning on using her somehow, he had to find her first, and now that Harley was staying on the grounds of Wayne Manor, she was even harder to find than in the Penthouse. True, Bruce had taken her into the city a few times, but his reputation alone made it unlikely anyone would suspect a more permanent connection; not to mention, the newly constructed Wayne Manor was a veritable fortress. He and Lucius had done most of the security features themselves after the contractors had left the grounds; he'd tested the security himself and wound up on his own surveillance. He groaned into the pillow in frustration. Maybe he was trying too hard to make sense out of the chaos; maybe Harley wasn't supposed to be part of this at all; maybe Joker just thought it would be funny leave behind the one person who wouldn't condemn him completely. That still left him no further ahead at solving this mystery than he was before... some joke.
(Elsewhere in Gotham - Present)
The hunched figure stepped back into the shadows, watching the remnants of papers fluttering in the wake of screaming tires and a roaring engine. Some people just didn't appreciate subtlety; he grinned to himself and stepped into a doorway all but lost in the alleyway shadows. It was nice to see The Bat, especially an angry bat, and he had been angry; the rending of wood as it crashed against a wall upstairs was a dead giveaway. The Bat always made things so much more fun, it was a wonder more people didn't want to play! He shook his head and walked to his favorite empty window, turned his back on it, and sat against the wall underneath, staring out into the moonlit room. He stayed that way for hours.
Peeling, empty walls stared back at him, refusing to be colorful or interesting no matter which way he turned his head. Invisible signs hung from the ceiling that only he could see, holding secret messages only he understood. Silent music filtered through his ears, reminding him why the empty walls and invisible signs were so aggravating. They were boring! No jokes, no desecrated idealism, nothing new, just the same blank canvases of plaster and air, and he was sick of them. He had played Gotham like a fiddle for years, composed his own explosive symphony and listened to the horrified screams of applause, but now, after the applause died away, there was just anxious silence in the audience, waiting for the next movement, the finale… the joke.
Smirking, he considered his muse's brief stint at Bruce Wayne's side; what challenge could that cardboard cutout of a human be, other than the challenge of staying awake? He knew she'd happily decorate these walls and chase away all the tedium; he couldn't wait to see what she'd make, what games she'd invent, to memorialize coming back from the dead; he could think of a few if she needed any suggestions. A whole new masterful, musical arrangement warranted a whole new set of artistic commentaries, which worked out well since he'd blown up everything else she'd ever made; although technically she'd blown it up. He grinned. Really, he couldn't wait to spring the surprise on her; there was no way she wasn't bored to tears by now and that just wouldn't do at all.