AN#10:So what has ol' Kay been doing for nearly a week and something days while you guys haven't gotten an update? You're about to find out.

I know this is long, but I PROMISE you it's an important part, and essential plot mover that will reveal and start to bring together different elements of the story that I am certain all of you will be very pleased with, and, if not in the least, interested in. It even has Riddely, Mistah J himself, our darhlin' Harleen, and...a special surprise. My person FAVOURITE hero of all time. And he's DC Universe, so please no flames. He has a purpose, but I promise, for anyone that does *not* know him, or understand him, please know that he will not be here for long to keep confusing my lovely readers.

"Do you know it takes an inch of water to drown a grown man, Miss Quinzel?"

Harleen paused, mouth open. No sound. Try again.

"No. No, I wasn't aware of that, Edward."

"Really? I think about that a lot."

Alarmed. "Killing yourself?"

"Hurm." The gruff sound curled off the wet, slick sewer walls under Arkham Asylum. It warped and wrapped itself up around and into the pipes; following the thick, fluid rush of water as it made its way up into the necks of every sink had been protocolly installed in every inmates' cell. It resonated off the grim, gritty bell of a mental drain that sat inside the bowl of the paling, moldy sink.

"Hhhhhhh."The echo slid nearly silently from the sink in the corner.

The Joker sat up in his cot. Well, as best he could, anyhow. He was in a straight-jacket, and that made quick, sudden moments a little awkward. Not that he didn't mind being awkward. But he had heard something. He was almost positive he did. And it came from his sink. He arched his head to take a glance, only to lose his balance and fall backwards, startling his numb spinal nerves into a frenzy of pain when he clacked against the cot's cell wall.

His eyes were forced to look at the rotting ceiling as he attempted to wiggle from side to side to reach an erect position. He was curious now—here he was, playing with his toes, imagining them to be toppling buildings that burned with each clench of a muscle that melted into ashes as he curled his way towards his pinky—supreme ruler of Athlete's Foottropolsis and Buniontham City.

And what was it now? He was sure that he was force fed his four morning pills about an hour ago, which usually made physical sounds much more potent and loud—so he couldn't just be thinking these sounds! Not hallucinating them! At least…not yet. OH no. This was different. No, no, nah, no. He summed up. This was a surprise.

He giggled.

"Kill…killing myself? Honestly, Miss Quinzel—you doctors are so neurotic. Get a hold of yourself. Kill myself, please. No—never. Not once in my…well. Regardless, I don't think about it as a means of suicide, Doctor. Just, how stupid the whole concept is. That an inch of water poses a threat to our mere existence. How could that be? Who discovered that? I ponder it frequently."

"You are…upset by the lack of dignity in that death? The physical indignity?"

"Physical indignity, Miss Quinzel. You catch on, perhaps."

"Perhaps, Edward?"

"But you're still missing the point of it all."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Can you swim, Miss Quinzel? I never understood how someone could drown. Shouldn't we have an instinct to do so? Swim, I mean? But yet people are crushed by nature—if not by a wave, or a tsunami, or just…falling off a boat. But yet people freak out, and slander around like mindless ducklings until they are sucked down into the gullet of the ocean's water-moccasin like jaws. It should be natural to curl your legs; to kick, and reach, and pull the water back and force nature to keep you alive as your struggle to keep your head above the water."

"Is…this a metaphor for something, Edward? Is everything all right?"

A loud rumbling seemed to shake Joker's floor now—and his brilliant green eyes widened at the spark and pops of metal flying off of the circlets along the pipes—someone was…breaking through the sewer system? Joker couldn't help but crinkle his nose at his soon to be arriving guest.

"There's a cell door, ya know." He added to the air, eyes still on the ceiling. "I mean, I prefer any way but the appropriate way but…"

A pipe ripped inwardly, easily cracking through the fragile, desecrating brinks that made up Joker's back wall. It was just near where the edge of the side met with the grind of meshed pipe that lead back into the bricks. More snaps—bricks giving way.

Whatever it was, it sure sounded…fun.

"Croc?" He tested.

A loud pound answered, and Joker twisted his legs so that the pads of his feet met with the cool, thick tiles under him. "Look, I'd love to help you, pal, I really would—but uh, I'm a little tied up."

He gave a shrug as if the intruder was already right in front of him, and flexed his toes. The ramming of something solid and powerful made the final push—Joker glanced at the camera and, mugging for a guard with smirk, glanced at the door—curious to where his continuous entertainment of Phil and Rick had gone for the day. When he realized that no one was coming he titled his head, and squinted as the figure's shoulder rammed its way into his cell.

Joker nearly choked at the shadowy figure that had pushed through the pipes before him.

"Batman?!"

"You are referring to my cryptic little games that I play with the Gothamites? Why would I do that to my own doctor? This is only, after all, our second session together."

"I understand. But you also have a keen ear for following interesting links to the happenings around Arkham. Have you been spying on my other sessions, Edward? Is your approach to conversation a test for me? Because I'm willing to take it. You have a fascinating view on conversation and the human brain."

Edward leaned forward in his chair, the clinking of ankle cuffs pulling against his movement.

"Well that's all very good, Doctor, but do tell me then: why do you look so nervous?"

The figure stood, and looked around carefully before stepping out from the gash in the wall, confused by the look of happiness that was beaming from the prisoner's face across from him. That usually was far from the expression he got when he entered a room. He swallowed harshly, keeping his expression stoic, though he wanted to gag from stalking the sewer lining for so long. But it was a different town, and that required a different method of approach—after all, he'd never been called to stop such a famous criminal that was currently incarcerated. But the note was well written—logical, and seemingly desperate. And the man couldn't just let that slip out of his fingers. He couldn't just say no.And perhaps… it was this strong will that had been bestowed into the man's sense of right and wrong that force him to hop train after train, claw the gargoyles and purchase subway maps. Slowing walking towards an uncompromising ideal that set this whole event into production…all by following a well written plea. A tip off from an inside source that had documented proof of further destruction to a city that was spiraling into its own Gothic death-rattle, as far as the man could tell from just days of traveling in it. So very much like his own city. No. This was something he couldn't ignore.

So he came to end what the local mask apparently didn't have the gall to do. And he'd do it fast, and get out.

Joker blinked at him, his smile wavering between disappointment and genuine intrigue. Who was this? He titled his head slowly, cracking his neck in the process. The small sound rippled the silence between them. From a horizontal angel, Joker tried his best to put a name to a face. But that was the whole problem—he could see the man's face! The man had one arm curled around what seemed to be a white piece of fabric that was being pressed hard along the lower part of his jaw. He sighed; With Bats he'd never have this problem.

"Ah…" Joker pouted. "No. No you're not Bat-brain."

Joker watched as the man's knotty fingers pushed hard into the fabric, and some noise—something that seemed almost like a growl ripped from the man's throat. Joker slowly made eyes at him, taking his sweet time in sweeping over the man's face. Red, dirty hair. Ugly as Croc's- mall-bone-structure. Prominent cheek bones. Freckles. Ffffsttt—Joker swallowed an urgent rupture of laughter that wanted to hiss from his throat. He'd never expected his intruder to come with freckles.

"Yeah. You're differently not Batman. Well, I can't say I didn't try to imagine that you were. But when you stare at someone's romantically chiseled jaw-line for as many years as I have, you begin to imagine. Ya see, Bats knows how to make an entrance. And knows to keep his mask on." Joker fixed his head back into a normal talking position. "Now, I know you're somebody!" He lifted his leg up, and used his toes to point at the man like someone would do with their pointer-fingers. "But without a mask to a name, I just can't tell you who you are."

"Doesn't matter who I am. Here for one thing. You." The red-head's voice was gravelly, with a low rasp like someone shaking a bag of sharp pebbles, or trying to sandpaper one down to a smooth surface.

Joker's green eyes narrowed, and he tugged his smile to the side of his lips cheekily. "But we've only just met! Why, what would the other inmates think? You can't just barge into my cell and put your hands all over me willy-nilly-like, tough guy! If you're not going to buy me a drink, you at least have to tell me your name first, mister."

The man's icy blue eyes flashed dangerously, his posture locking at Joker's words. Joker, of course, took note of this. Hmm, not one for sweet talk, eh? Maybe you will be fun. Maybe you have some buttons that need some pushing hidden in that stingy boring trench coat of yours. Just like Bats! Joker pushed back onto the cot, and used his legs to turn his body so that he stared at the tow-headed figure from an upside down view. He then chuckled as he said:

"So what'll it be…handsome?"

"I'm not nervous in the least Edward. I'm just curious to what it is you're thinking."

"I'm thinking about the underground system of water the runs through the ancient caverns here on the Isle. It flows out into Gotham's shipping bay, and through the monstrosity herself. Do you know that 58 percent of the bottle water used in Gotham is from that very harbor? Though, considering how much Falcone Mafia business runs into the supply, you'd think someone would wise up. But even then, it's not the water's fault. We still drink it. And for 30 seconds on the dot of every five minute interval, that disgustingly filthy water gets sprayed into every open mouth of the denigrates living here."

"Would you like your water supply to be brought in from Metropolis then? I hear there's very clean water there. Would that help?" Regardless of the patient's ridiculous attempt for attention by complaining about the water, it's the least I could offer, Harleen commented to herself.

"Miss Quinzel, you are falling behind. Perhaps I should make my diction a bit more direct for you. Shall I?"

"It is you who is talking about different water ideals, Edward. But certainly. Illuminate me. I'm sensing this is much, much more than water we're talking about here."

An exasperating sigh. "Then I shall return to basic symbolic elementary level English 1 for you. Recall our previous session. We talked of painting, of art, and literature."

"Yes, of course. And you mentioned Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens, I do remember."

"Not that I actually fathom the idea of you paying so close attention—epically in your less than attributing secondary schooling, but I'll take a guess that you have no idea what many symbolic motifs that these author correlate between one another?"

"I'm assuming it has something to do with water."

"Superficial. Think harder, Miss Quinzel. Think about water. About the Gotham bay. About its…contamination."

"Contamination? Wait. Hold on. Allow me to answer your first question to me. Water. I easily recall that in Literature it symbolizes rebirth, life, positivity, good health and, religiously, baptism."

"Oh very good," Edward commented, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Now relate to me why both Twain and Dickens used water in their stories."

"I…I'm afraid I don't know, Edward, I never—"

"That's right," Edward cut in with a tight, sharp smile. "You don't know. But that's okay. Admitting it is the first step. Allow me to help you. You don't have to be afraid of what you don't know. Just understand that I have everything under perfect control."

Pause. The man lowered the fabric from his face protectively—fabric Joker now recognized to be a mask. The figure took another careful step into the room, his shoulders hunched in as if he expected Joker to leap at him any second from his confines. He quickly unfurled his mask, and ducked his head as it pulled it on. Joker started from his position, startled, his head reeling from the image of the mask. He slumped to one side. A cracking of knuckles echoed off the walls. Joker flatted his face into his cot to suppress his giggles, his shoulders' heaving.

"Think I'm going to buy you that drink… heh,"

"I'm gonna need one to get over the ridiculousness of your mask, buddy! You're nearly as bad as—"

Joker's sentence was abruptly cut off. A wild motion of a hard, solid force seemed to rush him from the figure's direction—first knocking the wind out of him, and then it continued with something that felt strangely familiar as powerful fingers locked into his hair. Joker's eyes went wide with accelerated dilatation, and a sudden reflex to reach up over-came him. Joker's slender fingers caught a hold of his attacker's arm—the action seeming to surprise the man, as a low, dark sound hung above his head—and a violent twist heaved Joker off his cot, and, to Joker's fleeting glee, out of his straight jacket. Before he smashed onto the floor, however, an opposing knee rose up and into his jaw as he fell—the sour, brutal force of his teeth cutting into his own tongue filled his mouth with a raging gush of blood. A second kick to his side seemed to expertly crack a floating rib as Joker rolled again and again, before finally he threw his hands out, palms spread, to a spinning stop. He opened his mouth to laugh—but to his alarm, all that flowed out was bits of skin and blood that drenched the floor.

Coughing. A wrenching sound. A spattering of blood along the tiles that rolled into every square flooring crease like canal for the river Styx." — Batman's." He finished, casually wiping his mouth with the pale, white of his long arm. He glanced along his skin and observed the detail of his smeared blood with delight before returning his thoughts towards the threat of the situation.

Joker narrowed his eyes as he contemplated the smooth, acute punches that had been launched into him, bringing up a sore hand to feel along his body. It was almost as if this guy knew just where to hit—where —even to Joker's complete lack of attention and disregard—pain was still aching, still showing signs of healing from yesterday's previous encounter with Dork Knight himself.

He didn't have time to contemplate this for long. A shadow pooled over him, and Joker wrapped a long arm around his bruised side, and slid towards his sink, putting distance between himself and the masked man. The man rushed him again, arms striking out furiously with a jabs, full on punches— and then something that made a cracking sound that Joker assumed couldn't be good; before a hand wrapped around one of Joker's forearms and he was pulled to his feet—but Joker was ready. Just as the man gripped Joker's left arm, Joker simultaneously reached out as hard as he could with his right, latching onto the man's mask.

The vigilante growled again, low, and hard in his throat with alarm, and every muscle seemed to clench with barely controlled rage; utter shock that someone would dare touch his face. Another knee was raised that pounded into Joke's stomach and his left arm was forced up and behind his back— it was the sheer over-whelming stank of sweat, blood, and sewer pipes that made Joker move with his attacker's will to bent him backwards against the lip of the sink. His back ached, pain surging up every nerve, jolting towards his neck, screaming at his brain: Any further, and this'll end up like Bane's Mexican birthday blow-out party again! Except it'll be your back snapped! But he ignored it, grinning into the eyes of his attacker as the man's contempt obviously grew for the clown. He was used to the abuse. Hell, he nearly welcomed the random outbreak of it all. He started to laugh again, bubbling out with loose thin lines of red spittle, battling to stand.

The man leaned back, disgusted—or, what sounded like disgust, considering that man's mask reveled nothing of his actual expression. It was white—pure white—but the most peculiar thing was taking place on it. It seemed to lapse and change with heat—a pattern rapidly spread, joined, and melted apart in smooth, elaborate designs. Black ink. Black blots of ink…like one of the many Rorschach tests Joker had been forced to put up with over the years.

Joker had been following it with his eyes ever since the man had put it on—he wanted to laugh at it. He wanted to steal it away. He wanted to sell it on eBay to Crane for some scandalous price for the amount of rare heat-sensitive chemicals that it must have took to create it… and then have the package open up with a spring-loaded glove with an IOU punch to the professor's face! But he digressed. . .

A low hrrr, followed by a horrible twist of his shoulder forced Joker to stretch back further. Joker's eyes tore themselves away from the moving ink and he stared long and hard at the sink above him.

"I've changed by mind," Joker's grinned, spittle flying within the air as he spoke with loud, clear exuberance, to which the pattern on his vigilante's mask seemed to twist into a ribbon of smaller black dots. "If I'm going to go down, I at least want it on my terms. Do you mind if I take a quick rinse? Got to look gorgeous for the funeral and all—"

Joker then head-butted the metal with a clang—his forehead clacking hard and the skin resting there splitting open into a deep gash that instantly rolled down his temples in streams of thick, maroon coloured liquid. The sink bursting from the force didn't help anything. Water sprayed out hard and into the air—drenching Joker's attacker and forcing the man to lock his fingers into a tight hold.

Joker took the advantage of such welcomed intimacy. He reached again, through the shower of greasy water and blood and raked his long fingers upwards, scraping into the man's neck and along his jaw, forcing the fabric, up, and further till—If only this was Batman, he furrowed his brows, his smile clenching, stretching, if only, if only, his heart pounded the name- was he here? Watching me?—I want you to be Batman-Be Batman, Be Batman—Batman, Batman, Batman—a knee was brought up to hold Joker into place as the pressure that had been blossoming into an amazing kamikaze of malicious pain turned into a tsunami that rolled over him in waves of purple hues and blackness, breaking his mantra—the silence didn't last long; soon it flashed with red coloured brilliancy of consciousness as several punches to the face kept him from blacking out entirely. Seconds had passed—his shoulder was completely useless, popped from its socket with enough force to rupture seven of his ribs. But Joker was only spurred on now—he kept reaching to the dismay of his attacker, kept pushing against the force of a hand on his wrist—a rough, red stubble cheek was shown, and finally, an eye.

Joker ripped his nails back down the man's face, but the eye never blinked—impassive with burning, furious anger. And blue. So. Very. Blue. Just like him. He threw back his head into uncontainable laughter, his knees going weak. The man quickly used both of his arms to grasp at Joker's flimsy Asylum shirt—hoisting him up and against the sink again.

"What is it?" He roared, threatening to bend Joker's spine to a dangerous degree of snapping, using the entire weight of his frame to lean down. "What is so funny?"

"Oh you! OooOOOoh you!" The Joker chortled. " HA! AH- HAHAHA-HE-HEE-HEE-HAHA-HEE!" His voice rose, higher, louder—shaking both his body and his assassin's. "YOU!"

The vigilante raised his gloved fist up to take aim at Joker's jaw.

Harleen paused, pen to her lips. "You're in control, Edward?"

"I'm leading you to the water, so to speak, Miss Quinzel."

"Let's try an image. I'm bending down over this—over Gotham Bay. What am I supposed to be seeing?"

Riddler hummed, leaning in on an elbow that had been placed on the table before using it as a place to rest his chin. He stared at his doctor for a moment, and closed his eyes. Harleen's eyebrow rose. It was...almost as if he was listening for something.

After a deliberate moment, his eyelids slowly pulled back open, the light green of his eyes shimmering in the buzzing lights with elation. "You."

"HA—HAHAHA!" Joker continued, the sound bouncing and crashing into his intruder's ears.

"Talk, clown." The mask demanded, his reveled eye blazing with fury, his fist tightening.

"You…," Joker began, sucking in big gulp of air after his laughing fit. "…you're…you're just like Batman! But your eyes! There's something different in your eyes!" Joker smiled. "Oh…oh you." He paused, his lips opening wide, his smile grim and meaningful.

"…You're the one I've been looking for. I get it now! Of course! I've heard of you! Your name escapes me right now…but Oh yes, honey, baby. You are perfection." —The mask growled at his words, but Joker continued on:

You're…you're an oxide-moron! A moron! You're the hero who murders! You've got a blood-lust! A body count! People whisper about you from all over! …A hero who kills? Someone like Batman—but who kills? And just lookit' you! No good looks, or money to match. Well, well, well. And here I thought I was the special end to his coin. Looks like this is a threesome—but not to worry. I've got my eye on some lucky girl—but…I'm afraid I can't just let Batsy go without a fight."

"No need for oath of reprimand towards city hero. Pathetic Gotham mask is useless. Got a tip. Said a relentless homicidal manic needed to be killed because this Bat—man wouldn't. Found here. Found you."

"A tip?" Joker's lips quirked, red and wet. "Actually—friend, you've got it all wrong. You see, I'm not a homicidal maniac all the time! Right now, why. I'd say I'm just the victim of one."

"Unlikely. Straight jacketed. Locked in mental institution. Face paint."

"Oh you're one to talk!" Joker laughed—only to find his hair being ripped from his skull as the faucet's water was suddenly forced into his mouth.

"Nooonnnnyoooguuutiroogg!" Joker continued.

A grunt—the man pulled back, and Joker coughed up water, dribbling it down his throat and wetting his bare feet. "You've," He coughed, "got me…this isn't make-up…but a fella's got to have his looks—I'm sure you don't know what I mean…but…," a sputter of water, running red. "…but I think before ya kill me, you'd better watch out for Batman."

"What?" A frigid, ice-blue eye, trapped within a cornea of snow-white hate narrowed at the mad-man. "City vigilante would want retribution for you?"

"That's his deal. Tight tights, pointy ears. Not time for fun. Justice for all. Uncompromisingly alone and depressed. Would you like to know more? Me and Batsy go wayyyy back."

"Not interested."

"I'd be. You're just like 'em."

"I'd see me?" Harleen tried to keep the curiosity out of her voice, playing along.

"Yes, Doctor Quinzel. In Gotham Bay, you would see your own reflection. That's common logic. But riddle me this: what would you see in yourself if you fell into the Gotham Bay?"

"If I…fell?"

"Did I stutter?"Edward snapped; only he quickly revered back, blinking and bowing his head ominously, hiding his expression. "I'm…I'm sorry Harleen. I'm just…so anxious for you to understand my puzzle. No one here ever gets it. But you're getting closer."

Harleen frowned, her blonde brows coming together in thought. "It's okay Edward. You are allowed to outbursts just like everyone else. I'd imagine I'd be drenched with very, very polluted water."

Edward slowly looked up, his expression delighted. "Why yes. And…considering my mini lesson to you on waters symbolism. What does it mean when someone falls into polluted water? Any water will do! Here—I'll give you a hint. Did you know that Gotham's harbor was once connected to the old Ace Chemical's building? It was removed many, many years ago—but back then, it caused all sorts of environmental problems that would make Ivy curl up into the fetal position and weep for weeks. It caused deadly smog, poisoned the water, rained down upon the city in miserable bouts of acid rain…"

"Acid…" Harleen echoed. "Acid…rain…falling down." She blinked. "All over me... The Chemical Plant. I understand."

"Ah," Edward gasped, his hands rubbing together compulsively as he forced himself to remain seated. Not that he could move far regardless. "So you do recall the infamous Ace Chemical Accident?"

"When…Batman first appeared, right?"

The Riddler nodded.

Joker could only get away with scraps of small talk. Unlike Batman, Inky-face didn't want, nor care about anything Joker was saying. It all ended with punches to the jaw and left eye. The eye that Joker had revealed, and that made Joker smile. Which ended in another knuckled blow to the cheek.

"Scream for someone." The man finally muttered out, spitting at the floor.

The Joker threw up his chin indignantly, and gave into loud, high pitched laughter. "HA! I could scream for help! But really, who would come? That's a good one!"

"Want you to."

"Scream? Mm, so forceful. I think I like you."

The Joker's head met the back of the wall with enough force to rattle his teeth—which all were still showing into a perfectly blissful smile. "Not funny. Warning you. Will break you. Thin ice."

"Wooo—" The Joker sighed, winded, "Well don't you feel just like him too! Even the warnings—though, you're a bit cold. And your eyes—speaking of ice! Boy, oh boy, don't you have the coldest, most unforgiving eyes. You Vicky Fries brother, by any chance?"

A sharp snapped alerted Joker to his wrist, which was suddenly dangling at a very peculiar angle. He ducked to glance at it, and fought to control it again. It only flapped to the side. Numb.

"So…you were being serious? I'm missed talking to a straight man. Well, not to tell you what you like—I mean, everyone should be exactly how they want to be—"

A rough shake practically shook every bone in his body.

"Not asking questions here. I am."

"Oh good, good," Joker nodded, feeling the ridged grip of strong, powerful gloved fingers locking into his hair once more. The masked man pushed down, and Joker's head was roughly pulled downwards so that he'd face the sink head on and the mirror upside down. His eyes stared into the mirror and met with…the non-face. His aggressor's mask had changed to look like something…something so familiar that Joker's eyes furrowed together in the hope of clearing it away, before he let it slide as a slip up in his medication. He'd seen worse when he looked into his mirror before.

An ink clump in the shape of a bat.

"Well, whaddya-like ta know, huh?"

"You see, I plan on doing a bit of professional detective work when I am in and out of Arkham, and, whilst preparing for this, I've found an interesting little mystery to do with Batman."

"Why?"

"Why what, my dear doctor?"

"Batman. What do you mean by this—this water symbol, and him?"

"You can picture the old headline in your mind, can't you? The old Ace Chemicals Building leaked one day—blown to gas tanks and massive acid outbreaks into the harbor, then the bay. Some say it even washed up onto Arkham Isle herself. But do you know the real cause of the explosion?"

"It was from a freak accident. A natural unbalance of earth that caused pressure on the floodgate to—"

"It was Batman."

Harleen shook her head. "What? How—"

"And the man he was chasing that day. You see, when I am bored in my cell—which is often never, I assure you, as I am always thinking of something of at least an intricate scale level to entertain myself with, I hear talk of the many different stories of a particular criminal here. It is not 100 percent, but a theory. And it holds information that far surpasses that outdated photo album that Sharp calls a 'complete patient case file'."

"You're referring to the Joker," Harleen's thoughts clicked together all at once.

Edward Nigma smiled. "It only took you over eight minutes. I truly thought you would at least arrive at it by six. But, I guess even lab mice have their off days on reaching the cheese."

"Why are you referring to the Joker?"

"I've come to the understanding that you don't know where his physical attributes come from. You're studying his psychosis, and it's a local theory here that its acid caused. Of course, the mental damage—the man he was before he was changed, and the man he dresses to be are much deeper than some accident. But…as for his physicality's, it's a theory. A theory I hold to be true from what I've found. I'll tell you more—more about him. About Batman, perhaps. And the symbol of water. A way to…get closer to him. I think you ought to know. But first, you'll have to go see him."

"What?" Harleen gasped in shock. "Joker?"

"You're The Joker, correct? Call for guard. Must have verification for tip to go through."

"That's me! Crown Prince Of Crime, at your inconvenience." Joker smiled at his upside reflection, and his guest's, in the mirror, before realizing that from this position, it looked like he was frowning. So he practiced frowning to turn his expression into a smile. It worked. " And what?" Joker added with a sneer of his lips. Lips that were blazing an inflamed red colour. "So that you'll get paid for offing lil' ol clown like me?"

"Not about money. Compelled to do this. Protect cities from rabid dogs like you." The ink split again, curling on the sides. Two dots taking place along the cheek bone. Joker licked his lips, tasting the metallic, salty goodness of drying blood.

"Compelled to kill?" Joker's smile widened, his teeth stained riddles of dark blood. "See, I like you even more. You really outta talk to Bats. Maybe you could talk some sense into him about that. Oh, but that does remind me though, and I'm just going to go ahead and tell you: I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I can't let you kill me. Bats is the only one that can—think of it as… an inside joke between best friends."

"You're…friends with this mask?"

Joker's brain whirled to full speed, and he slid out:

"Oh, we ALL are here! Maxie, Bane, even good ol' Scarface! Why do you think he lets off so easily? You see, he's not as…dedicated, as you, Blotty-boy. He just tosses us back in here. He's not so good after all. That's the whole problem with him. He refuses to kill."

"Personal moral to Gotham vigilante. A weak compromise, but allowed. His city. His infecting, festering scum. Am only here to deal with you."

"Then why," Joker gasped as a hard, full-frontal punch met with his stomach that seemed to be the density of a solid brick wall. "Would you want a guard to come?"

"Have to make sure. Have to have someone clean up mess. Can't look like suicide. Have to know justice is served."

"It's quite alright. You do not need to reach his cell—the nearest security station is just down the hall here. I just want you to type in the password:Barbra1703."

"I'm not leaving my time with you Edward, to go see my other patient." Harleen's voice littered itself with altercations of exasperated bemusement. "That's ridiculous."

"Oh," Edward's green eyes seemed to shine. "But I implore you, Miss Quinzel. We're so close. To get into my mind, you have to do just a bit of…out of the cell thinking...Literally. It won't take long. Just a look."

Harleen glanced at the clock and then towards the door. "I'm locking you in. I'll be back in a minute. I don't know what you're getting at Edward, but I can understand that with your…personality, this might be what's best. But we're having a talk about you knowing this password when I get back."

"You're so knowing, Doctor," Edward nodded, a small, sheepish expression to his lips. "This is exactly what I need."

~*~...Part One End: To be Continued...~*~

So, obviously, this is quite a new approach for me- but I sincerely hope you guys are enjoying, and let me know what you think. What IS going on? What's Riddler planning? IS it going to plan? WILL it? Will Harleen find Joker in time? Where the hell are the guards? What will she do IF she finds him? And about Joker? Will this be his last laugh? Who IS this masked man? Why is he so angry? And so very much like our Dark Knight? Why are there so many questions? Find out soon! And thank you SO much for reading. I know this chapter is long. Believe me. I shudder at the idea of forcing you all to read my writing for such a long time- but considering how this fic jumped from 71 to 87, I guess you guys...really...like me?

And that makes my deminted lilttle heart soar. Thank you SO much for everyones support. I hope I'm doing them all justice. I hope to thank everyone soon. So busy. Thank you again lovelies!

- Kay