AN: Again, sorry for the disappearance. In between working several ten hour shifts and preparing the house for a Fourth of July party, my writing time was pretty much gone and my writing energy completely sapped. I'll try not to disappear for a long stretch again, though I will be gone for a few days later in the month for a family reunion.

Thanks for the reviews!

Something was wrong with the Joker.

Anyone with eyes could see that. Normal people didn't paint themselves up like clowns. Normal people made it a point to bathe at least every few days. Normal people didn't wear the same suit day after day, and they didn't wear bright purple, though Ballard would admit that normal pimps might. And even in his line of work, normal people didn't go to the extremes that the Joker did. Before he'd met the clown, Ballard's skills had been utilized in armed robberies and drug shipments. Seemingly overnight, he was now involved in planting explosives and delivering video threats to local news stations. Anyone with a functioning brain stem could see that the clown was fucked up.

But tonight it went beyond that. There was something wrong with the Joker, something wrong even for the clown. It wasn't something that the average Gothamite would have perceived, even if they were seated as close to the Joker as Ballard was now. It took an understanding—Ballard wasn't suicidal enough to think that he truly understood the Joker, but living and working with the clown had given him a better insight than most—that anyone outside of the Joker's employee circle would lack, and wouldn't want to get close enough to gain in the first place. To them, the Joker was a homicidal lunatic, a real life boogeyman. And he was. But there was more to it than that, especially tonight.

The clown had been different the night they first met.

It was over a year ago now. Ballard couldn't remember the exact date anymore. If he'd known then what an impact this punk kid would have on his life, how much would have changed in a little over twelve months, he'd have made it a point to mark the day and time. Or to get the hell out of Gotham and never look back. Whenever it had been, it had been about a week or two before the water main in the Narrows had gone toxic and changed the place from merely a hellhole into straight-out hell.

He'd been alone that night, on his way to meet friends. People who lived in the few nice areas of Gotham would call walking alone in the Narrows suicide, particularly when the sun was down. And for them, it would be. For a lifelong resident of the slums, especially those who had chosen to make a living off their muscle, things were different. Ballard's mother worked in Animal Control—there was never of a shortage of abandoned or abused pets in this part of the city—and he'd always equated navigating the Narrows to her line of work. Most people didn't know how to handle a rabid dog; they'd have their throats torn out in a second if they tried to approach it. But someone who had spent time around rabid dogs and learned to watch for the signs of an impending attack could restrain one and walk away unscathed. Ballard knew the Narrows. He knew the most dangerous areas and the hotspots for gang warfare, and he kept to the places where he knew he could defend himself.

Still, even the most experienced dog handler could slip up and lose a few fingers. Where Animal Control had bites, the Narrows had bullets, so wherever Ballard travelled he carried a firearm of his own.

No one had tried to engage him that night. It was rare that someone did, and rarer still that the one out to start something wasn't drunk or wasted. Residents of the Narrows could tell by looking if someone was prepared for a fight and someone presenting himself competently, as Ballard did, was someone best left alone. No one had interacted with him in any way until the Joker had stepped out an alleyway, wiping the blood from his face.

He hadn't been the Joker then. It might have been what he went by—he didn't give Ballard his name, if it could be called that, until their second meeting—but he either hadn't adopted his style yet or he'd chosen to go without it for a night. He had been blond then, a dirty, curly blond so greasy that his hair probably would have stood on end if he ran a hand through it. He'd been pale from a lack of sunlight as opposed to face paint, with circles around his eyes from fatigue, not makeup. Even the purple trench coat was gone, swapped for a black leather duster a size or two overlarge. His nose was bleeding and he wiped at it with bruised knuckles, sniffing between pants.

Ballard's first thought had been addict. Just what the kid was addicted to, he had no idea—there were no shortage of drugs that could be snorted, especially not in the Narrows—but anyone staggering around like that had clearly taken a heavy hit, and anyone bleeding that profusely afterwards must have done a lot over a long time. Besides, drug deals were done in alleyways, away from the eyes of the infrequent cops. Drug use was done in bathrooms or houses. Indoors at the least. Only the homeless would risk being strung out on the streets, open to robbery or murder or everything else. For someone to snort in an alley, that person would either have to be desperate or just too stupid to live. This one appeared to be in his mid-twenties, so if he'd survived that long he was either he was confident—or cocky—enough in his ability to defend himself that he didn't fear leaving himself open, or he'd only recently started using.

The kid had caught him staring and broke into a wide, almost sheepish smile. There was blood over his stained teeth and the combination of colors made Ballard think of strawberry syrup over toffee ice cream. It had been one of his favorite desserts in his youth. He doubted he'd be able to make it through a bowl without turning his stomach now that he had this as a visual. "Hellooooooo."

He'd drawn the word out from two syllables to five. His voice was nasal and gruffer than Ballard would have expected from his youthful appearance. At the time, Ballard had chalked it up to congestion from drug use. He hadn't answered, waiting for the kid to giggle or become entranced by the streetlights or wander off like a typical addict. He hadn't, just grinned.

"Don't suppose you've got a handkerchief on your person?"

Street kids didn't talk that way. Hell, most street kids probably didn't know what a handkerchief was. That should have made him wary, in retrospect. In actuality, he was barely paying attention to the kid's words at that point because he'd become too distracted by the scars. Ballard had written them off as blood smears at first, or meth sores. Now that they were directly facing each other, they were obvious scars, massive, disfiguring ones. There were two slashed through his cheeks, one a smooth curve and the other jagged, and a smaller one through his lip that Ballard only noticed once the kid's tongue emerged between stained teeth and licked at it. The blood seemed to accentuate the scars instead of covering them up, filling in each crevice of the scar tissue and making them that much more vibrant. Ballard couldn't tear his eyes away from them despite the knowledge that engaging a bloodied, high street youth was asking for trouble. Scars that thick had to carry through to the other side. He'd known people who'd gone through massive injuries without succumbing to shock—Ballard had his fair share of wounds and then some—but he'd seen scarred torsos and extremities. Never that sort of damage to the face.

"Helloooooooooo?" The kid made it seven syllables this time. "The, uh, line I dialed not in service or something? Do you have a Kleenex, at least?"

He sounded alert, if he was trashed. Of course, a heavy drug user could take large hits without much outward reaction, but this kid didn't act as though he was under the influence of drugs. He was under the influence of something, Ballard was sure, but he was starting to doubt that something was a chemical substance. Ballard shook his head, finally looking away. The street was empty. He should cross it now. The stranger was shorter than him and much smaller, but a fight consisted of more than size. And if the kid was wasted, chances were he wouldn't feel any hits.

"More's the pity," the kid muttered, wiping at his nose again. His eyebrows slanted down and he grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging it out from under the duster to examine the blood splatter over the striped fabric. "I'd be hoping too much for a bleach pen, wouldn't I?"

Ballard nodded.

"What a waste of an evening." He released the shirt and straightened, sniffing again. He half-turned, staring at the street before him as though this was the first time he'd laid eyes on it, and took a step away before he paused, then moved to face Ballard. "You wouldn't be in need of, uh, employ by any chance, would ya?"

Ballard didn't respond.

"See, I'm looking for men of, um, ill repute and no offense, but you look like you'd fit the bill." The hand that wasn't pressed to his face was gesticulating wildly. "And I just had a couple of guys really disappoint me, so there's an opening. Limited time offer." He trailed off, hand disappearing into his duster and reemerging with a wallet on a chain. The kid flipped it open and pulled out a number of bills. "It pays well, if you're worried."

He was trashed. He had to be. No one would be stupid enough to wave money around like that unless they were either high or suicidal. Or crazy. The third option seemed more and more likely with every word out of the kid's mouth.

"No." Ballard nearly added "thank you" to avoid angering his bizarre new acquaintance but decided against it. He didn't need to prolong conversation with someone who was either dangerous or asking to die. You got away from mad dogs or you put them down. You didn't buy them a steak and scratch behind their ears while they ate it.

"Well, to each their own." The kid inexplicably giggled. Not laughed, not chuckled, giggled. Like a school girl. Only it was raspy while high-pitched, like nails clinking and scratching inside a rusted can, and something about it sent chills down Ballard's spine. "If you change your mind, come and find me." He started across the street—there was a definite and seemingly unintentional stagger to his walk—and halted in his tracks, turning again before Ballard could walk off. "You'll know me when you see me, trust me."

And then he was gone. Ballard had taken off, but not without a glance into the alleyway. Dark and empty save for a dumpster, assorted litter, and two dark shapes he'd taken for garbage bags. Then a car had passed, headlights briefly illuminating the space, and he saw the shapes for what they really were: bodies. Presumably the "couple of guys" that had so disappointed the street youth. His blood had run cold again.

Ballard had learned to trust his instincts long ago, and his instincts had told him to run. The kid had faded from his mind over the course of the evening and was little more than a passing wonder the next morning. Ballard had all but forgotten him until after the Narrows were poisoned, in the time before police efforts and vaccinations had rendered the place hospitable again. For well over a month everyone who had escaped the toxin had fled for their lives, stuck in overcrowded hotels and makeshift shelters, waiting for news as to whether or not their friends and family had survived. Even the gang warfare had gone on hold, making work scarce and money scarcer.

The Joker had found him in a bar. Ballard was there not to drink, but to watch. See if there was anyone who looked like they were shopping for his type of business. There had been a hand on his shoulder one morning, a hand in a purple glove. By that point, Ballard had heard of the clown. There were looters in the Narrows, risking their lives for whatever they could grab, and when they returned they told stories of a man in face paint who fought off the "toxin-zombies" without effort, who took down anybody who stood between him and his goals without breaking a sweat, and who was amassing his own small army for purposes unknown. Most had written it off as a fantasy inspired by the remnants of the toxin. Ballard himself had believed that there was some idiot running around in makeup who hadn't actually done the deeds they attributed to him. Some punk dressing up like a Rocky Horror reject didn't make a good story if he didn't accomplish anything.

Then he met the Joker, and that had changed.

"We meet again." The clown had grinned and taken the seat opposite him. How he'd made it through the bar unnoticed, Ballard had no idea in hell, but he hadn't focused on it at the time either. He'd recognized the kid's voice, not his face, and the realization that the man staring at him through the paint was the same one he'd seen in the alley weeks ago froze him in his place, able only to stare. The paint had made the angles of his face harsher, and it bled into the lines of his face, making him appear far older. Ballard wouldn't have believed it was the same person if not for the scars.

"Sorry, where are my manners?" the kid was muttering, flipping the chair around so that he could rest his arms on the back. "I'll buy you a drink. Or two, if you want. Hope I didn't disturb you last we met, you'll have to make allowances, I was a bit, uh, concussed, but I've healed completely, if you were worried, anyway you can order anything you want, don't worry about the cost, I just showed a very nice man with an armored car a, uh, few of my knives and he was perfectly willing to let me climb over his corpse to get his keys, so it's all good and just so you know, that limited time offer isn't a limited as I thought, so if you're in need of cash, I offer pretty flexible hours…"

He should have trusted his gut the second time around. But it was work or become destitute, and the clown was an up and coming force in the criminal politics of the Narrows. So he wears face paint, Ballard had tried to reassure himself. It was just a quirk. Big deal. He'd had inklings of just how damaged his employer was, inklings that he'd forced himself to subdue, but he hadn't realized how twisted the Joker was beneath the exterior until it was too late, and once Ballard was in, there was no getting out. Hence why he was here now, driving a madman in makeup across the city at ungodly hours of the morning.

"Who's left?" the Joker muttered. He didn't bother to look up as he sorted through the glove compartment, throwing everything that didn't interest him into the backseat.

Ballard made a mental checklist of the Joker's remaining thugs. The numbers were less than impressive. "Everyone you took to the Prewitt Building was either arrested or shot."

He expected the Joker to respond. Instead, the clown pulled a napkin from the glove compartment, and pulled the cap off of what Ballard took to be a pen before the Joker started scribbling, forming pale pink letters on the napkin. Lip-liner. It had been Amber's. Amber, who he'd never see again and who he'd be lucky if he even spoke to over the phone. He gritted his teeth, fighting an external display of anger. The Joker had demonstrated exactly what he thought of such displays when he'd tossed the joint out the window, and the Joker wasn't one for repeat warnings.

"And?"

"And—and a few of them went to the mob."

The Joker stopped writing.

"Kent, Tyson, Marshall, Darius, and Roberts," Ballard rattled off, fingers clenching around the steering wheel as his foot pushed down on the accelerator. His entire body tensed in reflex, unable to keep his eyes on the road for fear that the Joker would pull out a gun and put a few rounds in his head. "Everyone else is still with you. They—they didn't have any income while you were gone, and they were afraid—"

"Which. Mob." It was a demand, not a question.

He tried to swallow and ended up choking. "Maroni's."

The Joker kept the lip liner poised above the napkin. Ballard supposed he should be relieved that the clown hadn't gone trigger happy yet, but the fear of having a makeup pencil jammed into his throat or through his eye made it impossible for his heart rate to slow. His hands were sweating so badly he could barely grasp the steering wheel.

"Maroni's dead."

"His brother isn't."

The Joker mulled that over, chewing at his scars from the inside. He went back to writing, foot jiggling up and down as he did. Ballard glanced over at the dashboard once they reached a stop sign, the streetlight illuminating the Joker's text.

"Shit LiSt (shiT means kill)"

Below that was a list of names. Only first or last names, from Ballard's glimpse, and none of them thugs or Mafiosos that he knew of.

Something was definitely wrong with the clown.

Over time, Ballard had managed to translate the clown's moods. Jittery behavior and odd facial expressions had started to mean more than "crazy, or possibly stoned." The Joker's words sped up when he was excited. His smaller, twitchier smiles seemed to indicate genuine happiness. Too wide of a grin meant that he was either pissed or ecstatic—which were equally dangerous—and when his voice dropped to a lower register, it meant he was irretrievably, homicidally furious. Even his laughter had tones to indicate emotions. Like a babysitter walking on eggshells to avoid a tantrum from a toddler, Ballard had learned to interpret the signs and stay away from the clown when he was in a dangerous mood. It was how he'd lived this long.

But this...Ballard had never seen this before. The Joker was obviously angry, but it wasn't like anger at a henchman for fouling something up. It wasn't anger like a plan going wrong. The closest Ballard had to equate it to was the way the Joker reacted when someone threw out the dreaded "f" word—freak—or worse, "crazy." But even that wasn't accurate. There was moroseness to it as well. Ballard would call it sorrow if he thought the clown capable of such a thing. And to think Ballard had been naïve to hope that Arkham Asylum might make a difference.

He'd never really expected it to. There were some diseases that could be fixed and some that were terminal, and whatever madness contained within the clown showed no signs of ever letting go. Ballard doubted a good hospital would make a difference, let alone Arkham. If anyone was cured in Arkham, Ballard had never heard of it. That place didn't have release rates so much as it had a revolving door. Still, he'd prayed that there would be some difference. At the very least, he hoped it would contain the clown and give Ballard back a normal life.

But clearly, the hospital hadn't made him better.

"Take a right," the Joker said without looking up.

He cleared his throat, knowing it was suicide to ask but unable to stop himself. "Boss…are you okay?"

The Joker had the coat pulled back in a matter of seconds, his hand on one of the guns he must have collected in his escape. It was in a hostler at his hip and his hand rested on top of it, but he didn't draw it. Not yet. "Take a right."

Ballard did, and a left at the light after that. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, tongue bitten nearly to bleeding, but he didn't let a sound escape though he was almost sick with fear, even after he realized that the Joker was directing them into Maroni's district.

AN: I tend to associate characters' ages with the age of their actors. Heath Ledger was twenty-eight in TDK, and I imagine TDK takes place about a year after Batman Begins, so the Joker would be about twenty-seven in the flashback. For today's useless fact, the makeup so altered Heath Ledger's appearance that my mom estimated the Joker to be forty.